What they want her to do is easily spelled out. They want her to snuggle up to Ed, get close to him but not too close - remember, she's a grieving widow - then report back with anything he says and anything she might come across, for instance in his bureau drawers or his briefcase, or maybe on his cellphone, if he gets careless; but that part - the carelessness part - will be up to her. Encourage him to think with his dick, an appendage not noticeably overloaded with brains. That's in the short run, and the short run is all they're asking for right now. Or so Jocelyn says.
"Do I have to, you know," says Charmaine. "Go all the way?" The idea of having Ed slither around on her naked body gives her the queasies.
"Absolutely not. In fact, that's crucial. You need to delay," says Jocelyn. "If he starts coming on strong, tell him you're not ready yet. You can plead sorrow for a while. He's part of the reality in which Stan is dead, so he'll understand that. He'll even welcome it. He's never seen those videos of you and Phil - I've made sure of that - so he thinks you're modest. That's part of his obsession with you: so hard to find a modest girl these days." Is that a twitch, an almost-smile? "If you don't want to help us, we could show him the videos. His reaction would be adverse. At the very least, he'd feel betrayed."
Charmaine blushes. She is modest, it's just that...The thing with Max wasn't her true self, it couldn't have been. Maybe he was using some kind of hypnotism on her. The things he made her say...All of which have been recorded. This is blackmail! "All right," she says reluctantly. "I'll try."
"An appropriate decision," says Aurora. "I'm sure you'll come to realize that, in time. You'll be helping me - you'll be helping us - more than you know. Here, have a cookie."
DRESSUPS
In the room at Possibilibots where Budge has stashed him, Stan dozes fitfully. He's dreaming of blue bears: they're outside the window, peering in at him. They clamber up onto the sill, they wiggle suggestively, they stare at him with their round, inexpressive eyes. Now they're laughing at him, displaying rows of pointed shark teeth. And now they're squeezing into his room through the half-open window, dropping onto his bed...
He wakes with a start and a muffled bark but it's only Veronica, shaking his arm. "Hurry," she tells him. There's bad news: over at Ed's office, IT has discovered that some crucial files have been copied. That would be the files on the flashdrive Stan will be taking out. There's bound to be a thorough search in the morning. Luckily, a rush order has come in at Possibilibots: five Elvises are leaving for Vegas at three a.m., and one of them will be him. She and Budge have everything ready and waiting in Shipping, but he needs to come right now.
He pulls on his clothes and follows her. She's wearing jeans and a T, ordinary-enough clothes, though with her inside them they look like silk. Life is unfair, he thinks, as he watches her undulate through the hallways.
She has all the right passcards as she leads him through a series of doorways to Shipping. "You'll find everything you need in the men's," she says. "I'll be in the ladies', getting my own outfit on."
"You're coming to Vegas too?" he says stupidly.
"Of course I am," she says. "I'm your minder. Remember?"
There's not much time to spare. The Elvis costume is hanging in one of the stalls. Stan shoehorns himself into it: it's half a size too small. Could he have gained that much weight on Positron beer, or was whoever picked this fucking outfit for him a bondage fetishist? The white bellbottoms on the jumpsuit are too tight, the platform shoes pinch his toes, the belt with the big silver and turquoise buckle just barely makes it around his waist. Did Elvis wear a girdle, or what? He must've suffered from a permanent case of crotch cramp. The jacket is encrusted with studs and spangles, with a little cape attached; the collar sticks up like a Dracula cloak, the shoulder pads are grotesque.
The black wig is slippery - some sort of synthetic - but he manages to pull it on over his own hair. His head is going to cook in this thing! The eyebrows adhere on quite easily, the sideburns less so; he has to try twice. He applies bronzing powder with the brush supplied: instant tan.This is like Halloween, when he was a kid. It's probably a crappy job, but who's going to see him? No one, if he's lucky.
All that remains are the chunky rings - he'll leave them till last - and the fake lips, top and bottom, which come supplied with their own Insta-glue. Not a total success; the lips feel precarious, but at least they stick on.
