The Belinda Triangle Page 2
He closed his eyes again and watched three words chase each other through the labyrinth of his mind like a trio of carefree squirrels in a tree. Worst. Case. Scenario.
“I know it’s way ahead of our timetable, honey, but it’ll be all right.” She put a hand on his shoulder.
Somehow her touch had the opposite effect than intended, though he tried not to show it. The soothing flute music had turned irritating. “Can you see patients here?”
“Not without any equipment or supplies. Besides, I don’t think the other tenants would appreciate me appropriating a corner of the rec room. And besides that, my mothers are inner-city people. It would be really hard for them to even get out here.” When he responded with a blank stare, she added, “But I can probably pick up some online consulting work or something to supplement what the university pays you. We’ll just have to tighten our budget, that’s all.”
He lay back down with a deep exhalation. Sweat collected in his armpits as he imagined her reaction to his own news and what it meant for the two—now three—of them. “Aren’t you going to ask me how my day went?”
She kissed his cheek. “Tell me.”
He told her.
She cried for half an hour, alternating sobs with whimpers with curses into her pillow.
He reached down and tapped her wrist screen to shut off the flute. He didn’t try to console her, knowing she couldn’t reason until she spewed out the feelings choking her.
After awhile, she lay still. Beckett ventured an arm toward her as someone knocked on the door. He paused. “Yes?”
Vicky, the incoming Director of House Affairs, called in her musical tone, “Time to start supper!”
Gen jerked upright. “Coming!” Her voice was raspy.
“I’ll take your turn.” Beckett rose off the bed.
She stood and wiped her face on her sleeve. “No, you will not.”
He sighed, helpless in more ways than one. “We’ll talk after supper then.”
She wouldn’t look at him. “What is there to talk about?”
IN FAR NORTH TEXAS, Owen Freeman drove his riding lawnmower into the storage shed and turned off the ignition. He dismounted stiffly and stood admiring the machine for a minute, enjoying the aroma of cut grass and black-market petrochemicals, then patted the leather seat before leaving and locking the door. He crossed the newly mown lawn and climbed the steps to the redwood deck where Summer sat, a blanket across her lap even though the temperature was in the upper nineties.
She smiled at him, one arm reaching down to scratch the head of the black Labrador lying beside her chair. “You couldn’t wait for the boy to mow on Monday?”
“I just had to do it myself one more time. Feel that seat under my butt again.” He stood beside her, his hands on the deck rail, following her gaze to the weather-beaten dock where the shore used to be. In the distance, the lowering sun colored the flat surface of what was left of Lake Texoma.
“What else is left?” she said.
He thought of an old, old song by a baby-faced blonde, “Is That All There Is?” What was her name? “I’ve about trimmed and touched-up everything that needed it, far as I can tell. Can you think of anything else?”
“This place looks better than it has in years.” She chuckled. “Unless I’m going blind already.”
No, that would come later in the progression, the doctors had said. He realized his wife looked a lot like that singer, except Summer’s hairstyle was more natural, not teased-up like an entertainer’s. “Well, the bank ought to be happy. They’re getting it back better than when we borrowed on it.” Lee . . . ? Peggy Lee.
“I’m not holding my breath for a thank-you note.” All levity had disappeared from her voice. She paused in her scratching, so the dog licked her fingers to remind her to continue.
Owen wished he hadn’t used the B word. It didn’t seem that long ago that a customer could walk in and talk to someone about his account. Now, there was no one to listen because there were no buildings to walk into. The ones that weren’t burned down had been turned into fast food joints. Everything was online, just numbers and FAQs. No voice contact at all, not even recordings. Must save a ton of money this way, more profitable than ever.
“Well . . .” Eager to change the subject, he opened the lid on the grill. “Might as well start this up. They’ll be here any minute.” He paused to admire the way the slanting rays of the sun added a golden tint to her silver hair. “You want to break it to ’em, or you want me to?”
