DOWNTIME

  C. S. Friedman

  BY the time the messenger from the DFO came, Marian had almost forgotten about the Order. You could do that if you tried hard enough. You just tucked the unwanted thoughts deep into some backwater recess of your mind until the normal clutter of everyday life obscured it, and then you pretended it wasn't there. Marian was good at that. She had her own special places for hiding things, dark little crevices in her soul where one might tuck a fact, an experience, or even a whole relationship, so that it never saw the light of day again.

  She knew the day her sister died that a lot of new things were going to have to go in there, and she'd done her damnedest to make them all fit. She'd done so well, in fact, that when the door first chimed, there was a brief moment when she genuinely didn't know what it was about. Who would be coming to see her in the middle of the day?

  She was curled up with her children and her pets at the time: two boys, a girl, two cats and a small dog, whom she collectively referred to as "the menagerie." They couldn't all fit on the couch at one time, but they were trying. Only Amy had given up, and she knelt by the coffee table now with her crayons laid out before her like the brushes of a master artist, her face screwed tight with concentration as she tried to draw a horse exactly right. When you're the oldest child, you have to do things right; the other children depend on you. Marian watched the delicate blonde curls sweep down over the paper for a moment before trying to disentangle herself from the others. With five bodies and two afghans involved it wasn't easy, and finally she yelled out, "Coming!" at me top of her lungs, in the hope that whoever was on the other side of the door would hear it and wait.

  The dog didn't come with her to the door. Maybe that was an omen. Usually he was the first one at the door, to welcome

  strangers. But dogs can sense when things are wrong, sometimes even when their owners don't. Marian walked past him, and ignored the complaints of both cats and children as she looked through the peephole to see who was there. It was a woman, neatly coifed and with the socially acceptable minimum of makeup, wearing some kind of uniform and holding a letter in her hand. That was odd. You didn't get many real paper letters these days, unless it was something important. For a moment Marian couldn't think of who would have sent her a registered paper letter . . . and then memory stirred in its hiding place, and she was suddenly afraid. She hesitated a moment before unlocking the door, but couldn't give herself a good reason for not doing it. Trouble doesn't go away if you refuse to sign for it, does it?

  As she opened the door, Marian noted that the woman's uniform didn't have any insignia on it. That could be just an oversight ... or it could indicate that whoever had designed the uniform believed that people wouldn't open the door if they knew what she was there for. Not a good sign.

  The woman looked up at Marian, down at her electronic pad, and then up again. "Marian Stiller?"

  Marian could feel all the color drain from her face as she just stared at the woman for a moment. Maybe she should lie about who she was, and tell the woman Ms. Stiller wasn't home? Shut the door, lock the problems outside, and stuff this memory down into the dark places along with all the others. That would buy her a bit more time. But what would it really accomplish? Sooner or later they'd find her, and then there would be fines to deal with on top of all the rest. Maybe even jail time. The government was notoriously intolerant when it came to people who tried to avoid their filial duties.

  "I'm . . . I'm Marian Stiller."

  The woman glanced at her pad again, as if checking her notes. You'd think the DFO delivery folks would have their stuff memorized. "This letter is for you, Ms. Stiller." She handed her the envelope, thick and heavy. Marian took it numbly and waited. "I need you to sign for it, please." The pad was given to her. Marian hesitated, then pressed her thumb onto its surface. The thing hummed for a moment, no doubt comparing her print to government records. Confirmed, it blinked at last. The woman took it back from her, cleared her throat, and then assumed a more formal position that she clearly associated with official announcements.

  "Ms. Stiller, I have delivered to you an Order of Filial Obligation. You are required to read the contents and respond to them in a timely manner. If you do not, you may be subject to fines and/or imprisonment. Do you understand?"

  She barely whispered it. "Yes, I understand."

  "Do you have any questions?"

  "Not. . . not in front of the children." She was suddenly aware of them not far away, and heard for the first time how their chatter had quieted suddenly. They had to be protected from this. That was her first job. Questions . . . the Department had places for questions to be answered. Later.

  "I understand." The woman bowed her head a token inch. There was no sign of emotion in her expression or in her carriage. What did it feel like, to spend your day delivering messages like this? "Good day, then." Or was she one of the people who believed in the Filial Obligation Act, who thought it was a good thing? Marian didn't ask. She didn't want to know.

  She watched her walk away from the house because that was one more thing to do before opening the letter. When the woman rounded a corner and that excuse was gone, she turned with a sigh and shut the door behind her. The envelope was heavy in her hand. The room seemed unnaturally quiet.

  "What? What is it?" She met the eyes of child after child, all gazing up at her with the same worried intensity as the dog in its corner. Children, like animals, could sometimes sense trouble. She looked at the letter in her hand and forced herself to adopt mat teasing tone she used when they worried over nothing. "It's just mail. You've never seen paper mail before? I swear."

