Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

Back to the man’s face. Not a handsome face as such, but a face you could trust. Sort of like a math teacher, or a minister. You can tell he’s sincere, and sincere is better than handsome. Really handsome men were a bad idea, said Grandma Win, because they had too much to choose from. Too much what? Charmaine had asked her, and Grandma Win said, Never mind. “The Positron Project is accepting new members now,” says the man. “If you meet our needs, we’ll meet yours. We offer training in many professional areas. Be the person you’ve always wanted to be! Sign up now!” That smile again, as if he’s gazing deep inside her head. Not in a scary way though, in a kindly way. He only wants the best for her. She can be the person she’s always wanted to be, after it was safe to want things for herself.

Come here. Don’t think you can hide. Look at me. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you? No was the wrong answer to that, but so was Yes.

Stop that noise. Shut up, I said shut up! You don’t even know what hurt is.

Forget those sad things, honey, Grandma Win would say. Let’s make popcorn. Look, I picked some flowers . Grandma Win had a little patch at the front of the house. Nasturtiums, zinnias. Think about those flowers instead, and you’ll be asleep in no time.

Halfway through the ad, Sandi and Veronica come in. Now they’re sitting at the bar having Diet Cokes and watching the ad too. “Looks great,” Veronica says.

“No free lunch,” says Sandi. “Too good to be true. That guy looks like a lousy tipper.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Veronica says. “Can’t be worse than the Fuck Tank. I’d go for those towels!”

“I wonder what’s their game?” says Sandi.

“Poker,” says Veronica, and they both laugh.

Charmaine wonders why that’s funny. She isn’t sure that they’re the kind of people the man is looking for, but it would be way too snobby and also discouraging to say so, and they are nice girls at heart, so instead she says, “Sandi! I bet you could be a nurse!” There’s a website and a phone number scrolling across the bottom of the screen; Charmaine scribbles them down. She’s so excited! When Stan picks her up, they can use their phone to view the details. She can feel the griminess of her body, she can smell the stale odour coming from her clothes, from her hair, from the rancid fat smell of the chicken-wings place next door. All of that can be shed, it can peel off her like an onion skin, and she can step out of that skin and be a different person.

Will there be a washer and dryer in that new home? Of course there will. And a dining table. Recipes: she’ll be able to cook recipes again, the way she did after she and Stan got married. Lunches, intimate dinners, just the two of them. They’ll sit on chairs while eating, they’ll have real china instead of plastic. Maybe even candles.

Stan will be happy too: how could he not be happy? He’ll stop being so grouchy. True, there’s a grouchy part she’ll have to guide him through first, the part where he’ll say it’s sure to be a scam like everything else, it’s some kind of ripoff, and why bother applying because they won’t get in. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, she’ll say, and why don’t they just try? She’ll persuade him to do it, one way or another.

Worse comes to worst, she’ll dangle the promise of sex. Sex in a luxurious king-sized bed, with clean sheets – wouldn’t Stan like that? With no maniacs trying to break in through the window. If necessary, she’ll even put up with that cramped back-seat car ordeal tonight, as a reward if he says yes. It won’t be that much fun for her, but fun can wait until later. Until they’re inside their new house.

Getting into the Positron Project won’t be a slam dunk. They aren’t interested in just anyone, as Charmaine whispers to Stan on the bus that’s picked them up from the parking-lot collection point. Some of the people on the bus can’t possibly make it into the Project, they’re too worn-down and leathery, with blackened or missing teeth. Stan wonders if there’s a dental plan in there. So far there’s nothing wrong with his own teeth; lucky, considering all the cheap sugary crap they’ve been eating.

Sandi and Veronica are on the bus too, sitting at the back and nibbling on the sackful of cold chicken wings they’ve brought with them. Every once in a while they laugh, a little too loudly. Everyone on this bus is nervous, Charmaine especially. “What if we get rejected?” she asks Stan. “What if we get accepted?” She says it’s like being picked for sports teams when she was at school: you’re nervous either way.

The bus trip goes on for hours, in a steady drizzle; through open countryside, past strip malls with plywood over most of the windows, derelict burger joints. Only the gas stations appear functional. After a while Charmaine falls asleep with her head on Stan’s shoulder. His arm is around her; he draws her closer. He too dozes off.

Then the bus stops at a gateway in a high black-glass wall. Solar generation, thinks Stan. Smart, building it in like that. The group on the bus wakes, stretches, descends. It’s late afternoon; as if on cue, mellow sunlight breaks through the clouds, lighting them in a golden glow. Many are smiling. They file in past the seeing-eye boundary, then through the entrance cubicle, where their eyes are scanned and their fingerprints taken and a plastic passcard with a number on it and a barcode is issued to each of them.

Back on the bus, they’re driven through the town of Consilience, where the Project is located. Charmaine says she can hardly believe her eyes: everything is so spruced up, it’s like a picture. Like a town in a movie, a movie of years ago. Like the olden days, before anyone was born. She squeezes Stan’s hand in anticipation, and he squeezes back. “This is the right thing to do,” she says.

They get off the bus in front of the Harmony Hotel, which is not only the top hotel in town, says the neatly dressed young man who’s now in charge of them – it’s the only hotel, because Consilience isn’t exactly a tourist destination. He herds them into a preliminary drinks and snacks party in the ballroom. “You’re free to leave at any time,” he tells them, “if you don’t like the ambience.” He grins, to show this is a joke.

Because what’s not to like about the ambience? Stan rolls an olive around in his mouth before chewing: it’s a long time since he’s had an olive. The taste is distracting. He should be more alert, because naturally they’re being scrutinized, though it’s hard to figure out who’s doing it. Everyone is so fucking nice! The niceness is like the olive: it’s a long time since Stan has encountered that muffling layer of smiling and nodding. Who knew he’s such a fascinating dude? Not him, but there are three women, obvious hostesses, they even have name badges, deployed to convince him of his own magnetism. He scans the room: there’s Charmaine, getting a similar treatment from two dudes and a girl. Her slutty hooker friends from PixelDust are in that group too. They’ve fixed themselves up, they even have dresses on. You wouldn’t really spot them as pros.

Throughout the evening, the crowd gets thinner – a discreet weeding, Stan guesses. All those with bad attitudes, out the Discard door. But Stan and Charmaine must have passed scrutiny, because here they still are, at the end of the party. Everyone remaining is given a room reservation, for later. They also get a meal voucher, with a carafe of wine included, and another young man steers them toward a restaurant called Together, just down the street.

There’s an old-fashioned tune playing in the background, white tablecloths, a plush carpet.