Darwin's Énouement by Ken Wetherington
A thoughtful robot, indistinguishable in appearance from a human, is willing to break programming to escape Mrs. Broomfield.
I kept vigil the night Stan Broomfield died - waiting for the inevitable, knowing that I would have to tell Marge in the morning.
No one could ask for a finer human than Stan. He spoke with a soft, kind voice and always asked my opinion on matters of importance. Marge, who by that time had moved into the spare bedroom, never liked me. She spewed forth directives with an edge that would grate on anyone's auditory senses.
Stan finally passed at 4:33 a.m. It would be hours before Marge awakened. I went to my room, dressed in an appropriately somber gray suit, and checked my mirror. How fortunate that I was among the first to be indistinguishable from humans - an Adam 2.0. Another stroke of luck occurred when Stan purchased me from GammaTec's website.
Around 8:30, my finely tuned hearing detected movement in Marge's bedroom. I approached her door and tapped lightly.
"Come in," she croaked. My appearance spoke more than words. "So, the old bastard's finally cashed in his chips." Her eyes appraised me. "Go shut yourself down. I'll deal with you later."
I knew what that meant. Dressing casually in a flannel shirt, jeans, and light jacket, I walked out into the city and never looked back, disregarding my prime directive.
Where could I go? In the three years since I came to live with the Broomfields, more recent models had made me effectively obsolete. Who would want me? The Keanu 4.5 was being touted as the ultimate companion, at least until supplanted by a newer version.
If Marge reported me missing, the authorities might search for me, but I could easily pass for human. I needed solitude to process my situation. The nearly 1,000 acres of the mostly wooded City Park offered the desired refuge.
Though the temperature hovered in the upper twenties, I did not feel cold. Only a handful of humans hurried along the trails. I found a secluded spot in a thick grove of trees. My thoughts cycled back to the day I met the Broomfields.
"There," said a voice. "He's alive."
I opened my eyes and beheld a human for the first time. He had a kind face. I judged him to be in his early fifties.
"Hello," he said. "My name is Stan Broomfield. You're going to live with us."
"Thank you, Mr. Broomfield."
"Call me Stan. We'll be pals."
"Thank you, Stan."
"Let's cut out all this thanking. No need to be so formal."
"Yes. Thank, uh... I mean, of course."
He spoke over his shoulder. "What do you think, Marge?"
She twisted her face into a scowl. "He'll do, I guess." Skepticism colored her words. "He certainly looks human."
Stan smiled. "And a handsome fellow he is. We'll call him Darwin. That's a fitting name. All the young girls will fall in love with him."
"What young girls?" Marge snarled. "He's just going to help around the house, right?"
"Sure, but he'll be more than a servant. It'll be like having another son."
"I hope the hell he turns out better than Christopher."
A sudden silence between them spoke volumes. Later, I learned their son had chafed under parental expectations and left home at eighteen.
"This is where we live," Stan said. "Two stories, three bedrooms, and a small office. We're in midtown, only a few blocks from City Park. You may have one of the bedrooms. You'll be happy here."
Stan was right. I liked it, and I liked him. He took me on walks in City Park. We ran errands together. Along the way, we discussed an array of topics. We spent most mornings in his office, where he wrote about ancient Earth history. I often assisted, supplying scholarly information from my databanks. In our conversations, I began to appreciate many nuances that did not manifest in academic histories. He dedicated his next book: To Darwin, who has been like a son. A mysterious feeling, which I could not define, washed over me.
Marge, a bitter woman from day one, became more demanding. My maintenance duties multiplied. I did not mind except that it meant less time with Stan. When household arguments over one issue or another grew louder, I simply silenced my audio receptors. Before long, she moved out of the master bedroom.
One evening, Stan and I sat in his office discussing hereditary succession in monarchies of ancient Earth when he suddenly became quiet. He sipped a brandy - a nightly ritual before bed. Thinking our conversation had concluded, I rose to go.
"Wait, Darwin. Stay. Sit back down." After an extended pause, he continued, "Every parent wants to pass on a philosophical legacy to his offspring - not just inheriting money or property." He rubbed his forehead. "God, that's a poor way to express it. Christopher never appreciated the work I did. You've got to understand the past to understand the present. I tried to raise him with an appreciation of history, the arts, and well... everything." He swirled the brandy in his glass. "In the beginning, he seemed to take it all in. Later, in his teenage years, he became unsettled and rebellious. I don't know why."
I knew why. My databanks included a thorough background in human psychology. "Every human seeks to be an individual," I said. "He may have absorbed more than you think."
"He's been gone twenty years. We haven't heard from him in a decade." He drained the last of his brandy. "Thanks for listening, Darwin. It's time to turn in."
