@Expectations Read online

  Oh, Charlie, with your nice, uncomplicated Charlie smile, how can you possibly know? “I’m fine.” I look up. My ice cream has melted. The place has emptied out.

  Charlie covers my hands with his. “I know it’s been hard for you, but we’re going to figure this out, OK? I want us to keep working with it until we’ve solved it.”

  “Solved?”

  “How to be together.” He sighs. “It’s all so new! You know I love you.”

  Guilty, because I’ve lost all track of where I belong and with whom, I smile. “I do.”

  Then Charlie’s patience snaps. “Let’s go.”

  Days on the beach, nights on the strip, followed by that loving tangle I know so well. I feel very close to Charlie even when part of me is very far away. At night we walk for blocks, I lead Charlie without his knowing it; I take him through bars and flossy hotel lobbies, through every garish theme park sideshow place that beckons, following a trail lined by neon and flashing lights. Charlie thinks he’s in charge, but I know. We walk on the beach some nights but I don’t like it. No possibilities here. The sand hides sharp objects and you can put your foot down in the wrong place because you can’t see, you can get hurt by sharp things you aren’t expecting. Yet we go along and the whole time I’m looking for something, never mind what Charlie … never mind.

  I don’t want to lose Charlie but I can’t let go of StElene. Is that so hard to understand?

  When we come in from the beach on the next to the last night Charlie takes me by the shoulders. “You there?”

  My heart turns inside out. God I hurt. God, I am confused. “Oh Charlie, I’m here!”

  @twenty-six

  Precious holds up a big sign:

  NEW HERE? PRECIOUS GIVES GOOD HELP.

  In seconds Molybdenum_Guest pages, “Can you help me? Really?”

  Hiding deep inside raunchy, Barbie-perfect Precious, Reverdy snickers and pages back: “What kind of help are you looking for?” Unless it’s Tom!

  Usually Precious likes to finger intrusively obvious sex-trollers before she engages in this act. The worst people deserve the worst treatment, right? Usually Precious works the vestibule, where the clueless lurk, but tonight he’s picked the busiest room in the hotel. His worst enemies are here. Azeath looks at Precious and doesn’t have a clue. Mireya glances; if she knew that her ex-lover is hiding inside Precious, she’d turn him in to the Directors and have done with him for good. But Reverdy’s enemies are too busy building character with StBrêve and StOnge to notice a woman player they don’t know. It’s tempting, but he can’t stir up his old adversaries without blowing his cover. The minute the room knows Reverdy’s typist has logged on in a new body, his time on StElene is done. The Saints will swarm all over him and they won’t quit until he’s done.

  From the grand ballroom Molybdenum_Guest licks his finger and touches you, you know where. He says, “Baby, you know what I’m looking for. The good stuff. And I’m the best. Wanna go somewhere?”

  Yeah, a live one. Description including length and girth of schlong: just crude enough and detailed enough to tell Reverdy that he deserves what he gets. Precious pages, “Depends.” But at the same time, Tom is distracted by a heated debate—some of the smartest players are arguing rights of privacy here, and whether copyright pertains. Reverdy thinks everything he and the others do and say here is private property. This is why he hates Suntum, well, one of the reasons. For all he knows Suntum International isn’t only admitting paid voyeurs, which he’s proved. Suntum could also be selling the logs to God knows who—the media, other corporations, anybody who wants to dissect StElene’s private lives, using their findings to develop God knows what.

  Privacy. Copyright. It’s an old argument; like so much in this place, ideas cycle and recycle, players assume stances and take each other’s brains apart and in the heat of talking and mailing, reconfigure and start all over again. Precious goes back to the chase. page molybdenum Hello, big guy.

  Molybdenum_Guest has received your page.

  Molybdenum_Guest pages you. “So do you wanna?”

  Privacy. The ability to keep the best parts of yourself secret. It’s what draws Reverdy. Fuck incursions, these clumsy, vulgar guests …

  Jazzy says, “Copyright doesn’t ensure privacy.”

  It’s a good argument on a touchy issue. LavaKing asks whether privacy is a constitutional right. Reverdy is torn. Come back as himself and join the debate?

