So she would wait. In the meantime, she opened the chute. There were few people with pressing needs at that hour, but there were always unanswered queries waiting for business hours to start, so she figured she could chip away at the load before the newbies came in. Maybe she’d finish them all, stun everyone, let them come in with a clean slate, an empty chute.
There were 188 latent queries. She’d do what she could do. A customer in Twin Falls wanted a rundown of all the other businesses visited by customers who had visited his. Mae found the information easily and sent it to him, and instantly she felt calmer. The next two were easy, boilerplate answers. She sent surveys and got 100s on both. One of them sent her a survey in return; she answered it and was done in ninety seconds. The next few queries were more complicated but she kept her rating at 100. The sixth was more complicated still, but she answered it, got a 98, followed up and brought it to a 100. The client, a heating/air-conditioning advertiser from Melbourne, Australia, asked if he could add her to his professional network and she readily agreed. That’s when he realized she was Mae.
THE Mae? he typed. His name was Edward.
Can’t deny it, she answered.
I’m honored, Edward typed. What time is it there? We’re just finishing our workday here. She said it was late. He asked if he could add her to his mailing list, and again she readily agreed. What followed was a quick deluge of news and information about the insurance world of Melbourne. He offered to make her an honorary member of the MHAPB, the Melbourne Heating and Air-Conditioning Providers Guild, formerly the Melbourne Heating and Air-Conditioning Providers Brotherhood, and she said she would be flattered. He added her to the friends on his personal Circle profile, and asked that she reciprocate. She did.
Gotta get back to work now, she wrote, say hello to all in Melbourne! She felt, already, all of the madness of her parents, of Mercer, evaporating like mist. She took the next query, which came from a pet grooming chain based in Atlanta. She got a 99, followed up, got back a 100, and sent six other surveys, five of which the client answered. She took another query, this one from Bangalore, and was in the middle of amending the boilerplate to the query when another message came through from Edward. Did you see my daughter’s request? he asked. Mae checked her screens, looking for some request from Edward’s daughter. Eventually he clarified that his daughter had a different last name, and was in school in New Mexico. She was raising awareness of the plight of bison in the state, and was asking Mae to sign a petition and mention the campaign in whatever forums she could. Mae said she would try, and quickly sent a zing about it. Thank you! Edward wrote, followed, a few minutes later, by a thank-you from his daughter, Helena. I can’t believe Mae Holland signed my petition! Thanks! she wrote. Mae answered three more queries, her rating dipping to 98, and though she sent multiple follow-ups to these three, she got no satisfaction. She knew she’d have to get twenty-two or so 100s to average the 98 up to 100 overall; she checked the clock. It was 12:44. She had plenty of time. Another message came from Helena, asking about jobs at the Circle. Mae offered her usual advice, and sent her the email address of the HR department. Can you put in a good word for me? Helena asked. Mae said she would do as much as she could, given they had never met. But you know me pretty well by now! Helena said, and then directed her to her own profile page. She encouraged Mae to read her essays about wildlife preservation, and the essay she used to get into college, which she said was still relevant. Mae said she would try to read them when she could. Wildlife and New Mexico brought Mercer to mind. That self-righteous waste. Where was that man who made love to her on the edge of the Grand Canyon? They had both been so comfortably lost then, when he picked her up from college and they drove through the Southeast with no schedule, no itineary, never with any idea of where they’d stay that night. They passed through New Mexico in a blizzard and then to Arizona where they parked, and found a cliff overlooking the canyon, with no fences, and there under a noonday sun he undressed her, a four-thousand-foot drop behind her. He held her and she had no doubts because he was strong then. He was young then, he had vision then. Now he was old and acted older. She looked up the profile page she’d set up for him, and found it blank. She made an inquiry to tech and found he’d been trying to take it down. She sent him a zing and got no answer. She looked up his business page but it had been taken down, too; there was only a message saying he was now running an analog-only business. Another message came through from Helena: What did you think? Mae told her she hadn’t had time to read anything yet, and the next message was from Edward, Helena’s father: It sure would mean a lot if you were to recommend Helena for a job there at the Circle. No pressure but we’re counting on you! Mae told them, again, that she’d do her best. A notice came through her second screen about a Circle campaign to eradicate smallpox in West Africa. She signed her name, sent a smile, pledged fifty dollars, and sent a zing about it. She saw immediately that Helena and Edward rezinged the message. We’re doing our part! Edward wrote. Quid pro quo? It was 1:11 when the blackness swept through her. Her mouth tasted acidic. She closed her eyes and saw the tear, now filled with light. She opened her eyes again. She took a swallow of water but it only seemed to heighten her panic. She checked her watchers; there were only 23,010, but she didn’t want to show them her eyes, fearing they would betray her anxiety. She closed them again, which she felt would seem natural enough for a minute, after so many hours in front of the screen. Just resting the eyes, she typed and sent. But when she closed them again, she saw the tear, clearer now, louder now. What was the sound she was hearing? It was a scream muffled by fathomless waters, that high-pitched scream of a million drowned voices. She opened her eyes. She called her parents. No answer. She wrote to them, nothing. She called Annie. No answer. She wrote to her, nothing. She looked her up in the CircleSearch but she wasn’t on campus. She went to Annie’s profile page, scrolled through a few hundred photos, most of them from her Europe-China trip, and, feeling her eyes burn, she closed them again. And again she saw the rip, the light trying to get through, the underwater screams. She opened her eyes. Another message came through from Edward. Mae? You out there? Sure would be nice to know if you can help out. Do write back. Could Mercer really disappear like this? She was determined to find him. She searched for him, for messages he might have sent to others. Nothing. She called him, but his number had been disconnected. Such an aggressive move, to change your number and leave no new one. What had she seen in him? His disgusting fat back, those terrible patches of hair on his shoulders. Jesus, where was he? There was something very wrong when you couldn’t find someone you were trying to find. It was 1:32. Mae? Edward again. Can you reassure Helena that you’ll look at her site sometime soon? She’s a bit upset now. Just any word of encouragement would be helpful. I know you’re a good person and wouldn’t intentionally mess with her head, you know, promising to help and then ignoring her. Cheers! Edward. Mae went to Helena’s site, read one of the essays, congratulated her, told her it was brilliant, and sent out a zing telling everyone that Helena from Melbourne/New Mexico was a voice to be reckoned with, and that they should support her work in any way they could. But the rip was still open inside Mae, and she needed to close it. Not knowing what elese to do, she activated CircleSurveys, and nodded to begin.
