Walter Miller - Dark Benediction

“About crying.”

“Listen,” he said irritably, “did you ever see a looney or a spacer without leaky eyes? It’s the glare, that’s all.”

“Is that it? Huh—want to know something? I can’t cry. That’s funny. You’re a man and you can cry, but I can’t.”

Relke watched her grumpily while she warmed her behind at the oven. She’s not more than fifteen, he decided suddenly. It made him a little queasy. Come on, Joe, hurry.

“You know,” she went on absently, “when I was a little girl, I got mad at… at somebody, and I decided I was never going to cry anymore. I never did, either. And you know what?—now I can’t. Sometimes I try and I try, but I just can’t.” She spread her hands to the oven, tilted them back and forth, and watched the way the tendons worked as she stiffened her fingers. She seemed to be talking to her hands. “Once I used an onion. To cry, I mean. I cut an onion and rubbed some of it on a handkerchief and laid the handkerchief over my eyes. I cried that time, all right. That time I couldn’t stop crying, and nobody could make me stop. They were petting me and scolding me and shaking me and trying to give me smelling salts, but I just couldn’t quit. I blubbered for two days. Finally Mother Bernarde had to call the doctor to give me a sedative. Some of the sisters were taking cold towels and—”

“Sisters?” Relke grunted.

Giselle clapped a hand to her mouth and shook her head five or six times, very rapidly. She looked around at him. He shrugged.

“So you were in a convent.”

She shook her head again.

“So what if you were?” He sat down with his back to her and pretended to ignore her. She was dangerously close to that state of mind which precedes the telling of a life history. He didn’t want to hear it; he already knew it. So she was in a nunnery; Relke was not surprised. Some people had to polarize themselves. If they broke free from one pole, they had to seek its opposite. People with no middle ground. Black, or if not black, then white, never gray. Law, or criminality. God, or Satan. The cloister, or a whorehouse. Eternally a choice of all or nothing-at-all, and they couldn’t see that they made things that way for themselves. They set fire to every bridge they ever crossed—so that even a cow creek became a Rubicon, and every crossing was on a tightrope.

You understand that too well, don’t you, Relke? he asked himself bitterly. There was Fran and the baby, and there wasn’t enough money, and so you had to go and burn a bridge—a 240,000-mile bridge, with Fran on the other side. And so, after six years on Luna, there would be enough money; but there wouldn’t be Fran and the baby. And so, he had signed another extended contract, and the moon was going to be home for a long long time. Yeh, you know about burned bridges, all right, Relke.

He glanced at Giselle. She was glaring at him.

“If you’re waiting for me to say something,” she snapped, “you can stop waiting. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

“I was just a novice. I didn’t take permanent vows.”

“All right.”

“They wouldn’t let me. They said I was—unstable. They didn’t think I had a calling.”

“Well, you’ve got one now. Stop crawling all over me like I said anything. I didn’t ask you any questions.”

“You gave me that pious look.”

“Oh, garbage!” He rolled out of the chair and loped off to the room. The stationman’s quarters boasted its own music system and television (permanently tuned to the single channel that broadcast a fairly narrow beam aimed at the lunar stations). He tried the television first, but solar interference was heavy.

“Maybe it’ll tell us when it’s going to be Monday,” she said, coming to watch him from the doorway.

He gave her a sharp look, then softened it. The stove had warmed the kitchen, and she had stepped out of the baggy coveralls. She was still wearing the yellow dress, and she had taken a moment to comb her hair. She leaned against the side of the doorway, looking very young but excessively female. She had that lost pixie look and a tropical climate tan too.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked. “Is this all we’re going to do? I mean, just wait around until somebody comes? Can’t we dance or something?” She did a couple of skippity steps away from the door jamb and rolled her hips experimentally. One hip was made of India rubber. “Say! Dancing ought to be fun in this crazy gravity.” She smirked at him and posed alluringly.

Relke swallowed, reddened, and turned to open the selector cabinet. She’s only a kid, Relke. He paused, then dialed three selections suitable for dancing. She’s only a kid, damn it! He paused again, then dialed a violin concerto. A kid—back home they’d call her “jail bait. ” He dialed ten minutes’ worth of torrid Spanish guitar. You’ll hate yourself for it, Relke. He shuddered involuntarily, dialed one called The Satyricon of Lily Brown, an orgy in New African Jazz (for adults only).

He glanced up guiltily. She was already whirling around the room with an imaginary partner, dancing to the first selection.

Relke dialed a tape of Palestrina and some plainchant, but left it for last. Maybe it would neutralize the rest.

She snuggled close and they tried to keep time to the music—not an easy task, with the slow motion imposed by low gravity mismatched to the livelier rhythms of dancing on Earth. Two attempts were enough. Giselle flopped down on the bunk.

“What’s that playing now, Bill?”

“Sibelius. Concerto for Something and Violin. I dunno.”

“Bill?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I make you mad or something?”

“No, but I don’t think—” He turned to look at her and stopped talking. She was lying on her back with her hands behind her head and her legs cocked up, balancing her calf on her other knee and watching her foot wiggle. She was lithe and brown and… ripe.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“Bill?”

“Uh?”

She wrinkled her nose at him and smiled. “Don’t you even know what you wanted to come over here for?”

Relke got up slowly and walked to the light switch. He snapped it.

“Oh, dahling!” said a new voice in the darkness. “ What if my husband comes home!”

After Sibelius came the Spanish guitar. The African jazz was wasted.

Relke sat erect with a start. Giselle still slept, but noises came from the other room. There were voices, and a door slammed closed. Shuffling footsteps, a muffled curse. “Who’s there?” he yelled. “Joe?”

The noises stopped, but he heard the hiss of someone whispering. He nudged the girl awake with one elbow. The record changer clicked, and the soft chant of an Agnus Dei came from the music system.

“Oh, God! It’s Monday!” Giselle muttered sleepily.

“A dame,” grunted a voice in the next room.

“Who’s there?” Relke called again.

“We brought you some company.” The voice sounded familiar. A light went on in the other room. “Set him down over here, Harv.”

Relke heard rattling sounds and a chair scraped back. They dumped something into the chair. Then the bulky silhouette of a man filled the doorway. “Who’s in here, anyhow?” He switched on the lights. The man was Larkin. Giselle pulled a blanket around herself and blinked sleepily.

“Is it Monday?” she asked.

A slow grin spread across Larkin’s face. “Hey Harv!” he called over his shoulder. “Look what we pulled out of the grab bag! Come look at lover boy…. Now, Harv—is that sweet? Is that romantic?”

Kunz looked over Larkin’s shoulder. “Yuh. Real homey, ain’t it. Hiyah, Rat. Lookit that cheese he’s got with him. Some cheese. Round like a provolone, huh? Hiyah, cheesecake, know you’re in bed with a rat?”