THE DIRECTOR OF HOUSE Affairs changed quarterly with the solar calendar. Why, no one could explain, except as a somewhat pagan nod to the celestial name of the development. Perhaps a yearning for simpler times on the part of the original re-settlers after the massive foreclosures.
Beckett’s term, begun with the vernal equinox, expired yesterday. So at the adult dining table that night of the summer solstice, Vicky began her reign by proposing a toast praising his “outstanding leadership” and thanking him for his “dedicated service.”
He managed to smile at the compliments, though he could not recall a single decision or act he had made that could be considered out of the ordinary. The primary task was simply to collect rent from the tenants and forward it to the local property management company, who took their cut and forwarded the rest to whoever owned the building that month. Like all the other mini-mansions in the development, it had been built by a whiz kid who had been in on some new venture that flared up like a rocket, only to flame out two years later. The lender foreclosed when the whiz evaporated and the kid that was left couldn’t pay the mortgage. The lender sold it to an LLC, which sold it to a corporation, which was owned by an offshore conglomerate. Periodically, it passed from one subsidiary of the conglomerate to another.
The speech reminded him of the one given by Yordy earlier in the day, and at the end he felt it only enhanced his irrelevance. Gen joined in the applause just enough to remain inconspicuous.
“Now, then.” Vicky scooped salad onto her plate and passed the bowl to her husband, Ira. “What shall we talk about tonight?” They were late middle-aged, she an aircraft designer, he an airline pilot. Being the eldest couple and least fond of climbing stairs, they lived in what was originally the master bedroom on the first floor.
The second floor contained three bedrooms and housed three families: Harry and Larry and his sperm-daughter Sally (anonymous egg donor), Wendy and Pamela and her egg-son Edward (anonymous sperm donor), and Ulrich and Quenby and their children (his sperm, her eggs) Zachary and Xavier. The four little ones slept in bunk beds in the original game room on the same floor along with Amber, teenage niece of Vicky and Ira, who was visiting for the summer. With Doyle and Geneva Rose in the attic suite, the building designed as a residence for a single, wealthy family now provided shelter for five families that struggled to make ends meet.
Most of their discussion topics centered around the many ridiculous, often contradictory, self-defeating laws passed by Congress after the riots. Corporate misdeeds came in a close second. It was a flawed medical program, after all, that had precipitated the first demonstrations. The nanobots cleaned out the plaque in blood vessels, but they were not supposed to dump it in the brain, causing instant and irreversible Alzheimer’s.
“How about those failed birth control pills in the news?” Ira suggested.
Beckett glanced at Gen, but she kept her swollen eyes on the salad.
“There’ll be big money in that class action law suit!” Harry was an emigration attorney.
Wendy laughed. “But it’ll take so long to reach a settlement, the unplanned children will be ready for college!” She worked for a company that built snow cannons, which helped keep the skiing season from dwindling down any further than the current eight weeks.
There followed a discussion of ramifications—more like an exchange of rants—involving both the Sustainable Care Act and Financial Viability Act, that had sent Gen screaming into her pillow a short while before.
“Way overdue,” Vicky said, then continued like an unstoppable train down the same track as before: Pregnant women could not work outside the home; they were limited to two pregnancies, counting miscarriages and abortions as well as live births. Abortion was required for defective fetuses, otherwise it was a capital offense for both mother and all enablers. FVA scores were adversely affected by a lack of full-time employment in a stable industry or profession, as well as by high debt levels. Bankruptcy was available to large corporations only. Et cetera, et cetera.
Gen pushed her food around as if rearranging furniture, the fork faintly screeching across the plate.
Beckett closed his eyes and tried, with unbelieving earnestness, to transmit commands to everyone: Go on then, but hurry up! Get it over with!
Finally they reached the end of the line, the terminus, the dead end: Children born to couples with FVA scores in the bottom quartile would be taken by the government and auctioned for adoption by couples with scores in the top quartile.
