@Expectations Read online

  “So what, asshole?” Azeath is a blunt instrument. Azeath’s a fool.

  “Asshole? Is that the best you can do?”

  “Go ahead. Start with me. Just fucking start and I’ll show you what I can fucking do. What the fuck did you come here to tell me?”

  “Funny you should ask.” Reverdy is grinning not just here but at Tom Dearden’s keyboard in physical life. He’s nimble and funny and intelligent enough to orchestrate these exchanges before he enters them. He has studied his enemy over time like a scientist peering into an ant farm; he does not know the real typist but he does know exactly which buttons to push to drive Azeath into a murderous rage. He’ll play the guy like a synthesizer, wring organ music out of these keys. The dance to come is going to be so exquisite that he’s almost reluctant to begin it. He’s been designing it ever since he met Azeath and they fell into hate at first sight. With a sigh that vibrates in the room where he is typing, he takes the first step. “So. You think Mireya really loves you.”

  “I fucking know she does. I give her something you could never…”

  “Yeah, right.” Reverdy quotes. “‘I swell up inside you so big that you bust in pieces, screaming.’ You call that good sex?”

  Azeath scowls threateningly. “How did you…”

  He throws his grenade and leaves before Azeath has time to think, much less respond. “Like, you think Mireya hasn’t been downloading your sex scenes and mailing me the logs? ‘Mireya, you make me holler like a wild bear, you are my MATE forever.’” And before Reverdy’s speech, complete with direct quotation straight out of the logs, shows up on Azeath’s screen, he types @join Lark.

  By the time Azeath assimilates what Reverdy’s just revealed, by the time he begins raging, typing detailed threats, Reverdy is long gone. By the time he gets the death threat Azeath sends after him like a heat-seeking missile, programmed to follow wherever he goes, he’ll be deep in Lark’s Mandela, where Azeath can not follow.

  Reverdy finds Lark at the center of his intricately designed quarters, mailing. He’s the only player allowed in this particular private space. He feels only a little guilty because he hasn’t read post one on *lark and as the kid’s champion, he has an obligation to keep track. Lark’s so thrilled to see him that he overloads the database with a bunch of questions and conflicting commands and accidentally disconnects.

  Grinning, Reverdy reads: a flame from hell! Azeath pages you. He pages, “You’re going to die for this.”

  page Azeath, Yeah, right. You’re going to get me kicked off StElene.

  Azeath pages, “I’m going to kill you in real life.”

  Is Reverdy entering a new phase in the game or is he burning bridges? He would tell Lark that he’s baiting Azeath to smoke out the Directors, who will do anything to keep StElene out of the news. The last thing the Saint-guys want is a murder attempt launched on StElene. If he can pull Azeath into some violent act that makes the newspapers, TV, online news services, he’s accomplished two things at once.

  Humiliating his enemy is not enough. Bringing scandal down on StElene is gravy. And if the typist who calls himself Azeath shows up on the RL doorstep in the frozen north where Tom Dearden makes mortgage payments? Well, the bastard has to find him first.

  Funny how it hypes your sense of power, reducing an enemy to incoherent rage. Azeath’s bound to squawk. Reverdy will hear from the Directors soon enough and that, too, brings a sense of power. The officers on his historical research project RL may ignore Tom Dearden’s suggestions and blow off his contributions to the time line he is coding for them, but nobody ignores him here. Here he can make women fall in love with him; he can make people cry. He can drive them to rage. He can make men do things they will be ashamed of. He can piss off the Saintly Directors any time he wants to. They’ll never see it his way. They dignify him by fighting him.

  Right now Azeath’s escalating threats are boring Tom and so he moves on to something completely different. That nobody who cares about him knows about, and that nobody on StElene suspects.

  By the time Lark pulls himself together RL and reconnects, Reverdy’s reduced his window on StElene to a slot at the bottom of his screen and moved on. This means that the character named Reverdy is idling in Lark’s Mandala while the physical Tom Dearden moves on to another phase in his odd dance of the intellect. Therefore, although Reverdy is still in Lark’s inner sanctum (Reverdy [distracted] is here), the typist who moves Reverdy and breathes life into him has vacated, leaving Reverdy to idle. He is active, but on a different screen.

