Cottonwood (15 page)

She lost track of time de-furring herself with the sticky side of wadded tape, realized there was no way she could catch the monorail now, and resigned herself to driving to work in her own van. She was halfway to the Checkpoint when she realized she’d left her badge clipped to the first blouse she’d put on that morning, the one that went with the skirt she wasn’t wearing. She drove back and got it and was on the verge of walking out her door when her paz chimed. And thank heavens, really, because her paz was in her briefcase, which was over on the kitchen table, being left behind for the second time that morning. Rushing to answer it before whoever was calling got transferred to voice mail, Sarah stubbed her toe a hell of a good one on the table leg, so that her greeting was a yelping, “Ow, shit-dammit!”

“Miss Fowler?”

Her paz’s screen was still pixelating, but a slight Fuddian softening of the L gave him away anyway. Mr. Birch or Beech, she couldn’t remember exactly, but what mattered was that he was staff supervisor on her floor and therefore her immediate boss.

“Hello, Mr…” Which tree was he? Or maybe it was Busch. “I’m sorry, I’m running late, but I’m on my way,” she blurted, hoping he wouldn’t notice the pointed pause where a name ought to be.

He cut her off with a curt wave of his hand and said, “You’re the one with that godawful child-molester’s van, right?”

Sarah blinked. “It’s not a child molest—”

“But it’s yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great. I need you to come to the office and go see Ms. Heinrich in H.R. Bring the van.” He hung up.

“My van does not molest children,” Sarah said to the black screen. With that on record, she gathered up her briefcase, gave Fagin a desultory pat, and headed out the door.

The Human Resources department was not in the same building where Sarah worked and once she found it, it took some time to track down Ms. Heinrich, who was apparently not having the best day either. She was a plump, older woman, meticulously made-up and coiffed to appear career- rather than family-oriented, and all she wanted to know as Sarah introduced herself was whether or not she had her own car.

“Yes, ma’am. I have a van.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” the other woman exploded, snatching up her own sleek new paz. “I specifically told that idiot we can’t use company transportation as delivery vans! Although why not is something I would dearly love to have explained to me.” She flapped a hand at Sarah and turned around. “You’re done, honey. Go back to what you were doing, which is probably sitting around on your ass waiting for someone to need a driver since I apparently don’t qualify!”

“Ma’am, I’m not a driver. I mean, I do drive, it’s just not an IBI van. It’s my van. The, um, the big blue one?”

Ms. Heinrich’s broad face puckered up as if Sarah had confessed to driving an occupied hearse. “You mean that four-wheeled environmental disaster actually has an owner? I thought it crawled onto the lot and died. Never mind, it’s actually perfect for this. Come with me.”

Sarah trailed after her as she bustled importantly through a maze of cubicles to an honest-to-God corner office and began rifling through her desk. There was a couch in the office. And a bar. Sarah’s cubicle didn’t even have room for a motivational poster.

“Ma’am, um, no one’s told me what I’m supposed to do yet.”

“Relax, honey, I’m getting there. Take these.” Ms. Heinrich handed back two sheets of paper and moved on to a modestly intimidating floor safe. She came out of it with a black credit card with IBI’s logo boldly printed across one side in holographic letters. She scanned it through her paz, punched a few buttons, and held them out. “And this.”

“Okay…?”

“We’re getting in yet another batch of hires and naturally it’s absolutely life-or-death that they get an ice cream social. You may have been wondering why they’re closing the pool to the public tomorrow.”

Sarah nodded, although she hadn’t checked the community calendar for events in more than a week, even after Mr. Van Meyer’s subtle warning, but she needn’t have bothered. Ms. Heinrich was off and away, sorting through her mail caddy and flicking at her paz and talking the whole time.

“As usual, when the brass waves their magic wands, it’s up to me to pull the rabbit out of my ass. Pardon my mouth, but every single weekend for the last three months, I have to stop what I’m doing and turn into Bozo the goddamned Clown, and after they promised me we were finally done with that horseshit, they suddenly turn around and give me twenty-four hours to put together an outdoor event? How am I supposed to get anything done around here?” she demanded.

“Um…”

“Never mind, rhetorical ranting. Okay, what I want you to do is drive that ridiculous gas-guzzler of yours to town and buy everything on this list, only pay attention. I want you to look at the decorations.”

