@Expectations Page 16
“Like, your weird patient.” He is fishing.
“What?”
“That compulsive guy you told me about, dark hair, came to the base looking for me?” Charlie’s squinting, as if he sees Rick Berringer loping out of the middle distance, closing on us.
“He … what?”
“I blew him off, I could see he’s crazy.”
Relieved, I laugh. “Right, and he’s been phoning you.” Just as long as it isn’t Mireya, I think. He knows. He doesn’t know.
“Not unless he’s had a sex change.”
“Or disguised his voice. It’s just a crank call, Charlie.”
But he doesn’t back off. “Or not. I’m worried about you, babe. What are you doing up there all night, locked in with the computer?
If he does know, what am I going to do? “Is there a problem?”
“I think so.”
So he does know. “Then I guess we’d better talk about it.”
He says blindly, “You’re working too hard and it’s starting to show.”
Thank God. He doesn’t have a clue. I touch his cheek. “It’s just work, Charlie. I’m fine, Really.”
“No you’re not. You’re wired all the time now. I worry.”
“Well, don’t. The office, I can handle. Rick, I’ll hand off, OK? And I’ve been jamming on a … project.” Inspiration grabs me by the throat and drags me through. “A special project. Don’t worry, I get like this when I’m in a work crunch. It’ll be over soon.”
“If you can’t get it done in the daytime, it can’t be good for you. Babe, you work too hard!” Charlie’s eyes are warm in the sunlight. His tanned face spreads in a morning smile; fit and energetic and smelling of real life in the Carolina sunshine, my real-life mate Charlie Wilder looks so sweet and normal that I am ashamed. It’s like meeting a citizen from another world.
“I promise, I’ll be fine.”
“All that time on the computer. Running on no sleep. It’s eating you up. Can’t you keep it inside office hours?”
So I let him have it. “It’s not as if you’re home in front of the TV every night.”
“That’s different,” Charlie says.
I am on shaky ground here. “How?” And the secret, selfish part of me stands back and laughs because he can’t even guess the answer.
Then he blindsides me. “Look at your hands, they’re jerking like grasshoppers on a griddle.”
I look down; the veins are blue, as if the blood is running so close to the surface that the skeins of my central nervous system are starting to show. And. Surprise. My hands really are twitching. It takes a conscious effort to hold them still. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. You need to take a few nights off and chill.”
“I can’t!” Wait. Way too sharp. Temporize. “I can’t do this job in the daytime.” I am thinking fast. “It’s a communications project.”
“Communications?”
“Yes. A communications project that depends on my subjects, and my subjects are only available at night. It’s just research, Charlie.” Bingo, I have the right story to tell him. Justification. I am not wasting my time. “I’m doing this, like, online survey?”
“A survey.”
“For The American Review of Psychology,” I tell Charlie and as I do, like yang meeting yin after a long separation, the two parts of my life meet and snap together with a satisfying click. In a way, it justifies all those hours I’ve spent at the keyboard, languishing until Reverdy logs on. I don’t understand my obsession with Tom Dearden and I certainly don’t want to try to explain it to Charlie, but I have just hit on a way to talk about my life on StElene to outsiders and make it sound like a rational thing.
“You’re writing something?”
“Yes. I’m interviewing people in a great big online community. I’m going to write about it and publish, Charlie.” A survey. Yes! I’m not hooked on StElene and crazy in love with Reverdy, I’m doing research. “After all, I’m a professional.”
“You are, you’re a real pro, you can work anywhere.” Charlie really is wonderful; he will go to any lengths to be happy. My loving, workaholic husband says, “That’s what I love best about you.” If he’s about to say anything more, or different, he swallows it.
“Then you’re OK with it?”
“Can’t wait to read it,” he says nicely, but I can see that he is studying me. If what’s going on behind my face is too intricate for him to read, that doesn’t keep him from squinting hard; yes he suspects but can’t prove that there is something going on.
I say, “And it keeps me out of trouble while you’re gone.”
“If you’re getting in trouble while I’m gone.” His voice is uneven. He’s off to Cherry Point for the weekend, which puts him in an ambiguous position here. “I know this computer thing is worthwhile, but I really do worry about you. Oh honey, if you want me to cancel this one, I can try.”
Yes, he definitely suspects there is something going on and it doesn’t make me feel any better to know that he’ll never understand what. Best not to talk about it. If we don’t, it can’t hurt us. I smile. “Don’t worry, I have my project to keep me busy.”
“And the kids.”
“And the kids.” I look at my watch. “Charlie, you’re going to be late.”
He knows; he doesn’t know. He says, “This is more important.”
Willfully, I misunderstand. “I’m so glad you think so! I’m asking some pretty hard questions. About what these people think they’re doing spending half their lives online. So all this, ah. Typing. Long nights at the computer that you’re worried about. It’s research.” I am making sense of it for both of us. Research, of course. What a relief! The minute I say it, it becomes true.
twenty-two
LARK
Boy, safe at the top of another week thank God. One more week guaranteed. It’s Monday and in spite of Reverdy’s splitting just when he most needed him, no apologies, no excuses, Lark has survived. He is still safe in the basement of the Pinkney house. In spite of hardhearted Howard’s efforts, Lark, who will never let anybody call him Hubert ever again, Lark is connecting from the Pinkney manor, basement level, the elevator DOWN stops here.
