Read Online Who Made Stevie Crye? by Michael Bishop - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Bishop
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of a page, I want to stop. If I’ve got a sheet of paper four feet long, though, it’ll take a while to get to the bottom and I won’t be tempted to stop working so often.”
“Mmm,” said Teddy.
“Maybe I’ll increase my productivity.”
Teddy grinned. “And if you don’t, at least you won’t have to buy us a flyswatter this summer.’’ He bopped an imaginary fly on the breakfast bar, tossed the dented scroll into his mother’s lap, and said he was going to Pete Wightman’s house for a patio scrimmage. He had eaten lunch at school. She didn’t need to worry about him.
After Teddy left, Stevie glanced about the kitchen at her handiwork. The real reason she wanted long strips of paper, of course, was so that the automatic activity of the Exceleriter did not henceforth automatically cease at the bottom of a standard eleven-inch sheet, stranding her in the middle of a crucial, maybe even a revelatory, text. The machine was her captive, her slave, and she would put it to work in the service of her own vital goals. No one she had ever known had ever owned a Ouija board of such awesome potential, and if it could help her plumb her own dreams or establish a spiritual contact with her dead husband, then it must be put to that use.
She would never mention the Exceleriter’s capabilities to Dr. Elsa again. She would never tell Teddy or Marella. She would never tell anyone. She knew what had happened, and she was not insane.
XIII
That afternoon, Stevie worked with the Exceleriter as if the complications of the past four days had never arisen. Human being and machine met across the interface of their unique quiddities (Stevie liked the metaphysical thrust of that Latinism), and copy poured forth on Dr. Elsa’s butcher paper at a rate of almost six hundred words every thirty minutes. Anthony Trollope had written a good deal faster, of course, but this speed wasn’t too shabby for a gal who had recently been suffering a nasty block. Stevie took a tranquil pleasure in her recovered—even augmented—fluency.
By three o’clock, she was within a paragraph or two of completing her submission proposal for Two-Faced Woman: Reflections of a Female Paterfamilias . A shrill buzzing ensued. Stevie’s hands jumped away from the keyboard, but the noise had its origins not in another broken typewriter cable but at the doorbell button downstairs. Thank God. She never liked being interrupted at work, but the doorbell was better than a repetition of Tuesday’s debacle. A jingly SOS, the doorbell rang three more times, and Stevie shouted over it that she was coming, hold on a sec.
At the front door she came face to face with Tiffany McGuire’s mother, who, gripping Marella supportively at the shoulders, favored Stevie with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid she’s not feeling too good, Mrs. Crye. The other girls wanted her to stay, you know, but I’d hate it if she brought everyone down sick. I’ve got Carol and Donna Bradley, too.”
“Of course.” Stevie could see Mrs. McGuire’s Pinto station wagon under the Japanese tulip tree at the foot of the walkway, a bevy of third-grade girls sproinging about in the backseat. “Thanks for carrying her home.”
But when Marella came into her arms, her heart sank. The child showed a face so drawn and translucent that Stevie could see the blue veins in her cheeks and eyelids, the mortal jut of bone beneath her brow. February was a bad month, of course, but during this past year Marella had frequently come down sick. (Of late she had tried, valiantly, to disguise or mitigate the degree of her discomfort.) It was probably nothing but a nervous stomach. Tuesday, she had contracted a touch of the flu, but today the excitement of spending the night with Tiff—or maybe the small trauma of an argument with Donna Bradley, with whom she had trouble getting along—had caused her upset. A nervous stomach was a funny ailment. Almost any emotional disturbance could trigger it. Stevie
“Mmm,” said Teddy.
“Maybe I’ll increase my productivity.”
Teddy grinned. “And if you don’t, at least you won’t have to buy us a flyswatter this summer.’’ He bopped an imaginary fly on the breakfast bar, tossed the dented scroll into his mother’s lap, and said he was going to Pete Wightman’s house for a patio scrimmage. He had eaten lunch at school. She didn’t need to worry about him.
After Teddy left, Stevie glanced about the kitchen at her handiwork. The real reason she wanted long strips of paper, of course, was so that the automatic activity of the Exceleriter did not henceforth automatically cease at the bottom of a standard eleven-inch sheet, stranding her in the middle of a crucial, maybe even a revelatory, text. The machine was her captive, her slave, and she would put it to work in the service of her own vital goals. No one she had ever known had ever owned a Ouija board of such awesome potential, and if it could help her plumb her own dreams or establish a spiritual contact with her dead husband, then it must be put to that use.
She would never mention the Exceleriter’s capabilities to Dr. Elsa again. She would never tell Teddy or Marella. She would never tell anyone. She knew what had happened, and she was not insane.
XIII
That afternoon, Stevie worked with the Exceleriter as if the complications of the past four days had never arisen. Human being and machine met across the interface of their unique quiddities (Stevie liked the metaphysical thrust of that Latinism), and copy poured forth on Dr. Elsa’s butcher paper at a rate of almost six hundred words every thirty minutes. Anthony Trollope had written a good deal faster, of course, but this speed wasn’t too shabby for a gal who had recently been suffering a nasty block. Stevie took a tranquil pleasure in her recovered—even augmented—fluency.
By three o’clock, she was within a paragraph or two of completing her submission proposal for Two-Faced Woman: Reflections of a Female Paterfamilias . A shrill buzzing ensued. Stevie’s hands jumped away from the keyboard, but the noise had its origins not in another broken typewriter cable but at the doorbell button downstairs. Thank God. She never liked being interrupted at work, but the doorbell was better than a repetition of Tuesday’s debacle. A jingly SOS, the doorbell rang three more times, and Stevie shouted over it that she was coming, hold on a sec.
At the front door she came face to face with Tiffany McGuire’s mother, who, gripping Marella supportively at the shoulders, favored Stevie with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid she’s not feeling too good, Mrs. Crye. The other girls wanted her to stay, you know, but I’d hate it if she brought everyone down sick. I’ve got Carol and Donna Bradley, too.”
“Of course.” Stevie could see Mrs. McGuire’s Pinto station wagon under the Japanese tulip tree at the foot of the walkway, a bevy of third-grade girls sproinging about in the backseat. “Thanks for carrying her home.”
But when Marella came into her arms, her heart sank. The child showed a face so drawn and translucent that Stevie could see the blue veins in her cheeks and eyelids, the mortal jut of bone beneath her brow. February was a bad month, of course, but during this past year Marella had frequently come down sick. (Of late she had tried, valiantly, to disguise or mitigate the degree of her discomfort.) It was probably nothing but a nervous stomach. Tuesday, she had contracted a touch of the flu, but today the excitement of spending the night with Tiff—or maybe the small trauma of an argument with Donna Bradley, with whom she had trouble getting along—had caused her upset. A nervous stomach was a funny ailment. Almost any emotional disturbance could trigger it. Stevie
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