He poses in front of the mirror, does a lopsided grin; though he barely needs to grin because the lips are doing the grinning for him. Underneath them, his own lips are semi-paralyzed. He wiggles his new black eyebrows, flings back his head, smooths his hair. "You handsome devil," he says. "Back from the dead." The faux lips are hard to manoeuvre, but he'll get the hang of it. Oddly, he does look something like Elvis. Is that all we are? he thinks. Unmistakable clothing, a hairstyle, a few exaggerated features, a gesture?
--
There's a discreet knock: it's Veronica in her Marilyn getup, her hair hidden under a short blond wig. She's chosen the black suit from Niagara, with the skintight skirt and the white scarf. Her mouth glistens like slick red plastic. He has to admit she looks terrific; she even looks like the real Marilyn. She's got a large black carry bag, which doubtless contains her knitted blue fetish.
"Ready to go?" she says. "I'll tuck you into your case, then Budge will do the same for me. Your cargo is in the belt buckle, don't lose it! We have to hurry. Wait, let me even out your skin tone a bit." She locates the brush, powders his face some more. She's standing way too close; this is torture, but she seems unaware of that. He longs to crush her against him, bury his nose in her Marilyn hair, smash his rubbery mouth onto her bright red lips, futile though that would be. "There," she says. "Now you're perfect. You look just like an Elvis bot. Let's pop you in."
The transport case is marked ELVIS/UR-ELF in stencilled block letters; it's one of the set of five stacked on the loading dock, ready for shipment. Beside it are five smaller cases labelled MARILYN/UR-MLF, one of which is standing open. It's lined with pink satin, with Styrofoam packing moulds to prevent breakage. His own packing case is lined with blue. "Is this safe?" he says as he clambers in. "How will I breathe?"
"There's air holes," she says. "They aren't very noticeable because no real bot would need them. I'm positioning this hot water bottle, it's empty. See, it's right beside your elbow. You should be able to move your arms enough to pee into it, if you have to. Here's a few pills in case you get panicky, they'll put you right under, don't take more than two at a time. Oh, and here's your bottled waters, I'm giving you three, we wouldn't want you to shrivel up, and a couple of tear-and-shake Little Hotties hand warmers, in case it gets cold on the plane. And an energy bar if you feel hungry. I'll make sure they let you out once we arrive!"
What if they don't? Stan wants to yell. "Okay," he says, trying to sound nonchalant.
"If there's a booboo and the wrong person finds you, just say you were drugged, and you have no idea how you got into the packing case," says Veronica. "In Vegas, they'll find that believable. Now, have a good sleep! Here comes Budge, it's my turn."
She lowers the top, and Stan hears the catches being snapped shut. Now he's in the dark. Shit, he thinks. This better work. Best case, he makes it to Vegas, then gives Veronica the slip, ditches this outfit, and travels - how? - to rejoin Conor, because a life of outlawry is a lot more appealing to him than anything else that's going on right now. Though that wouldn't work, because Conor, via Budge, has a contract to deliver him to whoever, so that's what he'll do.
Worst case...He has an image of himself inside the packing case, abandoned in a nighttime airport in, say, the wilds of Kansas, yelping to emptiness: Help! Let me out!
Or, worse yet, identified as a terrorist threat by some addled sniffer dog and detonated by Homeland Security. Sideburns and silver all over the place. What the hey! I think Elvis has left the building!
--
He squirms around inside the slippery satin cocoon, trying to get comfor
table. He doesn't want to take a pill, he's had enough of drugs lately. It's completely dark; a few hours in here and he'll start seeing things. The air is already stuffy; it reeks of glue, from the lips. Maybe it will make him high, and therefore less anxious. When did he set out along the path that's led to this dark cul-de-sac, how has he managed to agree to this crazed escapade, what's become his so-called life? Will he ever manage to see Charmaine again? If only he'd stolen her sculpted head: at least then he'd have something tangible.
