The Heart Goes Last - Страница 60

And once Conor and his buddies have dumped some alcohol into themselves, Conor will think about kissing the bride, and kissing Charmaine as well; he’ll want to plant some aggressive smooches on her, to annoy Stan. She ought to warn Aurora about Conor – the way Max is, now that he’s truly in love, he might resent any other man laying a finger on Aurora, and then there could be a fight, which Max would lose, because four against one, or maybe five, counting Stan, and Max would get a nosebleed at the very least and ruin the cake or the floral arrangements, and that would spoil this beautiful, perfect day – but as she looks around the reception space, she sees that Max and Aurora have already disappeared. Hot to trot, though it won’t be trotting, it will be galloping, she thinks, without a shadow of regret. Or is that a tiny shadow? It can’t be, since every shadow of regret, and every shadow, period, has been lasered out of her. All of her shadows.

She decides to glide as far away as she can, over behind the fountain where Conor can’t see her, because out of sight, out of mind. Jocelyn comes with her.

“So, joy and fresh days of love,” she says.

“I guess,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn says weird things sometimes. “For me and Stan, that’s really true.”

“Good,” says Jocelyn. “I have a wedding gift for you,” she says. “But I’ll give it to you a year from now. It isn’t ready yet.”

“Oh, I love surprises!” says Charmaine. Is that true? Not always. Sometimes she hates them. She hates the kinds of surprises that pounce on you out of the dark. But surely Jocelyn’s surprise won’t be that kind.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she says, “for everything you’ve done for us. For me and Stan.”

Jocelyn smiles. Is that a real smile, warm and friendly, or is it a slightly scary smile? Charmaine always has trouble figuring out Jocelyn’s different smiles. “Thank me later,” Jocelyn says. “Once you know what it is.”

Then, after the handshakes and goodbyes, and after Conor has kissed Charmaine after all, but only on the cheek, Jocelyn and Conor and those other men get into a long, sleek black hybrid car with tinted windows and drive away.

Charmaine stands beside Stan with her arm linked through his and waves at them until the car is out of sight. “Do you think they’re an item?” she asks. “Conor and Jocelyn?” She’d kind of like it if they were, because then Jocelyn wouldn’t be prowling around uncoupled, so she’d be less likely to make a grab for Stan. Though Charmaine is grateful to Jocelyn, she still doesn’t trust her, after all those lies she told and all the tricky numbers she pulled.

“I’d put money on it,” says Stan. “Con always liked the hard-nosed ones. He says it’s more of a challenge, plus they know what they want, plus they’ve got more RPMs.”

RPMs is a car engine term, Charmaine knows that. But it isn’t very polite. “That isn’t very polite,” she says. “Women aren’t cars.”

“It’s Con’s way of talking,” says Stan. “Not polite. Whatever, they’re in business together.”

“What kind of business?” says Charmaine. It would have to be something they’re both good at, such as bluffing. Maybe they’re working for the casinos. If the two of them are an item, she wonders how long that’s been going on.

“I’d say their business is none of our business,” says Stan.

XV | THERE There

Stan has a new job. He’s an Empathy Module adjustor for UR-ELF Las Vegas, Robotics Department. He’s in charge of perfecting the Elvis grin, which has never been quite accurate. Too tight and it’s a snarl, too loose and it’s a drool; UR-ELF has had complaints both ways. But Stan is making progress: he’s going to ace this! After that’s done, he’s already booked for the Marilyns, where some tweaks to the pout are required.

It’s the weekend, so he’s home, his own home, trimming the cactus hedge. His hedge, his own cactus hedge. And his trimmers; he keeps them in razor-sharp condition. On the lawn – his lawn, or rather their lawn, which is covered with Astro-Turf because of the Vegas watering restrictions – little Winnie, already three months old, gurgles on a blanket covered with images of cute baby ducks. Stan wondered about naming her Winifred – her nickname would sound too much like a kids’-story bear, and she’d be called Poo at school and teased for being named after a turd, but Charmaine said it was a tribute to her Grandmother Win, because what would have happened if it hadn’t been for her, and anyway it was only little boys who had such potty brains. So they could jump that bridge when they came to it, when they could always opt for Winnie’s second name, which is Stanlita. Charmaine insisted on that; she said it was like a memorial to their undying love. Stan said there wasn’t any such name as Stanlita, and Charmaine said there was, and he looked it up online, and fuck if she wasn’t right.

