The Fresco (8 page)

Ai actually smiled at me. “I'm glad someone said that. Now that someone has said it, someone should put it out of mind. The Fresco of Canthorel is too sacred to run the risk of altering in any respect. We know we do not actually see the pictures as Canthorel painted them, but we have generations of observations written down in the sacred books, including the observations of the revered Glumshalak, who saw the work when it was first done. Thus, building upon tradition, we come to a proper understanding.”

Ai smiled again, a kindly smile that looked so well rehearsed I thought ai must often use it for effect. I did what was expected. I bowed. I assented. And thus was my fate sealed, for it was not long thereafter that the selectors told me of their decision. I was to be an athyco, a nudge, a meddler. The House of the Fresco was to confine the next decades of my life during which I was to help formulate and enforce those rules by which our people live. Then, if I lived long enough, I would work with the other races in the Confederation. And if I lived still longer, I would be sent to apply those rules on other worlds, to other beings, in order to assist their ascent into wisdom.

The next bit is unpleasant to remember or recount. I was given certain substances to eat and drink. Certain of my physical attributes shrank away to nothing, and other parts swelled with urgency. I was given exercises to do, all of which were uncomfortable and some of which were actually painful. When the pain and discomfort faded, I was given, as all selectees are given, certain biological substances to increase my euphoria at duty completed, to assure tranquility and balance in my tasks, for all the years to come. There was then what might be called a convalescence, a settling down under the care of my nootch, who displayed ker usual patience. I was not an easy person to care for at that time, for I found myself prey to numerous resentments that only time served to ameliorate. Then, at last, in the arm-clump of my
family, I celebrated my thirteenth year, the end of my childhood. It was autumn again. My year had been two actual years, and this lengthy time betokened a certain grave propriety. As a birthday gift, I was given the proper clothing of an athyco: the white gown, the blue apron and hood. After the celebration, I was referred to for the first time as ai, and I was escorted upward and given into the hands of the curator.

A year later, dear Benita, in the sanctuary of the Fresco, one celebrated one's first birthday as a person.

TUESDAY

After leaving the White House, the limousine driver offered to drop Benita back at the hotel, or anyplace else she'd like. Having breakfast in her hotel room had been unusually pleasant, and the idea of snuggling up in all that unexpected luxury while reading a good book was attractive, so she asked if he knew of a bookstore within walking distance of her hotel.

He took her directly to a sizeable place only a few blocks from the hotel, a store that seemed to take up all the south side of a short block. The name was in gold across the front windows: The Literary Lobby. When Benita got out, she told the driver she'd walk from there. There were newspaper vending machines along the sidewalk, and she walked down the line, reading the headlines:

 

MIDDLE EAST ERUPTS IN NEW CONFLICT
OVER 200 DEAD IN RIOTS

 

DRUG SHOOTOUT TAKES LIVES OF BYSTANDERS
TODDLERS, TWO SISTERS KILLED IN DRIVE-BY

 

TOBACCO COMPANIES SUED BY FOREIGN COUNTRIES
EXPORTS IMMORAL, SAY CHINESE

 

DROUGHT AND CIVIL WAR A LETHAL COMBINATION
STARVATION THREATENS MILLIONS

 

TEXAS WOMAN BEARS NINE CHILDREN
FERTILITY DRUGS BLAMED FOR LITTERING

 

It was all the same depressing stuff. She turned to consider the window display instead. Down in the corner a neatly lettered card caught and held her eyes: “Sales help wanted.” People passed behind her, back and forth on the sidewalk, but her gaze was fixed on that card.

The door of the store opened and closed, but she didn't notice until a voice at her shoulder said, “You're looking at that notice as though it were a snake with a diamond ring in its mouth.”

He had quizzical eyes, untidy graying hair and a strong jaw with a huge ink smear along one side.

“Snake with a what?” she asked.

“You know. As though you're wondering, is it a rattlesnake or only a gopher snake? Is it a real diamond or only cubic zirconium? Shall I grab it by the tail and shake the stone loose, or shall I let well enough alone?”

“I
was
thinking of grabbing it by the tail,” she said, surprising herself. “I have around fifteen years experience working in a bookstore.”

“Well, come in!” He bowed toward the door, stretched out a lanky arm to push it open, and beckoned her to follow him down the aisle, turn left, right and left again into an office at the back corner of the building, with both east-and south-facing windows that gave him excellent views of two triangular parking lots and the boulevard that cut across diagonally behind them. He dropped into the chair behind the desk and burrowed in a pile of papers, drawing out two or three sheets before he found what he was looking for.

“Application,” he said, putting it before her. “Pen,” put
ting that before her as well. “Complete, while I wander around out there, then I'll be back.”

