FSF, July 2008 Page 8

  Robert was exhausted, but her frankness and acceptance always had a way of reviving him. “You do?"

  "Yes. Of course. I'm happy for you."

  "I don't want to hurt you, Grace. That's the last thing I want to do."

  "Don't be silly. How can you hurt me?"

  "By neglecting you."

  "Are you?"

  "I worry about it."

  "I know you do."

  "I worry that you'll get tired of waiting. That you'll get bored."

  "And if I did?"

  "I worry that you'd leave me."

  "I won't."

  "It's happened before."

  She looked surprised. “Has it? I don't recall ever having left."

  "Not you."

  "Well then. You see? You're worrying for nothing."

  These bouts of insecurity were not new to her. They happened frequently after prolonged absences, and she understood his need for reassurance.

  "You know how much I depend on you,” he said.

  She stroked his arm and kissed him on the cheek and followed that with a tender look that somehow ended at his artificial eye, which stared at her sphinx-like. She had an urge to pluck it out, which seemed scandalous, and then make love to him, which was long overdue and seemed like fun.

  "I'm so proud of you,” she said.

  His mind, involuntarily, had drifted from thoughts of her to work. “For getting the Eisenmenger commission?"

  "No, baby. For knowing your blind spot."

  It took him a second to recover, which he did magnificently. “Which one?"

  She smiled.

  "I have so many."

  "Not really."

  "I love it when you smile."

  "Just one or two."

  "Like taking you for granted."

  A moment passed.

  "Do you?” she asked mildly.

  "No. I don't. I don't mean to. But I get busy. I forget. Sometimes it just happens."

  "Do you have another woman, Robert?"

  The question took him by surprise. He was shocked and dismayed. “No. Never."

  "I'd understand it if you did."

  "I don't. And what do you mean, you'd understand?"

  "Don't get angry. You like women."

  "I like you."

  What she meant was he liked attention and love. And as good as she was at providing these, as custom-made and streamlined for the purpose, she was only one person. This seemed fairly obvious to her, and it gave her an idea how to ease the tension and guilt he felt for being absent so much, but it would take some planning and time. Meanwhile, there was more pressing business, which she grasped with her keen, intuitive, state-of-the-art, female mind.

  She draped an arm around his neck and laid her lips, her hot breath, against his ear. “You know, we've never made love completely naked."

  "Sure we have."

  She shook her head, transfixed by his eye, its cool ceramic machine-like stare, while her fingers toyed with the topmost button of his shirt. “I mean completely. Without anything on. Anything not ours. Anything we weren't born with."

  It seemed a strange comment, and when he understood what she meant, an even stranger request. Reluctantly, he agreed to it, and when the eye was out, he struggled not to feel self-conscious, with the result that he broke out in a rash. This happened on occasion, these stress-induced eruptions, and this one was worse than most. Within minutes his face and neck were covered with hot and itchy welts. Ordinarily, he took medication for something this severe, without which the rash could last for hours. But this time Grace intervened. She brought him ice, which she applied with a sure and gentle hand, and spoke to him in the most soothing and hypnotic of voices. And for the first time in memory, the welts faded on their own. Or rather they faded under the ministry of Grace. And in the wake of this, this miracle, he was overcome with gratitude and love for her. She was showing sides of herself that he'd neither seen nor imagined, and he didn't want to lose her and knew that, despite himself, he was on a path that might. And he made a vow, silent but absolute, that he would not repeat his past mistakes. He would do whatever it took to keep her, and if this meant giving more of himself, he would give more. And if this somehow proved beyond him (as self-improvement, in the surest hands, could), he would give of himself, and, if necessary, give of himself profoundly, in some other way.

