The Speed of Dark (12 page)

“Sometimes you and Lucia sound angry at each other,” I say, watching Tom’s face to see if he is going to be angry with me.

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“Married people argue sometimes,” Tom said. “It’s not easy to stay this close to someone for years.”

“Does—” I cannot think how to say what I want to say. “If Lucia is angry at you… if you are angry at her… it means youare not loving each other?”

Tom looks startled. Then helaughs, a tense laugh. “No, but it’s hard to explain, Lou. We love each other, and we love each other even when we’re angry. The love is behind the anger, like a wall behind a curtain or the land as a storm passes over it. The storm goes away, and the land is still there.”

“If there is a storm,” I say, “sometimes there is a flood or a house gets blown away.”

“Yes, and sometimes, if love isn’t strong enough or the anger is big enough, people do quit loving each other. But we aren’t.”

I wonder how he can be so sure. Lucia has been angry so many times in the past three months. How can Tom know that she still loves him?

“People sometimes have a bad time for a while,” Tom says, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Lucia’s been upset lately about a situation at work. When she found that you were being pressured to take the treatment, that also upset her.”

I never thought about normal people having trouble at work. The only normal people I know have had the same jobs as long as I have known them. What kind of trouble do normal people have? They cannot have a Mr. Crenshaw asking them to take medicine they don’t want to take. What makes them angry at their work?

“Lucia is angry because of her work and because of me?”

“Partly, yes.A lot of things have hit her at once.”

“It is not as comfortable when Lucia is angry,” I say.

Tom makes a funny sound that is part laugh andpart something else. “You can say that again,” he says. I know this does not mean that I should say what I said again, though it still seems like a silly thing to say instead of “I agree with you” or “You’re right.”

“I thought about the tournament,” I say. “I decided—”

Marjory comes out into the yard. She always goes through the house, though many people go through the side yard gate. I wonder what it would feel like if Marjory were angry with me the way Lucia gets angry with Tom or the way Tom and Lucia have been angry with Don. I have always been upset when people were angry with me, even people I didn’t like. I think it would be worse to have Marjory mad at me than even my parents.

“You decided…” Tom does not quite ask. Then he glances up and sees Marjory. “Ah. Well?”

“I would like to try,” I say.“If it is still all right.”

“Oh,” Marjory says. “You’ve decided to enter the tournament, Lou? Good for you!”

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“It is very much all right,” Tom says. “But now you have to hear my standard number-one lecture. Go get your stuff, Marjory; Lou has to pay attention.”

I wonder how many number lectures he has and why I need a number lecture to enter a fencing tournament. Marjory goes into the house, and then it is easier to listen to Tom.

“First off, between now and then, you’ll practice as much as you can.Every day, if possible, until the last day. If you can’t come over here, at least do stretches, legwork, and point control at home.”

I do not think I can come to Tom and Lucia’s every day. When would I do the laundry or the grocery shopping or clean my car? “How many should I do?”

“Whatever you have time for without getting too sore,” Tom says.“Then, a week before, check all your equipment. You keep your equipment in good repair, but it’s still good to check it. We’ll go over it together. Do you have a spare blade?”

“No… should I order one?”

“Yes, if you can afford it. Otherwise, you can have one of mine.”

“I can order one.” It is not in my budget, but I have enough right now.

“Well, then. You want to have all your equipment checked out, have it clean and ready to pack. The day before, you don’t practice—you need to relax. Pack your gear, thengo take a walk or something.”

“Could I just stay home?”

“You could, but it’s a good idea to get some exercise, just not overdo it. Eat a good supper; go to bed at your usual time.”

I can understand what this plan will accomplish, but it will be hard to do what Tom wants and go to work and do the other things I must do. I do not have to watch TV or play games on the ’net with my friends, and I do not have to go to the Center on Saturday, even though I usually do.

“It will be… you will have… fencing practice here other nights than Wednesday?”

“For students entering the tournament, yes,” Tom says. “Come any day but Tuesday. That’s our special night.”

I feel my face getting hot. I wonder what it would be like to have a special night. “I do my grocery shopping on Tuesday,” I say.

