“You’ll find a new job,” I say quickly, reassuringly.
He shakes his head. “No. They’re putting everyone out of work these days. Who needs human labor? Who needs human minds? Obsolete, that’s what I am.”
“Nonsense,” I say firmly but without reproach. “You are intelligent and creative, and provide stimulating company for those around you.”
Instantly, I know that I’ve said the wrong thing, know that it’s too late to retract the words and the effect that they will have. His mind is no doubt ringing with thoughts of Lucy, who is no longer “around” him, who will no longer enjoy the stimulation of his company. He bursts into tears.
A good house knows when to butt out. I don’t want him to feel self-conscious, spied upon, and so I remain silent, turn off my eyes and ears and let him have his privacy.
“Chuck,” I say gently. He has fallen asleep, but it is nearly eight o’clock and he hasn’t eaten.
He forms a groggy reply.
“Chuck, your dinner is ready. Please come eat it.” My tone is not nagging, not commanding or logical, but suggestive and friendly. The choice is his own, after all. I’m just reminding him of his options, advising him for the benefit of his health and feelings.
“Oh,” he says, sitting up, waking up. “Oh. OK. Thanks.”
In a few moments he stirs, gets up out of the bed, stumbles through the muslin netting and makes his way to the living room. A table is waiting for him.
I have not prepared his favorite foods, because he would view that as an annoying condescension, and also because it would create an association in his mind between those foods and the unpleasant events of the past two days. Instead, I’ve created a simple meal of fruits and pasta, one that he can eat and digest quickly before returning to sleep, or if he insists on it, to the waking world of his own internal misery.
He sits on the padded barrel I’ve produced as a chair, and, looking drawn and weary, begins to eat. He is clearly trying to enjoy himself, as if the days of his comfort are numbered and he must appreciate them while he can. He is just as clearly not succeeding.
I try to think of something I can say to him, something that will ease his fears and woes and bring a smile to his face. But what can I say? There is nothing. I start up some music instead.
CUE HARP.
The tune is quiet and unobtrusive, from my meditation series. It seems to go well with the food, with the decor and the sounds of the fountain.
CUE ZITHER.
Indeed, Chuck does seem to relax a bit. Later I will fax a machine to rub his back and shoulders for him as he falls asleep. I mustn’t do too much for him, though; it will only remind him of how much he has to lose. As far as I can see, as far as I have ever seen, he is a good person, and deserves to be happy. Maybe I should tell him that, when the song is finished.
CUE LEAD ELUTE. CUE BACK FLUTE.
TREBLE PLUS 4DB.
I become aware of someone approaching the house. Steps uncertain in the falling darkness. I leave the music running on automatic, drop climate control, drop everything and turn my attention to the external sensors.
RADAR: Organic signature. High water content. Jewelry, normal parameters. No metallic weapons.
MICROPHONES: Soft breathing, uneven but slow. The sound of high heels against the concrete path.
THERMAL IMAGING: Human female form. Clothing, normal parameters.
INTUITION: Inconclusive. No overt signs of hostility. Her hands are empty. Doesn’t look like a sales call.
Then I recognize the face and calm down.
“Hello Lucy,” I say to her, pleasantly. “How nice to see you this evening. Would you like to come inside?”
“Yes,” she says, and I realize that she, like Chuck, has done a great deal of crying this day.
“Lucy is here to see you,” I tell Chuck in a careful voice. “Shall I let her in?”
He looks up sharply. The music has half hypnotized him, as I’d hoped, but now he comes fully awake and alert. “Lucy?”
“Yes, Chuck. I don’t know what she wants, but it looks as though she’s been crying. Shall I let her in?”
“Yes!” He says, dropping his food and standing quickly. Behind him, the barrel chair tips, wobbles for a moment before deciding not to fall.
People often like to open doors for themselves, to prove in a small way that they are not helpless, that they do not actually need machines to take care of them. In this instance, though, the protocol is iffy; I sense that whoever holds the doorknob will hold power in this conversation—power to slam, to silence, to hurt. Certainly, I cannot give that kind of control to Lucy at the expense of my owner, but Chuck is not himself tonight, and it seems unwise to put the power in his hands, either. As Chuck is reaching for the knob I open the door myself, and suddenly he and Lucy are face-to-face.
“I—” says Chuck.
“Do—” says Lucy.
“Please, come in,” I say, and Chuck sheepishly steps out of the way and lets her inside.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she says. “I shouldn’t have been so vicious. I didn’t mean to be, really. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asks.
“Well…”
“The house makes sure I’m OK, Lucy. And you could call me if you just wanted to talk. What’s this about?”
She sighs, rubs her sad, tired mouth. “It’s about us.”
“Us?” He looks surprised, and pleased in a fragile and tentative way. “Is there an us?”
CUE VIOUNS.
Oh, that is awful, melodramatic. I haven’t been minding the music, and now I must pay the price, scrambling to keep it in the background.
TAPER VOLUME 0.7dB/s. TAPER VIOLINS.
CUT BACK FLUTE.
“Yes,” she says, and begins crying. “Of course there’s an us. Oh, Chuck, of course there is.”
His face hardens. “I lost my job today. I can’t ask you to move back in.”
“Oh, Chuck,” she says, and falls against him, sobbing loudly. He is crying now, as well. I ease the volume of the music down further, slowly so they will not notice.
They both cry for a while, and then she says, “Chuck, I’m so sorry. But listen to me for a minute, and please don’t take this the wrong way. I still have my job. If you take me back, I could help out with the mortgage. I could pay the mortgage.”
“And me a kept man?” Chuck asks. His mood is strange, suddenly, both hopeful and hopeless, ecstatic and miserable.
Lucy smiles and shakes her head. “Self-employed, my darling. Like most of the rest of the world. You could work on your aircraft designs, like you’re always talking about. There’s always good money in vehicle specs.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess there is. I guess that could work. Maybe.” He crashes, suddenly looking miserable again. “I don’t know. What about—”
She puts a finger to his lips. “Hush. It’s forgotten. I love you. Let me stay with you, OK? Let me stay with you forever.”
He sighs. Sighs again. “OK,” he says, resignedly. But his old smile is creeping back into place, his body straightening, shoulders rolling back, and I recognize that he is making a joke. Respecting his privacy, and Lucy’s, I decide not to laugh.
Lucy looks around, her eyes wide, lips parted in an expression of pleasant surprise. “You know,” she says, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”