The Heart Goes Last (4 page)

Back to the man’s face. Not a handsome face as such, but a face you could trust. Sort of like a math teacher, or a minister. You can tell he’s sincere, and sincere is better than handsome. Really handsome men were a bad idea, said Grandma Win, because they had too much to choose from. Too much what? Charmaine had asked her, and Grandma Win said, Never mind. “The Positron Project is accepting new members now,” says the man. “If you meet our needs, we’ll meet
yours. We offer training in many professional areas. Be the person you’ve always wanted to be! Sign up now!” That smile again, as if he’s gazing deep inside her head. Not in a scary way though, in a kindly way. He only wants the best for her. She can be the person she’s always wanted to be, after it was safe to want things for herself.

Come here. Don’t think you can hide. Look at me. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?
No
was the wrong answer to that, but so was
Yes.

Stop that noise. Shut up, I said shut up! You don’t even know what hurt is.

Forget those sad things, honey, Grandma Win would say. Let’s make popcorn. Look, I picked some flowers
.
Grandma Win had a little patch at the front of the house. Nasturtiums, zinnias. Think about those flowers instead, and you’ll be asleep in no time.

Halfway through the ad, Sandi and Veronica come in. Now they’re sitting at the bar having Diet Cokes and watching the ad too. “Looks great,” Veronica says.

“No free lunch,” says Sandi. “Too good to be true. That guy looks like a lousy tipper.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Veronica says. “Can’t be worse than the Fuck Tank. I’d go for those towels!”

“I wonder what’s their game?” says Sandi.

“Poker,” says Veronica, and they both laugh.

Charmaine wonders why that’s funny. She isn’t sure that they’re the kind of people the man is looking for, but it would be way too snobby and also discouraging to say so, and they are nice girls at heart, so instead she says, “Sandi! I bet you could be a nurse!” There’s a website and a phone number scrolling across the bottom of the screen; Charmaine scribbles them down. She’s so excited! When Stan picks her up, they can use their phone to view the details. She can feel the griminess of her body, she can smell the stale odour coming from her clothes, from her hair, from the rancid fat smell of the chicken-wings place next door. All of that can be shed, it can peel off her like an onion skin, and she can step out of that skin and be a different person.

Will there be a washer and dryer in that new home? Of course there will. And a dining table. Recipes: she’ll be able to cook recipes again, the way she did after she and Stan got married. Lunches, intimate dinners, just the two of them. They’ll sit on chairs while eating, they’ll have real china instead of plastic. Maybe even candles.

Stan will be happy too: how could he not be happy? He’ll stop being so grouchy. True, there’s a grouchy part she’ll have to guide him through first, the part where he’ll say it’s sure to be a scam like everything else, it’s some kind of ripoff, and why bother applying because they won’t get in. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, she’ll say, and why don’t they just try? She’ll persuade him to do it, one way or another.

Worse comes to worst, she’ll dangle the promise of sex. Sex in a luxurious king-sized bed, with clean sheets – wouldn’t Stan like that? With no maniacs trying to break in through the window. If necessary, she’ll even put up with that cramped back-seat car ordeal tonight, as a reward if he says yes. It won’t be that much fun for her, but fun can wait until later. Until they’re inside their new house.

Getting into the Positron Project won’t be a slam dunk. They aren’t interested in just anyone, as Charmaine whispers to Stan on the bus that’s picked them up from the parking-lot collection point. Some of the people on the bus can’t possibly make it into the Project, they’re too worn-down and leathery, with blackened or missing teeth. Stan wonders if there’s a dental plan in there. So far there’s nothing wrong with his own teeth; lucky, considering all the cheap sugary crap they’ve been eating.

Sandi and Veronica are on the bus too, sitting at the back and nibbling on the sackful of cold chicken wings they’ve brought with them. Every once in a while they laugh, a little too loudly. Everyone on this bus is nervous, Charmaine especially. “What if we get rejected?” she asks Stan. “What if we get accepted?” She says it’s like being picked for sports teams when she was at school: you’re nervous either way.