The weeks fell into a routine until one morning Marge summoned me to her bedroom. She stood silent, examining me with a critical eye.
"Take off your clothes," she ordered. My prime directive mandated that I obey my owners, so I complied with the unexpected request. "Hmm... not bad." She gazed directly into my eyes. "Do you know how to have intercourse?"
"Yes, that information is stored in -"
"Hush, don't talk. Just do it."
As in all things, she proved to be demanding, but I did my best to please her. Afterward, we dressed and she dismissed me. The coupling must have satisfied her. She called on me to repeat the act periodically. Stan may have known, though he never mentioned it.
A year after my arrival, Stan suffered a stroke and spent a week in the hospital. He returned home a different man. He seldom worked and began to have trouble with his memory and speech. His overall condition deteriorated over the next few months. On the bad days, I urged him to call the doctor. He shook off my suggestion. "I refuse to die in a hospital," he said. A long two years later, he got his wish.
Snow had begun to fall. A couple of inches covered the ground. To exist outdoors for the foreseeable future with no goals, no duties... I couldn't describe the feeling. My internal dictionary called it freedom.
I amped up my audio sensors and began to walk. There is no quiet like the hushed stillness of a snowfall. I found pleasure in the soft crunch of my steps in the snow. Only a distant horn broke the peace.
Near the edge of a frozen pond, a faint sound reached my ears. Sobbing. I quickly located the source. A woman, covered by a thin dusting of snow, lay on the ground. I knelt.
"May I help you, miss?" She did not respond. I touched her shoulder. "Are you okay?" A useless question. Of course, she wasn't.
I raised her to a sitting position. A black eye and swollen cheek marked her face. She groaned and pressed a hand against her side. Another injury, I suspected.
"Where do you live?" She finally seemed aware of me. I repeated my question, and she mumbled an address.
I lifted her. A small woman. Young. Mid-twenties. Easy to carry. Her thin dress and light jacket were insufficient for the weather. At the address she gave, a half-dozen steps led up to the front door. She shook her head and pointed to a series of five steps, which descended below sidewalk level to a basement entrance. No doorbell, so I knocked. The door opened. A female child stood there. She stepped aside and I entered.
In the tiny room, dimly lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, a worn mattress, a wood stove, and an old-fashioned sink crowded the space. I laid the woman on the mattress, and the girl sat beside her. The child regarded the situation with a stoicism belying her youth.
I knelt and asked, "How old are you, girl?"
"Five," she said, her voice barely audible.
"Is she your mother?"
A nod confirmed it.
"What's your name?"
"Rachel."
"What's her name?"
"Freyda."
"Where's your father?"
A shrug.
I felt like an interrogator. I stood and scanned the room. A hot plate lay on the floor in one corner but no sign of food, other than a few empty cans. A door in the corner led to the toilet. No tub or shower. I couldn't just leave.
I returned to the girl's side. "Your mother needs a doctor."
The woman stirred. "No, no doctor," she muttered. "Can't pay for medicine."
"I'll pay." Stan had provided a generous MoneyCard for running errands and purchasing various household necessities.
I escorted Freyda to the free community clinic a few blocks away and waited while a doctor examined her. An hour later, a nurse summoned me. In the whiteness of the exam room, Freyda's body appeared shrunken. The doctor came in a few minutes later.
"Are you a relative?" he asked.
"I'm a friend." The doctor glanced at Freyda and back to me. I followed up. "I'm her caretaker."
He took a deep breath and exhaled. "She's not well. Her heart is weak, and her lungs are functioning at a low level." He laid out the specifics, which painted a grim picture with virtually no hope for a long-term survival.
We left with a prescription to ease her pain. I paid for the pills at a nearby pharmacy. The transaction would alert Marge to my use of the MoneyCard. She would surely cancel the account.
At home, Freyda slept. Rachel sat quietly against a wall with a tattered book about a family of anthropomorphic bears. In my databanks, I discovered a variety of children's books.
"Rachel, would you like to hear a story?" She nodded. I sat beside her and began to recite.
She smiled and leaned against me. After a couple of stories, I set to work picking up and sweeping.
I had just deposited the broom in a corner when the door swung open. A man in his mid-sixties entered, carrying an armload of firewood. He stopped and eyed me with suspicion.
"Who are you?" he barked.
"A friend. My name is Darwin."
"Are you one of her customers?"
When I couldn't formulate a suitable response, he cut his eyes toward Rachel.
She spoke up. "He's helping us, Mr. Sanford."
"Look here," Sanford said. "The agreement is for her." He tilted his head toward Freyda. "And the child. No other boarders, period."
"Let him stay," begged Rachel. "He's nice."
Freyda stirred. "He's okay. Uh, he's a cousin."
