Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“Whatever. Are you cooking?” He sounded hopeful. Michelle had never cooked when we were married.

“I could be.”

“Please?”

I made that little half-chuckle-half-laugh noise that no one’s bothered to name yet. “Sure, I’ll cook. See you between seven and eight. And make sure,” I added, “that you scan Ashleigh’s stuff before you open it on my computer.”

“Okay.” Normally he’d have sounded long-suffering, but I think he was just happy to be having dinner at my apartment, with his girlfriend, and his mom nowhere in sight.

I’ll take it. “Love you.”

He grunted, but didn’t say it back. I didn’t bother to force him into it, either; Sam wasn’t the only one celebrating. Maybe it was petty of me, but I was getting to see at least one of my sons before my official weekend. One per month, two weeks in the summer, two weeks in the winter.

At least I got that much. Some of my friends and co-workers barely saw their kids.

The phone rang. I sat up and answered it.

Back to work.

“I know Sam lied to me.”

“Hello to you too.”

Michelle waved toward the interior of my apartment, but I didn’t invite her in. Instead I stepped out and closed the door. “Your computer was broken. He had to use mine. He told me the report was due tomorrow.”

“And you believed him?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Why would he lie to me about schoolwork?”

She slapped a piece of paper against my chest. I held it up to the anemic sodium-yellow light above my door.

“See?”

I shrugged. “So he lied. Is it so terrible that he asked for my help, and that I gave it to him?”

Michelle sniffed. “You bribed him to come over here. You know your computer’s better than mine, and I can smell that you made him dinner.” She folded her arms under her breasts; I knew that signal, and leaned against the door frame. She was settling in for an argument. “Damn it, Greg, you know the rules!”

“And I’m supposed to ignore when my kids need me just because a judge said so?” I tried to keep my voice level; I spent too many years rising to her bait. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“It’s not bullshit!” she snapped back. “You signed the papers. You had your chance, and you blew it.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. We’d been over this ground before. Back in Baltimore, when I’d been a news reporter instead of an assignment desk jockey, the station had sent me out on assignment. The court had changed our date — I didn’t have any proof, but I was pretty sure Michelle had been behind it — and I hadn’t found out until I got back. But she’d maintained her innocence, and I’d grown tired of her lying about her lies to me. “If Sam or Dan need my help, I’m more than happy to let them come over here so I can help them.”

She sniffed again, this time even more derisive. “You’ve got them eating out of your hand, don’t you?”

“Don’t punish them, Michelle. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

She sputtered, but recovered. “Didn’t do anything wrong?”

I held up a hand. “We’re not married anymore. I don’t have to listen to this. I’m going inside.”

“So am I. And I’m taking Sam home with me.”

“Michelle, don’t be stupid. He’s working on a project for school. When he’s done, or when it gets close to ten, I’ll bring him home. He’ll be at your door by 10:30, I promise.” I didn’t like the plaintive tone I heard when I said that, but there was nothing I could do. “Just let it go.”

“Sam comes out now,” she said, almost snarling, “or I call the cops and they bring him out, and then we see what the court says about your custody arrangements.”

I closed my eyes. “Thanks so much.”

“For?”

“Reminding me why we’re divorced.”

Sam had been hustled away in a hurry, but Ashleigh has protested, saying she wanted to finish up before she left. “Can you take me home?”

“No problem,” I said, flipping on the television. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She disappeared back down the short hallway and into the tiny room I sometimes called an office, when I was feeling charitable. Sam had left a small stack of papers on my coffee table, and I flipped on an episode of Star Trek on my DVR, more for the background noise than anything else, before shuffling through it.

“Hey, Ashleigh?”

“Yeah?” she called back.

“What’s this stuff on the table?”

“Sam said it came out of his printer.”

At first glance, it looked like garbage text — usually the kind that wastes a whole cartridge and half a ream of paper. Page after page of three-digit number-letter blocks that looked like halves of hex codes. Later, as I drove Ashleigh home, I asked if she recognized any of it.

“No. Sam said it’s because my computer has a virus, but I’ve been doing all that stuff you said I should to keep it secure.”

“Virus scanner?”

“Yes.”

“Spyware eliminator?”

“Yeeeees.” She drawled it.

“Firewall?”

“Yes! God!”

“Sorry,” I said, grinning. “What was the file supposed to be?”

“Our report. I left a copy on your hard drive, in case Sam needs to work on it more.” My eyebrows rose and fell. Apparently my son hadn’t told his girlfriend that it was unusual for him to be at my house on a weekday. “You can look at it if you want.”

“Okay.” I took the Excelsior exit toward Interlachen. We stopped at the hospital to let an ambulance scream past. “So… um…”

“You don’t have to talk,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s okay.” And she took out her cell phone, clicking the keyboard, probably texting Sam.

“You see this?”

I leaned over to look at the other computer at the assignment desk. “What’s up?”

Frank pointed at his monitor. “Shuttle’s going back up.”

“Now why do you have to do that to me?” I moved back to my own workstation. “You know how those stories make me feel.”

“Oh, please, don’t start. That teacher from Edina—”

“I know, Frank.” My fingers slammed keys on my computer, making it rattle and shift on the scratched, pitted desk.

I hated being reminded of what I believe.

When I was five, Star Trek came on every evening at six. My dad would get home from work and we’d sit and watch it together before dinner. Some parents bond with their kids through sports, but for me and my dad it was Star Trek . Also Saturday afternoon TV on TBS — The A-Team , Knight Rider , NWA wrestling. But mostly Trek .

And at that age, I wanted to believe. I would lie in bed at night, clutching my stuffed dog and hoping that, when I woke up, I’d be on a starship, exploring strange new worlds, seeking out new life-forms and new civilizations.

I wanted to believe.

I wanted to believe in a future where I could work with robots. Or join a ragtag fugitive fleet searching for a shining planet known as Earth. Or have a super-powerful car with lasers and turbo-boosters. Or even hang out with a group of ex-soldiers, on the run from the government, wanted for a crime we didn’t commit. That sort of thing.

Then came real life. Kids in my high school didn’t think it was cool; they thought it made me weak and stupid. And by the time I got through college, real life had taken over. Instead of the United Federation of Planets, it was United Healthcare. Instead of NCC-1701, it was 401(k). And the only Dr. McCoy I ever met wore a rubber glove and told me to lay on my side and draw my knees up.