The image of her lovely, pale, tear-streaked face floats before him. She's had few real choices; she's as unprepared for all this crap as he is. Lying in the satin-lined void with the Elvis collar itching his neck and the Elvis wig steam-cooking his scalp, he forgives her everything: her rancid interlude with Phil/Max, the moment when she thought she was killing him, even her obsession with slipcovers and those gnome coffee mugs. He should have cherished her more, he should have taken better care of her.
--
Right beside his ear he hears Veronica's voice. She's whispering. Hi, Stan. There's a mic in your shoulder pad and one in my bear. It's our own walkie-talkie, ultra secure, just you and me. Letting you know it's okay, I'm in my own box, we're moving out. Signing off now. Just relax.
As if, Stan thinks, as he feels his feet end lifting into the air. Fucking hell.
XI | RUBY SLIPPERS
FLIRT
Charmaine and Ed are having dinner at Together, which is the very same restaurant where Charmaine had dinner with Stan the first night they were at Consilience, before they'd actually signed in. It had been so magical then. The white tablecloths, the candles, the flowers. Like a dream. And now here she is again, and she must try not to remember that first time, back when everything was still simple with Stan, back when she herself was still simple. When she'd been able to say what she really felt.
Now nothing is simple. Now she's a widow. Now she's a spy.
She's finding this date with Ed a little difficult. More than a little: she doesn't know how to play this, because it's unclear what he wants, or not what: when. Why can't he just blurt it out?
"Are you feeling all right?" Ed says with concern, and she says, "I'll be fine, it's just..." Then she excuses herself and goes to the ladies' room. Grief must be expected to overcome her from time to time, which it does, truly, only just not right now. But the ladies' is a reliable place, a place a girl can retreat to at moments like this. The dinner hasn't even started, and already she needs a time-out.
It's soothing in here; luxurious, like a spa. The countertops are marble, the sinks are long and made of stainless steel, with a line of tiny faucets endlessly shooting thin streams of silvery water. The towels aren't paper, they're soft white cotton pile, and happily there's no air dryer that blows your skin into flesh ripples up as far as your wrists; she hates those, they make you realize that your skin could be peeled off like an orange rind. When there are no towels, she'd rather take her chance with the microbes and wipe her hands on her skirt.
There's lotion that claims to be made from real almonds: Charmaine rubs it on her inner arms, breathes it in. If only she could just stay in here, for ever and ever. A woman place. Sort of like a nunnery. No, a girl place, pristine, like the white cotton nighties she had at Grandma Win's, when she could be clean, and not hurt and afraid. A place where she feels safe.
The toilets play a tune when you wave your hand in front of the toilet paper dispenser. The tune is the theme song of Together; it's from some old song about not having a barrel of money and wearing white-trash clothes, and having to travel along, side by side, all of which was more or less the way it had been when she and Stan were living in their car; but in the song, none of that matters because the two of them are together, singing a song. A song about being together, for the restaurant called Together.
It's lying, that song. Not having any money does matter, and having to wear those worn-out clothes. It's because all those things matter that they signed in to the Project.
She checks herself in the mirror, refreshes her lips. Why is it she's finding Ed so hard to be with? It's because he's like that weirdo psycho nerd who admired her so much in high school, what was his name...
Get real, Charmaine, her reflection says to her. He didn't just admire you. He had a nauseating sexual crush on you, he used to slip anonymous notes into your locker, to which he seemed to have the combination even though you changed the lock twice. Those notes - typed, but not emailed, not texted, he was smarter than that - those notes listed your body parts and which ones he most wanted to slide his hands over or into. Then came the day of the damp tissue left inside her jacket pocket, reeking of jerkoff; that was truly icky. Why had he thought she'd find it in any way attractive?
Though perhaps the goal was not to attract her. Perhaps the goal was to repel her, then overwhelm her despite her aversion. The wet dream of a boy who hoped he was a lion king but who was really just a slimy loser.
--
She returns to the dining room. Ed stands up, holds her chair for her. The avocado with shrimp appetizer is in place, and a bottle of white wine in a silver bucket. He raises his glass and says, "To a brighter future," which really means "To us," and what can she do but raise her glass in return? She does it modestly, though. Tremulously. Then she sighs. She doesn't have to fake the sighing. Sigh is what she feels.
