pest.' ‘A deft timeworn speech.' ‘A west morphine defect.'”
“But there's only one we want,” Steve said. “A message to Katrina. Or about Katrina. Something like that.”
“It's called the ‘source gram,' Uncle Steve. The one he used to make all the others.”
“So help us out here, Bobby. What other phrases do you see?”
“Get outta town! There'll be hundreds, maybe thousands.”
“C'mon, kiddo.”
“I'm hungry. Can we do this later?”
“Bobby, this is important.”
“I'll do it for a glass of wine.”
“No deal. What else do you see? Any phrase with ‘wife' or ‘woman' in it?”
Bobby pouted.
“We could get them all with a computer program,” Victoria suggested.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Bobby singsonged. “I wanna do it.”
“Make up your mind,” Steve said, letting his frustration come through. “Do you want to help or not?”
“Fuck it!” Bobby yelled.
“Cool it!” Steve said.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Bobby grabbed a handful of shrimp and threw them across the kitchen, where they thwacked against the cupboards. “You don't care about me! Don't care! Don't care!” He was rocking back and forth, eyes unfocused.
“Aw, jeez,” Steve said. “How long since you've eaten?”
“Who cares? Who cares?”
“Your blood sugar's low. You know you're supposed to-”
“Don't care! Don't care!”
“C'mon, Bobby. Calm down.”
“Don't care! Don't care!”
“Bobby, you're really, really good at this,” Victoria said tenderly, “and we really value your help.”
The boy's eyes were welling up. “That all you care about, my helping you?”
“Of course not. You're a wonderful boy. Sensitive and sweet.”
“I'm not a wuss.” A tear streaked down his face.
“No, you're not. You're all boy, and I want to be around to see the man you become.”
“Really?” Bobby used the back of his arm to swipe away a tear.
“Watch this,” Steve said, picking up the cue from Victoria. He grabbed a handful of shrimp and tossed them against the cupboard. Two or three stuck, and the rest slithered toward the floor.
“Cool.” Bobby picked up a handful of shrimp, hurled them at the wall, and started giggling.
“There are still some left,” Steve said.
“Victoria's turn,” Bobby said.
She grabbed a few shrimp and lobbed them at the cupboard.
Bobby laughed. “You throw like a girl.”
Steve put his hand on the back of the boy's neck, gave him a squeeze. “Know what, kiddo?”
“What?”
“No father ever loved a son any more than I love you.”
Bobby put his arms around Steve's waist and hugged. Steve wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders.
“I think I know the source gram, Uncle Steve.”
“Sure you do.”
“Wanna know what it is?”
“Nah, I want to hug some more.”
“C'mon, Uncle Steve.”
“It can wait. Tomorrow. Next week. A year after your Bar Mitzvah.”
“Now!”
“Okay, kiddo, shoot.”
“‘The woman is perfected,'” Bobby said. “That's your source gram. ‘The woman is perfected.'”
Thirty-five
THE RUNNING MAN
Saturday morning the weather guys and gals were all atwitter about the arctic blast that was working its way south. “Freeze Watch!” the announcers screamed.
Steve watched the histrionics while standing at his kitchen counter, slicing a carambola, the yellow star fruit that grew on neighborhood trees. On the screen, Ricardo Sanchez, the Channel 4 weather guru, was garbed in a parka. Standing in front of an irrigation canal, Sanchez held his microphone in a gloved hand and interviewed a handsome, blond man in a bombardier jacket, a white silk scarf tied at his neck. Bruce Bigby, looking like a World War I aviator. The Green Baron, maybe?
In the background, Steve could see farmworkers wrapping palm fronds around the trunks of avocado trees. They wore jeans and T-shirts and didn't seem to be suffering hypothermia, even though most would have been natives of frost-free Caribbean islands.
“Could be the coldest night since the freeze of December 1894,” Sanchez said.
“We can battle Mother Nature a lot better now,” Bigby assured him. “Sprinklers, heaters, wind machines. Plus, I've got an army of two hundred workers.”
Not one with a green card, Steve felt certain.
Bigby droned on, explaining the difference between radiation frost and advective frost, then smoothly moving to his favorite topic. “Let me remind your viewers that no matter the weather, the Bigby Resort and Villas' sales office will be open tomorrow, regular hours. Affordable vacation units for a lifetime of enjoyment.”
It was only eight A.M., but he'd already had his fill of Bigby. He turned off the TV, and five minutes later, Victoria called.
“‘The woman is perfected,'” she said. “I fell asleep thinking about it.”
With Bigby alongside, no doubt.
“Me, too,” Steve said. “It's a lot different than saying, “‘The woman is perfect.' But what's it mean?”
“Can we work on it Monday? I'm gonna be stuck on the farm all weekend.”
“I saw your guy on the weather forecast. He looked dashing.”
“I'm so worried,” she whispered. “Bruce is trying to act brave, but inside he's terrified about what might happen.”
In the background, Steve heard someone shouting. “Smudge pots, pronto! Comprende?”
“You're coming down here tonight, aren't you, Steve?”
“Not if I have to watch the two of you smooching around a campfire.”
“We'll be working to save the farm. You know that.”
“Look, I wouldn't be much use. Even my weeds die.”
“Bruce likes you, Steve.”
“Bruce is a lousy judge of character.”
“Please, do this for me, Steve.”
After that, what choice did he have? He told her he'd be there by sundown to shovel shit or whatever Bigby wanted. She said to dress Bobby in several layers, and for a moment, it sounded very domestic to him, like she was his wife and Bobby their son. But that thought passed when Victoria said she had to go. Bruce was calling her, something about sandwiches and soup for two hundred men.