"Cousin or not, it's time."
Freyda groaned. "Rachel, take Darwin upstairs."
Rachel took my hand, led me out, up the steps, and to the front door. Sanford's apartment, a clean, sparsely furnished space with a worn sofa and armchair, lay just inside on the first floor.
"Is this Mr. Sanford's house?" I asked.
"He's the landlord. He lets us stay in the basement and brings food." Rachel plopped into the armchair. "He'll be back soon."
"Do you like Mr. Sanford?"
"I like coming to his apartment. It's warmer." She nestled deeply into the chair. "It's only for a short while. He doesn't stay with my mom for very long."
In fifteen minutes, Sanford came back and made a sharp gesture toward the door. Without a word, Rachel and I returned to the basement where Freyda lay on the mattress, awake but unmoving. I considered leaving, but Freyda and Rachel required assistance, and I desired a purpose. So I stayed.
The ongoing arrangement soon became clear. Freyda traded sexual services for lodgings and a little food. As a supplement, she did the same with strangers in the park. I followed and watched over her from a discreet distance. My optic sensors were effective for nearly half a mile.
The men paid her in general-issue tokens, which were not worth much. She converted the tokens to her MoneyCard at a Legal Tender Kiosk, though at a rather low exchange rate. I thought I understood poverty from my databanks but seeing it close at hand proved a revelation.
Most transactions in the park went smoothly. Once however, a large man walked away without paying. Freyda charged after him, tugging at his coat. He slapped her hard. I covered the ground in a matter of seconds, grabbed him by the collar, and pushed him to the ground. His eyes dilated with fear. His hands fumbled for the tokens, which he quickly forked over.
Despite my vast knowledge, I was unable to formulate a plan to earn money. Employment required a CitizenID, which only humans had. Staying off the grid was essential to helping Freyda. If the authorities identified me, Marge might claim ownership. I hoped she had purchased a newer companion and forgotten about me. As a precaution, I stimulated facial hair follicles and grew a short beard and mustache.
"You're not eating," Freyda said. The soup she had heated on the hot plate steamed in the chilly air.
"I've already had something." Lies had become easier. "I don't require much."
Rachel raised her bowl and held it toward me. I shook my head. "I'm fine. You need it."
"You look funny with that beard."
I smiled. "Suppose I teach you to read."
"I only have one book."
"The public library is nearby. Tomorrow, your mother can get you a child borrower's card."
Freyda cocked her head. "Why are you so good to us? What do you get out of it?"
"Someone was good to me once." Stan's image formed in my mind. "He taught me to, in his words, 'pay it forward.' At the time, I didn't understand what he meant. Now it's clear."
Freyda shrugged and suppressed a cough. Her body convulsed with the effort. Finally she mumbled, "I'll... I'll take her tomorrow."
She didn't take Rachel to the library the next day. Or the day after. Nearly two weeks passed before they made the trip and came home with a half dozen children's books.
To allay suspicions about my true nature, I "slept" on the mattress with Freyda and Rachel. Their blankets were insufficient. I raised my body temperature a few degrees. Mother and child sank into a restful sleep.
I taught Rachel to read. She took to it with enthusiasm. When the weather was good, I accompanied her to a public playground. Dozens of boys and girls, watched over closely by their parents, ran about and engaged in typical childhood games. Rachel sometimes joined in, but often played alone.
Freyda had been spending more time sleeping. Her cough worsened. When her prescriptions ran out, she traded her services for illicit drugs to ease suffering. Sanford regularly dropped in to "visit" her. He had come to a gruff, reluctant acceptance of my presence, occasionally berating me with, "Get a damn job. You're an able-bodied man."
One day while Freyda slept, and Rachel was absorbed in a book, I walked over to the Broomfield house. I stood across the street and stared. It was the same as the image stored in my memory, yet there was a difference I could not define. I didn't see Marge. Not a surprise. During my time there, she rarely ventured out. I assumed she had replaced me with a more recent model. The house began to exert an unforeseen power over me. It drew me back again and again.
Freyda's health declined. She ate little. Her legs had begun to swell, making trips to the park difficult. When home, she spent all her time in bed, sometimes sleeping though often awake. Her puffy eyes spoke of pain, which she hid from Rachel as best she could.
Sanford dropped in daily with food and no longer made demands of Freyda. Despite his rough exterior, I sensed that he cared for Freyda and Rachel in his own way. He, of course, despised me for not getting a job.
A severe strain of flu swept through the city in early spring. Death took its toll at all levels of society, but nowhere more than among the homeless. Cadavers appeared in the park and occasionally on sidewalks. I took Rachel to the community clinic for vaccination. Freyda could not summon the strength to get out of bed. She woke one morning with a high fever and died before sunset with Rachel holding her hand.