Gen dropped her fork on the table and pushed her chair back. “Excuse me, please. I’m not very hungry tonight.” She left the room.
Beckett wanted to remind her that she needed to eat for two, but decided that now was not a good time.
Vicky wrinkled her brow. “She came home early today. Is she . . . ?”
“I think the discussion brought up a bad memory for her.” Beckett wiped his lips on his napkin and stood up. “When she was a teenager she . . . suffered a miscarriage, so . . . ”
“Oh, poor thing! Me and my big mouth! I’m so sorry!”
“Not your fault, but . . . I’d better go up, too.” They didn’t need to hear the full story. “I’ll come back down and help with the dishes in a little while.”
“No, Doyle, you can skip that tonight. We understand.”
“She’ll be all right.” He nodded to himself as if he were sure about that.
OWEN SLIPPED THE SPATULA under the last steak just as the Abernathys slid open the glass doors and stepped out onto the deck. “I was just about to feed your steaks to Goddy. Y’all are lucky you got here just in time!”
Spring waved away the jest and bent down to hug her twin sister Summer, while Lewis squatted to pat the dog. As usual they both had dressed as if they were going to one of their charity fundraisers instead of visiting family, she in a shimmery green evening dress with multiple rings and bracelets and necklaces, he in white slacks, blue blazer, and yacht cap.
Owen recalled a saying of his granddad’s: You can put a silver saddle on a jackass, but it’s still a jackass. He wiped his hands on his jeans before giving Spring a sideways hug and Lewis a half-hearted fist bump. “Any trouble on the way up?”
“Nothing other than a few more potholes on the freeway.” Lewis stood with hands on his artificial hips as if to show that he was ready for anything. “The guard at the entrance told me all the local malcontents have moved away. They’ve run off to Colorado he thinks.”
“Good riddance then. Let’s eat.”
They ate inside, where it was cooler and they could still see a ribbon of water in the distance through the big dining room window. They discussed the news of the day, followed by polite chitchat comparing the homeowners association here at the lake with the one at the Abernathy’s high-rise condo ten miles south.
At the first lull in the conversation, Spring put a hand on her sister’s arm. “I know I don’t have to say this, but I’m going to anyway.”
Summer managed a faint smile. “Oh, let’s don’t . . .”
“I just want it to be clear, so there’s no question at all, that Lewis and I are going to be with you every step of the way as you struggle on your journey. Aren’t we, Lewis?”
“Every step,” Lewis said.
“We’re going to be in your corner for every round of this fight, right alongside Owen. Aren’t we, honey?”
Lewis had speared a cut of steak and pointed it at the two of them. “Every round until victory is achieved!” He punctuated the remark by plopping the meat into his mouth and chomping down hard.
Owen marveled at how his wife’s sister and her husband could keep pretending that victory did not already belong to the tumor. The only question was how much agony her body would have to endure before it threw in the towel.
“I just wish”—Spring raised her napkin and dabbed at the corner of her eyes to keep the mascara from running—“I just wish we could actually crawl into that ring with you! I do!” She gave up all pretense at composure, buried her face in the napkin, and sobbed.
“Now, now,” Summer said, stroking her sister’s arm with one hand and dabbing at her own eyes with the other, though she wore no mascara.
Goddy sat up and whined at the sight, apparently able to smell tears and know what they meant. Lewis looked away but kept chewing.
Owen knew that Summer didn’t want all this, but having no idea how to intervene without making things more awkward for all of them, he sipped at his frosted glass mug of beer and waited for the sisters to work through it.
“Okay.” Spring wiped her nose on her napkin. “I just had to say that.” She folded the napkin and set it aside. “Now. What’s the next step? What’s that doctor got you scheduled for?”
Owen caught Summer’s glance as his cue. “Actually—”
Spring interrupted. “Because I want to be there with you, whatever it is.” She jerked her head toward her husband. “Lewis, too.”
