“Maybe that memory wasn’t completely erased,” Meryl said, “and he dwells on it at some level. His hair was almost completely white when we met. I think he was twenty-two.”
“Is that why he’s called Moonboy?” Namir asked.
I knew about that. “No, he was born during an eclipse, a total lunar eclipse.” I cringed at the memory of a cheap magazine article when I was famous, putting us together: Moonboy and Mars Girl.
“His mother’s an astrology nut,” Meryl said. “We don’t get along too well. He thinks she walks on water, though.”
Dustin laughed. “Well, she did bring him back from the dead. Even if he doesn’t know it, she does. It could make for an interesting relationship.”
Meryl nodded. “It does explain a lot.”
“His voice,” Elza said. It was a soft, hoarse rasp. “That could be damage to his vocal cords from stomach acid. As he lay there dead.”
Namir broke the silence. “We have to tell him. Now that we all know.”
“Not ‘we,’ ” Elza said. “I have to tell him. I started the whole damned thing, with my curiosity.”
That was a delicate way to put it, I thought. Her curiosity about Moonboy’s medical record came after her curiosity about his body. If that was what it was, her need for different men.
Of course the only man left now was mine.
17
THERAPY
I didn’t want my wife alone in a room with the man who had assaulted her. But she felt they had to talk one-on-one, and besides, she would have no trouble overpowering him under normal circumstances. As a compromise, she let me sit in an adjacent room and watch the interview on a notebook, ready to rush in and save her. It wasn’t necessary, as it turned out. But it was educational.
He knocked tentatively and walked in, looking sheepish and uncomfortable. She sat him down next to her desk and inspected his stitches, dabbing at them with an alcohol swab. He winced, and her expression was not one of empathy.
“You’ll live,” she said, and sat down facing him.
“I’m sorry, so sorry. Don’t know what got into me.” His speech was slightly slurred.
“That’s what we have to talk about.” She took a deep breath. “What happened yesterday started twenty-nine years ago. Do you know the acronym SPMD?”
He shook his head. “No. When I was eleven?”
“Yes. It’s Selective Precision Memory Dampening. Not done very often anymore; it’s controversial.”
“When I was in the hospital so long, with pneumonia?”
“Yes. But it was a lot more than pneumonia.”
For several minutes he didn’t speak, while she recounted in unsparing detail what his father had done and what happened afterward. When she was through, he just stared into space for a long moment.
“They could have told me,” he said in a flat, hurt voice. “Mother should have told me.” He hit the desk with his fist, hard enough to hurt.
“She should’ve,” Elza said. “I would have, at least when you were an adult.”
“What did you say,” he said slowly, “when we were in bed?”
“I asked you about your father.”
He leaned forward and spoke through clenched teeth. “You asked me whether I loved him.” I rose from the chair, ready to go next door.
“Let me see your hand.” She took it in one hand and, with the other hand, pressed the inside of his wrist.
He sat back slowly and looked at his wrist, and touched the small flesh-colored circle there. “What’s that?”
“It’s a relaxant.” She must have had it palmed. “It’ll wear off quickly.”
“I…” He looked at the wall. “I was upset because I couldn’t, I couldn’t come.”
“You did all right.”
“No—I mean it happens all the time. I thought with you, with a new sexy woman…”
“It’s all in the head,” she said gently. “It’s always all in the head. You were nervous.”
“When you said… that about my father, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I mean I tried, and it was like someone, someone was choking me. I must have lashed out. I don’t remember.”
“You got in a lucky shot.”
He smiled for the first time. “Thank you for not killing me. I’ve seen you throw Daniel and Namir around on the mat.”
“It took some restraint. How is the elbow?”
“Still hurts a bit.”
She stood. “Hmm. Take off your shirt and get up on the examination table.” He did, and she moved his arm around and palpated his elbow. “That doesn’t hurt?”
“Not really, no.”
She pressed behind his shoulder. “This does, though?”
“A little.”
She nodded and looked at him for a moment. “Take off your shoes and lie down on your back.” He did, while she watched and nodded.
“I want to check your reflexes,” she said, starting to unbuckle his belt. She stopped partway. “This wouldn’t be ethical on Earth. But we’re playing with starship rules.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling broadly. She unzipped his fly, and his reflexes appeared more than adequate.
I’ll have to ask her about that patch. I turned off the notebook. It was time to start dinner. Go pull some carrots.
18
ANNIVERSARY
8 May 2089
Namir is baking a cake. It’s everyone’s anniversary: we took off exactly one year ago, and everyone is still alive.
The notebook says that on Earth it’s 16 July 89, so relativity has shrunk about seventy days off our calendar.
It does feel like twelve months have gone by, though, rather than fourteen, so a time for taking stock. In one year:
Only the one day of violence, back in September, when Moonboy broke Elza’s nose, and Dustin parted his hair with a pool cue. For a long time now, Dustin and Moonboy have been civil with each other, and Elza has lost her nasal accent.
Elza also has fucked every man aboard except Paul (if he’s telling the truth), and Meryl as well, in a three-way with Moonboy, though that seems to have petered out.
The avocado tree has blossomed, but set no fruit in spite of assiduous pollination. We’ve asked Earth for advice, but they’re half a light-year away, so it will be a while.
Most of the other crops are thriving. We’ve almost doubled the floor space allotted to tomatoes, trimming the real estate from leafy greens and legumes. Namir needed more Italian plum tomatoes for sauces, and no one complained. I wish we’d brought more fruit trees, myself, or more acreage. Enough grapes to make our own wine; the idea of waiting for it to ferment is attractive; something to look forward to. Can’t have everything.
The planners were wise to design such a large hydroponic garden, even though we could survive without it. Having regular menial chores helps keep us sane; caring for living things promotes optimism. Even in our situation.
In the sports news, I’m now swimming two kilometers a day. There’s a new house rule in billiards: Namir has to shoot left- handed, or no one will play with him. He still wins, but not all the time anymore.
On Saturdays, we move all the lounge furniture to the walls, string a badminton net across the room, and work up a good sweat. The Martians come out and play for the first few minutes, one on each team, though they overheat quickly and are handicapped by the gravity, not to mention lacking the concept of “sport.” We compensate for their relative lack of mobility by letting them each use two racquets. They’re ambidextrous four ways.
Meryl’s wall-sized crossword puzzle is about a third finished. She’d better slow down. Elza put away her needlepoint for a while, but has started a new one, another fractal chromatic fantasy.