Энди Вейр: Short Story Collection

“…correct…”

“Fine. Give me powers like Superman or some other comic book character. I’ll do all sorts of interesting stuff.”

“…no… you are apart… you imagine… you explain…”

He peered across the street and spotted a wealthy couple walking together. The husband sported a fine suit while the wife wore the latest fashion and ostentatious jewelry.

“Give that guy the ability to read minds.”

“…done…”

The man stopped walking and blinked several times. His wife, having taken a few additional steps, turned back to look at him.

“Darling?” she said, puzzled. “Are you all right?”

“You… you don’t love me anymore?” the man said.

“What?” she said. “Don’t be silly.”

“You hate me! With every fiber of your being!”

“Sweetheart, what’s making you—”

“You’re planning to kill me! You’re going to put sleeping pills in my evening drink and then set the house on fire!”

“All right, I admit it!” she snapped. “You’re a horrible husband! All I am to you is a fancy accessory. Something to show off to the men at your country club. You don’t care what I think, what I feel, or what I want!”

“So you were going to kill me? Why not just divorce me?”

“I wanted the inheritance!”

“I had no idea you were so evil under that beautiful facade! So scheming, so manipulative, so devoid of morality!”

“That’s your fault for never looking past my body.”

“Truth be told,” he said, “I’m a mob lawyer. I know some people who could make use of a gal like you.”

“Wait, what?”

“I never saw past your beauty because you never showed me there was anything there. Now I know, and baby, I like what I see!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in for a passionate kiss. She struggled at first but then melted willingly in to his embrace.

“Oh, Darling, that’s all I’ve ever wanted!” she said. “Can you ever trust me again?”

“I know you’re telling the truth, baby,” he said. “Now come on, there are some business associates I’d like you to meet.”

They walked off together, arm in arm.

“Interesting!”

The white door appeared before him on the sidewalk. Taking that as his cue, he opened it and stepped through back to the other place. It was unchanged.

“Didn’t see that coming,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“…choose reward…”

“Huh?”

“…choose reward…”

“Ok, how about a big house to live in?”

Instantly, a stately manor house appeared. Reminiscent of an opulent English country estate, its wings stretched across the meadow and its finely manicured gardens were a delight to behold.

“That’s beautiful,” he said. “All right. If we’re going to do this, I have some conditions.”

“…state conditions…”

“For starters, I want a week of vacation every month. You drop me off back home and leave me alone. Set it up so I can interact with people normally.”

“…agreed…”

“If I ever get hurt or sick, you fix me up.”

“…agreed…”

“Never mess with my mind or use your mojo on me without my permission.”

“…agreed…”

“All right, then we have a deal. By the way, what’s your name?”

“…no name…”

“You don’t have a name?”

“…no society… no peers… alone… no need for a name…”

“Well you’re not alone anymore and I need to call you something.”

“…name me…”

“Sure, I can give you a name. Let me think for a minute…” He cast his gaze upward, at the sky that was neither day nor night. “I’ll call you the Twilight Zone. Nice to meet you. My name’s Rod.”

“Doris?” the doctor said.

“Hmm?”

“Doris, do you know where you are?”

“Certainly,” Doris replied. “I’m in a hospital.”

“Good, good. Do you remember what happened?”

Doris furrowed her brow. “Not all of it, no… I think there was an explosion?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor confirmed. “You were very lucky, Doris. Your father’s entire kitchen was destroyed by the explosion. It’s a miracle that you survived with only minor burns.”

“I supposed it is,” Doris smiled.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Are you my doctor?” Doris guessed.

“That’s right. I’m Doctor Mitchell.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Doris said politely.

“We’ve met a few times before, actually,” the doctor said. “You’ve been my patient for almost a week. Your memories are a bit jumbled.”

“Oh, I see,” Doris said. “Well that can’t be good.”

“You’re in fine physical shape, Doris. Nothing to worry about. You’re just a little confused. You had quite a shock to your system. Do you remember anything from after the explosion?”

“Um… no. Not really. I remember sirens, and men lifting me on to, well, I guess it must have been a gurney. Then it gets hazy.”

“That’s all right. It’ll come back to you. How about immediately before the explosion?”

“Hmm,” Doris said. “Well I remember being at my father’s house. I hadn’t seen him in some time and I’d gone over for a visit. I don’t remember the details, but I remember he wanted me to cook for him. I’m a professional chef, you see.”

“A chef,” to doctor said.

“Yes, indeed. I’ve been excellent at cooking my whole life. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“I see. Go on.”

“I never found Mr. Right,” Doris continued, “and in this modern era a woman doesn’t need a man to be complete, anyway. So I had to make do on my own. And cooking was the only thing I was good at.”

“May I ask, when did you first start cooking?”

“Well,” Doris pondered, “I guess it all started around the time my mother died. Once she was gone, my father insisted I start cooking for him. He said that he was earning the money to maintain the household, and I had to pull my weight.”

“How old were you at the time?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven?” The doctor said. “That’s pretty young to be cooking.”

Doris shrugged. “It was no different at eleven than it is at thirty-five. I was a little smaller and things were harder to reach. But with experience, I got to be as good as any adult.”

“How often did your father make you cook for him?”

“Pretty much every evening. On weekends, he’d want lunch as well. Occasionally he’d want breakfast, but usually not.”

“Did you resent it?”

Doris looked back at the doctor. “Funny you should mention it. Yes. Yes, I did resent it. I didn’t like being forced in to that role, and I didn’t like his arrogant presumption that it was my job to do it. Yes, I resented it.”

“What did you do about it?” the doctor asked.

“Well, I left home just as soon as I turned 18. I went out in to the world to make my way. That was almost 20 years ago. Ironically, the thing I was running away from was the only saleable skill I had. So I became a chef.”

“How did that work out?”

“At first, not well,” Doris admitted. “I was working in terrible venues; People didn’t care about professionalism or presentation. They just wanted a quick meal and to be on their way. I hated it. But I pressed on.

“Then I learned how to market myself. I found the right places to advertise, and made the right contacts. I started moving up in the world of cooking. There is no shortcut, I can assure you. Becoming an expert at your profession, be it chef or doctor, requires a lot of hard work.