  These words would come back to haunt him, but that night—and the following days and nights—he couldn't have done more to live up to them. He was with Grace as much as humanly possible, putting all but the most urgent business aside. He discovered, or rediscovered, how fine love was, and how finer it was to be the lover than the beloved, to give than receive, and how being the recipient, the beloved, that was great too. Everything was great, and when he returned to work, there was greatness there, in his insight, vision, and execution, how everything just flowed. Not a problem in the world, other than missing Grace, which he compensated for by calling her incessantly when he was on the road and making time to be with her when he was home.

  But one day he missed a date, which he compounded by forgetting to call. A week later, it happened again, and that night he didn't come home until after she had gone to bed. Little by little the futon in his office began to see more use. Increasingly, they communicated by email or phone. And before long, like an untended field, life had reverted to what it was.

  It wasn't that he didn't want to be with her. He did, sometimes more than he could bear. But work wouldn't allow it, and he couldn't say no to work. It had a power over him that he dared not deny. Yet things could not go on the way they were. This he knew with certainty. Something had to be done or he would lose his Grace, just as sure as he had lost the others. Her birthday was approaching, and perhaps an answer lay there.

  What, he wondered, could that answer be? Something more than words, vain hopes and hollow vows, here one day, gone the next. Something real, lasting, tangible, concrete. An offering, he thought, a gift to show that he understood what she was going through, that he sympathized, that he apologized, and above all, that he loved her and wanted to set things right. What kind of gift could do all that? Was there something that she needed? Wanted? That was paramount. What did his Grace, his poor, neglected, beloved Grace, want? In the whole wide world what did she want more than anything?

  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, Grace—with all the wisdom, incentive and desire of a woman put on Earth to love her man and to help him in times of trouble, a woman with a job to do, a woman, like all the best women, without a selfish bone in her body—was hatching a birthday plan of her own.

  * * * *

  The day arrived. Robert could barely contain his excitement. He had found the perfect gift. He knew he had. It wasn't cheap, and it hadn't been easy to arrange, which in the end made it even better. He took Grace out to dinner, an elegant, candlelit affair, and could scarcely keep from telling her. For Grace it was a new experience. She had never had a birthday before and was on unfamiliar ground. On the one hand, she didn't understand the fuss; on the other, she liked the feeling of being special, one of a kind, the flattery, the compliment, the harmless deceit. Robert was in high spirits, and she liked that too, save for a certain stridency in his manner, a tautness in his otherwise handsome and fluid charm, like a violin string tuned a quarter tone sharp. She worried a little about this gift of his and the expectation attached to it. She would have to do more, and possibly a good deal more, than merely like it.

  Dinner was a tour de force of taste and presentation, and for dessert there was a frosted heart-shaped cake. When it came, with a single candle planted in its center, the other diners glanced over, most taking care not to stare. Robert invited Grace to make a wish.

  She gave him a blank look.

  "It's a tradition,” he explained.

  She didn't know of it, which was no great cause for alarm. There were gaps in her knowledge, like missing teeth in an otherwise fully functional comb. A simulated upbringing, however thorough, di
d not compare to a real one, which in dedicated hands was known to be error- and trouble-free.

  "I don't have a wish."

  "Everybody has a wish."

  "I have what I want."

  "Everything?"

  It was a game. Now she understood. A strange one, where he seemed to be inviting her dissatisfaction.

  "Do you love me?” she asked.

  "More than I can say."

  "Then yes. The answer's yes. I do."

  Between them the candle's flame burned soft and straight, while little blobs of rosy wax accumulated at its base, so that it seemed that a hole was appearing in the heart.

  "Everybody's waiting,” Robert whispered.

  She glanced around. He was right. The room seemed poised for her reply, the men especially, as though they had more at stake than the women, a greater need to believe in this granting-of-wish tradition. It was also possible—and from their avid expressions she thought it likely—that what they really desired, these men, desired most, was that the women believe in it.

  "You're asking for something I don't have,” she said softly.

  "No wishes? No hopes? Not one?"

  She hoped for happiness. She hoped for fun. She hoped that he would stop pestering her and that love would rule the world.

  "There. Shall I tell you?"