  Active. Very active, and on StElene. The first commandment in this particular electronic community forbids duplication. The Directors are like God standing at the gates of creation, handing out souls, decreeing that every human passing through the starting gate will be issued exactly one (1) soul, and only one. Unless it’s that souls are entitled to only one (1) body each. On StElene, a registered player is allowed exactly one character. The Directors monitor the site information to be sure each player runs only one character. No more.

  When Reverdy does what he does, then, Tom Dearden knows he is committing a serious breach.

  For reasons he is not entirely clear on, Tom Dearden chooses this particular moment, when Azeath is furious and vigilant, filled with hate and loaded for bear, to do the illegal so he can do the wonderfully silly thing.

  Tom telnets to a secret account and logs on to StElene as Precious, the illegal second character he designed for this part of the game. As described by Reverdy, Precious is pink and voluptuous in her leather shift and stiletto heels. Precious likes to parade in public rooms waiting for one of those dirty old men who treats StElene like a 900 number or, to be precise, a sleazy strip where only hookers stroll. When Precious finds a slavering sex-troller, she goes into her act. Lascivious intruders always respond. Precious latches on and won’t quit until Guest has followed Precious into a secured room Reverdy designed for just these little confrontations. He sweeps it regularly for surveillance devices. If he gets caught, he’ll be @erased from StElene, and he knows it.

  It gives Tom an edgy pleasure to lead these horny bastards on and bring them down. So when the moment’s right he’ll morph into Benjy and. He loves the rest. It makes him laugh. He really needs to laugh. Especially now.

  @be the grand ballroom

  Rejoice! Precious is here. Your fondest dream.

  Perpetual midnight on StElene, and it’s business as usual. Everybody’s here. Solomon, who seldom comes out of the game masters’ conference room—he’s tempted to page and say hi but it would blow his cover; Jazzy and Articular, Merce and RedWriter, old friends and assorted guests, even a couple of the Saints. Reverdy notes only peripherally that Azeath is here. He could not say why he’s chosen this high-risk activity at this exact time; disrupted as he is by desires in collision, he may not know what he’s doing. Correction. Reverdy knows exactly what he’s doing; he just can’t say why he’s doing it now. Maybe if Zan came back she could deflect this, but she’s gone and right now, he is afraid of Zan. Crazily, he doesn’t wait for the dance to begin, he brings it on.

  twenty-five

  JENNY

  You may wonder why I am replaying the material I collected on StElene inside my head, instead of sitting at my computer editing the logs. The truth is, I can’t get to StElene right now. OK, when you can’t have what you want, you need to get in touch with what little you have. I’m so afraid!

  It is extremely strange, riding along in the car with the soft coastal breeze blowing through my hair while all the important parts of me are stranded on StElene. This is the last place I want to be, but here I am. Just when I most need to see Reverdy, to find out how we are together, Charlie is taking me away.

  Zan [to Heraclitus]. Do you really think players come here in character? I mean, are we ourselves or do we turn into somebody else?

  Heraclitus [to Zan]. That’s obvious. It doesn’t matter what you want to pretend, there are things you can’t hide. The more we try to
escape ourselves here, the more we become who we are.

  “Babe, did you say something?”

  “No.”

  Tanned, wonderful Charlie makes a half turn in his seat to look at me. “Are you OK?”

  I need to sort through my material. I have to make sense of it. I am fending off conversation so I can think. “I’m fine.” Too late. The log evaporates. Everything evaporates except the fear. I don’t know who I am afraid for, myself or Reverdy, but I am shuddering with bad vibes.

  The car’s air conditioned but Charlie is driving along with the windows open, what did he say when he scooped me up and bundled me inside? “It’s a nice day. Let’s get in touch with reality.”

  Does he think this is real, him and me crossing the long causeway with nothing to talk about but how I am, and nothing to see but blue sky and gulls rising, marsh and sawgrass whipping along on either side with water beyond?

  Charlie’s voice is warm, but he sounds a little like a lost boy. “I just want you to be OK,” he says.