What was she doing? She stared at his retreating back with that same feeling of inexorable reality she'd had ever since Saturday, except for that brief empty time last night, when she'd put the entire matter in other people's hands and they'd finally quit asking questions. Well, it would be good practice to apply for a job. Marsh and Goose had never given her a reason to look for a new job, though the salary wasn't great and the benefits were iffy. Working there always had been pleasant.

Had been. Operative words. Somewhere along the line, during the last couple of days, without quite knowing it, she had reached a decision.

“Name,” she muttered to herself, reading it from the form. Benita Alvarez. Age. Not quite forty, but so close as made no difference. Residence. Currently staying in a hotel, former residence…
former
residence? Well, why not? Former residence, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Work experience. Sixteen, no, seventeen years…no, say the first two didn't count. Lord, she'd started when Angelica was one, so it had been sixteen years when Angelica graduated high school, and that had been a year ago last June. Counting full time only, fifteen and a half years, clerk, bookkeeper, assistant manager, the Written Word. Reason for leaving? Children now living away from home, desire to see another part of the country, have new experiences. Health. Generally good.

She worked her way down the page. Easy stuff. She lied a little on the education bit. No need to say she'd left high school to get married, just two months before graduation. Odd to think of herself in this strange city, finding herself a familiar ground. It had been Mami who had introduced Benita to Marsh and Goose. “They are homosexual,” she said. “Which means they will not trouble you at work. They are good hearted, which means they will treat you well….”

“Alberto treats me well, Mami.”

“Alberto treats you like a servant when he is not drunk, Benita. When he is drunk he treats you like a slave. Now he
treats the children like pet dogs. When they grow up a little, he will treat them like dogs who are not pets. In time, you will know that. But if you work for Walter Marsh and Rene Legusier, you will have some security.”

Stung by this, Benita had cried, “Would you rather Carlos had not been born? Rather Angelica had not been born?”

“No.
Dios siempre bate bendiciones con dolor!
” God always mixes blessings with pain. “Your brothers have moved far away, and we see them seldom. You are my only blessing who is with me, and I will not let my blessing be destroyed!”

It had seemed to Benita that Mami had been in a dreadful hurry to be sure Benita could manage. The reason was clear all too soon. Mami knew she had cancer, though she hadn't told any of the family. She ended up having several surgeries and chemo, but two years later she was gone. The farm where the family had grown up was hers, inherited from her people, and she left it to Benita and her two brothers. The boys didn't want to keep it. Benita had no money to buy it from them, so it was sold and she and Bert had gone on living with Bert's mother on Benita's money, which had lasted a few years. Papa had a trailer out at the salvage yard, and Benita always thought he'd moved in there with a sense of relief. Mami had been the campesino in the family. Papa had never been that interested in farming, and needless to say, neither was Bert.

“Finished?” the quizzical person asked from the doorway, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, the ink smear on his jaw longer and darker than before.

“You have ink on your face,” she said. “You've been running your fingers around on your cheek.”

“Damn,” he said, peering at himself in a glass-fronted cupboard. “I always do that. I'm writing something, and next thing I know I'm tap-tapping on my face. They called me Inky in school. Or worse.”

“You buy the wrong pens,” she told him. “The kind I buy do not leak.”

He sat down and gathered up the application. “Um. Um. Um, well, um. Fifteen years? Really?”

“Really.” She smiled ruefully. “While my children were at home. Now they're off to school and lives of their own.”

“Who have you dealt with at Bantam?” he asked.

She gave him a name. He mentioned several more publishing houses, and she gave him names for each.

“You're real.” He sighed. “Halleluja. Now, this is the deal. We have this store. We have branches in Georgetown, Alexandria, and Annapolis with a modest Web-market operation. We're not Amazon-dot-com, but then we're showing a profit. I need someone who can take over. How about thirty thousand to start, ninety-day trial, and we'll talk about a long-term arrangement then?”

She was shocked into silence. She made twenty at the Written Word. Ten dollars an hour, after all those years. Of course, New Mexico salaries were lower than the average. And this was a lot bigger job.

He said hopefully. “I'm desperate for someone really good. You'll start as assistant manager. We need somebody like you, we really do. Someone well educated, personable, capable…”

She almost blurted out the truth, but managed to keep her mouth shut. She had continued her education. Never mind if it hadn't been inside ivy-covered walls, she'd done it.

“I'll let you know tomorrow,” she murmured, collecting her purse. “I'll drop in tomorrow morning.”

“Were you coming in to buy something?” he asked. “When I saw you outside?”

He took her by the hand, casually, and drew her out into the stacks where he helped her pick half a dozen books, a gift, he said.