1. Monday, by God, and he’s still here. He’s hanging on by his toenails but he’s here. Friday was Howard’s big deadline. Friday came and went and he’s still here. They had a fight.
2. Instead of marking the End of Life as we know it, with his computer disassembled and him out on the curb, the fight with Howard went Lark’s way. Without hitting anybody, he kind of won.
What he can’t figure out is where Reverdy’s gone, he just took off at the top of the weekend! Hasn’t been back even though Lark posted him.
Date:
Thursday, May 3, 11:30.02 199-PDT
From:
Lark (#053042)
To:
Reverdy (#010024)
Subject:
Emergency
Pal, I’m really going to need you Fri. If you don’t help, the ‘rents are going to kick me out at six.
But I’m still here, Lark thinks, trembling with excitement.
It’s a very big deal for him. Keeping his connection. It means he can still get to StElene. If he got cut off from there, he’d die. Everything he cares about is there. No matter how bad things get RL you can make it if you know you have friends out there that care about you, that you can tell what’s ailing you. On StElene even people that are terribly busy will stop what they’re doing to help you with your troubles. You tell and they say, and it always makes you feel better—not worse, like the college shrink and the hospital shrinks told the ‘rents, who are always blaming him. Real friends always know the right thing to say. Having somebody there to talk to helps, and StElene is the one place where Lark doesn’t get all strangled when he tries to speak. On StElene, he can talk!
StElene is the biggest thing in his life. Without it, he would die. Talking with people F2F—face-to-face—RL has alway
s been hard for him, his blood clots around his tonsils and his throat seizes up, but on StElene he can pour out his soul. Support comes streaming in. It’s the one place where he knows he’s loved. Being loved is what makes you strong. When he’s half crazy with worry and ready to die all he has to do is tell his friends on StElene and they’re all there there. He can even laugh.
He’s terribly lucky, knowing them. Like now. Incredible things have happened in just three days. The mails are pouring in. Since Friday he’s had MOOmails from Jazzy and Eva and Katherone and Rosie and practically everybody else he cares about, even crusty Domnita gets out of the leather mode when he’s around, she’s very sweet with him. When he checks in on the grand ballroom, which he does regularly although he’s actually logged on waiting for Reverdy, sympathy comes pouring out to him even from players he hardly knows. All StElene is on his case, and that’s on his case in a good way. Everybody who matters, that is, which makes him feel kind of important. It makes him feel good.
Everybody knows. It’s the brand new mailing list. * lark.
It’s what got him through. His friends gave him courage when he needed it most. It was Zan’s idea. She said he needed support to get through this and put up a new list: *lark. It’s growing by leaps and bounds! Zan started it Friday morning, because Reverdy was still missing. Lark was grieving and he has to face it, Zan is grieving too. She did it to cheer them up.
Reverdy just split. God, is he all right?
About Howard’s deadline. Bingo-bango, disconnect Hubert and get him out of the house. Lark sneaked upstairs in the night and found Howard’s Things To Do list on the month-at-a-glance calendar: Friday, 6 p.m. Move Hubert out. At six p.m. Howard expected to drag Lark’s stuff upstairs and kick him out of the Pinkney house. He thought Lark had found a place to move his stuff to. How? How’s he supposed to go renting a room when he’s broke plus he has trouble talking to people RL plus, he’s so busy on StElene that he can’t disconnect long enough to start?
Well, he’s hanging in here in the basement, he’s made it safely into Monday, no thanks to Reverdy. Still no sign of him. He doesn’t log on. Lark keeps typing @find Reverdy Reverdy page Reverdy Where are you anyway? He’s even phoned Tom Dearden’s house a couple of dozen times RL, but the machine’s off and nobody picks up the phone. Should he be angry or scared?
Thank God for the list. Friday morning Lark was all bent about his deadline and Zan was all bent about Reverdy vanishing, they got talking and out of nowhere the list *lark was born. “Rev would want it,” she said, like it would bring him back.
“Yeah,” Lark said. He sat with her while she took a nonspecific list object from the object catalog. Then he showed her how to make a dedicated list, and she created *lark. She cross-posted the announcement to all the other lists so everybody on StElene knows. Except Reverdy. Maybe he’ll find out about the list and come back!
*lark* is a mailing list where Lark writes about his problems and people who care about him can post what they think. Turns out they all do. Everybody cares. The regulars are having a little forum, mailing back and forth pro and con about whether Lark’s dad should back off kicking him out altogether or just pay him a year’s support in a place of his choosing if he agrees to move out.
And the mail, the mail! Lark’s had offers of startup money, places to stay, a friend in Seattle even offered him a job in their office if he can make it out there, and a divorced mom he’s never met posted an offer to front for his ticket, people have been flat out knocking themselves out day and night all weekend, just being nice. Lark’s been up nights and half the days just keeping track of the posts, posting responses to the list plus sending individual mails to everybody who writes. He’s kind of a celebrity, it’s weird. People are like, We know you can make it through this, terrific guy and good player like you, so please hang in there and stay cool. This is the best thing about life on StElene. Knowing all these great people, real friends who are always there for you.
