The Complete Roderick

motionless, his blue glass eyes opaque in sleep, Hank and Indica patched up their quarrel.

It was a chance to be alone, and they made the most of it. Indica set out low-cholesterol potato chips in a biodegradable plastic bowl, Hank opened a few recycled cans of home brew, and they put on their favourite old video tape of Jacques Cousteau. Holding hands, plenty of friendly eye-contact — it was almost like old times.

Indica looked at the underwater ballet of porpoises critically. After all, she’d been a dancer herself once, and a good one. The chorus of Mao and I, nine months with the Braxton Hicks Dancers doing TV work, the talent was there. Even in that TV commercial where she’d been a dancing taco, it was there, talent she could have built into a career. Only she hadn’t. Somehow after she’d married Hank — anyway, here she was, watching a bunch of fish! Oh well, Hank probably loved it.

Hank watched a man in a wet-suit cavorting with cetaceans. Ho hum. Indica probably loved this stuff, this expression of man’s unity with Nature. For him, it was just a place to rest his gaze while he swallowed flat beer. Of course he still cared about the global environment, in a way. He still wrote articles about the blue whale and the white rhino. Not his fault if they turned into promotional tie-ins for glossy magazine spreads selling dog food and deodorants. He had to live. Had to swim with the current and survive. People got tired worrying about Spaceship Earth, they wanted to concentrate on Spaceship Me.

There were no more triumphs, only peak experiences; no more tragedies, only personal problems. Indica’s problem was being a good dancer who’d stopped dancing. Hank’s problem was being a bad writer who couldn’t stop writing. Together they were building for themselves a modest little problem relationship.

Just like old times,’ said Indica.

‘A deja vu experience,’ said Hank.

‘You can say that again.’

II

‘Who? Oh. Uh, great to hear from you uh, Dan is it? Great to, only I’m just this minute trying to get away, guesting tonight on the Ab Jason show, gotta be in L.A. by, hey, some great publicity there for your little lab… well sure you probably sure a low profile, he did, yes he did explain that, sure. Only…’

As he transferred the phone to his other ear in order to look at his watch, Indica could hear the frantic voice on the other end: ‘…taking a hell of a chance even using a pay phone… Subpoena… threatening me with mental hosp…’

‘Appreciate all that, Dan boy, only hell I’m a freelance journalist, you can’t expect… truth is my business… public has a right to know and the truth, in the long run the truth… Frankly I think you’re overdramatizing this whole… anyway how can they subpoena you into a mental, that doesn’t make sense, you… Frankly Dan boy I don’t understand your attitude, here I am babysitting this creation of yours, busting my balls to get you some free publicity, even sent you those test tapes you wanted did Allbright give them to you? He did, and… Okay, sure, if that’s… sure I, just a second.’

He fumbled for a pen and wrote M & P Wood, 614 Sycamore Avenue, Newer, Nebraska. ‘Any zip… right. If that’s the way you feel about it, fine, if this Wood firm can do any better… what am I supposed to do, the thing’s subnormal, doesn’t even talk… well no we haven’t talked to it, not much, course I could have spent more time with it but trying to carve out a career here, you know, trying to weld together the concepts of ecological balance and post-industrial… YES I’LL SEND THE GODDAMNED THING. Yeah, ciao.’ He slammed down the receiver. ‘You hear any of that?’

‘I wasn’t listening.’ Indica sat wedged in a window seat, painting her nails. The scarf around her throat was blue, her toenails were becoming red.

‘That guy’s cracking up, completely bananas, you know? Figures they are after him, want to subpoena his records and lock him up, smash the robot and Christ knows what.’

‘I’m on their side,’ she said.

Roderick extended a claw towards her foot. ‘Red.’

‘Listen, he wants us to send him off to some firm in Nebraska of all damned places, thinks we’re not good enough to, not caring enough, how do you like that?’

She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less. Are you gonna make that plane or what?’

‘Yeah, plenty of time. Only Jesus he has to dump this on me when I’ve got enough to worry about, you think maybe I should trim my beard a little? I don’t want to come across as a goddamned nut…’

‘Leave it.’ She did not look at him. ‘You look fine.’

‘Great, but what am I supposed to say? I’ve got nothing to show them, I mean if I show them that they’ll just laugh. A million kids have toys more articulate than that. Here I’ve worked my buns off trying to prepare for this show, can’t even take him with me. I mean they’ll just laugh. I mean, he can’t do anything but babble in baby-talk, you think a hundred million viewers want to see that?’

Indica set down her bottle of nail varnish. ‘Don’t worry. You can just tell them about him.’

‘Sure, I have to, I have to do it that way now. But I mean Christ I spent three days trying to teach him chess, all he knows is how to knock the pieces off the board. What am I supposed to say? I’ve adopted this robot only he’s a little retarded?’

‘Jess,’ said Roderick. Jess, jess, jess. Jess?’

Indica snickered. ‘Oh don’t worry, you’ll think of something on the plane. Make it up, what the hell. Tell ’em he reads Latin and Esperanto, plays the ukulele. Tell ’em he likes the Mets. Tell ’em you want him to grow up to be President.’

‘Sure, you’re right. I’ve got to think of this as pure box-office, that’s all. Only my nerves are — and this guy calling me up like this at the last minute, saying he doesn’t want any publicity. Doesn’t want any publicity! You know, sometimes—’

‘You’ll miss your plane.’

Hank stood up, holding his attache case in both hands. With the full beard and glasses, he looked a little like an immigrant in some old movie, coming off the steamship at Ellis Island. All he needed, she thought, was a tag around his neck. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Here goes. Wish me luck.’

‘Break a leg,’ she murmured. ‘Bye.’

Roderick looked up, when he’d gone. ‘Bye-bye-bye-bye-bye.’ He turned back to watch Indica’s red toes. Toes were little fingers. If you had fingers and toes you could do all kinds of things, make them red or count them: this little finger went to market, like Hank, that little finger stayed home, like Indica. Queen, king, knight, rook and the little pawn at the end there…

He moved closer until he was staring at her across the low table where the bottle of varnish stood. There was white stuff between her toes and red stuff on them. She put it on with a little matchstick, red. Red, it went into a little hole in the top of this bishop here on this funny jessboard that didn’t have any squares. When she put the matchstick into it, there it was, a bishop. Only without squares, how could it see where to move? He grabbed the bishop and it fell over and red came out.

‘Shit,’ said Indica. She pulled a lot of white stuff out of a box and mopped the board, spreading red all over.

‘Jit,’ said Roderick. Indica stopped mopping and smiled at him. ‘Jit,’ he said again.

‘What the hell, Roddy, go ahead. Have a ball. I’m never gonna clean another thing around here, you know? So go ahead.’

He dipped his claw in the red and held it up to her. ‘Red.’

There was Hank on TV! His beard might be a different shape and his face might be a different colour, but here he was, real as life. Roderick went to the window and looked out. Hank’s car wasn’t there, so he hadn’t come back, but here he was, sitting on a sofa with some other people, talking to Ab Jason who sat on a chair of his own. Ab was a man who kept wrinkling his face and making people laugh. Roderick rolled right up close to the TV screen, to watch every move.

‘…doesn’t, ahm, talk much yet but he’s learning, boy is he learning fast. He plays chess —