Joe Haldeman - The Coming

“You don’t look too good. Want me to get Marya and reschedule it?”

“No, look… our house was broken into; there was a message from the police. But I talked to Norman and he says things are under control, whatever that means. A broken window, but I think the only breakable windows in the house are the stained glass ones in the living room and kitchen.”

“Hope not,” Pepe said. “They’re beautiful.”

“And irreplaceable, literally. They were by old man Charlie what’s-his-name, died a couple of years ago.” She massaged her temples. “I’ll be all right.”

Pepe checked his watch. “Why don’t we go down early? Get a Coke from the machine.”

“Marya says that’s a bad idea. You might burp.”

“So they edit it out.”

“It’s live, Pepe.” She got up. “I’ll risk it, though.”

He ushered her through the door. “Burping on camera will make you seem more human.”

“Oh, please.” They walked down the corridor to the converted lecture hall. Just outside it, Rory stopped at the machine, slid her credit card, and got them a Coke and a root beer.

Marya was helping a cameraman arrange an improvised drape over a whiteboard, for a backdrop. They exchanged hellos.

“Look,” Pepe said. “You don’t need me here. Why don’t I run over and see whether I can help Norm?”

Rory hesitated. “Help him?” She looked disoriented. She was always a little nervous with the cameras, even with nothing else on her mind.

“The broken window? You know, rain?”

“Oh, sure.” She shook her head. “Sí, por favor.”

On his way down the hall, Pepe called for a cab to meet him across the street at Burgerman’s. Before leaving the air conditioning, he buzzed Norm.

It rang ten times before he answered. He was curiously hesitant; but said sure, he could use some help; come on over.

There were two cabs waiting, illegally parked on the grass strip in front of the fast-food palace. He asked them and the second cab said it was his. He gave it the Bells’ address and settled back for the short ride.

This was a complicated business. He knew what role Aurora was supposed to play in the Coming, but Norman was an unknown factor. On the other hand, there was a personal side to it. Norm and Rory were more than just his friends.

Two years before, he had made a real error in judgment, and wound up deeply involved with an undergraduate who turned out to be an extremely competent and calculating bitch.

He had considered himself sophisticated; well schooled in the nuances of American society, but she was more sophisticated, and had set him up and knocked him down.

They’d had sex once, and she had pictures of it. Pictures of them doing something that was technically illegal in the state of Florida. And she just an innocent girl, ten years younger than him.

All she wanted was a passing grade. But she hadn’t done any of the work.

Just an innocent girl with a hidden camera, Rory and Norm pointed out, when he confessed to them over dinner at their place. And forget about the oral sex law; the house did a quick search and found that the law had never been enforced against heterosexuals except in connection with actual child abuse. This child was nineteen, going on forty.

They got a copy of her transcript and made a few very discreet inquiries. It turned out that at least three of her high grades were gifts of love, with the help of a camera. One of the men, who had since left the university for a private firm, was eager to testify against her, before the dean, a jury, a firing squad, whatever.

Rory did some administrative shuffling and made herself the girl’s advisor. Then she called her in for “counseling” and presented the evidence, and told her she could either take an F and leave the university, or go to jail for extortion. She left.

That had not just saved his academic life. Even if the girl’s threats were empty, any kind of adverse publicity could have cost him his blue card. It would be hard to monitor the Coming from Cuba.

As the cab turned onto Fourteenth Avenue, he saw another cab parked in front of the Bells’ house. A man in a suit, with a bandaged hand, got into it. The cab pulled away and Pepe’s U-turned to take its space.

He verified his credit number and went up the walk. When he stepped into the atrium, Norm opened the door and said, “Buenas.”

“So who was the guy with the bandage?”

“That’s a long story”—Norman let him in—“and a short one. The short one is that he’s the man who broke the window.”

“The burglar? Why don’t the cops have him—you just let him go ?”

“The cops were here. Turns out you can settle out of court, on the spot. He offered twenty big ones, more than twice the replacement cost.”

“Must be a lot of money in his line of work.”

“Whatever that is. Let’s measure the thing.” Pepe followed Norm into the kitchen, where he rummaged through a couple of drawers and came up with a tape measure. The broken window was 80-by-160 centimeters.

“I’ve got some one-by-two-meter pressboard,” he said. “It’s ugly, but it’ll do.”

They went into Norm’s neat garage. The neatness made Pepe uneasy. His own garage, under the apartment, was a collection of random junk. There was actually room for a car in this one.

Norm went to a rack that was mostly woodite and pressboard, but did have a few actual boards of fragrant pine. He tugged on a big sheet of pressboard. Pepe stepped over and helped him with it.

The house chimed and said the privacy period was almost up. Norman asked for another thirty minutes. He worked silently for a few minutes, using the tape and a T square to measure out a rectangle on the pressboard. They carried the board over to the table saw.

On the workbench next to it, an iron mallet and a splatter of blood. Norman saw Pepe staring at it. “That’s part of the story, the long story.”

“You want to tell it?”

“Not really, no.” They wiggled the board and the table saw’s guide until it was exact, the saw blade’s kerf on the waste side of the drawn line. They cut off an eighty-by-two hundred rectangle, and then cut that to size.

“You don’t have to answer this,” Norman said suddenly, “but we were talking a couple of years ago, after Rory went to bed. Talking about sex, homosex.”

“I sort of remember that. We’d had a bit to drink.”

“A lot.” He stamped the board on the table twice; then went over the cut edges with a rag. “You’d done it, you said.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal in my culture,” he said, trying to separate Cuba from the place where he actually grew up. “Older men think it’s scandalous, effeminate. But they probably did the same thing when they were boys.”

“Boys,” Norman said, rubbing the board with the rag.

“It’s just play,” Pepe said. “You nortes are still Puritans.”

“Some.” Norman smiled into space. “Some of us are still boys.”

“¿Cómo?” Pepe said. “Still boys?”

“I’ve been homosexual since before you were born. Rory accepts it.”

Pieces falling into place. “And that’s what the man was here about?” He looked at the blood spatter and trail. “The man with the bandage.”

“Blackmail. You can imagine how long I’d have my job if it came out.”

“Rory, too,” Pepe said. “The way things are.”

“Exactly.” He put the board under his arm and Pepe followed him into the kitchen.

“So the blood? The guy’s hand?”

The board fit the space exactly. “Hold this in place?” Pepe held it while Norman went through drawers, and finally found a thick roll of white tape.