  She shook her head with mock amazement and curled up on fhe couch again. She couldn't read it here, not in front of them, and she certainly couldn't go off to a private room now that they were watching her. She threw the letter onto the far end of the coffee table, facedown so that they wouldn't see the DFO insignia next to the address. It landed on top of a pile of drawings, cover-lrtg over the lower part of a horse. Amy fussed at her until she moved it. By that time everyone else was back on the couch, and she found some cartoons on the children's net and turned up the volume and hoped it would distract them. Best to just pretend the letter wasn't really important, until they forgot all about it. Then she could go off to the bathroom alone with it or something, or say she had to start cooking dinner, or ... something.

  She wondered if they could hear how hard her heart was beating.

  To Ms. Marian S. Stiller, child of Rosalinde Stiller:

  This Order of Filial Obligation is to inform you that your family status has been reviewed, and it has been determined the debt formerly assigned to Cassandra Stiller is now the rightful debt in whole of Marian S. Stiller, only surviving child of Rosalinde Stiller.

  Enclosed you will find an Appraisal of filial Debt and Order of Obligation from our offices. Please review both these documents carefully. You are expected to comply with this Order by the date indicated. Any questions you have should be addressed to our offices within that time. Failure to comply with this Order promptly and with full cooperation may result in substantial fines and/or imprisonment.

  Ohe was helping Amy with a jigsaw puzzle when Steve came home, teaching her how to analyze the shapes with her eyes so that she didn't have to try as many wrong pieces before she found the right ones. The boys had tried to help, but they didn't have the attention span to keep up with it, and they had gone off to play with the dog.

  She almost didn't hear him come in. Not until he was standing in the door was she aware of his presence. She looked up then, and saw the broad smile of homecoming waver a bit, as he read something in her eyes that he didn't know how to interpret.

  Amy ran up to hug him and as he lifted her up to his chest for a big one his eyes met Marian's. What's wrong?

  She shook her head and glanced at Amy. He understood. The ritual of homecoming always took a while, but today he kept.it as short as he could. She was grateful. She needed him a lot more right now than the children did, and certainly more than the pets.

  When he was done with all the requisite greetings, she whispered some excuse to Amy, and she led him away into their bedroom. Not until he shut the door behind them did she draw out the envelope that was hidden in the nightstand and hand it to him.

  He glanced at the DFO insignia on the envelope and his eyes narrowed slightly. She watched as he pulled out the letter and read it, then the forms. It seemed to her that he read everything twice, or maybe he was just taking his time with it. Scrutinizing every word.

  Finally he looked up at her and said quietly, "You knew this was coming."

  She wrapped her arms around herself. The real fear was just starting to set in, and she didn't want him to see how bad it was.

  With a sigh he dropped the pile of papers down on the bed and came over to her. She was stiff when his arms first went around her, but then the fear gave way to a need for comfort, and she relaxed against him, trembling. She'd been trying not to think about the Order all day, but now . . . seeing him read it made it more frightening, somehow. More real.

  "You've been lucky," he said softly. "Cassie's taken care of this for years . . . how many people get a judgment like that? Normally both of you would have been involved from the start. Now she's gone, and you're the only child left ... it was only a question of time, Mari."

  "I know, I know, but" . . . I'd hoped it would never come to this, she wanted to say. What terrible words those were! He'd think she meant that her mother should have died already, when what she really meant was . . . something less concrete. Something about wishing the world would change before it sucked her down into this, or at least the law would change, or ... something.

  "I don't know if I can go through with this," she whispered. His arms about her tightened. "I know, honey. It's a scary thing."

  But did he really know? His parents had died in an accident when he was young, before Time technology was anything more than a few theoretical scribbles on a university drawing board Long before something like the Filial Obligation Act was even being discussed, much less voted on by Congress. She found that she was trembling violently, and couldn't seem to stop it. The government had just announced it was going to take away part of her life. It would never do that to him. How could he possibly know what that felt like?

  She heard him sigh, like he did when he saw her hurting and didn't know how to help. "Look, we'll go down to the DFO and talk to one of their counselors, all right? Maybe there's some way ... I don't know . . . appeal the terms of the appraisal. Or something."

  Or help you come to terms with it. The words went unspoken.

  "All right," she whispered. It meant she could put off the matter for another day, at least. Pretend there was some way out of it, for a few precious hours.

  That night she dreamed of her mother.

  Frankly, I find the whole thing . . . wrong." Her mother whipped the eggs as she spoke, the rhythm of her strokes not wavering even as her eyes narrowed slightly in disapproval. "We have children because we want them, and we take care of them because we love them, not . . . not ..." She poured the mixture into a pan and began to beat in more ingredients. "Not because we expect something in return."

  "Do you think it's going to pass Congress?" Marian asked.