Sarah obediently shuffled the proper sheet to the top and looked at it. It was exactly the sort of itemized list she would expect this woman to have for her—separated first by store, then by general purpose and finally alphabetized, with the required quantity and estimated price per item noted and a neat box to one side, waiting to be checked.

“Don’t bother getting more tables or coolers or torches because we have plenty, but do pick up at least two dozen of those fruity little candles that repel bugs for the tables…Do you need to write this down?”

“Yeah, I guess I’d—”

“You’ve got fifteen hundred dollars on the card. Every penny you save not buying coolers, use to buy extra sodas and hamburger junk because, despite accounting’s bizarre notion to the contrary, people are going to want more than one.”

“Sodas and burgers,” muttered Sarah, tapping at her paz. “No coolers…or tables…”

“Or torches, but on second thought, do get oil. Oh! This is very important! Do not under any circumstances actually get these things at the Cook Nook and Party Palace unless you absolutely have to. The ShopALot will have almost everything and if you feel like driving all the way to Cheluca Creek, there’s a WalMart. It’s much cheaper. Any extra money—”

“Burger patties and buns.”

“And soda. If you want to sneak yourself something to drink for the ride home, I won’t tell, but please don’t get your groceries on the company dime.” Ms. Heinrich paused over her paz to study Sarah’s shocked expression. She smiled in a dry and distinctly unpleasant way. “Not that you ever would, of course.”

“I’ll bring you the receipts,” said Sarah tightly.

“Oh dear, I’ve impugned her honor. Tell you what…” She gave Sarah a ‘wait here’ point and went back into her desk drawers, emerging in short order with a sheath of papers. She signed it in a few places and passed it over. “Take this in lieu of an apology.”

‘Application for Community Event Funding’ headed the top of each page and in addition to a standard list of barbeque essentials like hot dogs and cupcakes, there were places to request pool toys, bouncy houses and inflatables, even live entertainment.

“I can’t accept this,” said Sarah, attempting to hand it back.

“Careful you don’t get a nosebleed in that tower, princess,” Ms. Heinrich said archly. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like fun?”

Stung, Sarah pushed the papers out further. “I don’t know anyone.”

“All the better reason to take it. Invite everyone in your department. If you don’t like your coworkers, invite your neighbors. Hang a notice on the community calendar and invite all the singles. Have an orgy, I don’t care. The brass love to see people having fun and this way, they even to get pay for it. You still need Accounting to sign off on your final estimate, but just follow the cardinal rules—no booze, no single item over a hundred bucks, no non-residents on IBI property—and they shouldn’t give you any problems. Make it a family event and you’re practically guaranteed approval. Management is really pushing the idea that this bug-infested hellhole is family-friendly.” Ms. Heinrich checked the time, then picked up her paz again and shooed Sarah toward the door. “Have security log your mileage in and out and I’ll see about getting your gas reimbursed, but don’t expect that today. Bring everything back to the main plaza service entrance. I’ll try to have someone there to take your receipts and help you unload, but I can’t guarantee anyone after six, so hurry.”

Sarah hurried. She supposed she could have simply left the funds application on Ms. Heinrich’s desk, but she didn’t want to look any prissier than she apparently already did. It was just as morally correct and a whole lot easier to toss the thing in the trash in private, and she would. Having the director of Human Resources coach her in how to most effectively cheat the system so she could get IBI to pay for extra soda was bad, but yeah, okay, accountants were stingy and it was for IBI’s own people; being offered the means to use what she’d learned to throw her own personal party (in lieu of an apology, no less) was worse, especially when it meant wasting money on a bunch of strangers for no real reason right outside the containment walls, where twenty-five thousand aliens struggled to feed themselves in a garbage-based economy. She tossed the application on the floor of the van as soon as she got behind the wheel and just tried not to drive angry.

But it was thirty miles to Wheaton, and somewhere along the way, it occurred to her that beginning the day in a bad mood made it awfully easy to find reasons to stay there. Ms. Heinrich had probably meant well. Throwing a party for a couple hundred people every single weekend could put some rough edges on anyone. Having it sprung on her only a day in advance made her bad day a lot worse than Sarah’s. She could be the bigger woman here.

‘That lady was twice as big as I am,’ she thought peevishly, but only once and she was a little ashamed of herself.

