Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

“Wrong, Jeremiah. I do.” He raised his gun and pointed it at the middle of McCutcheon’s chest. “This is for Malena Graham.”

He fired four times, four neatly spaced and carefully aimed shots, then lowered his arm slowly to his side. He stood, swaying on his feet, and watched the shattered shell of William McCutcheon die, and felt cheated because triumph tasted as bitter as defeat.

Ripping his helmet off, Dryke threw it aside, turned his back, and started up the stairs. Loren was staring at him. “Dru?” Dryke said as he reached the kitchen. “How much got out?”

“Just the first ten or twelve seconds,” she said. “I jammed the skylinks and Ramond got the lines through Pacific. What happened?”

“Can you put a message up for me to the Director?”

“I can do better than that. I can get her direct.”

Dryke shook his head, aware of Loren’s watching eyes, though he would not meet them. “I don’t want to talk to her,” he said. “Just tell her for me that Jeremiah is dead.”

Dr. Meyfarth’s counseling room had been a comfortable space, an almost cluttered space. But since Christopher’s last visit, the clutter had vanished, and everything that remained was now pure eggshell white—the cradle couch, the low table with the recorder ball, Meyfarth’s molded chair, the padded corner pit, the carpet, the ceiling, the walls.

It was now a confrontational environment, offering no distractions and allowing only one focus—the interaction between technologist and client. Christopher wondered briefly if Meyfarth had made the change with him in mind. But this time, he needed no encouragement to talk.

“She wants me to believe that my father bullied my mother to the point that she killed herself, and then went ahead and did what he had to, to get what he wanted. I’ve been thinking about this since Saturday night, and I just can’t accept that picture.”

“Then don’t,” Meyfarth said. “The facts aren’t clear, and you’re not obliged to share her beliefs.”

“I think the facts are clear. My father loved Sharron—my mother.” The amendment was a conscious jab at his sister, whose cutting words were still playing in his thoughts. “I know he did, no matter what Annie says.”

“The point is, that’s your sister’s particular family grief. Accurate or not, it doesn’t have much to do with you.”

“Lynn-Anne thinks it does.”

“None of us is responsible for the circumstances of our birth. That doesn’t heal your relationship with Annie, I know,” said Meyfarth. “But you don’t have to make peace with her to come out ahead.”

“How’s that?”

“You can take away from this the understanding that she’s bracketed you and your father together and that the hostility she shows you is only partly your fault. In fact, it’s safer for her to vent that hostility on you than on him, so you can probably expect more of the same if you try to press contact.”

Christopher nodded slowly. “If she could learn to separate the two of us, then maybe we could work out whatever real grievances she has with me.”

“It would be a good starting point, at least.”

“And I’m sure there are some,” Christopher added.

“There almost always are, between siblings,” said Meyfarth. “In any case, I think we can let this go for now—unless you’d rather not.”

Christopher crossed an ankle over his knee as he answered. “No. This doesn’t feel like it touches my problems with Jessie and Loi.”

“On the whole, I agree,” said Meyfarth. “What is the climate in the house now? When we talked Saturday, you led me to think that it wasn’t very pleasant for you.”

A wry smile formed on Christopher’s lips. “Not very pleasant for any of us, I guess. Loi surprised me this weekend—kind of took pity on me. But Jessie—I can’t get near her. I can’t even get her attention. Almost as though she has her back to me, if that makes any sense.” He gazed intently at the carpet beyond his feet. “And it hurts,” he added quietly.

“Is she still seeing John?”

Christopher’s head bobbed slowly in affirmation. “I expect her to tell us any day now that she’s moving out,” he said. “I’m not quite sure why I didn’t see it before, but she’s never been as serious about the trine as Loi and I were.”

“Are you sure you’re being fair? She wanted to have a baby with you.”

“But only as long as it looked like it’d be easy,” Christopher said, raising his head and looking plaintively at Meyfarth. “She wants a lot, you know? But what is she giving back?”

“What does she want? ‘Listen to me. Tell me your feelings. Be affectionate.’ That’s too much?”

“This was the first bump we ran into, and she’s already given up on me.”

Meyfarth cocked his head and said nothing, inviting Christopher to follow the thought.

“It’s almost like we were a comfortable place to light, and she was paying her keep by running the house and being cuddly. But it’s not comfortable anymore, so she’s ready to move on. A butterfly. Pretty, but—”

“No commitment?”

“No commitment.”

A skeptical smile flickered across Meyfarth’s face. “You opted out of your marriage at the three-year option. So what do you know about eternal love?”

The dig was neither unexpected nor unfair. “I’ve been thinking about my marriage, too,” said Christopher. “Trying to learn from experience, you know? Maybe there’s no mystery here. Maybe it’s just like the first time—right idea, wrong people.”

“I think that lets you off the hook too easily, Chris.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and smiling dolefully. “I was counting myself as the chief wrong person.”

“Are you ready to give up?” asked Meyfarth. “Is that what we’re talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Christopher said tiredly. “Why don’t you ask me a different question?”

“All right,” Meyfarth said, settling back in his chair. “There is something you said earlier that I’d like to go back to. You said your father loved Sharron. How do you know? You weren’t a witness to it. And Lynn-Anne was.”

The question stopped Christopher for a moment. “I didn’t mean a hard question,” he said, and sighed.

“Did he tell you he did?” the arty suggested.

“No. I don’t think so. He wasn’t comfortable talking about her. This is strange, because I’m sure I’m right, I’m just not sure why. I think that part of it—a big part—is that he never married again. As though it wouldn’t have been right to replace her. Never even came close, as far as I’m aware.”

“He had a child—you—with another woman, and lived with her for fifteen years. That isn’t close?”

“I don’t think they were even lovers,” said Christopher. “They never acted like they were.” A pause. “Did I tell you Deryn wouldn’t let me call her ‘Mother’? She always kept the lines drawn. ‘I’m not your mother, I’m your incubator,’ she’d say. And laugh. But somehow it never felt like a rejection.” He smiled bitterly. “At least, not until she left.”

“Did your father love her? ”

“What? Deryn? No.” Christopher frowned. “Yes. But not the same way.”

“What way?”

“He—” Christopher stopped and studied his hands. “I don’t suppose I really know how it was different. It just seems like it would have to be.”

“That he would have been closer to Sharron? More affectionate? Happier?”

“Yes.” An afterthought. “It’s hard to tell when my father is happy.”