The bus trip goes on for hours, in a steady drizzle; through open countryside, past strip malls with plywood over most of the windows, derelict burger joints. Only the gas stations appear functional. After a while Charmaine falls asleep with her head on Stan’s shoulder. His arm is around her; he draws her closer. He too dozes off.

Then the bus stops at a gateway in a high black-glass wall. Solar generation, thinks Stan. Smart, building it in like that. The group on the bus wakes, stretches, descends. It’s late afternoon; as if on cue, mellow sunlight breaks through the clouds, lighting them in a golden glow. Many are smiling. They file in past the seeing-eye boundary, then through the entrance cubicle, where their eyes are scanned and their fingerprints taken and a plastic passcard with a number on it and a barcode is issued to each of them.

Back on the bus, they’re driven through the town of Consilience, where the Project is located. Charmaine says she can hardly believe her eyes: everything is so spruced up, it’s like a picture. Like a town in a movie, a movie of years ago. Like the olden days, before anyone was born. She squeezes Stan’s hand in anticipation, and he squeezes back. “This is the right thing to do,” she says.

They get off the bus in front of the Harmony Hotel, which is not only the top hotel in town, says the neatly dressed young man who’s now in charge of them – it’s the only hotel, because Consilience isn’t exactly a tourist destination. He herds them into a preliminary drinks and snacks party in the ballroom. “You’re free to leave at any time,” he tells them, “if you don’t like the ambience.” He grins, to show this is a joke.

Because what’s not to like about the ambience? Stan rolls an olive around in his mouth before chewing: it’s a long time since he’s had an olive. The taste is distracting. He should be more alert, because naturally they’re being scrutinized, though it’s hard to figure out who’s doing it. Everyone is so fucking nice! The niceness is like the olive: it’s a long time since Stan has encountered that muffling layer of smiling and nodding. Who knew he’s such a fascinating dude? Not him, but there are three women, obvious hostesses, they even have name badges, deployed to convince him of his own magnetism. He scans the room: there’s Charmaine, getting a similar treatment from two dudes and a girl. Her slutty hooker friends from PixelDust are in that group too. They’ve fixed themselves up, they even have dresses on. You wouldn’t really spot them as pros.

Throughout the evening, the crowd gets thinner – a discreet weeding, Stan guesses. All those with bad attitudes, out the Discard door. But Stan and Charmaine must have passed scrutiny, because here they still are, at the end of the party. Everyone remaining is given a room reservation, for later. They also get a meal voucher, with a carafe of wine included, and another young man steers them toward a restaurant called Together, just down the street.

There’s an old-fashioned tune playing in the background, white tablecloths, a plush carpet.

“Oh Stan,” Charmaine breathes at him over the electric candles on their table for two. “It’s like a dream come true!” She picks up the rose from their bud vase, sniffs it.

It’s not real, Stan wants to tell her. But why spoil it for her? She’s so happy.

That night they stay at the Harmony Hotel. Charmaine has two baths, she gets so turned on by the towels. Less so by him, Stan guesses; but still, she comes across for him, so why complain? “There,” she says afterwards. “Isn’t this better than the back seat of the car?” If they commit to the Positron Project, she says, they can kiss that horrible car goodbye and good riddance, and the vandals and thieves can tear it apart, because they themselves won’t need it any more.

The next day, the workshops begin. After the first one, they’ll still be free to leave, they are told. In fact, they’ll have to leave: Positron wants you to take a good look at the alternatives before deciding. As they themselves know, it’s a festering rust bucket, out beyond the Consilience gates. People are starving. Scavenging, pilfering, dumpster-diving. Is that any way for a human being to live? So each one of them will spend what the Positron Project hopes – what it sincerely hopes! – will be their last night on the outside. To give them time to think it over, seriously. The Project wasn’t interested in freeloaders, tourists just trying it out. The Project wanted serious commitment.