  His hand shot up, palm outward, as though to ward her off. “No. Don't. It won't come true if you do.” A moment passed, and then he smiled. “But I think I know."

  "I hope you do."

  They held each other's eyes, and Grace found she had another wish, that the two of them could be spirited away instantly. She chided herself for being greedy.

  "The candle,” said Robert.

  "Yes?"

  "Blow it out."

  She did, to hearty applause.

  Later, he took her home, halting just inside the door, where he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. “I love you, Grace. Happy birthday. It's time, I do believe, for your present."

  "I have a present for you."

  "For me? Why?"

  "Because I love you too, silly."

  He shook his head in wonder and affection. Who was he to deserve such a woman? How lucky could one man be? He asked her to close her eyes, then left the room. A minute later, heart thumping, he returned with his gift. He took a moment to admire it and another to rid himself of a final, lingering doubt, the smallest—really, the most trivial—of misgivings.

  "You can open them now."

  She did, then did more, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping, her hands rising to her mouth. She made a sound. Amazement vied with disbelief.

  "Surprise!” cried Robert.

  "It's ... it's...."

  "What?"

  Him. It was him. Same face, same body, same everything.

  Robert was beaming. “Happy birthday."

  "Happy birthday,” his duplicate repeated in the exact same voice.

  Grace was speechless.

  "Do you like it?"

  She nodded.

  The absence of audible appreciation suggested that, in fact, she might not. “What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "You don't."

  "No ... no ... I do. I love it. It's perfect. It's just...."

  "What?"

  Funny. It was funny. Hilarious even. She wanted to laugh but of course she couldn't. Instead she said, in all honesty, “It's a beautiful gift. You know me better than anyone."

  "But?"

  "But nothing. You're amazing, Robert. It's like you read my mind."

  "Did I?"

  "Like a telepath.” She had to deal with her own doubt now, which had not been present previously. Fortunately, having been built, on general principle, to resist doubt's corrosive influence, this did not take long.

  "My turn now,” she announced brightly. “Wait here."

  She started out of the room, then stopped, gesturing toward the duplicate. “Does he have a name?"

  "Ask him,” said Robert.

  "Do you have a name?"

  "Robert,” he said.

  Grace stared at him, then at Robert, then back. “You wait too."

  "We'll have to work on the name,” Robert said after she'd gone.

  His duplicate was about to reply, when Grace returned. “Close your eyes. Both of you."

  "You didn't have to get me anything,” said Robert. “You really didn't. Not on your birthday."

  "I like presents,” said the other Robert.

  "No peeking,” said Grace, bringing her gift into the room. Like his, hers wasn't cheap, but at the time she ordered it, then picked it up, it seemed worth every penny. Now, with Robert's gift to her, it seemed worth a little less, and also, paradoxically, a little more.

  "You can open them now."

  Robert did, then gasped.

  Robert No. 2 burst out laughing.

  As instructed, Grace's gift stepped forward and extended his hand to Robert. “Hello. I'm pleased to meet you."

  Several seconds passed before Robert did the decent thing and took the hand.

  "What fun,” said Robert No. 2.

  "I didn't get your name,” said Robert.

  "Let me guess,” said No. 2.

  "Quiet,” barked Robert, and for an instant the two of them locked eyes.

  "Please don't fight,” said Grace.

  The new addition seemed to share her sentiment. He placed himself between the two men, and to Grace the effect was overwhelming. Her eyes seemed to be playing tricks on her. She felt dizzy.

  "I'm sorry,” the new man told Robert. “I should have introduced myself right off.” He paused, then grinned. “But really. Do I have to?"

  * * * *

  —3—

  Strictly speaking, the three of them were not identical. Robert No. 2, who insisted on being called No. 1, differed from Robert No. 3, who didn't care what he was called as long as everybody got along, for the simple reason that he was created by the original Robert and designed to be as close to the original as possible. No. 3 started out with the same raw materials but was created by Grace (who herself was created by Robert), and while she did everything in her not inconsiderable power to duplicate her man, there were differences. Some were unavoidable; others, cautiously planned. And while she never would have been so crass or unfeeling or boastful to speak it aloud, in the quiet of her heart she did allow herself a touch of pride in having made, in her modest opinion, improvements.

