Circuit Of Heaven (11 page)

It might as well have fallen to Siberia. Clutching the bag in one hand, she made her way to the sink. The cat box sat underneath it. She shook open the plastic bag as best she could by waving her arm about. Steadying herself on the sink with the other hand, she lowered herself to one knee in front of the cat box. She laid the bag on the floor and picked up the scoop she kept on the trap.

They’d all three shit in the very back of the box, of course. She’d have to lean way over to get the three discreet piles, unless she repositioned herself and dragged the box out, but the thought wore her out. No, she could reach it just fine. She’d done it before. She stretched out her arm and had just snared the first lump of shit, when the doorbell rang, and she tried to get up too fast, grazing her shoulder on the sink. She got upright, but felt herself spinning like the last revolution of a top and flung out her arm, striking the wall with the scoop, which snapped in half like a twig.

She teetered there for a moment, balanced on the broken plastic handle, and then she started forward. She reached out desperately with her free hand and managed to grab one of the triangle braces that secured a shelf overhead. A can of paint, empty from the sound of it, fell off the shelf and bounced on the floor, rolling to a stop on the threshold to the kitchen.

The doorbell rang again. Slowly, carefully, she centered her weight and pushed herself away from the wall, dropping the broken scoop to the floor. She let go of the brace, and stood for a moment, then started shuffling toward the front door at the other end of the house, her hands throbbing with pain, wishing she could remember the young man’s name. She smelled something burning and sniffed the air. Cookies. She clucked her tongue. What a shame.

At the large mirror in the foyer, she turned and looked at herself, patting her hair into place. She was nearly as old as Mr. Menso. Her hands were twisted with arthritis. The face in the mirror smiled. “Hello, Justine,” she said.

JUSTINE
SAT
UP IN
BED
,
HER
HEART
RACING
.

It was morning. The curtains were open, and the room was filled with sunshine. There’d been thunder in the night, and the rain had beaten against the windows, but now the city looked bright and new, washed clean. Justine swung her legs over the side of the bed and was surprised they moved so easily, were so young and firm. She’d had arthritis. In her dream, she corrected herself, she’d had arthritis. With a shaking hand, she pressed the
Coffee
icon on the room service pad. A panel slid open, and there was the coffee. As she picked it up, she thought, it’s the old woman, the one in my dream. She’s the one who watched reruns of Captain Kirk.

She started, splashing herself with hot coffee, wincing as the cup slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor, rolling into the corner. The coffee oozed into the beige carpet in a neat, brown crescent. Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. Get out of the damn dream. She wiped her hands on the sheets and punched the
Coffee
icon and the
Maid
icon. She took a swallow of the fresh coffee, burning her throat and tongue. She rubbed her burned tongue against her teeth and winced, thinking, I know something because somebody in my
dreams
knows it? Justine, get a grip.

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She stood in the water, remembering her dream. I even knew the cats’ names, she thought. What was the third one’s name? Timothy. Named after
Timothy the Tiger
, a children’s book about a cub looking for his mother. The boy from the college, his name was Bill something. Or Tom.

But she didn’t know the woman’s name. She didn’t know what year it was, where she lived. She thought the old woman was a widow, but she didn’t know her husband’s name. Of course, you don’t, she told herself. Because she’s not real. She’s a woman in a dream.

Wade. Her husband’s name was Wade.

She sank to the floor of the shower and let the water beat down on her head. Why am I having these dreams? Why do they frighten me so much? Nothing horrible happens in them. I’m in no danger—I’m not in them at all. They’re like somebody else’s dreams.

She froze. Maybe that was it. Maybe they were somebody else’s dreams, some kind of screwup when she was uploaded. She tried to remember when she came in—who was there and what was going on—but she couldn’t remember a thing. That must be part of it, too—somebody else was probably walking around in here with her memories.

She slid up the wall, thrust her face into the water, and held it there. Fine. They were welcome to them, but she wanted to dream her own damn dreams. She let the water play across her body, remembering Nemo holding her, kissing her. She imagined them lying in his bed, making love, the poster of the Earth on the wall above his bed. She felt weak in the knees, and leaned back against the cold tile.

