Circuit Of Heaven (24 page)

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself—that the past didn’t matter anyway. But when Nemo said he was coming in, I don’t know. That changes everything. What if he sacrifices himself for me, and I turn out to be someone horrible or crazy?”

“You don’t really believe that, my dear.”

“I don’t know what to believe. Do you think they screwed up when I came in—I don’t know—mislaid some of my past—gave me somebody else’s?”

He shook his head. “Can’t happen.”

She noticed the authority in his voice. This was no mere opinion. Maybe he could help her after all. “Freddie said you wrote the program for Real World Tours. Is that really true?”

Mr. Menso smiled to himself and shook his head. “Freddie does love to gossip. But yes, it’s true. Silly business, actually.”

“You must know a lot about how the Bin works to do something like that.”

He rested his chin on the head of his cane and studied her for a moment. “I know it inside out,” he said. “What is it you want to know?”

“Somebody told me you could be downloaded, that he knew a woman who’d done it.”

“I’ve heard of that,” he said, his face a mask.

“Then it’s real? It’s not just a wild story? You really can leave?”

He looked down at the desk, ran his fingers along the spine of the Milton. “Yes, it’s real.” His voice was old and tired.

She was sitting on the edge of her chair. She felt as if she were on the viaduct again, looking down. “Could you help me, Mr. Menso, if I decide to go back? You must know how to set it up. You’re the only one I know who—”

He groaned and clamped his eyes shut, rapping his forehead with his cane so hard she was afraid he was going to hurt himself. She reached out to stop him, but he brought the tip of his cane down hard on the floor, and she jumped back. His eyes were blazing. “You want me to help you download into the real world—help you
die
?” He looked up in the air, shaking his cane at the ceiling. “This is too much!” he shouted. “This is too fucking much!” She cowered in her chair, but as she watched him, she saw his rage wasn’t for her—but for himself, for fate, for God. He fell back in his chair, shaking his head, sighing.

She was afraid to speak, to move. She had no idea what had set him off.

But now he seemed almost calm, subdued. “I apologize for that outburst, my dear.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Menso? Can I get you anything?” He ignored her questions. “Do you really want to die?” he asked quietly.

“No, of course not. But there’s more to it than that. The way things are now, I’m
forcing
Nemo in here. I mean, that’s the way he put it—‘You can’t come to me, so I’m coming to you.’ If I
could
come to him, then he wouldn’t have to give up everything for me.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. “You would do that for him?”

“Of course. I love him.”

He nodded, a sad smile on his face. “Yes, I believe you do. But he would only be giving up death, my dear. Perhaps that’s a sacrifice you should let him make.”

“That’s not true, Mr. Menso. He has friends, a home. He fixes things out there. In here, nothing ever wears out. What would he
do
in here? What does anybody do?”

Mr. Menso nodded and picked up the Milton, turned it over in his hand. “Good point,” he said. “I read mostly. When the Bin was first designed, there were some who suggested uploading everyone with complete literacy implanted like an accessory on a car—every book, every language”—he tapped his head—“preinstalled. Stupid idea. There were lots of stupid ideas. Several fellows—you know the type—wanted to do away with shit and piss and sweat, or if we weren’t going to do away with them altogether, let’s just make them
smell
nice! In the end, we changed as little as possible—gave everyone food and shelter, the ‘creature comforts’ they called them in the press, and took away violence, disease, and death. Everyone agreed we had to do away with that. Sometimes, I think that was the stupidest idea of all.” He tossed the book on the desk. “If he wants to stay out of here, your Nemo has my sympathies.”

“I don’t think he really wants to come in here. I’m not even sure what
I’m
doing here. Will you help me?”

He sighed, surrendering. “You realize this is illegal? Once you leave, you can’t come back.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Somehow,” he said wryly, “I didn’t think that would bother you. You do understand you wouldn’t look the same, sound the same. We’d have to find someone who was coming in. You’d live in someone else’s body, Justine.”

A chill went up her spine, but she struggled to put on a brave front. “After my dreams,” she said. “I’m used to that.”