  No. 3 was more talkative than 1 or 2. He was more accommodating, more domestic, more attuned to others than himself. Good for a chat over tea or coffee. Good for a drive. Good for watching TV sit-coms or dramas with.

  No. 2 was more project-oriented. He liked to do things more than talk about them. He had ambitions. He liked to stay busy. Barely a day went by that he didn't wake up with a plan.

  The two of them shared a room and got along surprisingly well. More importantly, they got along with Grace, and she got along with them. They enjoyed each other as a threesome, and Grace enjoyed each of them individually. She and No. 3 liked to talk—about books, music, people, almost anything—and go for walks, or else stay at home and putter around the house. She and No. 2 (or No.1, as he would have it) also went on walks, but they were walks with a purpose, more along the lines of outings with a clear end in mind. They went to movies. They attended public events. One of these led them to join a political campaign. Another, to enroll in a tennis class.

  Initially, she'd been concerned that she would feel overwhelmed. And certainly she was busy, sometimes too busy, but the Roberts could and did take care of themselves. Her real concern was that Robert would feel this way, that he would have a negative reaction to the sudden doubling of bodies in the house, feel cramped, or worse, claustrophobic. But after several months there was little sign that he did. True, he tended to avoid the men, but this was because, he explained, they were meant for her. They couldn't very well do their job if he kept intruding. When they did cross paths, he was cordial, altho
ugh it was always a little strange. Especially with No. 2, who as often as not met him with a smug, self-satisfied grin, as though in possession of some secret joke. Robert was always a little testy and guarded around 2.

  As for letting them do their job, he was less successful than he might have been. Instead of spending less time with Grace, which his (and her) gift was expressedly meant to facilitate, he spent more, hovering around her on one pretext or another, as though the last thing in the world he wanted was to leave. It was the classic story: relieved of obligation, he felt free to be himself, and that self wanted nothing more than what it had in its possession all along. His desire for Grace was greater than ever. She had never appealed to him more.

  But work appealed to him too, and in time his attention returned to it. The men, of course, were meant for him as much as her; they were his gift too. They allowed him the freedom to work if and when and how he wanted. And what he wanted, at a certain point, was to submerge himself in work, to give himself up to it completely. And he did, surrendering in much the same way, at other times, he surrendered to women.

  Julian was back in his life, with a new pitch. Or rather a recycled version of an old one. Pakki-flex had been a disaster, and both of them had suffered, though Robert, having more invested in nearly every way, had suffered more. For a while Julian had tried to solve the problem of Pakki-flex's instability, but eventually he gave up. In his hands, at least, it would not be solved. Shortly afterwards, he left the world of the lab altogether, exchanging it for the world of business. The rigor of science was replaced by the rigor of the marketplace. The language was different, but the skill set was similar. He had been moving in this direction for quite some time.

  He got a job with a venture capitalist firm, scouting and evaluating biotech startups. Pakki-flex remained a thorn in his side, and from time to time he thought of the buildings that had been built with it, wondering if there weren't something that could be done with them. Most of the public ones had been torn down as either nuisances, liabilities, or outright hazards, but a few of the homes, now abandoned, remained standing. Every so often some journalist with nothing better to do wrote an article about them. Most were disparaging, but recently Julian had come across something different and unusual. The writer had a background in design, and he wrote of the Pakki-flex buildings as a cultural phenomenon, objects not necessarily to be lived in or to be considered as having practical, literal use. Rather, they should be understood as figures of speech, as emblems—icons even—of a social life and need that transcended utility. A sort of biosemiotic imperative. Works of form, not function; of flux, not stasis. Works, essentially, of art.