  He has plenty to say but he’s wearing stalky Precious tonight. He put her on like a Halloween costume and if he wants to maintain his position on StElene, nobody can know. His best lines have to stay unsaid. Precious types look molybdenum and discovers—no surprise—that Molybdenum_Guest has @described and elaborated on his description—studmuffin with piercings, You Know Where. Yeah, this guy is asking for it. Lascivious asshole, he thinks that in the virtual world all you need to do is talk dirty and you’ll have women who don’t know you and could care less in your arms, quivering in virtual lust. Plus ça change, Reverdy thinks, the more it’s the same fucking thing. And the Directors? Instead of niggling over regulations, they should deal with this kind of crap.

  Molybdenum_Guest pages you. “Depends on what? WINK.”

  Reverdy thinks but does not type, Clear off and die somewhere else, you dirty old man. The routine is stale and predictable.

  “On what you’re interested in.” Even typing this is stale.

  Still the party goes on.

  Molybdenum_Guest pages, “Do you know a place where it’s quiet?”

  It’s odd, the way Tom feels tonight, Tom Dearden, who had such great hopes for life here. The talk goes on and it’s good talk about ideas, about the object of the game, gossip about people he knows and speculations about the corporation, but like too many other conversations here it is on a loop; everything is patterned. The copyright argument rages but he watches it scroll past with the growing sense that the ideas are nothing new and there may be nothing new in the world for him. StElene may be the great society Reverdy envisioned, but it is diminished by the players jabbering in this elegant room. The ideal place he loved has become less than it should have been. They bring it down! Instead of distilling the contents of pure minds, StElene has become a soapbox for towering egos and, God, can the depressed people who hang out here be a little less depressed and can the lonely women who linger in space find anything better to talk about than how lonely they are? Tom’s jaw is so tight that his temples ache.

  Deep in argument, his friends posture while Azeath swaggers and Mireya preens and in their own little sanctimonious cluster the Directors watch, and judge. It is this as much as anything else that troubles Reverdy—I had so many hopes. Now look at us. He could pirate StElene to his grand new place and all he’d have is this. A divine scheme populated by—not disembodied gods, just people. That’s the problem with all divine schemes. They all boil down to people, just people, yammering in a room.

  Then, pressed and shaken, pushed to the limit by Zan’s loving threat, Tom Dearden crashes through the membrane into the moment when it all goes bad. Suddenly and almost inadvertently pulls the ripcord on everything he has invested here, Reverdy does a fatal thing. As Precious, Tom pages Azeath, making it perfectly clear to the enemy who’s out to get him exactly who the typist moving Precious is, RL:

  “Here’s a little message from Reverdy. Reverdy says, fuck you.”

  Then, unaccountably weary and eager to get it over with, Reverdy stops paging and speaks out loud. Precious speaks directly to Molybdenum_Guest. Without knowing why, he wants the entire room to read and know what his invention, this Precious, is about to do.

  Exposure? Fine. So be it.

  Reverdy speaks aloud. The Directors see it, Azeath sees it, and when the inquiry to follow follows, it is Azeath who will tell the Directors who Precious really is. Once they know, Reverdy’s time here is done. So, fine. It’s time! Jazzy and Volcano see it, along with all the other players and guests; Merce is there and sees
it and so do Bartlebooth and Tower; RedWriter sees it too:

  Precious [to Molybdenum] So, you think you want to fuck me? OK baby, let’s do it right here. You’re in for a big surprise.

  twenty-seven

  JENNY

  So much to say, so much to unsay and no way to do any of it because I don’t know where my lover lives or how to get in touch with him. I think about him so much that, like a watercolor in sunlight, he begins to fade. Then on our last night in Myrtle Beach I find what I’ve been looking for. My voice is bright and false.

  “OK if I check my email?” It’s an internet cafe.

  “Email? Honey, you’re twenty-four hours from home!”

  “Martha was going to mail me a progress report on the Wetherall kid. It’s crucial to the outcome, OK?”

  And because it’s our last night, Charlie says, “OK.”

  I’m so frantic that it takes me three tries to connect to StElene. I am typing several things at once, paging Reverdy and, before he has a chance to answer, anxiously typing.