He tugged at his earlobe, considering her. Finally, he shook his head. “I’ll be damned, but I probably am already. All right. If you decide that’s what you want, I’ll help you. I can arragne it.” He winked at her and patted her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you someone beautiful.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged his neck. “You are the sweetest, most wonderful man!” She kissed his white head and took his face in her hands, intending to give him a quick kiss, but his eyes were wet with tears, his brow creased with pain. He turned away, pushing her hands from his face.

“Mr. Menso, what’s wrong?”

He waved his cane back and forth, as if shooing away something at his feet. “It’s nothing. At my age, I cry over everything, over nothing.”

His hands were clutching the head of his cane, as if it kept him anchored and he didn’t dare let it go. She laid her hand on his. “You were remembering your sweetheart?”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yes. My sweetheart. You could say that. Just reminiscing. I’m fine now.” He closed his eyes, struggling to keep a grip on his emotions. His hands tightened around the cane.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m damn near a hundred years old,” he snapped. “I think I know by now when I’m all right, and when I’m not.”

She drew her hand away. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

He winced at her apology, shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. He turned back to her and opened his eyes, looked at her tenderly, searching her eyes, as if she actually were his daughter and he was remembering her life. “No, my dear. It is I who should beg your forgiveness. I’m just a silly old man, and you are a kind young woman. Forgive me, please.” He leaned his cane against the desk, reached out, and took her hands. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Let’s just drink our tea and visit for a while. You can tell me more about your young man.”

With a start, she remembered she was meeting Nemo at the club. She looked around for a clock, but didn’t see one. “Do you know what time it is? I have to be at the club by nine-thirty.”

He opened one of the little drawers inside his desk and took out a watch. “It’s eight-forty,” he said.

“Oh God, I’ve got to run. Nemo’s parents are going to be there. He’s supposed to break the news to them. I can’t be late. Thank you for everything.” She kissed his cheek and rose to her feet. She hesitated at the door, looking back at him, all alone with his books. “Would you like to come hear me sing, Mr. Menso?”

“Thank you very much, but tonight I think I’ll just sit up and read.” He smiled and danced his eyebrows. “I’ll come hear you when it’s a little less crowded. Good luck, with everything.”

“You really are the sweetest, most wonderful man.”

He looked into her eyes. “You can’t imagine how much that means to me,” he said, and she realized his loneliness was much greater than hers had ever been. As if he knew what she was thinking, he waved the back of his hand at the door. “Don’t worry about me. Run along. You mustn’t keep your young man waiting.”

JUSTINE
HURRIED
BACK
TO
HER
ROOM
,
TOOK
A
QUICK
shower, and changed clothes, her thoughts racing. What would Nemo say when she told him he had a choice? What did she want him to say? Maybe she was just trying to assuage her guilt. He’d say no, and she’d be off the hook.
Don’t blame me if you’ve thrown your life away. It was your choice, after all
. But she didn’t know what he’d say. She didn’t know what she wanted him to say.

She imagined him, his arm around her shoulders, telling his parents he loved her, that he wanted to spend his life with her. What would they think if he came inside for her—after years of ignoring their pleas? They’d seemed to like her the night she met them, even seemed to fuss over her. Maybe they’d seen this coming, read the look in their son’s eyes. Besides, no matter what they thought about her, they’d be happy Nemo was coming in.

But as she imagined them all sitting around after his announcement, drinking champagne, proposing toasts, his parents turned to her and wanted to know who she was—this woman who’d snared their son. She’d brushed their questions aside the other night, but this would be different.

She sank down on the corner of the bed, staring at the phone across the room. She was ready to go. She only had ten minutes to get to the club. All she had to do was pick up her guitar and leave. What does it matter what I tell them? she thought. I’m a girl from Dallas, no family, no friends, a singer. I love their son.

That’s what brought her up short. What would she tell Nemo? He said he didn’t care, but he couldn’t know that. She couldn’t know it either. She might try to keep them separate—the past and the present—but sooner or later they would have it out. She stood up and walked quickly across the room before she had the chance to change her mind, and called Stephanie again.

