"Was he examining other little girls too?"
"Sure. Lots. He even examined Angel, and she was only seven then." She smirked unpleasantly. "Imagine a seven-year-old Speaker."
"What kind of an examination was it?"
"Dick and Mr. Brooks were looking for a Speaker," she said as though that explained everything. "Everybody wanted to be the Speaker. Every little girl in the Church. You got to wear all those pretty clothes and have your picture taken and be famous. Who wouldn't want it?"
"I'm sure they all wanted it. But you were the one who got it, weren't you?"
A glow of pride suffused her face. "I was the only one who heard the Voice," she said. "I was the only one it wanted to talk to."
"And how did Dick examine you?"
She started to say something, glanced up at me, and then closed her mouth. After a moment she rearranged the quilt and crossed her hands demurely on top of it. "If Dick sent you," she said, looking at the top of the quilt, "how come you have to ask all these questions?"
"We're going to write a book," I lied. "Dick and I. A book about you."
"What are you going to call it?"
"Jessica Speaks. "
"Will it have my picture in it?" There was real pleasure in her face. It almost made her look young.
"On the cover."
"One of my good pictures, one of my then pictures. It'll be one of those, won't it?"
"The prettiest we can find."
She took a sidelong peek at the dining-room door. "Not her," she said softly.
"No. Just you."
"Fine," she said.
"So you see, I need to get as much information as I can in your own words."
She nodded gravely and regarded her hands. "Okay."
"Tell me about the examination."
"Just a regular exam. You know, my pulse and my blood pressure. My eyes and ears and stuff."
There was no way to avoid the question. "Did you have to get undressed?"
Real color appeared beneath the rouge. "Sure," she said.
"And was your mother in the room?"
"Not then," she said. "She came in while I was Speaking. She says she saw me sitting on the table and Speaking. She was real happy about it. She liked Dick then. I don't remember her until after."
"After what?"
"After I'd finished Speaking."
"Your mother liked Dick then?"
"Oh, sure. She was crazy about him."
"And later?"
She looked me straight in the eye. "Dick didn't tell you to ask me that," she said. "He'd have never told you to ask me anything about that."
It was the kind of moment that always made me wish I still smoked. It would have been very nice to have something to do for a few seconds.
"You're right," I said. "He didn't. We won't talk about any of that. Tell me, what did it feel like to Speak?"
She tilted her chin up and gave me an evaluative gaze. Her eyes were long, widely spaced, and slate gray.
"Like I said," she began, "I don't remember the Voice. I just remember that it always felt like someone was holding me in his arms. Somebody a lot bigger than I was. Somebody warm, who loved me."
"And then what happened?"
"When?"
"After the first time you Spoke."
She looked as though she didn't understand the question. "We went home," she said.
"When did you Speak again?"
"For Mr. Brooks. It was a few days later. It was the same, except longer. Then the third time was a Revealing."
"And then you did it how often?"
"Every week, usually. Sometimes the Voice didn't come, though."
"How often did that happen?"
"Once in a while. I just sat there with everybody looking at me. It was terrible."
"When the voice did come, what happened?"
"We went out onto the stage, you know, after the welcome and the music, and maybe sometimes there was a guest star who got up and talked about what Listening had done for him. Then she"-she indicated the door to the dining room-"and I went onto the stage and sat down. I always sat on the right, because she was supposed to say something into the microphone before anything happened. Usually, while she was talking I would hear a kind of whisper in my ear. It would say my name a few times. Then it was like I was being filled slowly with warm water, and I would go away. When I came back, it was over."
I needed a moment to think, and I got up and pulled open the curtains covering the living-room window. Sunlight poured into the room. Jessica squinted and stretched a hand out in front of her to block the light. "Don't," she said. "It hurts my eyes." I pulled the curtains closed again, and she settled back onto the couch.
"Did you understand the things you said when you were Speaking? Afterward, I mean, when you heard the tapes."
"No. Not most of it."
"And did Dick go on examining you?"
The color returned to her cheeks and she looked away.
"Sure, always. That's what the Speaker's doctor is for." She sounded defensive. "Before Dick it was that fat man. He was Anna's doctor."
"Jessica. Did either Dick or Mr. Brooks give you anything to read? Did they ask you to learn anything?"
"Like what?" she said blankly.
"Yeah, like what?" said a deep voice behind me.
I turned to see the steely-haired lady who'd left in the Land Rover. She was clutching three bags that said Taco Tiki, and she was regarding me very narrowly indeed. "And how'd you get in here?"
"You're Hermia," I said happily. "I just missed you."
"What's going on?" she said. Mrs. Fram lurched into the dining-room doorway and stood there with her jaw slack. She looked at Hermia's bags. "Taco Tiki," she said.
"I can't leave for a minute," Hermia said. "What are you, some kind of spy?"
"Dick sent him," Jessica said. "They're going to write a book about me and make me famous again. And there's nothing you can do about it."
"Is that so?" Hermia said softly, looking at me. "A book. All about little Jessica. Now, isn't that interesting?"
"We have high hopes for it," I said, wondering if Hermia were armed.
"You and Dick," she said.
It sounded thin even to my ears. "His name goes first," I said.
"Merryman and what?"
"Aren't you going to put those bags down? Your food will get cold."
"Doris," Hermia commanded, holding out the bags. Doris tottered over to get them. "Get out of here," Hermia said. "Put them in the other room. Stay there." Mrs. Fram trudged through the door, looking like the Night of the Living Dead if the Living Dead had come back for junk food.
"You're going to ruin things," Jessica said accusingly to Hermia.
"You bet your cute little hairbow, I am," Hermia said. "Now, you, what's your name?"
I stood up. She was almost as tall as I was. "Hermia," I said, "there's a lot going on that you don't know about."
She blinked. "Like what?"
"Changes. In Century City."
It didn't exactly stun her; she didn't stagger backward or clutch at her throat, but she was listening. "Which direction?" she said after a moment.
"The wrong one, dear," I said. "If you're not careful."
"I'm doing my job."
"Then how'd I get in here?"
"I had to get food. Who else is going to go out?"
"What were your instructions?"
"They wanted tacos," she said, trying for a tone of calm reason. "They can't live on pizza, and Taco Bell doesn't deliver."
"They wanted tacos," I said pityingly. "Do you know what she told me? What she would have told anyone who walked in while you were doing what? Going out for tacos?"
Nobody said anything. Then Jessica said, "I like tacos."
Hermia shot her a glance and she subsided. "How long since you were basemented?" I asked.
Hermia licked her lips. "Never," she said.
"What an experience you have in store," I said. "If you call the wrong person."
"Which one?" Hermia said.