Machine Of Death (27 page)

“Oh, it’s not violent,” Norma was saying now. “Well, a little violent, sort of. You’ll feel a little pinch, but it’s nothing to get worked up over.”

The truth was, Sid adored Norma, he really did. He adored Norma, and he adored her parties, and he adored her taste in music, and her
hors d’oeuvres
, and all the witty conversationalists she routinely assembled for her Saturday night gatherings. And even though the romance between them had ended long ago, he still loved being in her life and having her in his.

But he loathed party games. Really and truly.

Oh, he liked games in general. He wasn’t opposed to fun and frivolity. He’d participated in a murder mystery party once, and thought that was just splendid; he’d even played the role of the villain without complaint. If she had brought out boxes of Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit, he’d have been all for it. But “party game” invariably meant some sort of getting-to-know-you game: truth or dare, I never, packing your desert island luggage. The sorts of games that had only two outcomes—either they stayed entirely superficial (boring) or they probed into deeply intimate information (humiliating). Knowing that Melvin’s three favorite CDs included David Hasslehoff’s greatest hits didn’t make Sid feel like he really knew Melvin any better. Neither did knowing that Melvin had once had sex with his cousin’s boyfriend’s sister in a glass elevator. But Sid had learned both these facts about Melvin at a previous gathering.

And as much as Sid hated these games, Norma loved them. So here he was, getting ready to play again.

“So,” Norma taunted, “isn’t anyone going to guess?”

“Stop teasing,” said Vince, Norma’s latest boyfriend. “Let us see what you’ve got under there. It’s no fun staring at a bed sheet.” Vince was a banker with no appreciation for showmanship. Living with Norma meant living in suspense. Always and forever. Sid suspected Vince wouldn’t be around much longer.

Sid, of course, was perfectly happy to keep staring at the bed sheet, absently thumbing the thin slip of paper in his pocket. He had no interest in playing the game, but he very much enjoyed seeing an audience toyed with. He enjoyed the show. So he was disappointed when Norma gave in easily, rather than drawing out the suspense. “You’re such a poop, Vince,” she said as she did what he asked, taking the corners of the sheet between her fingers. At least she still put a flourish into the process, whipping the sheet dramatically from the cart and snapping it over her head, nearly overturning a vase of tulips on top of the TV.

The audience let out a satisfactory gasp.

They all recognized the machine, of course. They’d seen it on television and in movies. They’d seen it in doctor’s offices and pharmacies. Some of them had even used one. But still, it was strange to see it sitting on a rolling cart in their friend’s living room.

“Is that what I think it is?” Melvin asked, refusing to believe what was already obvious.

“That depends,” said Norma. “Do you think it’s a Machine of Death?”

“Yes?”

“Then yes, it’s exactly what you think it is.” She grinned devilishly in her satisfaction at having so befuddled her guests.

“You paid for that?” Vince appeared horrified at the very concept, his eyes bugging out like an old cartoon.

“Well, I certainly didn’t steal it.”

“But those must go for thousands of dollars!”

“I have a friend in the company. He let me buy it at cost.”

“That still couldn’t have been cheap…”

“Oh, Vince,” she said, cutting off the line of conversation, “stop being dull. Don’t you realize how much
fun
we’re going to have? It’ll be worth it, I promise!”

With that, she began unwinding the power cord that hung from the back of the machine, pulling it toward a free outlet near the TV. Once it was plugged in, she flipped the switch to turn it on. A small fan revved up to full speed. The internal workings clicked and popped as a fresh needle was loaded. A little red light turned into a little green light.

The machine was ready to dispense party time fun and pithy little visions of the future.

Norma giggled her delight.

“So you’re just going to give us our death readings?” asked the same woman who had questioned the game’s name earlier. Lottie. That was her name—Sid had only met her once before, but he was sure her name was Lottie. “I’ve already done that.”

“Well, don’t tell what your reading was yet. That comes later. Getting the reading is just the first part; the real game is guessing whose death is whose. Can you guess how I’m going to die? Can I guess how you’re going to die? That’s the game. That’s Death Match. Isn’t that a
gas
?”

“I love it,” said Melvin.

“Yeah, okay,” said Lottie. “I’d do that.”