  @find reverdy

  Oh my darling where are you why don’t you come are you here can I … Oh! At worst the display will tell me when he logged on last, but! Terrified, I let it come out. “Oh!”

  Charlie comes to my side. “What’s the matter?”

  I lunge with my arms spread because I have to cover the screen. “Thing about this patient. I’m sorry, Charlie, it’s privileged.”

  “Sorry.” He backs away.

  It is like reading about a death.

  @find reverdy

  “reverdy” is not the name of any player

  No players to display.

  Reverdy has dropped from the face of StElene.

  It’s as if he was never there. While careless Zan was lost in Myrtle Beach getting drunk on fresh air and sprawling in strong sunlight, flattened by love and picking up a tan, something terrible came into StElene and erased the person she cares most about. God! Cares most about. Yes. Reverdy has vanished. Suicided? Erased? I can’t know, I can’t know! Gone. As if he had never been.

  And here in the internet cafe Charlie is lingering, half-turned and trying to see over my shoulder without looking like he’s looking. I should be vigilant. But I can’t. This has to be a mistake. I can’t stop typing @find reverdy again. Again. My God!

  Desperate, I type, @find lark Thank God Lark’s still a player but Lark last logged off yesterday; Lark is nowhere around.

  I keep trying. I stop caring whether Charlie sees.

  Then, God, what was I thinking? What if Reverdy’s left StElene to come looking for me in real life and this is his way of letting me know? What if he’s left Louise to come and be with me? Poor Charlie. The lover you don’t know is always more compelling than the lover you can see. When Charlie and I get home tomorrow I’ll find him, dark-eyed with love and brooding, Reverdy. No, Tom Dearden will be slouched by the front door of Charlie’s house. He will step out of the shadows of the oleanders that overhang the steps and we will know each other at once. He loves me, I think. I think, Poor Charlie! Reverdy loves me well enough to blow his cover, blow off real life as he knows it, he loves me well enough to step out of the box … I come to with a start. I’ve told my lover more than once where I live, but what makes me think he kept the address?

  My mouth dries out. What if he gets to my house and I’m not there?

  At my back, Charlie is shifting like a cluster of stormclouds racing across the night. With Reverdy gone, I type a quick MOOmail to Lark, repeating my RL name, the phone number, the address. I end the mail Forward to Reverdy. And of course this is for you! Use it if you need it. Promise? Because Lark is my last link; because Lark may know what’s happened, I add, call me. We have to talk.

  And like a terminal patient saying goodbye to everything I care about, I type, @exit.

  Better not to look inside Zan in the next twenty-four hours as I go through the motions in the role of good wife on romantic vacation, better not to see the turmoil. It’s enough that I can still speak when spoken to, although I’m edgy and my stomach is sour and my hands are shaking from a staggering shortage of sleep. At least my God we are heading back to the house, and I can lose watchdog Charlie and log on.

  As we roll into Brevert, I go through all the right motions. “I’ll make us a late supper while you pick up the kids.”

  “Can’t, babe,” Charlie says apologetically. “The commandant’s expecting me.”

  “He what?”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, I stretched this vacation as long as I could, no, I stretched it too long, so I’m afraid the end will be short. I didn’t tell you, but I have to drop you and run out to the base. OK?”

  Sameold, sameold. I don’t answer.

  “Late meeting, are you OK with me staying at the BOQ?”

  “Whatever you want.” Look, before Charlie’s car clears the driveway I’ll be running upstairs. I can connect to StElene! Maybe it will turn out that a system crash caused the anomaly. The database backup will be in place and my lover back where he belongs! Reverdy isn’t gone, he was just missing for a night.

  Charlie’s tone is full of all the things we never managed to say to each other. “I’m sorry, babe, I love you, and it’s been great.”

  “Me too. It’s been really nice.” I can’t wait to connect.

  Then as we round the corner and pull up in front of the house I see a shadow unfurling in the darker shadows of the oleanders that overhang Charlie’s front steps, somebody getting to his feet. Accidentally, I say his name. Charlie looks bewildered but he can’t linger long enough to ask. Instead he lets me out of the car and heads off to the base.

  “Reverdy!”

