The Terminal Experiment

Peter was a bit irritated. “Well, it’s a valid question,” he said. “Did I ever really know her?”

“In a broad sense, you’re right: we probably don’t ever really know anyone. But, still, Cathy is the person we know best in the entire world. We know her better than Sarkar, better than Mom or Dad.”

“But, then, how could she do this?”

“Well, she’s never been as strong-willed as we are. That asshole Hans obviously pressured her.”

“But she should have resisted that pressure.”

“Granted. But she didn’t. Now, what do we do about that? Do we give up on the most important relationship in our lives because of it? Even setting that aside, on a more pragmatic level, do you really want to go back to looking for a mate? Dating? Christ, what a pain in the ass that would be.”

“It sounds like you’re advocating a marriage of convenience.”

“Maybe all marriages are that to some degree. Certainly you’ve speculated that Mom and Dad stayed together simply because it was the path of least resistance.”

“But they never had what Cathy and I had.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question. We binary guys like simple yes-or-no answers.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “You mean whether I still love her?” He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You won’t be able to decide on a course of action until you resolve that question.”

“It’s not that simple. Even if I still love her, I couldn’t take this happening again. I haven’t slept properly since she told me. I think about it constantly. Anything will remind me of it. I see her car in the garage; that reminds me that she gave Hans a lift. I see the couch in our living room; that’s where she told me about it. I hear the word ‘adultery’ or ‘affair’ on TV — Christ, I never realized how often people use those words — and that reminds me of it.” Peter leaned way back in the chair. “I can’t put this behind me until I know that it will always be behind us. She didn’t just do it once, after all. She did it three times — three times over a period of months. Maybe she thought each time was the last.”

“Perhaps,” said the sim. “Remember when we had our tonsils out?”

“What you mean ‘we,’ white man? I’m the one with the scars.”

“Whatever. The point is, we had them out when we were twenty-two. Very late in life for something like that. But we kept getting sore throats and tonsillitis. Finally ole Doc DiMaio said enough already with treating the symptoms. Let’s do something about the cause.”

Peter’s voice was strained. “But what if — what if — what if I’m the cause of Cathy’s infidelity? Remember that lunch with Colin Godoyo? He said his cheating on his wife was a cry for help.”

“Please, Peter. You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

“I’m not sure we each get a vote.”

“Regardless, I’m sure Cathy knows it’s bullshit.”

“I hope so.”

“You and Cathy had a good marriage — you know that. It didn’t rot away from within; it was attacked from outside.”

“I suppose,” said Peter, “but I’ve been mulling it over a lot — looking for any clue that we’d blown it somehow.”

“And did you find any?” asked the sim.

“No.”

“Of course not. You always tried to be a good husband — and Cathy was a good wife, too. Both of you worked at making the marriage a success. You take an interest in each other’s work. You’re supportive of each other’s dreams. And you talk freely and openly about everything.”

“Still,” said Peter, “I wish I could be sure.” He paused. “You remember Perry Mason? Not the original TV series with Raymond Burr, but the short-lived remake they made in the 1970s. Remember it? They repeated it on A E in the late nineties. Harry Guardino played Hamilton Burger. Remember that version?”

The sim paused for a moment. “Yes. It wasn’t very good.”

“In point of fact, it stank,” said Peter. “But you remember it?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the guy who played Perry Mason?”

“Sure. It was Robert Culp.”

“Can you recall him? Picture him in the courtroom? Do you remember him in that series?”

“Yes.”

Peter spread his arms. “Robert Culp never played Perry Mason. Monte Markham did.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’d thought it was Culp, too, until I saw a story about Markham in yesterday’s Star; he’s in town doing Twelve Angry Men at the Royal Alex. But you know the difference between those two actors, Culp and Markham?”

“Sure,” said the sim. “Culp was in I Spy and Greatest American Hero. And, let’s see, in Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice. Great actor.”

“And Markham?”

“A solid character actor; always liked him. Never had a successful series, but wasn’t he in Dallas for a year or so? And, round ’bout 2000, he was in that awful sitcom with James Carey.”

“Right,” said Peter. “Don’t you see? We both had a memory — a good, solid memory — of Robert Culp playing a role that had really been played by Monte Markham. Right now, of course, you’re rewriting those memories, and now I’m sure you can see Markham in the role of Mason. That’s the way all memory works: we save only enough information to reconstruct events later. We save the deltas — we remember base pieces of information, and note changes. Then when we need to summon up a memory, we reconstruct it — and often do so inaccurately.”

“So what’s your point?” said the sim.

“My point, dear brother, is this: how accurate are our memories? We recall all the events leading up to Cathy’s affair, and find ourselves free from blame. Everything hangs together; everything is consistent. But is it accurate? In some way we’ve chosen not to remember, in some moment that we’ve edited out, by some actions that died in the neural cutting room, did we push her into the arms of another man?”

“I think,” said the sim, “that if you have the depth of introspection to ask such a question, you know the answer is probably no. You’re a thoughtful man, Peter — if I do say so myself.”

There was silence for a long time. “I haven’t been much help, have I?” asked the sim.

Peter considered that. “No, on the contrary. I feel a bit better now. Talking about this has helped.”

“Even if it was essentially talking to yourself?” asked the sim.

“Even if,” said Peter.

CHAPTER 23

A rare sunny morning in the middle of November, with light streaming around the edges of the living-room blinds.

Hans Larsen was sitting at the table in his breakfast nook nibbling on white toast with orange marmalade. His wife, Donna-Lee, over by the front door, was slipping on her ten-centimeter black heels. Hans watched her bend over to do that, her breasts — perfect handfuls — straining against her red silk blouse, the curve of her bottom tight against her black leather skirt, the leather too thick to show any panty lines.

She was a beautiful woman, Hans thought, and she knew how to dress to show it off. And that, of course, had been why he’d married her. A fitting wife, the kind that turned heads. The kind a real man should have.

He nibbled some more toast, and chased it with some coffee. He’d give it to her good when he got home tonight. She’d like that. Of course, he wouldn’t be home until late; he was seeing Melanie after work. No, wait — Melanie was tomorrow night; this was only Wednesday. Nancy, then. Even better; Nancy had tits to die for.