“Damn straight,” Lewis said, “whatever and wherever. Like we’re in the same boat.”
Owen felt grateful at the change of metaphor. “Funny you should use that terminology.”
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that you happened to hit on the next step.”
Lewis looked more confused than usual. “I don’t get it.”
Owen had been fondling his glass mug with both hands and all the frost had disappeared. He took a deep breath. “We’ve decided—that is, Summer decided and I agreed wholeheartedly—that the next step is that cruise.”
SHE WAS NOT IN THE bedroom. He tried the bathroom door but it was locked, water splashing into the tub. “Gen? Are you okay in there?”
“Go away.”
“We need to talk.”
“I’ve heard enough talk. I need to think.” She sounded eerily calm.
“You can think while I’m holding you. Come on out.”
“You’re supposed to be washing the dishes.” The water stopped running, and he heard her settle into the tub.
He turned away and scanned the photographs of their wedding reception along the wall. Handsome people, happy and successful, stood on a lush lawn under bright skies. Gen wore an off-white wedding dress; he wore a true-blue tuxedo with no tie. They both beamed broad smiles, exuded high hopes. Her father in a Nehru jacket, her mother in a multicolored sari. His father in a traditional tuxedo, his mother in a long pink gown. This was before the riots, followed by his parents’ vacation in Southern California, their ocean swim, the mysterious infections, their slow and painful deaths.
At the window he gazed beyond the wrought iron fence at the coyote playground that was once a golf course. Down below, weeds grew in the giant plant pot that used to be a swimming pool.
Screw the damn dishes. He sat on the bed and massaged his temples as if trying to loosen fallow soil so it could bring forth dormant plants. When no fresh shoots appeared he set his briefcase on the small table by the window and retrieved the file on summer jobs. After a few minutes he picked up Gen’s arm screen—he’d had to turn in the one that belonged to the university—and pressed the search icon.
OWEN WATCHED THEIR faces turn pale and felt his own flush with embarrassment. This surprised him because his conviction that he and Summer were doing the right thing had strengthened daily since they first agreed. Still, this was the first time he had told anyone else, and the heat in his cheek
s meant it was not going to be easy.
Lewis had paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Now he grinned, his porcelain veneers perfect except for their unnatural whiteness. “Bad joke, right?”
Owen sipped his suddenly lukewarm beer and watched their gazes turn to Summer, then back to him, back and forth, waiting for a retraction of the announcement. He remembered how simple it had seemed when he and Summer first watched the infomercial and had turned to each other with silent smiles.
Finally Lewis put down his fork, wiped his lips with his napkin, and gazed out the window at the darkening horizon.
Spring gathered her sister’s hands into her own, searching her eyes. “Are you absolutely, positively sure about this?”
Summer nodded with conviction.
“Well, then.” Spring patted her sister’s hands. “But you’re not going without me.”
Summer burst into tears. Owen, caught off guard, set down his mug.
Lewis turned to his wife. “Dammit, don’t I get a say in this?”
“We talked already.” She barely glanced in his direction. “We saw this coming.”
Summer wiped her eyes. “Somebody talk some sense into her, please.”
Spring stared at Owen as if daring him to object. “I love my big sister more than life itself. That’s why I’m going with her.” She took a deep breath. “Sometimes I feel like we must have been Siamese twins that they cut apart in the delivery room, because whenever we don’t see each other for awhile I get that phantom limb feeling on my left hip, like that’s where we were joined together. I mean, I know that’s not what happened because she was born two minutes before me, but I don’t know how else to explain it.” She patted her sister’s hand again. “Summer told me long ago that she doesn’t have the same feeling. I mean she loves me as much as I love her, I know that, but she doesn’t get that same feeling on her hip. So I don’t know what that means, maybe nothing. What I do know is that where she goes, when she goes, so do I.”