Under the shade of a sun umbrella, Charmaine sits in a lawn chair, knitting a tiny hat for what she hopes will soon be the next baby, and keeping an eye on Winnie. She hovers over the kid: there have been some unexplained baby disappearances in the news lately, and Charmaine is worried that they’re being stolen for their valuable, age-cancelling blood. Stan tells her it’s not likely to happen in their part of town, but Charmaine says you never know, and a stich in time saves nine.

She’s keeping an eye on Stan too, because she has this notion that he might ramble off and get involved in adventures, with or without predatory women. She never used to be so possessive of him, but ever since that thing they did to her head she’s been like this. A micro-manager of Stan. At first it was flattering, but some days he feels a little too examined.

Nor can he dump the fact that Charmaine was once willing to kill him, no matter how much she’d boo-hooed about it. The story – the story Jocelyn subsequently fed him – is that Charmaine always knew that scene was fake, and that’s what they both pretend to believe. But he doesn’t buy it; she’d been serious.

Not that he can use it against her. And he can’t use her fling with Max either, because thanks to Jocelyn, Charmaine has the counter-weapon, namely his fling with Jocelyn. He could say he was coerced into it, but that won’t wash: Charmaine would only say the same thing about herself. I couldn’t help it, and so on. And Charmaine knows about his pursuit of the imaginary Jasmine, which is more than humiliating for him: to be a rascal is one thing, it’s almost respectable, but to be an idiot is pathetic. They’re evenly balanced on the teeter-totter of cheating, so by mutual consent they never mention it.

On the other hand, his sex life has never been so good. Partly it’s whatever adjustment they made inside Charmaine’s brain, but also it has to be his repertoire of verbal turn-ons. They’re straight from the videos of Charmaine and Max that Jocelyn made him watch, and though it was hell at the time he’s grateful to her now, because all he needs to do is haul out one of those riffs – Turn over, kneel down, tell me how shameless you are – and Charmaine is toffee in his hands. She’ll do it all, she’ll say it all; she’s everything he once longed for in the imaginary Jasmine, and more. True, the routine has become slightly predictable, but it would be surly to complain. Like complaining that the food’s too delicious. What kind of a complaint is that?

Gift

Charmaine is basking like a seal. Or a like whale. Or a like a hippo. Like something that basks, anyway. Even her knitting is going better than it used to, now that she knows what it’s for. She knitted a bear for Winnie, though a green one not blue, and she embroidered the eyes to avoid a choking hazard. And this hat will be darling once she’s finished.

What a beautiful day! But all the days are beautiful. Thank heavens she had that adjustment to her brain, because she couldn’t ask for more out of life, she appreciates things so much more than she used to do, even when something goes wrong, such as the drain water spitting up into the dryer like it did yesterday, with a full load in there too. That would once have taken her mood way down. But after the plumber came and fixed it, she put that load through again with an extra dose of lavender-scented fabric softener, and it was just like new.

And that’s good, because her white cotton top with the peasant frill was in that load, and it’s what she wants to wear to the Positron Survivors’ Reunion. She’ll see Sandi and Veronica there, and catch up on their news. They’re both doing well, according to their online pages: Sandi’s in hairweaving, she has a real knack for it, and Veronica’s with a speaker’s agency and goes around talking about how to work with your sexual orientation if it doesn’t happen to fit in with society’s norms. Just last week she spoke to a gathering of shoe fetishists, and instead of giving her a bouquet or a plaque or anything they gave her the cutest pair of blue shoes, with peek-a-boo toes and ginormous high heels. Charmaine can’t wear shoes like that any more, they give her pain in the Achilles tendon. Maybe she’s getting middle-aged.

Max and Aurora might be there as well. She hasn’t kept up with them. There’s still a little needle of hurt buried somewhere in the cushions of warm wishes she takes care to send their way whenever she thinks about them. Or thinks about Max. She still does think about Max, from time to time. In that way. Which is odd, because those feelings about Max were supposed to have been wiped.