  "I don't know." She picked up a handful of diced onions and scattered them into the pan. "I hope not. The day we start "paying" parents for their services is the day . . . well, that will say a lot about how much is wrong with our society, won't it?"

  The state offices of the DFO were on Main Street, in an old building that had once been the county courthouse. Marion's eyes narrowed as she studied the place, first from the outside, then passing through its great double doors. You expected something associated with modern science to be in a building that was . . . well, modern. Gleaming sterile floors instead of ancient hardwood, minimalistic cubicles instead of scarred wooden desks. Something. This was all wrong.

  Or maybe anything would have seemed wrong today.

  She paused in the outer lobby where approved vendors were allowed to showcase their wares, and Steve waited quietly beside her. The vast bank of brochures against one wall seemed more appropriate for a tourist resort than a government office, and the brochures themselves were likewise colorful and sunny, promising services in perky catchphrases that were meant to make the alien seem reasonable. Give your parents the Time of their lives and have more time for your own. That one was from a travel agency which specialized in Time-intensive vacations, on the theory that people might be willing to accept less Time if the quality of the experience was outstanding. Wonder where your Time is going? another beckoned. That one was a lively color brochure which promised peace of mind in the form of special investigative services, which would track your parent's actions and provide a complete report when you . . . when you . . . well, when you could read it. And Time after Time offered counselors for parents, to help them organize the fragments of their "second life" into a meaningful whole.

  She suddenly felt sick inside. Steve must have seen it in her face, for he whispered, "Shhh, it's all right," and quietly took her hand.

  It wasn't all right. It wasn't going to become all right either. But she'd be damned if she'd start crying about it all over again · · . least of all here. "I'm okay." Wiping some moisture from her eyes she nodded toward the door to the DFO office. He took the hint and opened it for her. Sometimes little things like that helped. Just little signs that you weren't alone in all this. Thank God he had been willing to come down here with her.

  The wait was long, but the place seemed well-organized and things were kept moving. Most of the people waiting were sitting m a common area reading brochures, or whispering fearful questions to their spouses, siblings, friends. A few were just staring into space, like a child who knows that he's going to be given some unpleasant medicine, and that there's no way to get out of it. Most of them seemed to be holding numbers, spit out from a machine as ancient as the building itself, and small plastic pails near each of the desks were full of the little paper tabs.

  She registered with the main desk, telling the receptionist that she had an appointment for Appraisal adjustment, then took a seat to wait. Steve just took her hand and waited with her. There wasn't anything more he could do to help, and they both knew it.

  After some time their number was called and they were ushered into a small office in the back of the building. The counselor greeted them with a smile that seemed genuinely warm, though surely it was no more than a professional courtesy. How could you do a job like this all day and keep smiling to the end of it? She was a small black woman with threads of silver overlaying the tight jet braids of her hair, and Marian guessed her to be about 50. Too old to be doing Time, if there was an alternative, and still too young to be needing it. The lines of her face bore witness to a caring nature, and Marian felt a spark of hope in her chest.

  "I'm Madeline Francis," she said, and she had that kind of voice which seemed pleasant no matter what the subject matter was. "Please have a seat." She had a screen on the desk in front of her, and they waited while she looked over the files on Marian's case. "It seems to me everything is in order," she said at last. "So why don't you tell me what you're here for?"

  "I'd like the Appraisal reconsidered," Marian said. She could feel her hands starting to tremble as she said the words, and wrapped them tightly about the arms of the chair so that it wouldn't show. What she really wanted was for this whole nightmare to be over, the Order rescinded, and her life back to normal. But she knew she wasn't going to get that, not if she asked for it outright. Indirectly . . . well, one could still hope.

  A finger tap on the computer screen brought up the Appraisal. "6.4. You are the only surviving child, yes? That's not a very high number, considering."

  It's 6.4% of my life! She wanted to scream the words, to rage, to cry . . . but instead she just gripped the arms of her chair tighter, until her knuckles were bloodless. "There are . . . circumstances."

  The black woman raised an eyebrow and waited.

  "I'm the primary caregiver for three children. Young children. Steve's job takes him out of the state a lot, while he's gone . I'm the only one there for them."

  "We've never let strangers care for them," Steve offered.

  Was that argument of any value here? Marian couldn't read the counselor's face at all. "To lose their parenting two days a month at this time in their lives could affect their development."

  "Ms. Stiller." The counselor's voice was soft, but beneath that softness was a stillness and a certainty that made Marian's heart pound even louder. "There are millions of families in this country who employ caregiver assistance. Most of them aren't even doing it for Time, merely gaining the freedom they need to take care of life's necessities. If you don't have relatives who can help out, then I'm sure in the coming months you can find someone to help you." She held up a hand to forestall the next objection. "Let me ask you a few questions if I may. All right?"

  Marian hesitated, then nodded. Where were all the neat arguments she'd prepared for this meeting? All the proper words? She couldn't seem to find them.

 

1 2 3