“Are you a regular user of conditioner?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Thank you. What do you think about organic hair products?” Already she felt calmer.
“Smile.”
“Thank you. What do you think about nonorganic hair products?”
“Frown,” Mae said. The rhythm felt right.
“Thank you. If your favored haircare product isn’t available at your usual store or online site, would you substitute it for a similar brand?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
The steady completion of tasks felt right. Mae checked her bracelet, which showed hundreds of new smiles. There was something refreshing, the comments wer
e asserting, about seeing a Circle semi-celebrity like herself contributing to the data pool like this. She was hearing, also, from customers she’d helped in her CE days. Customers from Columbus, Johannesburg and Brisbane all said hello and congratulations. The owner of a marketing firm in Ontario thanked her, via zing, for her good example, for her goodwill, and Mae briefly corresponded, asking how business was up and over there.
She answered three more queries, and was able to get all three customers to fill out extended surveys. The pod rating was 95, which she hoped she could personally help bring up. She was feeling very good, and needed.
“Mae.”
The sound of her name, spoken by her processed voice, was jarring. She felt like she hadn’t heard this voice in months, but it hadn’t lost its power. She knew she should nod, but she wanted to hear it again, so she waited.
“Mae.”
It felt like home.
Mae knew, intellectually, that the only reason she was in Francis’s room was that everyone else in her life had, for the time being, abandoned her. After ninety minutes at CE, she checked the CircleSearch to see where Francis was, and saw he was in one of the dorms. Then she saw he was awake and online. Minutes later he’d invited her over, so grateful and so happy, he said, to be hearing from her. I’m sorry, he wrote, and I’ll say that again when you get to my door. She turned off her camera and went to him.
The door opened.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Stop,” Mae said. She stepped in and closed the door.
“You want anything?” he asked. “Water? There’s this new vodka, too, that was here when I got back tonight. We can try it.”
“No thanks,” she said, and sat on a credenza against the wall. Francis had set up his portables there.
“Oh wait. Don’t sit there,” he said.
She stood up. “I didn’t sit on your devices.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said. “It’s the credenza. They told me it’s fragile,” he said, smiling. “Sure you don’t want a drink or anything?”
“No. I’m really tired. I just didn’t want to be alone.”
“Listen,” he said. “I know I should have asked your permission first. I know this. But I hope you can understand where I was coming from. I couldn’t believe I was with you. And there was some part of me that assumed it would be the only time. I wanted to remember it.”
Mae knew the power she had over him, and that power gave her a distinct thrill. She sat on the bed. “So did you find them?” she asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Last I saw you, you were planning to scan those photos, the ones from your album.”
“Oh yeah. I guess I haven’t talked to you since then. I did scan them. The whole thing was easy.”
“So you found who they were?”
“Most of them had Circle accounts so I could just face-rec them. I mean, it took about seven minutes. There were a few I had to use the feds’ database for. We don’t have total access yet, but we can see DMV photos. That’s most of the adults in the country.”
“And did you contact them?”
“Not yet.”
“But you know where they’re all from?”
“Yeah, yeah. Once I knew their names, I could find all their addresses. Some had moved a few times, but I could cross-reference with the years I might have been with them. I actually did this whole timeline of when I might have been at each place. Most of them were in Kentucky. A few in Missouri. One was in Tennessee.”
“So that’s it?”
“Well, I don’t know. A couple are dead, so … I don’t know. I might just drive by some of these houses. Just to fill in some gaps. I don’t know. Oh,” he said, turning over, brightening, “I did have a couple revelations. I mean, most of the stuff was standard memories of these people. But there was one family who had an older girl, she was about fifteen when I was twelve. I didn’t remember much, but I know she was my first serious sexual fantasy.”