“By the way,” he murmured as he let her out, “my name is Simon DeGreco. My card is here, in the top book, and I'll be here all day tomorrow.”

She turned toward him and removed the dark glasses. “If you check my references, please don't tell either of my bosses where I'd be working. I've left a…difficult situation, and I don't want it to come looking for me.” She looked straight at him.

His eyes fixed on the swollen eye, now turning shades of chartreuse and pale violet. “I'll be discreet,” he said, crossing his heart, not making a big thing out of it. She decided she liked him.

She got back to the hotel at six, and called Angelica from her room before she even put the books down.

“Sweetie, can you settle down and talk for a few minutes?”

“I'm on my way out, Mom.”

“I need to talk to you, Angelica. Really. Right now. And I'm not where you can call me back.”

Long pause. “Give me ten minutes, Mom. Then call back. I'll let my ride go on without me and arrange to meet them later.”

She hung up and sat on the bed, swinging her feet, staring out the window at nothing. She'd never lived in a city, not really. Though the farm was gone, the house Bert had inherited was more semirural than suburban, and the city wasn't high density, even in its core. The Washington area was huge, with lots of crime and race problems and poverty. But one could work in Washington and live wherever one wanted. Out in Virginia, or in Maryland, or in Georgetown. Too expensive, probably.

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes more. She and Angelica talked at least once a week, though it had been two weeks this time. Angelica wasn't telling her something. She had that feeling the last half dozen times they'd talked. She glanced at her watch again and dialed. She had decided not to mention aliens. Angelica was not very imaginative; she was really more pragmatic and aliens might set her off in the wrong direction. Make it a small inheritance. That was no less unlikely, but it was more believable.

At the end of five minutes, Angelica asked plaintively, “Mom, who was the cousin who left you the money?”

“You never knew her, dear. She was a very old lady, and I hadn't seen her in years. She was fond of my mother. And the money doesn't amount to much, but it's enough for me to get away from…well, you know what from. What I really want to know is will you and Carlos…will you be hurt if I do this?”

“Mom, I can't speak for Carlos. Last year, I didn't see that much of him. He roomed with those three other guys, and I was in the dorm, and it wasn't like we were really staying in touch. This year…I have a confession to make. I told
you he thought we should share an apartment to save money…”

“I told you, Angel…”

“…you told me not to, but he talked me into it…”

“Oh, Angel! Did you? When?”

“Since June.”

“You didn't tell me! You'll…you'll regret it, dear.” She thought of those black, black moods that Carlos had, moods that should be transitory, but in his case were nurtured and fed and coddled until they became a black fog that stretched out interminably until everything around him was ashen and cold.

Angelica laughed, without humor. “It's all right, Mom. You can say you told me so. You were right. It's not working. I'm paying all the bills and doing all the work, and Carlos is just bunking here when he feels like it. He has also instructed me to tell people he is nineteen, not twenty-one, because he's older than most sophomores and it embarrasses him. That idea came from his new girlfriend who is also a little older than most of us. She also tells him he wears the wrong clothes ‘to impress people,' that he should have plastic surgery on his nose, and that she can help him with his career as an artist.”

“Formidable,” said Benita, wanting to laugh and cry, all at the same time.

“Well, you get the idea why I can't speak for him. Speaking just for me, however, if you get out of there, I'll hire a mariachi band and dance a samba in the street for celebration!”

“You don't mind?”

“What I mind was that Dad was Carlos's role model. Totally self-centered and using you to let him be that way. You remember when we were in high school, Carlos was only one year ahead of me because he was held back in eighth grade? So, we knew the same people, and I heard what he was doing, just what Dad did: sneaking out at night, getting drunk, crashing with his drinking friends so you wouldn't know. I blackmailed him into going to Ala-Teen, and I went with him. They taught us about drunks having enablers.
Carlos figured right away it was all your fault Dad drank, and therefore all your fault that Carlos himself drank. I told him you were an enabler, all right. You enabled us to eat and have a roof over our heads, and if he ever said any such thing to me again, I'd tell you how he felt, and then maybe you and I would just leave him and Dad on their own to enable each other!”

Benita was for the moment speechless. “Angel. I didn't know! I didn't know any of that.”

“Well, of course not. You had enough to worry about. I told Carlos when he was ready to leave home, he could do what he pleased, but for then he had to shut up and behave or I would definitely talk you into going with me and leaving the two of them on their own. He knew where the groceries came from, and he did settle down and cut out the worst of the stuff.

“Anyhow, he's grown up now. He'll be twenty-two. Whatever he thinks, it's time you stopped enabling other people so you can enable yourself.”