Because after that you were either out or you were in.
In
was permanent. But no one would force you. If you signed up, it would be of your own free will.

The first day’s workshop is mostly PowerPoints. It begins with videos of the town of Consilience, with happy people at work in it, doing ordinary jobs: butcher, baker, plumber, scooter repair, and so on. Then there are videos of the Positron Prison inside Consilience, with happy people at work in it as well, each one of them wearing an orange boiler suit. Stan only half watches: he already knows they’re going to sign the commitment papers tomorrow, because Charmaine has her heart set on it. Despite the slightly uneasy feeling he’s had – they’ve both had, because Charmaine said at breakfast, with lattes and real grapefruit, “Honey, are you sure?” – the bath towels clinched the deal.

Their night outside the wall is spent in a nasty motel that Stan wagers has been tailored for the purpose, with the furniture trashed to order, stale cigarette smell sprayed one, cockroaches imported, and sounds of violent revelry in the room next door, most likely a recording. But it’s enough like the real thing to make the world inside the Consilience walls seem more desirable than ever. Most likely it is the real thing, because why fake it when there’s so much actual wreckage available?

In view of the racket and the lumpy mattress they have trouble getting to sleep, so Stan hears the tapping at the window immediately. “Yo! Stan!”

Fuck, now what? He draws back the ragged curtain, peers cautiously out. It’s Conor, with his two looming sidekicks watching his back.

“Conor!” he says. “What the fuck?” At least it’s Con and not some lunatic with a crowbar.

“Hi, bro,” says Con. “Come out. I need to talk to you.”

“Fuck, now?” Stan says.

“Would I say
need
if I didn’t need?”

“Honey, what is it?” says Charmaine, holding the sheet up to her chin.

“It’s only my brother,” says Stan. He’s pulling on his clothes.

“Conor? Why is
he
here?” She doesn’t like Con, she never has; she thinks he’s a bad influence who will lead Stan astray, as if he’s that easy to lead. Con might get him into behaviour she doesn’t approve of, like too much drinking, and darker stuff she’ll never elaborate on, but she most likely means whores. “Don’t go out there, Stan, he might …”

“I can handle it,” says Stan. “He’s my
brother
, for fuck’s sake!”

“Don’t leave me alone in here!” she says fearfully. “It’s too scary! Wait, I’ll come with you!” Is this an act, to keep him tethered so Con can’t spirit him away to a den of vice?

“You stay in bed, honey. I’ll be right out outside,” he says with what he hopes is gentle reassurance. Muffled sniffling from the bed. Trust Con to turn up and mess with everyone’s head.

Stan slides himself out the door. “What?” he says as irritably as he can manage.

“Don’t sign into that thing,” says Conor. He’s close to whispering. “Trust me on it. You don’t want to.”

“How’d you know where to find me?” says Stan.

“What’s a phone for? I gave it to you! So I traced it, dum-dum. I tracked you on that bus, all the way here. Lesson one, don’t take phones from strangers,” says Conor, grinning.

“You’re not a fucking stranger,” says Stan.

“Right. So, I’m telling you straight up. Don’t trust that package, no matter what they tell you.”

“Why not?” says Stan. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it is, unless you’re top management, you can’t get out. Except in a box, feet first,” says Conor. “I’m just looking out for you, is all.”

“What’re you trying to tell me?”

“You don’t know what goes on in there,” says Con.

“Meaning what? Meaning you do?”

“I’ve heard stuff,” says Conor. “It’s not for you. Nice guys finish last. Or else they get finished. You’re too soft.”

Stan juts out his chin. That would have been the signal for a scuffle, once upon a time. “You’re fucking paranoid,” he says.

“Yeah, right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” says Con. “Do yourself a favour, stay outside. Listen, you’re family. I’ll help you out, the same as you helped me. You need a job, some cash, a favour, you know where I am. You’re always welcome. And the little lady, bring her along too,” Con grins. “There’s a place for her, any time.”