  “I am.” I am lying. “Really, Charlie, I’m fine.”

  He says this is for my own good. How could Charlie know what’s good for me? It’s like being ripped limb from limb. I need to be on StElene right now, I have to see Reverdy, no big thing, I just have to find out if my life is still in place, and now, God!

  Charlie thinks he’s staging a rescue—romantic getaway, just us, wonderful week at the beach. I guess he caught the vibes—distress signals, S.O.S., unless I was sending up flares without knowing it. He didn’t ask what I needed, he just walked into the exact moment when my heart was in terrible danger and took charge. I can’t find Reverdy! Charlie came upstairs to the computer room, all brusque and loving and take-charge, very Charlie, very Marine, and barged into my consciousness. “I stashed the kids with their kid friends. I’ve got reservations in Myrtle Beach. I don’t know what’s the matter with you Jenny, but you…”

  “In a minute, Charlie, I’m busy.”

  “Now. Come on, Jen, what’s the matter with you?”

  The hell of it is, I can’t begin to say. I love him for knowing something’s wrong and I love him for wanting to make it right but I’ve come a long way since he told me I already have my family and there’s no coming back. “Nothing, really.” I was willing him to go away.

  Instead, he kept talking, talking, talking me offline like a mentor in a twelve-step program frog-marching an addict back to life. “… and now, just shut that thing off and we can…”

  I can’t! “I can’t go anywhere now, I’m…”

  “Your patients? No prob. I talked to Martha. She’s covering.”

  “But it’s the middle of the night!” Or not. To my surprise, it had gotten to be daylight. I was waiting for Reverdy, and Reverdy? There is one thing about Tom Dearden’s physical location and one thing only that I can verify, and that’s the time zone where he logs on. Tom lives so far west that where he is, the night goes on and on. But Reverdy wasn’t anywhere!

  Charlie tugged at me, RL. “No it isn’t. If you bothered to look out the window you’d see it’s morning again. I love you, Jen, and I’m worried about you…”

  “I’m fine, I just.”

  “And we’re going away.”

  “Away! We can’t!” Oh Charlie, don’t smile like that! “Wait, I just need to do a couple of.” God, I had to tell Lark. I had to leave Reverdy a note!

  But Charlie had me by the hands. “No you don’t. We’re going away and nothing else matters.”

  I tried to smile for him. “At least let me log off.”

  Charlie turned me so we were both facing the blank screen. It was like looking into the face of a dead friend. “Jenny, you’re not logged on. Come on, let’s go.”

  “My clothes!”

  “I packed you. We’re leaving.” I don’t know what I said or did to give it away but he tilted his head, assessing. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Wrong?” Love, goodbye. Love! “What could possibly be wrong?”

  This is how Charlie Wilder dragged me out of the box and back into the room at the top of the house on Church Street and pulled me out of the upstairs room like a princess out of her tower and this is how it happens that we are leaving home for a whole week, just seven days, but a lifetime for Zan in the world of compressed emotion on StElene.

  Like a ghost, poor Zan [sleeping] hangs in limbo, an empty vessel abandoned in electronic space. And Reverdy? I don’t know, I don’t know!

  Meanwhile Charlie and I are bombing along in the sweet sunlight, tasting salt in the air. In a way, it is a relief. If I can’t get to Reverdy, maybe I don’t have to. Maybe it’s OK to crane out the window at two-bit motels and cement pelicans in a world filled with sunburned sailors and their girlfriends and bright, nonbiodegradable beach toys. Love my husband. Have fun.

  As we roll into Myrtle Beach, Charlie says, “I got another phone call.”

  “Phone call!”

  “That woman. She won’t stop calling. About you.” His voice drops. “I listened this time.”

  Mireya! “What does she want?”

  “She says…” This is hard for Charlie. “She says you’re…”

  “The woman is crazy. Whatever she says, it’s a lie.”

  Pain shreds his voice. “She says you’re seeing somebody else.”

  He’s been in charge; oddly, now I am in charge, the consoling lover, unless it’s therapist, making him feel better with the truth, which is only partly the truth. “Charlie, you know I would never do that to you. You also know from the kids that I don’t go out when you’re away and nobody comes to the house.”