The ShopALot was busier than she’d anticipated, but then again, it was a Friday. Sarah found a shady spot at the extreme end of the lot (reserved for lepers and vans) and walked across the baking asphalt into the blessed air-conditioned interior of the store. Handling the credit card made her nervous at first (fifteen hundred dollars was more money than she’d ever spent in single day, unless she was putting down the first and last month deposit on an apartment, and sometimes not even then), but it wasn’t long before she began to relax and even to enjoy herself. While parking her third full cart at the front of the store to await checkout, Sarah discovered what hardly needed discovering: It was fun to spend other people’s money.

Five hours later, list completely checked off and credit card emptied, Sarah drove herself and her sore feet home with a root beer (purchased with her own dollar, thank you very much, Ms. Heinrich), humming. She had not forgotten the misery of the morning, but she was trying to put it into perspective. It was hardly the worst day she’d had at Cottonwood; that dubious honor still went to the day she fell into the ditch and then had to take Samaritan’s crude comments about it. For that matter, it wouldn’t be the last bad day she had at work either. Surprise! Cottonwood was a horrible place, but just because she had to work there physically didn’t mean she had to live there emotionally.

Maybe she’d throw that party after all. She could invite the entire social services department; someone was bound to show up. Maybe she’d even make a few friends. How hard could that be? She was young and single and blondes were supposed to be fun. Maybe she could even—

Sarah stopped humming. Her hands squeaked on the steering wheel as her grip reflexively tightened. At the very next wide point in the road, she pulled over and braked hard, not unmindful of the heavy load of party supplies filling up the van, but not caring a lot about them either. She bent between the seats, fumbling through burger wrappers and old gas receipts as highway traffic whipped by on her left side. She’d had an idea and it took her as entirely as if she’d had a heart attack instead, but she didn’t have a single coherent thought in her head until she found the Application for Recreational Funding and read it. All of it. Especially the fine print.

When she was done reading, she pressed the papers down over the steering wheel and just thought for a while. She hummed now and then in toneless spurts, unaware she did it. Then she tucked the application up under the sunvisor and got back on the road. She had Ms. Heinrich’s party stuff to deliver and the rest of this day to get through, but after that, she had the whole weekend to plan her party.

And it was going to be a big one.

* * *

Monday morning, as Sarah hunched over her coffee-maker swearing and smacking at it in an futile effort to get a caramel macchiato before the year 2045, a white IBI van pulled up in her driveway. And even though she hadn’t turned the papers in yet or even told anyone about them—not Kate, not even Fagin!—when Sarah saw the driver’s door open and the man get out, she knew—not thought or guessed or dreaded, but
knew
—she was about to be arrested. Or whatever IBI did with dissidents. She straightened up slowly and watched through the wispy curtains as the head and shoulders of a very large man passed in front of her kitchen window, heading in the direction of her door. A moment later, the knock: bang-bang, loud and authoritative.

Fagin roused himself for a sleepy bark, then looked at Sarah to see if that was enough or if he had to get off the couch and do it again. God, what was going to happen to her dog if they took her away? Would they give her a phone call? Maybe she should call Kate now…

Sarah took a breath and walked on numb legs through the living room. She opened the door.

The man was getting back into his van. He waved at her. At her feet, on the fuzzy black mat with
IBI welcomes You
! written on it was a cardboard box with Kate’s name and address in the upper left corner. Sarah studied it without comprehension, then lifted her eyes to watch the van drive away. Above the IBI logo on each of its rear windows were stickers. One advised tailgaters that ‘this van makes frequent stops’. The other declared itself the property of the IBI mail delivery system.

In the kitchen, the Konaluv beeped and spat coffee into the recess where her mug ought to be.

Sarah looked down at the mug in her hand, sighed, then picked up her package and took it into the house. It was a big box, plain brown cardboard, of the sort one snatches out of the back of restaurants to pack clothes or dishes in. This one had been slightly water damaged in the long-ago, but was still sturdy. Whatever was in it was relatively light, less than fifteen pounds altogether, she’d guess. The contents shifted some as she carried it, suggesting many components, but the little sounds they made were not helpful in identifying them. Sarah studied it as she mopped up her macchiato, then unplugged the stupid Konaluv to keep it from spitting out another one and went to open it.