Those words, sexual fantasy, had an immediate effect on Mae. In the past, whenever they’d been uttered, with or by any man, it led to the discussion of fantasies, and some degree of enacting one or another fantasy. Which she and Francis did, even if briefly. His fantasy was to leave the room and knock on the door, pretending to be a lost teenager knocking on the door of a beautiful suburban house. Her job was to be a lonely housewife and invite him in, scantily clad and desperate for company.
And so he knocked, and she greeted him at the door, and he told her he was lost, and she told him he should get out of those old clothes, that he could put on some of her husband’s. Francis liked that so much that things accelerated quickly, and in seconds he was undressed and she was on top of him. He lay beneath her for a minute or two, letting Mae rise and fall, looking up at her with the wonderment of a boy at the zoo. Then his eyes closed, and he went into paroxysms, emitting a brief squeal before grunting his arrival.
Now, as Francis brushed his teeth, Mae, exhausted and feeling not love but something close to contentment, arranged herself under the thick comforter and faced the wall. The clock said 3:11.
Francis emerged from the bathroom.
“I have a second fantasy,” he said, pulling the blanket over him and bringing his face close to Mae’s neck.
“I’m inches from sleep,” she muttered.
“No, nothing strenuous. No activity required. This is just a verbal thing.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to rate me,” he said.
“What?”
“Just a rating. Like you do at CE.”
“Like from 1 to 100?”
“Exactly.”
“Rate what? Your performance?”
“Yes.”
“C’mon. I don’t want to do that.”
“It’s just for fun.”
“Francis. Please. I don’t want to. It takes the enjoyment out of it for me.”
Francis sat up with a loud sigh. “Well, not knowing takes the enjoyment out of it for me.”
“Not knowing what?”
“How I did.”
“How you did? You did fine.”
Francis made a loud sound of disgust.
She turned over. “What’s the matter?”
“Fine?” he said. “I’m fine?”
“Oh god. You’re great. You’re perfect. When I say fine, I just mean that you couldn’t do better.”
“Okay,” he said, moving closer to her. “Then why didn’t you say that before?”
“I thought I did.”
“You think ‘fine’ is the same as ‘perfect’ and ‘couldn’t do better’?”
“No. I know it’s not. I’m just tired. I should have been more precise.”
A self-satisfied smile overtook Francis’s face. “You know you just proved my point.”
“What point?”
“We just argued about all this, about the words you used and what they meant. We didn’t understand their meaning the same way, and we went around and around about it. But if you had just used a number I would have understood right away.” He kissed her shoulder.
“Okay. I get it,” she said, and closed her eyes.
“Well?” he said.
She opened her eyes to Francis’s pleading mouth.
“Well what?”
“You’re still not going to give me a number?”
“You really want a number?”
“Mae! Of course I do.”
“Okay, a hundred.”
She turned to the wall again.
“That’s the number?”
“It is. You get a perfect 100.”
Mae felt like she could hear him grinning.
“Thank you,” he said, and kissed the back of her head. “Night.”
The room was grand, on the top floor of the Victorian Era, with its epic views, its glass ceiling. Mae entered and was greeted by most of the Gang of 40, the group of innovators who routinely assessed and greenlighted new Circle ventures.
> “Hello Mae!” said a voice, and she found its source, Eamon Bailey, arriving and taking his place at the other end of the long room. Wearing a zippered sweatshirt, his sleeves rolled above his elbows, he entered theatrically and waved to her and, she knew, to all those who might be watching. She expected the audience to be large, given she and the Circle had been zinging about it for days. She checked her bracelet and the current viewership was 1,982,992. Incredible, she thought, and it would climb. She sat in the middle of the table, better to grant the viewers access not just to Bailey but to most of the Gang, their comments and reactions.
After she’d sat, and after it was too late to move, Mae realized she didn’t know where Annie was. She scanned the forty faces in front of her, on the table’s opposite side, and didn’t see her. She craned her neck around, careful to keep the camera trained on Bailey, and finally caught sight of Annie, by the door, behind two rows of Circlers, those standing by the door, in case they needed to leave unnoticed. Mae knew Annie had seen her, but she made no acknowledgement.
“Okay,” Bailey said, smiling broadly at the room, “I think we should just dig in, given we’re all present”—and here his eyes stopped, ever so briefly, on Mae and the camera around her neck. It was important, Mae had been told, that the entire event seem natural, and that it appear that Mae, and the audience, were being invited into a very regular sort of event.
“Hi gang,” Bailey said. “Pun intended.” The forty men and women smiled. “Okay. A few months ago we all met Olivia Santos, a very courageous and visionary legislator who is bringing transparency to a new—and I daresay ultimate—level. And you might have seen that as of today, over twenty thousand other leaders and legislators around the world have followed her lead and have taken the pledge to make their lives as public servants completely transparent. We’ve been very encouraged by this.”