So that’s it. Con has his poacher’s eye on Charmaine. No fucking way in hell is Stan falling for that one. “Thanks, buddy,” he says. “I appreciate it. I’ll think about it.”

“Like shit,” says Conor, but he smiles cheerfully, and the two of them do the back pat.

“Stan?” comes the anxious voice of Charmaine from inside their room.

“Go comfort the little wifey,” says Conor, and Stan knows what he’s thinking:
pussy-whipped
.

He watches Con walking away, with his two bodyguards; they get into a long black car, which slides off into the night, silent as a submarine. Most likely the same car he saw at the trailer park. Guys like Con who score some money always want cars like that.

Not that Stan would mind having such a car himself.

The next morning they take the final step. Stan barely even read the terms and conditions, because Charmaine is so eager to get in. After all, they’ve been chosen, she says, and so many have been rejected. She smiles mistily at Stan as he signs his name on the form. “Oh, thank you,” she says. “I feel so safe.”

Then the workshops begin in earnest; or, as one of the leaders quips, they’ve had the shop, now they’re getting the work. They are about to learn so many astounding new things, and it will require their full concentration. Men’s workshops over here, ladies over there, because there will be different challenges and duties and expectations for each, and besides, they’ll be separated for a month at a time when they’re in the prison part of this project – a feature that will be explained more fully to them shortly – so they might as well start getting used to it, their first workshop leader says with a chuckle. Anyway, abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, as he is sure they know from experience. Another chuckle.

Be a loner, get a boner,
thinks Stan. A rhyme of teenaged Conor, who’d had a collection of rhymes like that. He watches as Charmaine and all of the other women in the group leave the room. Sandi and Veronica don’t look back, but Charmaine does. She smiles brightly at Stan to show him she’s confident about their decision, though she looks a little anxious. But then, he’s a little anxious himself. What are these astounding new things they’re about to learn?

The men’s workshop leaders are half a dozen young, earnest, dark-suited, zit-picking graduates of some globally funded think tank’s motivational-speaking program. In his past life, the part of it he’d spent at Dimple Robotics, Stan encountered the type. He disliked them before; but, as before, they can’t be avoided, since the workshop classes are mandatory.

In a jam-packed day of back-to-back sessions, they’re given the full song and dance. The rationale for Consilience, its history, the potential obstacles to it, the odds ranged against it, and why it is so imperative that those odds be overcome.

The Consilience/Positron twin city is an experiment. An ultra, ultra important experiment; the think-tankers use the word
ultra
at least ten times. If it succeeds – and it
has
to succeed, and it
can
succeed if they all work together – it could be the salvation, not only of the many regions that have been so hard-hit in recent times, but eventually, if this model comes to be adopted at the highest levels, of the nation as a whole. Unemployment and crime solved in one fell swoop, with a new life for all those concerned – think about that!

They themselves, the incoming Positron Planners – they’re heroic! They’ve chosen to risk themselves, to take a gamble on the brighter side of human nature, to chart unknown territories within the psyche. They’re like the early pioneers, blazing a trail, clearing a way to the future: a future that will be more secure, more prosperous, and just all-round better because of them! Posterity will revere them. That’s the spiel. Stan has never heard so much bullshit in his life. On the other hand, he sort of wants to believe it.

The final speaker is older than the zitty youths, though not that much older. His suit is of the same darkness, but it looks lusher. He’s narrow-shouldered, long torso, short legs; short hair too, clippered around the neck, combed back. The look says:
I am buttoned-down.

There’s a woman with him, also in a dark suit, with straight black hair and bangs and a squarish jaw; no makeup, but she does have earrings. Her legs are good though muscular. She sits to the side, fooling with her cellphone. Is she an assistant? It isn’t clear. Stan pegs her as butch. Technically she shouldn’t have been here, in the men’s sessions, and Stan wonders why she is. Still, better to look at her than at the guy.