Laura limped up to the top floor to join him. It was sunset.
Mr. Rodriguez lowered the flags on the roof and tottered back down three flights of stairs to staff quarters. He was a stoic old man, but Laura thought he looked tired. He'd had life- guard duty. The Canadians' manic brood had run him ragged.
Laura kicked off her sandals and hung her vest and skirt in the bedroom closet. She shrugged out of her blouse, then sat on the bed and peeled off her hose. Her injured ankle had swollen and was now an impressive blue. She kicked her legs out straight and leaned back against the headboard. A ceiling vent came on and cool air poured over the bed. Laura sat in her underwear, feeling tired and vaguely squalid.
David stalked naked out of the bathroom and disappeared into the baby's room. She heard him making soothing goo-`
goo noises. Laura checked tomorrow's schedule on her watchphone. Her mother was leaving tomorrow. Her depar- ture flight to Dallas was scheduled just before the Grenadians arrived. Laura grimaced. Always more trouble.
David emerged from the baby's room. His long hair was parted in the middle and wet-combed down, flatly, over his ears and neck. He looked like a demented Russian priest.
He flopped down onto the bed and gave her a big, knowing grin. Make that a demented Russian priest with a yen for women, Laura thought with a sinking feeling.
"Great day, huh?" He stretched. "Man, I worked my ass off. I'll be sore tomorrow. Feel great now, though. Lively."
He watched her with narrowed eyes.
Laura was not in the mood. A sense of ritual settled over both of them, a kind of unspoken bargaining. The object was to make your mood set the tone of the evening. Souring it was a foul.
There were multiple levels of play. Both sides won big if you both reached the same mood quickly, through sheer infectious charisma. You won second-class if you got your own way without feeling guilty about it. Pyrrhic victory was when you got your own way but felt rotten. Then there were the various levels of giving in: Gracious, Resigned, and
Martyr to the Cause. .
Fouls were easiest, and then you both lost. The longer the ritual lasted, the more chances there were to screw up. It was a hard game to play, even with eight years' practice.
Laura wondered if she should tell him about the Church of
Ishtar. Thinking about the interview revived her sense of sexual repulsion, like the soiled feeling she got from seeing pornography. She decided not to mention it tonight. He was sure to take it all wrong if he thought his overtures made her feel like a hooker.
She buried the idea and cast about for another one. The first twinge of guilt nibbled her resolve. Maybe she should give in. She looked down at her feet. "My leg hurts," she said.
"Poor babe." He leaned over and had a closer look. His eyes widened. "Jesus." Suddenly she had become an invalid.
The mood shifted all at once, and the game was over. He kissed his fingertip and tapped it lightly on the bruise.
"Feels better, she said, smiling. He leaned back in bed and got. under the sheet, looking resigned and peaceable. That was easy. Victory class one for the Poor Little Lame Girl.
Now it was overkill, but she decided to mention her mother anyway. "I'll be fine when things get back to normal. Mother leaves tomorrow."
"Back to Dallas, huh? Too bad, I was just getting used to the old gal. "
Laura kicked her way under the sheet. "Well, at least she didn't bring some obnoxious boyfriend."
David sighed. "You're so hard on her, Laura. She's a career woman of the old school, that's all. There were mil- lions like her-men, too. Her generation likes to get around.
They live alone, they cut their ties, they stay fast and loose.
Wherever they walk families crumble." He shrugged. "So she had three husbands. With her looks she could have had twenty."
"You always take her side. Just because she likes you."
Because you're like Dad, she thought, and blocked the thought away.
"Because she has your eyes," he said, and gave her a quick, snaky pinch.
She jumped, shocked. "You rat!"
"You big rat," he corrected, yawning.
"Big rat," she agreed. He'd broken her out of her mood.
She felt better.
"Big rat that I can't live without."
"You said it," she said.
"Turn out the light." He turned onto his side, away from her.
She reached out to give his hair a final ruffle. She killed the lights, touching her wrist. She put her arm over his sleeping body and slid up against him in darkness. It was good.
2
After breakfast, Laura helped her mother pack. It surprised her to see the sheer bulk of bric-a-brac her mother hauled around: hatboxes, bottles of hairspray and vitamins and contact-lens fluid, a video camera, a clothes steamer, a portable iron, hair curlers, a sleeping mask, six pairs of shoes with special wooden lasts to keep them from mashing down in her luggage. She even had a special intaglio box just for earrings.
Laura held up a red leather-bound travel diary. "Mother, why do you need this? Can't you just call up the Net?"
"I don't know, dear. I spend so much time on the road - it's like home for me, all of these things." She packed dresses with a swish of fabric. "Besides, I don't like the Net.
I never even liked cable television." She hesitated. "Your father and I used to fight about that. He'd be a real Net-head now, if he was still alive."
The idea sounded silly to Laura. "Oh, Mother, come on."
"He hated clutter, your father. He didn't care for nice things-lamps, carpets, dinner china. He was a dreamer, he liked abstractions. He called me a materialist." She shrugged.
"My generation always got bad press for that."
Laura waved her arm about the room. "But, Mother, look at these things. "
"Laura, I like my possessions and I've paid for all of them. Maybe people don't prize possessions now like we did in the premillennium. How could they? All their money goes into the Net. For games, or business, or television-things that come over the wires." She zipped her bag shut. "Young people these days, maybe they don't hanker after a Mercedes or a Jacuzzi. But they'll brag like sixty about their data access."
Laura felt impatient. "That's silly, Mother. There's noth- ing wrong with being proud of what you know. A Mercedes is just a machine. It doesn't prove anything about you as a person." Her watchphone beeped; the van had arrived downstairs.
She helped her mother take her luggage down. It took three trips. Laura knew she'd have a wait in the airport, so she took the baby along, in a canvas travel sling.
"Let me get this trip," her mother said. She slipped her card into the van's charge slot. The door clicked open and they loaded the bags and stepped in.
"Howdy," the van said. "Please announce your destina- tion clearly into the speaker. Anunce usted su destinacion claramente en el microfono por favor."
"Airport," Laura said, bored.
". .. sss... ank you! Estimated travel time is twelve minutes. Thank you for using the Galveston Transit System.
Alfred A. Magruder, Mayor." The van accelerated slug- gishly, its modest engine whining. Laura lifted her brows.
The van's spiel had ' been changed. "Alfred A. Magruder,
Mayor?" she murmured.
"Galveston is Fun City!" the van responded. Laura and her mother traded glances. Laura shrugged.
Highway 3005 was the main artery down-the-island. The road's glory days were long gone; it was haunted by the memories of cheap oil and private cars doing sixty miles per.
Long sections of tarmac had been potholed into ruin and replaced with plastic mesh. The mesh crackled loudly be- neath the tires.