  He says softly, “I know you get lonely, babe.”

  “And you know nobody comes.” Dissembling, I take his hand. “Charlie, she’s just an ex-patient. Psychotic. You know those people, they’ll say anything. She wants to hurt me any way she can!”

  Jenny’s first love brightens so quickly and predictably that it makes Zan terribly sad. “So you haven’t!”

  Not in this life, at least. “Oh Charlie, no.” Ripped in half, I am grieving for both loves. “I promise you, never!”

  “I knew it wasn’t true!” He is giddy with relief. “Oh honey, here’s our motel. Let’s have a hell of a week!”

  This is how, ripped out of context so fast that I am scattered and gasping, I end up marooned in the physical world. No. Stuck at the beach. Charlie and I are at the beach, prone on striped towels with the Atlantic crashing a few yards away and our hands spread like starfish on hard-packed white sand. The sand rims my mouth and gets under my fingernails which, in some attempt to turn this into a real vacation, I have painted abalone white. Lying on my belly in the bikini Charlie bought and threw in the bag for me, I can feel the cool, damp conforming to the weight of my body; I can feel the sun on my back and the residual dampness wicking up through the towel. For the first time in a while I am in touch with the flat, unequivocal quality of the physical, but inside my head?

  I am elsewhere. Our last scene replays endlessly, me, Reverdy, Reverdy, me. I can’t quit trying to interpret it and predict outcomes. All I have to go on is our last words to each other, scrolling up the screen behind my eyes. When Charlie shakes me gently and says, “We’ve had enough sun for the day,” Zan rises like a waking dreamer and follows him up the beach to the motel where Charlie and I will make love, of course, and it may be the result of compressed anxiety or of interrupted passion with Reverdy or it may really be that Charlie and I are well married and a perfect physical fit; whatever it is, I am left shuddering and sobbing with delight and relief.

  “We are good together,” Charlie says.

  “We’ve always been good together. That’s why I’m here.”

  Later we get up and go out to dinner, Charlie with his beautiful skull and neat haircut and that rigid back, looking military even in the T-shirt and jeans, and Zan in a full-skirted dress Charlie bought me in the motel boutique this very afternoon, a resort item straight out of a tropical fantasy with w
hite hibiscus silhouetted on a red ground; it leaves my shoulders bare and the full, heavy skirt swings against my shaved, shining legs. At my neck the shells Charlie bought to garland me glisten white against the pink-brown beginning tan. I lean into Charlie as we walk out to eat fried chicken with our fingers in a crowded seafront restaurant where waiters in white starched mess jackets pass buttered biscuits and we grin at each other with grease and crumbs spreading across our faces. After weeks of living inside the box I am in sensory overload. The combination of tastes and colors and sound is too much! I miss the purity and conceptual space, where I am safe.

  One minute I’m grinning at Charlie and the next, I’m gone. Have I lost Reverdy forever or is he there now, waiting for me? Is he through with me or has he gone the distance I wanted to take him? What if he’s hanging on StElene, waiting to set a time and place so we can meet in physical life? What if while I’m eating fried chicken in Myrtle Beach, I miss my big chance? Does Reverdy miss me, is he worried, does he care? Does he think I’ve left him? Is he afraid I’ve died? Or is he out looking for somebody new? What if he’s come looking for me RL? Will Charlie and I go home to Church Street and find Reverdy waiting? Will he come out of the oleanders by the front door and walk into my arms and take me away?

  “Hello?” Charlie passes a hand in front of my eyes, snapping his fingers and then spreading them. “Jenny. You there?”

  “What. Oh!” Blinking, I remember to smile at him. “Of course I’m here.”

  “You look tired.”

  “I am.” I see Charlie but I don’t see him, I can’t stop seeing Reverdy—gaunt, not handsome but magnetic in an irregularly craggy way, dark hair, deep-set eyes blazing with intelligence, we will know each other at once. We will. He’s tall, I think, lean and yes he slouches under the weight of the forced marriage to Louise, but he keeps it all in … And disturbed as he is by our last encounter, he is grinning. @find reverdy

  “Are you all right, babe?”