Marjory, Lucia, and Max come out of the house. “Enough lecture,” Lucia says. “You’ll scare him off.

Don’t forget the entry form.”

“Entry form!”Tom smacks himself on the forehead. He does this whenever he forgets something. I do not know why. It does not help me remember when I try it. He goes into the house. I am through with my stretches now, but the others are just starting. Susan, Don, and Cindy come through the side gate. Don is carrying Susan’s blue bag; Cindy has a green one. Don goes inside to get his gear; Tom comes back out with a paper for me to fill out and sign.

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The first part is easy: my name, address, contact number, age, height, and weight. I do not know what to put in the space marked “persona.”

“Ignore that,” Tom says. “It’s for people who like to play a part.”

“In a play?”I ask.

“No. All day, they pretend to be someone they’ve made up, from history. Well, from pretend history.”

“It is another game?” I ask.

“Yes, exactly.And people treat them as if they were their pretend person.”

When I talked about pretend persons to my teachers, they got upset and made notes in my records. I would like to ask Tom if normal people do this often and if he does it, but I do not want to upset him.

“For instance,” Tom says, “when I was younger I had a persona named Pierre Ferret—that’s spelled like the animal ferret—who was a spy for the evil cardinal.”

“What is evil about a bird?” I ask.

“The other kind of cardinal,” Tom says. “Didn’t you ever read
The Three Musketeers
?”

“No,” I say. I never even heard of
The Three Musketeers
.

“Oh, well, you’d love it,” he says. “But it would take too long to tell the story now—it’s just that there was a wicked cardinal and a foolish queen and an even more foolish young king and three brave musketeers who were the best swordsmen in the world except for D’Artagnan , so naturally half the group wanted to be the musketeers. I was young and wild, so I decided to be the cardinal’s spy.”

I cannot imagine Tom as a spy. I cannot imagine Tom pretending to be someone named Pierre Ferret and people calling him that instead of Tom. It seems a lot of trouble if what he really wanted to do was fence.

“And Lucia,” he goes on. “Lucia made a most excellent lady-in-waiting.”

“Don’t even start,” Lucia says. She does not say what he is not supposed to start, but she is smiling.

“I’m too old for that now,” she says.

“So are we both,” Tom says. He does not sound like he means it. He sighs. “But you don’t need a persona, Lou, unless you want to be someone else for a day.”

I do not want to be someone else. It is hard enough to be Lou.

I skip all the blanks that concern the persona I do not have and read the Ritual Disclaimer at the bottom.

That is what the bold print says, but I do not know exactly what it means. By signing it I agree that fencing is a dangerous sport and that any injuries I may suffer are not the fault of the tournament organizers and therefore I cannot sue them. I further agree to abide by the rules of the sport and the rulings of all referees, which will be final.

I hand the signed form to Tom, who hands it to Lucia. She sighs and puts it in her needlework basket.

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THURSDAY EVENING I USUALLY WATCH TELEVISION, BUT I AM
going to the tournament.

Tom told me to practice every day I could. I change and drive over to Tom and Lucia’s. It feels very strange driving this way on a Thursday. I notice the color of the sky, of the leaves on the trees, more than I usually do. Tom takes me outside and tells me to start doing footwork exercises, then drills of specific parry/riposte combinations.

Soon I am breathing hard. “That’s good,” he says. “Keep going. I’m having you do things you can do at home, since you probably won’t make it over here every night.”

No one else comes. In half an hour Tom puts on his mask, and we do slow and fast drills on the same moves, over and over. It is not what I expected, but I can see how it will help me. I leave by 8:30 and am too tired to go on-line and play games when I get home. It is much harder when I am fencing all the time, instead of taking turns and watching the others.

I take a shower, feeling the new bruises gingerly. Even though I am tired and stiff, I feel good. Mr.

Crenshaw has not said anything about the new treatment and humans. Marjory said, “Oh. Good for you!” when she found out I was going to be in the tournament. Tom and Lucia are not angry with each other, at least not enough to quit being married.

