David Gerrold - A Matter for Men

"Oh, well ... maybe he got caught up in traffic, or something."

She didn't react to the joke. She turned her wide-eyed stare on me again. "Do you think so?"

"Are you still dusted?" I asked.

"Oh, no. I haven't sniffed since yesterday. I don't like it. Why do you ask?" Before I could answer, she clutched my arm. "Am I being weird? I'm sorry. Sometimes I get weird. It happens. But nobody ever tells me if I'm weird or not. That scares me sometimes-that I might be so weird that no one will tell if I am or not. One time, everybody else got dusted and I had to stay squeaky-because it was my period and I didn't want to risk hemorrhaging-and I was really bored. They didn't understand why I wasn't giggly like them-"

"Yes," I said. "You're being weird."

She looked into my face. Her eyes were very large and very dark. She looked almost like a little girl right then. She said, "Thank you. Thank you for telling me that." She blinked and I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know anything anymore, except what other people tell me. So thank you for telling me the truth.

"Do you hate me?" I shook my head. "Do you feel sorry for me?"

"No, I don't." I thought about my father for an instant. "No, I don't feel sorry for anyone anymore. It only kills them."

She kept on looking at me, but she didn't say anything for a long moment. We stood there in the Colorado dusk, while overhead the stars began to come out. To the west, the mountains were outlined in a faint glow of orange. The breeze was warm and smelled of honey and pine.

The silence stretched until it was uncomfortable. I began to wonder if I should apologize for being honest with her. Finally she said, "I wish I knew where that damn dog went to. It's not like him to miss his dinner! Rangle!" She looked annoyed, then as if embarrassed to have been angry, she said, "I don't know why I'm getting so upset-he's not my real dog. I mean, he's just a stray. I sort of adopted him-" And then she admitted, "-but he's the only person I know who ... well, he doesn't care if I'm weird. Rangle doesn't care. You know?"

"Yeah, I do. We all need someone these days." I smiled at her. "Because we're all we've got."

She didn't answer immediately. She was staring at the paper with the meat scraps on it. Overhead, the street lights came on, filling the twilight with a warm glow. When Marcie finally spoke, her voice was very soft. "You know, I used to know what was important in life and what wasn't. Being beautiful was important. I had my nose fixed-my whole face-because I wanted to be beautiful. Like, you could have that bump on your nose fixed-"

"It was a motorcycle accident," I said.

"-only you'd still be you inside, wouldn't you? Well, that's what happened to me. I had my face remodeled-only afterwards, I was still me. I think that's what's happened to the world. We're all still who we were last year-only our outsides have changed and we don't know it yet. We don't know who we're supposed to be anymore. I'm nervous and I'm scared-all the time," she said. "I mean, what if I do find out who I am, and then someone comes up and tells me no, that's not who I am after all? Do you know what I mean?"

I said, "Ducks. We want to feel like swans, and they keep telling us we're ducks-and not even very good ducks at that."

"Yeah," she said. "That's good. You do understand. Sometimes I wonder if there's anyone else in the world who feels what I do-and sometimes I find someone who does; but it's always a surprise to find out that I'm not completely alone."

She shivered and I put my arm around her. "I know."

Petulantly, she said, "I just wish I knew where Rangle was. He'll probably show up tomorrow, grinning and wagging. He's a real practical joker, but I don't like worrying. You've seen him around, haven't you? Sort of halfway between brown and white, almost pink-real shaggy, with big floppy paws like bunny-feet slippers. Big brown eyes and a black gumdrop nose."

Yes, I had seen him.

From a glass booth above a circular room. Last night. With Jillanna.

He had been-dessert.

I could feel my stomach tightening. Oh, shit. How should I handle this one?

Marcie looked at me. "Did you say something?"

"Uh-Marcie, I-uh, don't know how to tell you this, but-" just tell the truth, the voice in my head said. "-uh, Rangle is dead. He was-uh, hit by a car. It happened late last night. I saw it happen. He was killed instantly. I didn't realize that was Rangle until you described him."

She was shaking her head. "Oh, no-he couldn't be! Are you sure, Jim?" She searched my face for some sign that I was mistaken.

I swallowed hard. My throat hurt. I remembered something I'd heard in the booth, about how this dog had been scrounging around the commissary for a while. "Marcie," I said. "I'm sure. He was about so high, right?"

She nodded slowly. She gulped for a moment, as if she couldn't get air. And then she put her hands to her face and held them there. It was as if she were shattering into a thousand screaming pieces all at once, and only the sheer pressure of her hands was keeping all those pieces from flying off into space.

And then, abruptly, she straightened up and her face was like a mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat and dead. "I'll be all right." She shrugged. "He was only a dog." She was a zombie again.

I stared at her as she bent and picked up the package of meat scraps that Rangle would never eat. She folded the paper up neatly and walked over to a nearby garbage can and dumped it in. "Now I can stop caring."

"Marcie, it's all right to care. We all have to have someone to care about."

"I don't," she said. She pulled her coat around her, as if to shield herself against the cold-but it was a warm night and it wasn't the cold she was shutting out. She brushed past me and started walking away.

"Marcie!" She kept on walking and I felt powerless to stop her. It made me angry-the feeling of helplessness; it was the same feeling as when my father walked away from me for the last time. "No, goddammit! I'm tired of people walking out on me!" Something flickered like a frame in a movie and then I was moving across the space between us and grabbing her arm. I pulled her around to face me. "Knock it off!" I snapped at her. "This is really stupid. I've seen other people do it. You start retreating from life because it hurts. You do it one step at a time, but pretty soon it becomes such a habit that you do it automatically-you run from everything. Of course it hurts! How much it hurts shows how much you care! And that proves just how much alive you are!"

"Let go of me! I don't need a sermon!"

"You're right! You don't! You need a year in a rubber room!"

She broke free of my grip, her eyes wild. "Don't say that!" she shrieked. Her hands were like claws.

"Why? Because it might be true? You said you were terrified of being weird, that you might be one of those ladies with the fried eggs on their foreheads, but nobody would tell you. Well, I'm telling you. If you run away from me now, that's the first step toward the fried egg."

She looked as if I'd slapped her, blinking at me in the glow of the street lights. Her expression seemed to dissolve as the meaning of the words sank in. I could almost see them penetrating, layer after layer. "I've been there," she said. "I don't want to go back."

"So don't. You don't have to. It's all this running from stuff that keeps you crazy. You think you're the only one who's crazy? The rest of us are just as wacko! All you have to do is look. The only difference is we don't let it stop us." I added, "Too much."

"But it hurts!"

"So what? Let it hurt! At least that way you get it over with! What you're doing now sure isn't producing results, is it?"

She nodded and gulped, and then her eyes welled up and she clutched my shirt and she grabbed me and started bawling. I pulled her close and held onto her, as if I could shield her from the pain-only it wasn't pain from the outside anymore, it was pain that bubbled up from the inside and burst out through her eyes and nose and mouth. "It isn't fair! It isn't fair! Why does there have to be so much dying?!! I want my dog!! Oh, Rangle, Rangle! I want my Rangle back!" She sobbed and screamed into my jacket. She gulped for air and sobbed again. The tears were streaming down her cheeks now. "It isn't fair! Everything I've ever loved-I don't want to love anything anymore! I'm tired of losing! It hurts too much to care! I want an end to it! I want my dog!"