“I’m not playing,” said Marie. Like Sid, Marie was a restaurant critic, though this provided precious little common ground. For instance, Sid held that Norma served consistently excellent
hors d’oeuvres
at her cocktail parties, and even better food at her dinner parties. She made everything from scratch, never once served frozen wieners or potato puffs. He had shopped with her; she knew quality, knew her ingredients, paired the right cheeses with the right fruits with the right wines. He offered input where he could, but he wasn’t actually needed. He found no fault at all. Whereas he had more than once overheard Marie belittling Norma’s culinary talents to other guests. The cheeses were too sharp, the fruits overripe, the wines improperly poured. She had even once tried to include Sid in her conspiratorial condescension. Sid and Marie hadn’t spoken much since then.

Tonight, though, Marie’s was precisely the reaction Sid was hoping for. If enough people objected to the machine’s morbid prognostications, then Norma would have to give up and the evening could pass without a party game. This one time at least.

“You know there’s nothing to be afraid of, Marie,” Vince said. “These machines are so cryptic, they don’t really mean anything.”

“Well, they sort of do,” said Jorge, Norma’s oldest friend from her college days. “But only in hindsight. By then, who cares?”

“No, I know,” said Marie. “It’s not that. I just don’t like needles.”

“Oh, please,” Vince chided. “I can’t stand when people say that. You realize
nobody
actually
likes
needles, right?”

“Well, yes, of course…”

“And you don’t want people to think you’re antisocial, do you?”

“I’m not anti…”

“I’m not playing either,” broke in Bettany, the last of the evening’s guests, and a new face in the group. According to Norma, Bettany was a professional mountain climber; Sid had no idea how she’d fallen in with this crowd of devout indoorsmen.

Vince sighed ostentatiously. “And what’s your excuse?”

“Well, mostly I’d just like for everyone to think I’m antisocial. I can’t help it—it’s my natural response to juvenile peer pressure. You know how it is, high school flashbacks and all.”

Sid stifled a chuckle; it seemed Bettany didn’t like Vince any more than Sid did.

“Marie, you don’t have to play,” Norma said. “But if you do decide to play, I promise, you won’t even see the needle. It’s hidden away inside the machine. You just put your finger in, and it feels like barely more than a mosquito bite. And that’s it. But you don’t have to play, really.”

Marie sighed. Norma meant it when she said Marie didn’t have to play. Marie knew it. And Sid knew it, and everyone else knew it. But still, nobody liked to disappoint Norma. It broke her heart when her guests didn’t like her games.

“How about this,” Marie said finally. “I’ll play if Sid plays.”

Sid snorted. Oh, it was a clever tactic on Marie’s part: It put the onus of disappointing Norma on Sid instead of Marie. And she knew how Sid felt about party games, too. She knew he’d be hard-pressed to resist an opportunity to derail his least favorite pastime. Clever tactic or not, though, it was a bad play this time.

“Sid’s playing,” Norma said with a triumphant grin. “He already promised.”

Marie gave Sid a desperate look.

“It’s true,” he said. “She cornered me last week and twisted my arm. What could I do?”

“You could have said ‘no.’”

If only.

“Sorry,” he said. “I have weak arms.”

And with that, all resistance died, and everyone agreed to play.

“I’ll go first,” said Melvin as he popped out of his chair and approached the machine. With no hesitation at all, he stuck his finger into the machine’s orifice, punched the button, and gave a little laugh when the needle stuck him—”It kind of tickles”—then waited as the machine processed his blood and loaded a new needle. It spat out a slip of paper just like an
ATM
receipt.

“You can read your own if you want,” Norma instructed, “but don’t tell anyone else what it says. Then fold it in half and drop it in the hat.”

Somehow Sid hadn’t noticed the hat. It was on a second shelf on the cart, underneath the machine. It was a black felt top hat, a perfect gimmick for a game like this. But Sid recognized it immediately—it had once been his. It was just a straight hat with no hidden pockets or secret compartments, but still, it gave him a pang of nostalgia for their time on the stage. He hadn’t known she still had it. But he was glad. It was encouraging, in a way. He put one hand in his pocket, touched the paper he had hidden there.

Melvin dropped his death into the hat.