The next day I do laundry, but on Saturday after cleaning, I go to Tom and Lucia’s again for another lesson. I am not as stiff on Sunday as I was on Friday. On Monday I have another extra lesson. I am glad Tom and Lucia’s special day is Tuesday because this means I do not have to change the day I do grocery shopping. Marjory is not at the store. Don is not at the store. On Wednesday, I go fencing as usual. Marjory is not there; Lucia says she is out of town. Lucia gives me special clothes for the tournament. Tom tells me not to come onThursday, that I am ready enough.

Friday morning at 8:53 Mr. Crenshaw calls us together and says he has an announcement to make. My stomach knots.

“You are all very lucky,” he says. “In today’s tough economic climate I am, frankly, very surprised that this is even remotely possible, but in fact… you have the chance to receive a brand-new treatment at no cost to yourselves.” His mouth is stretched in a big false grin; his face is shiny with the effort he is making.

He must think we are really stupid. I glance at Cameron, then Dale, then Chuy , the only ones I can see without turning my head. Their eyes are moving, too.

Cameron says, in a flat voice, “You mean the experimental treatment developed inCambridge and reported in
Nature Neuroscience
a few weeks ago?”

Crenshaw pales and swallows. “Who told you about that?”

“It was on the Internet,” Chuy says.

“It—it—” Crenshaw stops, and glares at all of us. Then he twists his mouth into a smile again. “Be that as it may, there is a new treatment, which you have the opportunity to receive at no cost to you.”

“I don’t want it,” Linda says. “I do not need a treatment; I am fine the way I am.” I turn and look at her.

Crenshaw turns red. “You are
not
fine,” he says, his voice getting louder and harsher. “And you are not normal. You are autistics, you are disabled,you were hired under a special provision—”

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“ ‘Normal’is a dryer setting,” Chuy and Linda say together. They grin briefly.

“You have to adapt,” Crenshaw says. “You can’t expect to get special privileges forever, not when there’s a treatment that will make you normal. That gym, and private offices, and all that music, and those ridiculous decorations—you can be normal and there’s no need for that. It’s uneconomic. It’s ridiculous.”

He turns as if to leave and then whirls back. “It has to stop,” he says. Then he does leave.

We all look at one another. Nobody says anything for several minutes. Then Chuy says, “Well, it’s happened.”

“I won’t do it,” Linda says. “They can’t make me.”

“Maybe they can,” Chuy says. “We don’t know for sure.”

In the afternoon, we each get a letter by interoffice mail, a letter on paper. The letter says that due to economic pressure and the need to diversify and remain competitive, each department must reduce staff.

Individuals actively taking part in research protocols are exempt from consideration for termination, the letter says. Others will be offered attractive separation allowances for voluntary separation. The letter does not specifically say that we must agree to treatment or lose our jobs, but I think that is what it means.

Mr. Aldrin comes by our building in late afternoon and calls us into the hall.

“I couldn’t stop them,” he says. “I tried.” I think again of my mother’s saying: “Trying isn’t doing.” Trying isn’t enough.Only doing counts. I look at Mr. Aldrin , who is a nice man, and it is clear that he is not as strong as Mr. Crenshaw, who is not a nice man. Mr. Aldrin looks sad. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “but maybe it’s for the best,” and then he leaves. That is a silly thing to say. How can it be for the best?

“We should talk,” Cameron says. “Whatever I want or you want, we should talk about it. And talk to someone else—a lawyer, maybe.”

“The letter says no discussion outside the office,” Bailey says.

“The letter is to frighten us,” I say.

“We should talk,” Cameron says again.“Tonight after work.”

“I do my laundry on Friday night,” I say.

“Tomorrow, at the Center…”

“I am going somewhere tomorrow,” I say. They are all looking at me; I look away. “It is a fencing tournament,” I say. I am a little surprised when no one asks me about it.

“We will talk and we may ask at the Center,” Cameron says. “We will bounce you about it later.”

“I do not want to talk,” Linda says. “I want to be left alone.” She walks away. She is upset. We are all upset.

I go into my office and stare at the monitor. The data are flat and empty, like a blank screen.

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Somewhere in there are the patterns I am paid to find or generate, but today the only pattern I can see is closing like a trap around me, darkness swirling in from all sides, faster than I can analyze it.