J. Dunn: Our Share of Darkness

Ran into me, bull—they’d been leaning against the wall, waiting.

“We just concluded a procedure in the other wing and learned you were in the building,” the sec$nd one said.

I was about to ask exactly how they’d learned that when the tall one reached into his jacket and pulled out a brochure. He handed it to me. “We thought, if you were free, that perhaps we could initiate orientation.”

It was a holo brochure, expensive and flashy. No company name anywhere that I could see. I flipped it open. A picture formed: Chloe and me, in stiff, generic poses, against a hazy background. Between us stood Dad, a grotesque smile on his face.

I raised my head. “Orientation?”

“That’s right. We like to delineate the process, allay people’s concerns—”

“My sister’s been oriented already? Went well, did it?”

He paused, smile fading. “Why, yes—”

“That’s why you were laughing at her yesterday?”

“Excuse me.” It was the PA. “ Would you lower your voices, please?”

“Steve,” the short one said, “maybe we should wait for counselor Reynolds—”

“That’s what you were doing—laughing.” I waved the brochure. The picture flickered on and off. “Joke a minute in your business, no?”

“Gentlemen, this is a hosp—”

“Now look here, sir—”

“No, you look.” Snapping the holo crystal, I felt a flash of pain as broken glass cut my thumb. I bounced the brochure off his chest. “See that, you fucking vampire?”

He fell back, his eyes wide. The other one grabbed my shoulder. I brushed away his arm and swung toward him.

“Hey,” somebody shouted.

“Now mister, wait—” The short man backed into the wall. He glanced at his partner. “Steve—!”

“What’s the problem here?”

A big man in white frowned at me, another nurse, a woman, right behind him. I swept an arm at the pair. “I want these motherfuckers out of this hospital.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the female nurse said. “That kind of talk isn’t—” The man lifted a hand to shush her. “Let me get this straight, Mister—”

“I want them gone,” I shouted. “Now! Fucking pimps—”

The woman turned away. “I’ll call security—”

“Hold it, Peg.” The man drew her close and whispered something. She frowned at him but then nodded and stepped aside.

The man came toward me. “Mister Markham,” he said quietly. “Seems we got a comm glitch of some sort here.”

I felt my skin redden as I realized what kind of spectacle I’d made of myself. “I want those… leeches kept away from my father.”

“Got you,” the nurse said. “Up to me, they wouldn’t be hanging around at all. But—’’ His square face grew quizzical. “Your sister seems to think you’re going through with it.”

“No way.”

He grunted to himself. I noticed he was wearing a sunburst cross earring. A Reform Catholic—they considered transcription to be a mockery of God’s will.

“I wondered, knowing you’re a computer man and all,” he went on. “But she’s already arranged for system backup.” He bit his lip. “You talk this over with her? None of my business, you understand.”

“Sometimes talking’s not enough.”

“Clear,” he said. “Well, since they’re with her, I can’t give ’em the boot, but, uhh… a little pressure won’t hurt.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“And about your sister…” He paused. “I was here when she had her trouble…”

I had to think of what trouble he meant. It must have been the breakdown that forced her to quit college. Funny, he didn’t look that old.

“You know, there’s the chaplain, or the shrinks—’’ he ended with a shrug.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that. The Markhams done plenty for this place. We oughta return the favor.”

I headed for the elevators. Behind me the nurse said, “How many times you gotta be told not to solicit on premises?” The techs began talking at once, a barrage of protest. The only thing I could gather was that Chloe would be pulling in any minute.

I walked on to the elevator. At the corner three people stood talking, a woman and two men. The woman’s voice was high and throaty, as if she’d been crying. But all I had eyes for was what she was carrying.

It was a portable optical memory unit. A soul box. Not the usual black or gray—this one was a light pink. She clutched it protectively, as if holding a newborn child. I thought of a cartoon I’d seen: a man staring at a box just like it and saying, “Doesn’t he look natural?”

The man she was speaking to was a caricature himself, a trusted uncle come to life. Same preacher’s mane, pale complexion, a black suit and white turtleneck to heighten the resemblance to a priest.

The other man, evidently the husband, caught my gaze. He flushed and looked away. I went on into the elevator.

Outside I gave a whistle. I stepped off the curb as my car pulled up. Dad taught me that trick. I’d made a lot of spare cash in high school modifying the other kids’ car systems. Common enough today, but back then it was a bitch tweaking the frequency recognition software. One time this big mo torhead named Squeeg came around. He had a retrofitted ’98 Mustang, and he wanted—

“Alex!”

Without pausing, I opened the door and got in. A moment later a white glove rapped at the passenger window. “Alex, wait.”

I kept my head down. If I met her eyes, I’d get back out. I just knew it. We’d fight, right here, in public. I’d deck her, I swear to God—

“First,” I said, gripping the wheel. The rapping grew frantic. Unwillingly, as if under compulsion, I turned.

Chloe stared at me beseechingly, both gloves up. One was holding a transcrib brochure.

I lifted my hand, whether to wave her away or strike at her I don’t know. Then the car was moving. A guy about to cross to the lot leapt back. He shouted something as I passed. I didn’t look in the mirror.

I had a mild buzz on when I got home. I’d stopped at the club for a couple of drinks. The guys at the bar were all real sympathetic.

The house system told me that Monica had gone food shopping. Funny that remote ordering had never caught on; people like to get out and around.

The monitor displayed no less than fifty-three calls. I shook my head. I couldn’t bear going through them tonight. But two were marked urgent, one local and another ultra-long distance. I could well guess who they were from.

But the first was a surprise—Randy, glum and lawyerly. “Alexander Markham.” He glanced to one side. “April 21, 3:58 p.m. This is to notify you that my client, Chloe Markham-Lee…”

Randy’s face screwed up. “Markham- Elliot , has instituted legal proceedings concerning the possession of the psyche of your father…”

The fax whined and a sheaf of papers emerged. Tearing them off, I tossed them on the desk.

“Ah, hell with it.” Randy threw his arms wide. “She’s on the warpath now, bro. I don’t know what you did, but she wanted a restraining order to keep you out of the hospital. I convinced her that was a stupid idea. But this other thing… there’s no reasoning with her.”

He regarded me for a moment. “Can’t you even talk to her? Your own sister? She wants somebody to hold her hand, for chrissake. I can’t do it. It’s not my place, and…” He snickered. “Not enough billing hours since time began worth that.

“Anyway, there’s the paperwork. Look it over. I’ll be in touch.”

The screen blanked. I reached for the sheets. But why bother? There wasn’t a judge in town who’d issue the kind of order Chloe wanted.