Vince went next, making a show of what a good sport he was, and how
not
afraid of needles he was, but winced visibly when the needle stuck him. Sid rolled his eyes for Bettany’s benefit, and she stuck out her tongue in agreement.

Marie was third, eager to have the unpleasantness done with. She closed her eyes and inserted her finger into the machine. The color left her face when she pushed the button, and for a moment Sid thought she might faint. But she stayed upright as she hurriedly tossed her death into the hat and returned to the couch, where she sat sucking the injured finger.

Sid went next. The needle really did feel like a mosquito bite, though he wouldn’t have said it tickled. When the machine spat out his death, he didn’t bother to read it; he already knew how he was going to die. He had all the documentation. He’d seen the CT scan. He folded his death in half and dropped the slip of paper into the hat.

“Thank you,” said Norma.

“No,” he replied. “Thank you.”

She looked at him quizzically, but he said nothing else. Just put his hands in his pockets and returned to the other side of the room.

The remaining partygoers all took their turns, until there were eight folded slips of paper in the hat. Norma was delighted and favored everyone with a big smile.

“Okay,” she said. “Here are the rules:

“One. One death will be drawn from the hat at a time.

“Two. We’ll all debate whose death we think it is and why.

“Three. Debate ends once everyone has officially cast a vote.

“Four. Players earn one point for each correct vote. No points for guessing your own.

“Five. No death’s owner will be revealed until all deaths have been voted on.

“Is everyone clear? Any questions?” There were no questions. So she reached into the hat and drew the first death.

“Oh, good, we’re off to an interesting start! The first death is:
LANDSLIDE
.”

“That’s easy,” Melvin chirped without hesitation. “It’s Bettany. Mountain climbers get killed in avalanches all the time.”

“Not
all
the time. And besides, it was ‘landslide,’ not ‘avalanche.’”

“Same thing.”

“No they’re not,” Jorge said. “Avalanches are snow and ice. Landslides require, obviously, land. That means dirt and rock.”

“So then it’s probably you,” said Vince, gesturing in Jorge’s direction.

“How do you figure?”

“You do construction. Construction means excavation, and excavation leads to landslides.”

Jorge frowned. “I’m not a construction worker.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m an architect, Vince. I design buildings. I don’t build them myself. I work in an office. I even wear a tie sometimes, if that helps your mental image.”

Vince held Jorge’s gaze, but said nothing.

“But don’t you ever inspect a construction site,” Lottie asked. “Or go to watch something you designed getting built? How can you resist?”

Vince finally shrugged and looked back at the rest of the group, though Sid caught his petulant eye-roll.

“Okay, I do visit sites sometimes,” Jorge said, returning to the game. “But that’s not where I work.”

“But the risk is there,” said Marie. “More than on a mountain top, anyway.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Any other theories?” Norma asked after debate dropped for a few moments. “Okay, then it’s time to lodge your votes.”

Vince, Bettany, and Marie voted for Jorge. Jorge, Melvin, Lottie, and Norma voted for Bettany. Sid voted for Vince.

“You were supposed to argue your theory before the voting,” Norma scolded.

“I don’t have a theory,” Sid replied. “I just think it’d be funny.”

“Ha,” said Vince flatly. Norma scowled at Sid, but he just shrugged—”I’m playing your game, aren’t I? What do you want?”

“Okay,” she said as she reached into the hat again, “our next death is:
HUNTING
ACCIDENT
.”

“Oh, that one’s Lottie,” Sid said without hesitation.

“But I’m a vegetarian!”

“So?”

“So I wouldn’t go hunting in the first place!”

“Which is precisely why it would be so satisfyingly ironic.”

Jorge raised an eyebrow at Sid. “So, what you’re saying is that the less likely it is that a person will die in a particular way, then the more likely it is that that’s precisely how they’ll die?”

“Well, not so much ‘more likely’ as ‘more entertaining.’”

“That sounds about right to me,” said Bettany. “Put my vote down for Lottie.”

“Hey!”

“Seriously, though,” Marie asked, “Does anyone here hunt?”

All heads shook in the negative. “I went once when I was a kid,” said Jorge. “But I hated it.”

“Then it’s obvious,” said Melvin. “Bettany spends the most time out in the wild. She’s the one most likely to get shot accidentally.”