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Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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million pleased wrinkles.
“Nicholas, my loving and devoted son,” she repeated, reaching out her arms. “Come kiss me, chappie.”
And so I did.
“How are you, Mother?”
“ ‘I never saw a purple cow,’ ” she said.
“What?”
“ ‘I never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I’d rather see than be one.’ ”
“What on earth is that ?”
“Long before your time.”
“Mother, it’s nonsense.”
“Isn’t it?” she said delightedly. “Isn’t it just! You’re so handsome.” “Mother’s beauty, father’s brains.”
“You’re lucky,” she said, and we let it go at that.
“This world . . .’’she said.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “Let’s go up to the house. It’s getting chill, and we have so much to talk about.”
I got her onto her feet and gave her my arm. We walked slowly, slowly up the slope.
“Nicholas, my loving and devoted son,” she mused.
“I am that.”
Behind us, trailing but catching up, Mrs. McPherson trundled along, somber in the dusk.
“Are you in love, chappie?” She used the word in the obso sense.
“Not at the moment, Mother.”
She laughed again. She had been a great beauty. But she had resigned from the world; she no longer belonged.
When I got mother inside, Mrs. McPherson took over and helped her upstairs to her bedroom. Charles smiled a welcome and took my case. I didn’t know what Charles was. Obviously an obso em, he had to be an NM—but I knew nothing about his genesis. I suspected he might be from GPA-2, from the Tidewater section of what was formerly Virginia.
I went into the library. I mixed a vodka-and-Smack, mostly vodka. Coming home always did that to me. I could analyze my reactions, but it didn’t help. I wandered about the library. Almost two thousand books my father had never read.
I was finishing my second drink when I heard the copter overhead. I went outside and stood on the floodlighted porch. I admired the youthful way he leaped from the copter and came bounding across the lawn toward me.
“Nick-ol’-as!” he shouted as he came. “Nick-ol'-as!”
It was his joke. He never tired of it.
He caught me up in a great bear hug. What a ruffian he was! He pulled me close. He smelled of a lot of things: petroscot, a testosterone-based cologne, a scent of something softer—probably from a quick embrace with that blue-haired ef copter pilot.
In the library, under overhead light, his face, beneath his makeup, seemed old and tired. But his manner hadn’t changed: loud voice; jaunty walk; hard, decisive gestures; barked laugh; the need for physical contact—fingers on arm, arm around shoulders, shoves, pats, strokes, thumps. It was his way.
He poured us drinks, a petroscot for himself, one of my mother’s potato vodkas for me. We hoisted glasses to each other and sipped.
“You seem perky,” I said. “Who’s the new tootie?”
He barked his laugh.
“You wouldn’t believe.”
“I’d believe.”
“Ever catch Circus au Natural ? It’s on Thursday nights at 2300.”
“The contortionist?” I said.
“You bastard!” He barked again. “You know everything. Hungry?”
“Starved.”
We went into the cavernous dining room. We sat next to each other at an oak table large enough to seat twenty. It was genuine oak, all right. When they destroyed an obso building and found reusable oak planks they fashioned them into tables for the wealthy. But first they dipped the planks in caustic, beat them with chains, drilled in fake wormholes, and then used a stencil to make false rings where wet glasses might have rested. Then they coated the whole thing with Plastiseal.
My father didn’t give a damn about food. Put anything in front of him—he’d eat it. But he had a special fondness for new foods, synthetics, laboratory spices, and refinery flavorings.
After dinner, dominated by his long, loud discourse on the success of his new sex dolls, we moved back to the library for a natural
“Nicholas, my loving and devoted son,” she repeated, reaching out her arms. “Come kiss me, chappie.”
And so I did.
“How are you, Mother?”
“ ‘I never saw a purple cow,’ ” she said.
“What?”
“ ‘I never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I’d rather see than be one.’ ”
“What on earth is that ?”
“Long before your time.”
“Mother, it’s nonsense.”
“Isn’t it?” she said delightedly. “Isn’t it just! You’re so handsome.” “Mother’s beauty, father’s brains.”
“You’re lucky,” she said, and we let it go at that.
“This world . . .’’she said.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “Let’s go up to the house. It’s getting chill, and we have so much to talk about.”
I got her onto her feet and gave her my arm. We walked slowly, slowly up the slope.
“Nicholas, my loving and devoted son,” she mused.
“I am that.”
Behind us, trailing but catching up, Mrs. McPherson trundled along, somber in the dusk.
“Are you in love, chappie?” She used the word in the obso sense.
“Not at the moment, Mother.”
She laughed again. She had been a great beauty. But she had resigned from the world; she no longer belonged.
When I got mother inside, Mrs. McPherson took over and helped her upstairs to her bedroom. Charles smiled a welcome and took my case. I didn’t know what Charles was. Obviously an obso em, he had to be an NM—but I knew nothing about his genesis. I suspected he might be from GPA-2, from the Tidewater section of what was formerly Virginia.
I went into the library. I mixed a vodka-and-Smack, mostly vodka. Coming home always did that to me. I could analyze my reactions, but it didn’t help. I wandered about the library. Almost two thousand books my father had never read.
I was finishing my second drink when I heard the copter overhead. I went outside and stood on the floodlighted porch. I admired the youthful way he leaped from the copter and came bounding across the lawn toward me.
“Nick-ol’-as!” he shouted as he came. “Nick-ol'-as!”
It was his joke. He never tired of it.
He caught me up in a great bear hug. What a ruffian he was! He pulled me close. He smelled of a lot of things: petroscot, a testosterone-based cologne, a scent of something softer—probably from a quick embrace with that blue-haired ef copter pilot.
In the library, under overhead light, his face, beneath his makeup, seemed old and tired. But his manner hadn’t changed: loud voice; jaunty walk; hard, decisive gestures; barked laugh; the need for physical contact—fingers on arm, arm around shoulders, shoves, pats, strokes, thumps. It was his way.
He poured us drinks, a petroscot for himself, one of my mother’s potato vodkas for me. We hoisted glasses to each other and sipped.
“You seem perky,” I said. “Who’s the new tootie?”
He barked his laugh.
“You wouldn’t believe.”
“I’d believe.”
“Ever catch Circus au Natural ? It’s on Thursday nights at 2300.”
“The contortionist?” I said.
“You bastard!” He barked again. “You know everything. Hungry?”
“Starved.”
We went into the cavernous dining room. We sat next to each other at an oak table large enough to seat twenty. It was genuine oak, all right. When they destroyed an obso building and found reusable oak planks they fashioned them into tables for the wealthy. But first they dipped the planks in caustic, beat them with chains, drilled in fake wormholes, and then used a stencil to make false rings where wet glasses might have rested. Then they coated the whole thing with Plastiseal.
My father didn’t give a damn about food. Put anything in front of him—he’d eat it. But he had a special fondness for new foods, synthetics, laboratory spices, and refinery flavorings.
After dinner, dominated by his long, loud discourse on the success of his new sex dolls, we moved back to the library for a natural
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