But he misses Reverdy terribly. He has so much to tell! Truth is, Lark isn’t in all that good shape after all, with the pressure piling up, and in the lacuna while he waits for Reverdy to show up on his screen, he tries to sort it out.
Here’s how it came down. Friday Howard shouted into the basement before dawn. “You have twelve hours.” Lark pretended he didn’t hear and kept typing. He was posting his survival log on *lark.
Message
1 on *Lark
Date:
Fri. May 4 03:57:04 199-PDT
From:
Lark (#053042)
To:
*Lark (#4030)
Subject:
Today’s the day.
First I want to thank Zan for creating this mailing list especially for me so I can keep you guys up on my situation without spamming too many lists.
OK, are you with me? Something awful’s coming down in my life.
Here’s the deal.
Today’s the day. You see, while you guys thought I was all happy and everything, some bad things were coming down in my life. I have a deadline! And it’s today!
Unless I can think of something amazing, today’s the day the father kicks me out. I know hardhearted Howard thinks it’s going to make a man of me or some damn thing, but the truth is, he’s killing me. Does anybody really believe that throwing me out into the world is going to make me talk to people, when except for him and the mother and of course here with you guys, where I get to talk my fkn head off and you love me for it, I can’t talk to people at all?
The post got lots longer, of course. He owes it to anybody who @subscribed to *lark to give the chronology. He let it all hang out. 1 on *lark was followed by others he posted on the half-hour, because once you start a crisis thread on a mailing list, you owe it to people to keep them up to date. There were players staying logged on just to see how the story came out. No. Better! They were staying logged on to talk him through. He was getting dozens of posts by that time, with more to come. Dozens of them! Friends and people he hardly knew were filling the list with messages of love and support. When this is over and he’s living in some really nice apartment somewhere with his workstation and his stereo and a squashy sofa and lots of light coming in the windows, Lark is going to download the list and print it out for his grandchildren, but right now he’s too frantic keeping up with them.
It went like this. Every hour on the hour Howard yelled down the basement stairs like a gorilla roaring into the tight end of a tunnel, “Six p.m., do you hear? You get done packing and get your crap up here by six or I come down and get you myself. I don’t know where you’re going but the truck’s coming at six p.m. I’ve hired a damn van to move your stuff.”
Of course Lark didn’t answer because Hubert’s not his name. He was thinking: shut up. Shut up and let me type.
But Howard never lets anything go by. “Hubert? HUBERT! Son!”
I’m not your son.
Message
25 on *Lark
Date:
Fri. May 4 16:57:09 PDT
From:
Lark (#053042)
To:
*Lark (#4030)
I hate my father. I hate his voice. He’s still at it up there. It’s killing my ears. He sounds like he wants to come down here and kill me. No. He sounds like the truth. That he wants me dead.
Even when Lark screamed in pain, the yelling never let up. Somewhere upstairs the mother was bawling. Lark had just finished posting this information when the whole house shook. Howard was thumping down the basement stairs on those fat feet. Lark ran @time on StElene. My God, it was half-past six! The U-Haul truck was out front. Howard must have figured it out that Lark wasn’t coming up, at least not on his own, so he came down. Howard came tramping down into the cellar, yelling. Lark did what you do when that happens: you turn around and try to stare him down.
Howard was shaking all over, hugely pissed. “You keep making that face and I’ll sock it.”
Lark just stared. Hard. How could he
keep up with his posts when he was in this staring match with his father that he can’t stand the sight of? He couldn’t see to type! He could almost hear the mail piling up on *lark, fresh posts dropping in. But he was locked onto Howard, and he couldn’t let down until Howard’s eyes wavered and this thing was settled and done.
“I said wipe off that face!” Finally Howard had to sock Lark, just to make him stop staring. Knocked him off his chair.
Lark stood. He and Howard faced off. The asshole is bigger than his brilliant but erratic (Lark read that somewhere and he likes it, “brilliant but erratic,” he’s added it to his description on StElene) son. Howard got him in an armlock and grappled him up the cellar stairs, no problem, the man is big as a cow. Howard got him upstairs into the kitchen OK, Father Triumphant, but then the battle went the other way.
Message
26 on *Lark
Date:
Fri. May 4 17:02:44 199-PDT
From:
Finster (#07930)
To:
*Lark (#4030)
Subject:
Been there, had that.
Gad, man, your post brought back so much bad shit I hadda log off and take a three-mile run to cool down so I could write this because I’ve been where you are and I know where it’s heading. Let him hit you and get away with it and it’s only the beginning. So this is going to sound crazy but since I’ve been where you are and come out the other side, I want to tell you where to be at with this. You have to log everything he does to you and take it to the law. No stuff, you might even get him put away for this. I did.
Desperation may not make you strong, but it makes you smart. In Marjorie’s kitchen Lark went limp like a war protester, he was, like: I’m not doing this, you are. Kill me and it’s on your soul.
Do you know how hard it is to drag a dead weight?