It was impossible. He lived in another world. She imagined herself floating in space, looking down at the Earth, knowing he was down there somewhere, but she could never go to him. But he’d come in tonight. He’d promised her. And if he didn’t, well then, he obviously wasn’t worth worrying about.

She got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a warm towel, opened the door to let the steam escape. She took a deep swallow of her coffee and wiped the mirror dry, studying her reflection for clues. In my dreams, she thought, I have a life—friends, neighbors, relatives, lovers. Why is my own life so empty? She looked deep into her eyes, trying to find the women in her dreams, but felt foolish and hurried off to get dressed, studiously avoiding the dresser mirror.

The maid program had run while she was in the bathroom. The bed was made. The coffee cup and the stain were gone from the carpet. She looked around the room. Everything was perfect. She ran her tongue over her teeth; the burn was gone. She took off the towel and tossed it on the bed. Her thigh, where she’d just spilled a cup of hot coffee, didn’t have a mark on it. She was in the Bin now. Dreams or no dreams, she was just going to have to get used to it.

SHE
TOOK
THE
METRO
DOWN
TO
THE
CLUB
,
HOLDING
HER
guitar case between her knees, her arms wrapped around the neck, her chin resting on top of it. She could understand if Nemo didn’t come see her tonight. It was stupid, really. Pointless. She could also understand what he meant about the Bin. Things were different in here, or maybe they just weren’t different enough. She stared out the window, watching the tunnel slide by, waiting for her station to come into view.

But still, he’d promised. Right. Men promised a lot of things. What would she do if he didn’t show up? She couldn’t even mail him a postcard.

As she came out of the station into the sunlight, she wondered if she stared directly at the sun in here, whether she’d go blind. She decided not to try it. She didn’t want to push her luck. She had the feeling she was going to need all she could get. At least she got to sing, she reminded herself. Nemo or no Nemo. At least she got to sing.

The club was only a couple of blocks from the station. The front was painted with a huge black dog’s face, the door set in the lolling tongue. The red door was unlocked, and Justine stepped into the darkness. It smelled of beer and cigarettes. The only light came from a hologram of a miniature Budweiser wagon driving around the perimeter of the place near the ceiling. When it passed over her head she could hear the
clip-clop
of the Clydesdales, heard them snort, heard the crack of a tiny whip.

Somebody was sitting on the dark stage playing bass runs. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see he was tall and skinny with brown hair past his shoulders. His T-shirt and jeans hung from him, grazing his bones. She walked to the front of the stage. “You must be John,” she said.

He stopped playing and raised his head slowly. “That’s right,” he said. “And you must be Justine.” He reached over beside him and flipped a switch. The stage lights came up slowly, and he blinked a few times in the light, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “And this must be the place.” His voice was deep and unhurried. His drooping lids made him look like a drowsy cat.

“Where’re the other guys?”

John shrugged long and slow, like a cat stretching. “Beats me. I told them about it.
Busy
night last night.” He winked.

“You mean women?”

“Most definitely,” John said, bobbing his head up and down. He set his bass down and lit a cigarette, holding it in a V of skeletal fingers, watching the smoke drift into the air. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “We know all the tunes backwards and forwards and sideways.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said. “Knowing the tunes isn’t the same as being tight. We’ve never played together.”

John laughed, a rumbling sound deep in his throat. “Sure we have. You just weren’t there. Your agent Lenny gave us virtuals of you and those clowns you used to play with. Edited those turkeys out and stepped right in. We are into it. We are strictly twentieth century. A blast from the blasted past. We are the band of your dreams.”

Justine couldn’t remember recording any virtuals, but she let that go. She couldn’t remember a lot of things. “Are you high, John?”

He laughed again. “Always, Justine. Always.”

She sat down at the nearest table, pushed the
Coffee
icon, and picked up the cup that rose to the table’s surface. The tables were painted with the same dog’s face that was out front. “You want any coffee, John?”