  But it isn’t. It is Lark.

  twenty-eight

  AZEATH A.K.A. VINNIE FULLER

  Everything is perfect. Reverdy is whacked. He’s done for. Wiped off the face of StElene like an ugly grin, and since Azeath’s the one that fingered him, Azeath is in solid with the Directors now, especially StBrêve. He’ll be a Director himself in another week or so, StOnge has promised, “gesture of gratitude.” He’ll be a Director, and then you motherfuckers watch my dust.

  He should be on cloud ten, miles above cloud nine. But.

  On top of which, he’s getting out of Wardville. What with time off for good behavior, his sentence for the thing he did is up. He has his exit interview with the warden today at 4 p.m. and he’s out the main gate by five, personal effects restored, walking around money from the state, new suit for interviews which he doesn’t need because StBrêve fixed him up with Suntum and he’s got a startup job, data input won’t need to meet people which is a damn good thing given his looks and his short fuse. All these years of living his life by the numbers and Vinnie Fuller is bellying up to free!

  Good. He should be feeling really, really good. But!

  Plus, the real Mireya is coming to real Wardville and they are going to fall into each other’s arms IRL for the first time. The frosting on the cake. Mireya, I mean Florence, is coming to town. Florence. OK, it’s a kind of a comedown of a name, but she’ll always be Mireya to him. God, how many times has he pictured Mireya in his mind, pictured her in his arms doing all those great things they do to each other on StElene. Listen, if they both kind of hinted that IRL they didn’t look exactly like their descriptions, the sex was so good that their minds forgave, or forgot. Never mind what Mireya says, Vinny knows what Mireya really looks like, she’s got to look amazing. Pretty, and she loves him. Florence. Got to get her to lose the corny name.

  Mireya’s going to drive him back up to Boston. It’s arranged. Vinnie’s going to stay at her place and they are going to mash faces and all their other private parts like they keep typing about and have never done, but tonight they’re going to do it for real, real bodies in a real bed in a motel.

  Weird, he has Reverdy to thank for this. The plan blew up like a whirlwind the night he and Mireya got rid of Reverdy for good. When Reverdy was still fighting Mireya tooth and nail
she was too gnarly to talk about meeting face-to-face, Vinnie doesn’t know how he knows this, but he knows. So he owes Reverdy a big one after all. It was bringing Reverdy down that brought about this meeting. It left Azeath way high!

  Cocky bastard, you’d think he’d of been more careful. The bust came down like a ripe fruit, just fell right into Azeath’s lap. You go nuts plotting and at the last minute it falls into your hands. It came down perfect.

  It came down strong, too. What happened was, Az and Mireya dropped into the ballroom. Right after he and she had the fight.

  The fight. The other night when he tangled with Reverdy and the bastard started spewing Azeath’s secret, sacred love songs, Vinnie went up like a torch. Reverdy, the enemy of his life, claimed he got what they said to each other from Mireya, word for word. Azeath went flaming out of there and into her velvet bed screaming. “You. You…” He couldn’t find the word. His fingers were slick. “You told Reverdy about us. About us?” He was so mad that he almost … Well, it was a good thing Mireya was typing from wherever she sat typing and Vinnie was in Wardville or he would have snapped her neck like a wooden kitchen match. Her denials made him madder. “He says you showed him our sex. Our sex!”

  “That’s a fucking lie! A LIE!” Mireya was screaming at Azeath as if it was him she was mad at, and not Reverdy. Crazy.

  “Then how the fuck did he get it?”

  “He spied, the son of a bitching bastard spied!”

  “That’s not what he says.”

  “DON’T YOU KNOW HE HATES ME SO MUCH THAT HE’D SAY ANYTHING?”

  Listen, it’s a goddamn good thing they weren’t in the same bed just then. No. Good thing they weren’t on the same planet. He would have rammed his fist down Mireya’s throat just to stop her mouth. Instead Azeath gave her chapter and verse. “He quoted stuff. Intimate stuff. What we do together. You and me.” And quoted back.

  A terrible minute passed. “He said I did that? I would never.” Another minute. Then she got cold and still. “This is the end. I hate him. I hate the son of a bitch.”