Stephanie was dressed to go out, her hair piled on top of her head, pearls around her neck. She didn’t look too happy when she saw who was calling.

“Please don’t hang up. I don’t know anyone else I can ask, and I have to find out about St. Catherine’s. It’s important to me. Just a few questions, I promise.”

Stephanie looked doubtful, but she didn’t hang up.

“When were you at St. Catherine’s—what years?”

“I grew up there. I left in 2003.” Her voice was chilly. She tilted her head back. Her long neck was still smooth and lovely, though she must be over eighty years old. She hadn’t chosen to look older, as Justine had thought before. She looked younger.

“I know you didn’t know anybody named Justine who looked like me, but there were girls you hung out with that you remember.”

Stephanie nodded. “Of course, but I don’t see that that’s any of your business.” Her shoulder moved, she was reaching out.

“Please, please, don’t hang up. Just one question, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Very well,” she said. But she didn’t draw her hand back.

“When we talked the other day, and I asked you about sneaking out, I thought I struck a chord. I know it’s none of my business, but if you ever
did
sneak out with someone and get caught—what was her name—the girl you were with? That’s all I want to know, and I won’t bother you again.”

Stephanie stared at Justine a long time. Justine was afraid she was going to hand up, but nothing showed in her face. Finally, she said, “Angie. Angie. Rawson.”

Justine’s voice shook, as she asksed if Angie’s full name was Angelina.

“Why, yes.” Stephanie leaned forward, peering into the screen. “Angie? Is that you?”

My dreams are real, Justine realized. My nightmares.
When you wake up screaming, they’re nightmares
. She shook her head violently. “No. I’m Justine. Justine Ingham.”

“Are you her granddaughter or something?”

“No. She’s inside me. In my memories and dreams.”

Stephanie decided this was a good time to hang up. Justine couldn’t blame her. She stared at her reflection in the blank screen.
Angie? Is that you?

But there was no answer.

WHEN
JUSTINE
GOT
TO
THE
CLUB
AT
TEN
,
SHE
WAS
STILL
IN a daze. She felt as if she were someone else, watching herself weave through the tables toward the green room behind the stage. Nemo’s parents were sitting right up front, along with Winston and his companion for the evening, a redhead with sensuous lips and enormous breasts. Nemo was nowhere to be seen. His mom was pointing at the Clydesdales, and the whole table was watching them orbit. When they galloped across the far wall, Justine hurried into the green room.

John was pacing up and down, smoking a joint, talking to himself. She guessed he was speeding as well. “We will fucking blow them away tonight, Justine, ”he greeted her.

“Is everything set up?”

“Na-tu-ra-lly,” he said, stretching out the vowels, taking another hit.

Ian was playing with his brushes on a row of empty beer bottles on the table. He nodded and smiled, still playing. “Hi, Justine.”

Rick leered at her. “Running a little late, boss lady?” She tried to ignore him, but he stepped in front of her. The row of beer bottles were apparently his. “You got important fans out front,” he said. “They were asking for you. Gosh, I’ve never played for a real, live senator before. I hope I don’t get too nervous.”

“Fuck you, Rick.”

“In your dreams,” he said.

She turned her back on him before he could see how much his last crack had rattled her. She walked up to John. “Give me a hit, will you?”

“Cer-tain-ly,” John said and handed her the joint. She took a hit, thinking, I’ve done this before. She held the smoke in her lungs, remembering, ignoring Rick behind her—
Boss lady gets high! What else do you do for fun, boss lady?
She had kept her stash in her room behind the access panel to the plumbing. She’d been right next door to the bathroom. She and Stephanie used to smoke in Stephanie’s room because she had these big windows you could blow the smoke out of, and she was all the way at the end of the hall, so you could hear the nuns coming from a long way off. Eighty years ago.

She blew out the smoke and headed for the door. As she passed Rick, she said, “I don’t know what else I do, Rick. When I figure it out, you’ll be the very last to know.”