He winced and shook his head. “No, man, that shit’ll keep you awake.”

She laughed. “So tell me about yourself.”

He shrugged again, studied his cigarette. “Nothing much to tell. I play the bass, this band and that. It don’t matter to me.”

“You ever play outside?”

He made a face as if he’d smelled something rancid. “Shit no. Outside. Man. Don’t even talk to me about outside. Couldn’t wait to leave that place behind.” He took another drag, held it in his lungs.

“How long you been inside?”

“Ten years.”

“You’re twenty-eight?”

“You got it.” He perched his cigarette on top of his amp and picked up his bass. He started playing the intro to “That’s Just What You Are,” soft and clean, just like it was supposed to be. “So what’s your story?” he asked, still playing. “You fresh?”

“Six weeks.”

He nodded sagely, paused to take off in the music for a few bars, his eyes closed, his head bobbing up and down. “Holdout,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“That’s right.”

He raised his heavy lids and looked at her. “You’ll get into it. You’ll see.” He grinned again, and she thought of the Cheshire Cat. “Haven’t you heard? The Bin is the fucking Salvation of Mankind.” His rumbling laugh stretched on for a few bars, then it was forgotten.

He’d kept playing the whole time without missing a beat. He was off on another tune now, playing flawlessly. Maybe Lenny hadn’t done so badly. If only the other two would show up. “When you were first in the Bin, did you have weird dreams?” she asked.

He smiled to himself. “I always have weird dreams.”

“I mean, dreams where you’re somebody else altogether, like an old man or something?”

He shook his head, tilting it back, closing his eyes as his bony fingers glided up and down the neck of his bass. “I am always me. Always.”

THE
OTHER
TWO
,
RICK
AND
IAN
,
WERE
FORTY-FIVE
MINUTES
late. They both looked as if they’d just crawled through several bars to get there. Ian, the drummer, was a small, freckled, bald man with a shock of red hair ringing his scalp in frizzy curls, and a chinstrap beard flecked with gray. Rick, the lead player, scowled as he moved. He was probably handsome, but Justine couldn’t get past his repertoire of grimaces. His black hair was slicked back into ducktails. He wore a white ruffled shirt unbuttoned to his navel, tucked into leather pants two sizes too small. He tottered around the stage on high-heeled boots as he tuned up.

“You guys always this prompt?” Justine asked them, sipping her third cup of coffee.

The sound of her voice seemed to add to the burden of Rick’s pain. Ian chuckled as if she were joking. John said, “Why don’t we just play the tunes, Justine? You’ll see. Band of your fucking dreams.” Rick scowled and positioned himself in front of a mike, looking as if he and his guitar were facing execution. Ian started warming up with tight little riffs.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” she said.

Rick rolled his eyes. “You got something
else
to do?” he sneered. “Is time ticking away?” He glared at her. “I figured you from the virtuals as some kind of uptight b—”

John’s laugh erupted suddenly, cutting Rick off. He looked at them all, still laughing. “You know what they used to say outside? Get this. ‘Relax, you’ll live longer.’” He laughed again, like boulders rolling through the room. “Is that hysterical or what? ‘Relax, you’ll live longer.’ I love it.”

John finally quit laughing and stood there smiling at Justine. I’m supposed to drop it, she thought. John’s letting me know I can argue with Rick all day if I want to, and nothing will change. Meanwhile, Rick was glaring into the corner like a boxer waiting out the mandatory count.

She laid her guitar case on the table and took out her guitar. Just drop it, she told herself. Either they can play the tunes or they can’t. If they can play, I don’t care what kind of assholes they are. If I walk, what the hell do I do then? What else am I going to do but sing?

She slammed the case closed, strapped her guitar on. “Give me a D,” She said to John, and he obliged. As she tuned, she said in a hard voice, “We do the first set straight through, no breaks, just like this dump was packed to the rafters, you got it?”

John and Ian nodded. She waited, and finally Rick turned his head and give her a thin, wicked smile. “Sure, boss lady,” he said. “Anything you say.”