"Making things imaginary." It was pure math, and would be unconnected to the real world, where Vineland waited.
When she had marked all the openings, she made one more circuit, checking her work, then turned to Bibber. "Can you sit on Lotion?" The tortoise had eased back down to the floor, and lay with his eyes shut. He looked sturdy enough.
"Sure. I ride him around, sometimes." Bibber straddled the carved shell and scratched the tortoise on the top of his leathery head. "How long do I hafta sit here?"
"You'll know." Carolyn hoped that was true. She circled the room again, taking a few books from the shelves: Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island, The Wind in the Willows, Peter Pan, The Jungle Book, The Wizard of Oz. She added a dictionary and the scrapbook with the picture of their fathers to the stack. Then, stepping around Bibber, she arranged the eight books in a square, three on a side, with Lotion at the center to make nine.
"What are those?"
"Books I think you'll like."
"I can't read." Bibber frowned. "I told you."
"You will. Pure math creates its own perfect world." She wrote nine blue numbers in ink on the soft skin on the back of Bibber's neck:
4 9 2
3 5 7
8 1 6
Magic turtle, magic boy.
"That tickles." Bibber laughed.
"Sorry." She patted his hair. "But now you can live happily ever after." She turned toward the door.
Bibber frowned. "Are you leaving?"
"Uh-huh."
"No. I want you to stay." He sounded sad.
Carolyn looked around at the room full of books and light and comfortable chairs, a room she'd always dreamed of. It was so tempting-a lifetime to sit and read, uninterrupted, no chores, no nuns-she bit her lip-no Mom. You're all I have, she heard in her mind, and shook her head. "I can't, Bibber. I have to go home."
"But you'll come visit?"
She opened the double doors. "I'll try." She stepped into the next room and closed them behind her, then marked each one with √-1.
"Keep Bibber away from Vineland," she said aloud, then added, "Please."
There. That was all the magic she knew.
She tiptoed back through the house, holding her hand tight on her pocket so the pen and pencils wouldn't make a noise. She was in the room with the paintings of fruit before she noticed that her other hand was empty. Her father's composition book, with all the notes and secrets of the Lo-Shu Club-she'd left it on the library table.
In a quiet hurry, she went back for it. Through the dining room, into the room she had no name for, to the double doors that-
Carolyn stared.
There were no doors.
Stuffed and mounted animal heads stared out glassily from above the wide rosewood cabinet that now filled the wall. And among them hung the empty shell of an enormous tortoise, its carved and polished surface glinting in the dim light.
Don't Mention Madagascar by Pat Cadigan
For Allen Varney
I don't actually remember meeting Suzette. It's like we were heading in the same general direction and fell into step together. She knew everybody I knew and vice versa, but amazingly enough we had no ex-boyfriends in common. But we'd never have let a guy come between us. "No penis between us," Suzette used to say with her big old grin. Girlfriend had a great grin.
Suzette was about five-four, five-five, and proportioned like a dancer. I think she had trained as one once but she never said and I never asked. I've never asked a lot of questions; still don't. It's not that I don't care or I'm not interested. I've just always figured that if there's anything I need to know about anyone, they'll tell me, no need to interrogate. Not that I mind answering questions as I also figure if anyone wants to know something, they'll ask; no need to admit to anything prematurely.
Suzette was more forthcoming. She'd drop tantalizing little tidbits into a conversation in an offhand way-like, "Hey, I used to have shoes like those but someone stole them while I was getting defibrillated. I swear, you gotta keep an eye on your stuff every minute in Mongolian emergency rooms." Anyone else, it would have been showing off; Suzette just knew how to take things in stride. I like that in a person.
The only time I ever saw her ruffled was on this one occasion. At the time, she was an office manager for a real estate agency and coming in regularly to the coffee bar. By day I made soy lattés and iced half-caff mochaccinos with a twist, and I studied computer engineering at night school. About 11 o'clock on a Tuesday morning, she showed up looking like a woman who'd just been caught in a high wind-rumpled, dreadlocks practically standing on end, eyes too wide and too bright, and a little out of breath.
I said, "Jeez, what happened?"
"I just quit my job," she said.
"Oh. Well." I knew this couldn't be what had her all freaked. "Are congratulations in order?"
She flicked a glance to my right and I knew The Great Dick Tater had to be giving me the stink-eye because I said something to a customer that wasn't What can I get for you today? The GDT took his assistant manager responsibilities very seriously.
"I don't know what's in order. Everything's out of order." She glanced to my right again; the GDT must have been wearing a face that could sour milk. Soy milk.
"What can I get you today?" I said cheerfully.
Suzette's mouth opened but nothing came out.
"One medium American filter, mellow blend of the day, room for cow," I announced, repeating her order from yesterday. I rattled off the price while I double-cupped it to go, staring the GDT down with my back. Suzette paid and dropped a few coins in the tip jar. All the baristas split the tip jar, something you should keep in mind if you like your overpriced coffee without extras like employee saliva. Suzette was top of the no-spit list (posted conspicuously in the locker room, along with security camera photos to prevent episodes of mistaken identity), a policy that even the GDT respected.
Transaction done, Suzette went upstairs to sit. I gave it five minutes before announcing I was going on my break.
"Jeez, Pearl, what kept you?" Suzette said when I finally joined her.
That annoyed me; she knew damned well what the GDT was like. "Sorry," I said, taking off my apron and folding it up. "I couldn't just drop everything. Then I had to walk up the stairs because the teleporter's broken again."
Suzanne gave me a sharp look at that last.
"Kidding," I said; as she visibly unclenched, I added, "The teleporter's not really broken, I just needed the exercise."
Bam-she was white-knuckled all over her body again, which was a neat trick for someone with skin that dark. "Stop that," she growled. I felt a sudden seriously terrible pain in my upper arm; Suzette had me in a Death Grip of Doom.
"Ow." I thought I could hear bone start to crack within the pulp formerly known as my bicep. "What kind of day are you having?"
"Odd." Her grip loosened.
I pulled away fast before she changed her mind. "How odd?" I asked.
She took something out of her back pocket, unfolded it, put it on the table: a photograph. I winced; folding photographs goes against my personal code of fussy conduct. I'm no tight-ass-I'll tear the tags off pillows, jaywalk, even wear white after Labor Day. But fold a photograph? It's practically a physical pain.
"Look at that." Suzette tapped her finger on it hard. I winced again because touching the surface of a glossy-finish photograph is another of my fussy things.
"What is it?" I said.
"Rolling Stones, late 1960s."
"Really?" I almost forgot how fussy I was. It was an outdoor venue in sort of jungle-ish surroundings and the vantage point was onstage, far to the right. Only Keith Richards and Mick Jagger are in the photo. Keith Richards was still pretty rather than craggy, with the wide-eyed look of someone whose reality is exceeding his dreams, not the sneer of an old-timer who's seen it all. Mick Jagger was singing and pointing at a bunch of screaming girls. One had hoisted herself up on the others and seemed about to climb onto the stage in the hope of touching His Satanic Majesty.