She blots the corner of her eye, folding the trace of black mascara up in the serviette. Men don't like to think about makeup, they like to think everything about you is genuine. Unless of course they want to think you're a slut and everything about you is fake.
"I know you must find it hard to believe in a brighter future, so soon after...," he says.
"Oh yes," she says. "It is hard. It's so hard. I miss Stan so much!" Which is true, but at the same time she's pondering the word slut. Just one letter over from slit. It was Max who'd pointed that out, pinning her to the floor, Say it, say it...She presses her legs together. What if she could still...? But no, Jocelyn stands between them, with her sarcastic look and those blackmailing videos. She'll never let Charmaine be together with Max, ever again.
That's over, Charmaine, she tells herself. That's gone.
"He died a hero," Ed says piously. "As we all know."
Charmaine looks down at her half-eaten avocado. "Yes," she says. "It's such a comfort."
"Though in fairness," he says, "I have to tell you that there are some doubts."
"Oh," she says. "Really? What kind of doubts?" A wave of cold sweeps up from her stomach. She flutters her eyelashes. Is she blushing?
"Nothing you need to be troubled with right now," he says. "An irresponsible rumour. That Stan didn't die in that fire but in a different way. People will make up some very malicious things! Anyway, accidents do happen and data gets mixed up. But I can take care of that rumour for you. Nip it in the bud."
You jerk, she thinks. You're bribing me! You know I killed Stan, you know I have to pretend he died saving chickens, and now you're twisting my arm. But guess what, I know something you don't know. Stan isn't dead, and pretty soon I'll be together with him again.
Unless Jocelyn is lying.
"You still working on that?" says the server, a brownish young man in a white dinner jacket. At Together they want everything to look like an old movie. But no one in an old movie would ever have said, You still working on that? as if eating is some kind of a job. He forgot to say ma'am.
"No thank you," she says with a quavery little smile. Too sad, too refined, too battered by fate, to do anything so hearty, so greedy, so gross, as chewing: that's her story. She can pig out when she gets back home. There's a packet of potato chips in the cupboard, unless Jocelyn and Aurora have helped themselves the way they've helped themselves to everything else in her life.
The server whisks the plate away. Ed leans forward. Charmaine leans back but not too far back. Maybe she shouldn't have worn the black V-neck. It wouldn't have been her choice, but Jocelyn had selected it for her. That,
and the push-up bra underneath. "You have to suggest that he might be able to look all the way down," she'd said. "But don't let him actually do it. Remember, you're in mourning. Vulnerable, but inaccessible. That's your game."
Working in secret with Jocelyn like this - it was exciting in a way. She has to admit that. She'd made her face up carefully, with a little extra powder for the pallor.
"I respect your sentiments," says Ed. "But you're young, you have a whole life ahead of you. You should live it to the fullest." Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It's descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn't have left so carelessly lying around on the table.
"It doesn't feel like I could do that," says Charmaine. "As if I could live it to the fullest. It feels like my life is over." It would be shockingly rude to remove her hand. It would be like a slap. His hand covers hers: it's damp. Pat, pat, pat, squeeze. Then, thankfully, withdrawal.
"We've got to get the roses back in your cheeks," says Ed. Now he's being fatherly. "That's why I ordered steak. Bump up your iron."
And here's the steak in front of her, seared and brown, branded with a crisscross of black, running with hot blood. On the side, three mini-broccolis and two new potatoes. It smells delicious. She's ravenous, but it would be folly to show it. Tiny, ladylike bites, if any. Maybe she should let him cut it up for her. "Oh, it's too much," she breathes. "I couldn't possibly..."
"You need to make an effort," says Ed. Will he go so far as to pop a morsel into her mouth? Will he say, "Open up?" To head him off, Charmaine nibbles a sprig of broccoli.
"You've been so kind," she says. "So supportive." Ed smiles, his lips now glossy with fat.
"I'd like to help you," he says. "You shouldn't go back to your old work in the hospital, it would be too much pressure. Too many memories. I believe I have a job you might like. Nothing too demanding. You can ease yourself into it."