Jack laughed incredulously. The courier gave him a sheepish look and shrugged. “Hey, what can I say? Better living through modern chemistry. But if I don’t do this today, you’ll have to get down to the Pyramid and go through the exact same shit. Only there you’ll have to stand in line.”
Jack shook his head. “Isn’t that giving a courier an awful lot of power? What if I was lying or something? All you did was check an expired driver’s license!”
The young woman smiled wryly. “Well, it looks like you, doesn’t it? Plus—”
She lifted her helmet, so that he could see a slender black tube running just beneath the skin at her temple and disappearing at her hairline. “—see? I’m wired. My beta waves and pulse show anything weird, they scalp me. Bing-o! No more Luralay! But they have good health insurance, so give me a fucking break and let me scan you, okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Jack frowned. “Are you telling me they—”
“Shhh—if I think about it too much, they get a hot reading. Now, just hold your hand up—no, right hand—it doesn’t hurt, kinda feels like holding a vibrator or something—”
Her gloved hand took his and held it outspread while she fitted the scanner against his palm. There was buzzing, a dull stinging sensation. Immediately she drew her hand back, removed a disposable sheath from the end of the scanner, stuffed that into a tiny biohazard container, and slid the scanner back into her pack. “Okay, that’s all! The entry chip won’t be activated until December 31—that’s New Year’s Eve, at 12:01 A.M. It’ll last exactly thirty-four hours. Then you turn into a pumpkin.” She grinned and gave him a mock salute. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Finnegan! Don’t lose that envelope—it’s got all the instructions and stuff, in case nobody’s able to get in touch with you between now and then. Ciao—”
She turned and strode back up the drive. Halfway to the gate she began to sing again.
Jack looked down at his palm. Nothing there whatsoever that he could see. He heard the courier’s bike firing up as he went back inside and locked the door after him.
The house was still, save for the perfunctory drip of snowmelt falling from the gutters. In the air hung a stale smell of that morning’s burned toast, scorched over the Coleman stove’s flame—there had been no electricity for eleven days. Jack walked into the study and settled into the chair by the window. He took a silver letter opener and deftly slit the gorgeously patterned envelope. A small explosion of glitter and green smoke filled the air. Jack yelped and nearly dropped the envelope. The smoke faded, leaving a tropical scent; the glitter turned out to be more permanent, evading all of Mrs. Iverson’s later efforts to remove it from the oriental rug. Jack looked up, half-fearful that he would see Marz smirking at him from the doorway.
But he was alone, except for the oversize and very beautiful piece of paper he held in his hand. Tissue-thin, it had the watery sheen of fine silk and was patterned with shifting designs: golden zeppelins, a medieval sun, samurai in armor, a velvety black sky covered with glowing constellations, the grasping skeletal gryphon that was GFI’s corporate logo: what at first he thought were extraordinary watermarks, but which instead seemed to be more tricks from GFI’s technological inventory. He spent several minutes just staring at the page, turning it so that it caught the light in different ways to display different patterns. Letters appeared, now Roman, now Japanese characters, now Arabic and Cyrillic. Between his fingers the paper seemed to move on its own, as though he grasped a moth by its wings. Faint bell-like music played, the same song he’d been hearing off and on for months now:
There followed a lengthy list of attending international celebrities, musical entertainments, fashion models, sports and religious figures and CEOs from across the globe, as well as both units of the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus (incorporating Cirque du Soleil, the Moscow Circus, and the Mongolian Entertainers Alliance). The only persons who it appeared would not be at the Pyramid on New Year’s Eve were the Pope, the Dalai Lama, and John “Jack” Finnegan, if he chose not to go.
Only, it appeared that he had decided to go. He closed his eyes and pressed the invitation against his forehead. Larry Muso’s sloe eyes shimmered in front of him; he felt again that brisk electricity when their hands had touched, a scent of chypre…
VERY MUCH want to see you again! All best & warm wishes, Larry M.
He shook his head: Larry M. might get his warm wish. Jack set the invitation back upon the table and stood to go. As he did, his hand passed through a shaft of light falling from the window. Emerald brilliance glanced off his palm, bright enough to catch his eye; bright enough to ignite within the whorled and crosshatched flesh the ghostly holographic image of a gryphon rampant, clasping a pyramid within its claws.
A week later, Mrs. Iverson told him the blond girl was pregnant.
“WHAT?”
“She is. She won’t talk about it, but it won’t go away. She has to eat better.” The housekeeper funneled powdered milk into a plastic jug. “Can you imagine? That tiny thing—”
“Are you sure? How can she—”
“She is. She says she was with a boy in March. She won’t say who, not that it would do any good.”
“But her family! There must be someone—”
Mrs. Iverson turned scolding blue eyes on him. “But there’s not. She’s been with us all this while, she won’t say who she belongs to, she won’t go back—we’ll have to care for her, Jack. And the baby; and barely enough as it is.” She sighed. “But I guess you’ll be getting your million dollars soon enough. We’ll just keep our fingers crossed, that’s all.”
She filled the jug with water and shook it into an unappetizing white froth. Jack gazed despairingly at the ceiling.
“I don’t believe it! Does Keeley know? She hasn’t even seen a doctor! I mean, this is just medieval—we’ll be boiling water and tearing up fucking bedsheets—”
“Oh, hush your language, Jack.” Mrs. Iverson glared. “Babies get born all the time without your help. If she needs a doctor, we’ll bring her to Saint Joseph’s.”
“But folic acid—you’re supposed to take things—”
Mrs. Iverson rolled her eyes. “What would you know from taking things for babies? You and your friends… That poor little girl, all this time and she didn’t even know. I think she pretended not to know. Your grandmother saw her in the bath Sunday and called me in. Poor little girl—just a stick with a big belly. But you could feel it kicking. She’ll be all right.”
“March…” Jack did the math in his head: almost five months. “I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t be a one to know about girls. But just as well, everything considered; she doesn’t need any more trouble with boys.” With a sigh the housekeeper turned to go. “But it would be nice if you’d go and talk to her sometimes, Jack. She likes you—”