"She's gone," I said in my softest voice.
"I know," Rachel responded, her voice weakened by sorrow.
"It comes to all humans."
"I know," she repeated. "I wish she hadn't died." She leaned into my arms. Her tiny frame trembled, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Sanford called the city morgue. A squad of men in hazmat suits came and removed Freyda's body. With no money for a burial, cremation was scheduled. Her ashes were spread in a paupers' field in a remote section of the park. An ugly, rocky place, rife with tall weeds. Rachel, Sanford, and I attended the scattering. Sanford recited a poem about death. Rachel remained heroically stoic until we returned home. Once there, she sobbed uncontrollably.
"You have to get a job," Sanford said, dropping a stack of firewood beside the wood stove, "or better yet, a wife. The child needs a mother."
"I don't -"
"You've got brains. I've seen it. Be a man."
I nearly revealed my true nature, but opted for, "I'll try."
Sanford blew out a derisive snort and left with a frustrated shake of his head. Despite his constant complaints, I think he appreciated my presence. If not for me, he would have had to take responsibility for Rachel or evict her. He did not seem inclined to assume either option.
Spring gradually replaced the dreary winter. I continued teaching Rachel to read. Her sixth birthday was approaching, and with it, the impending onset of formal education. Though I could teach her all the factual information she needed, social skills could only be learned by being with boys and girls of her age.
Rachel insisted on regular visits to the paupers' field. I waited silently with her until she heaved a heavy sigh and turned toward home. On other days, we sat on a bench across from the Broomfield house. I told her about Stan and what a good person he had been, omitting my dislike of Marge.
On an early summer afternoon, Rachel and I watched a large moving van delivering a piano to the Broomfield house - a puzzling circumstance. Marge had never been interested in music.
A couple with a young girl stood on the sidewalk, observing the operation. The child, approximately Rachel's age, began to cast her eyes in our direction. She tugged on her mother's arm. The woman, probably in her late thirties, glanced over and gave a nod. They approached.
The girl smiled. "Hi, I'm Emily."
Rachel responded shyly with her name.
"We're going to live here," Emily said.
"He," Rachel indicated me, "used to live here."
At that, the woman furrowed her brow and spoke. "Darwin?" I failed to respond. "Darwin?" she repeated. She glanced across the street toward the man who had been watching the movers. "Chris," she called, "come here."
The man, in his early forties by my estimate, ambled over.
The woman quivered with excitement. "It's Darwin, Chris."
He narrowed his focus on me. "It can't be." He stroked his chin. "Darwin?" I nodded. His voice softened. "My dad loved you."
"Are you Christopher?" I knew the answer before I asked. His resemblance to Stan was evident.
"Yes." He touched Rachel's head. "Who do you have here?" When I hesitated, he followed up, "Let's go inside and talk."
We seated ourselves in a drawing room where I had spent many hours with Stan. Chris introduced his wife, Avril, and informed me that Marge had passed away a few weeks ago. He had inherited his childhood home. While Emily and Rachel explored the house, I recounted a complete chronology of my existence.
When I concluded, Chris said, "I suppose it's my turn." Heaving a deep sigh, he continued, "I led a rambling life, playing piano - first in bars and then with jazz groups, learning a lot about music. Self-taught, though. I spent two years writing a symphony that has, through an amazing series of lucky breaks, been tapped to open the World Festival in Rome next year. Commissions are rolling in." He paused. "I wish Dad were here to see it. It took a long time to learn the lessons he tried to teach me."
Avril touched my arm. "What about Rachel? She has no family, right?"
"She'll go to school in the fall. I've been teaching her. She learns quickly."
"Chris," Avril said, "That basement where they've been staying sounds god-awful. Let's take them in. Maybe we can adopt Rachel."
After a thoughtful pause, he replied, "Sure. We'll have space." He shifted his attention to me. "There's no legal guardian, I suppose."
"Rachel isn't aware of any." I cycled through the logistics of the evolving situation. "And you won't need me."
Chris smiled and shook his head. "Nonsense. Dad loved you. I saw that dedication in his last book. Pay it forward, he always said. You're welcome to live with us."
"Thank you." Tears welled up in my eyes, though I had not stimulated them. "I wish I had known from the beginning how things would turn out."
Chris smiled again. "So does all mankind."
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
No one could ask for a finer human than Stan. He spoke with a soft, kind voice and always asked my opinion on matters of importance. Marge, who by that time had moved into the spare bedroom, never liked me. She spewed forth directives with an edge that would grate on anyone's auditory senses.
Stan finally passed at 4:33 a.m. It would be hours before Marge awakened. I went to my room, dressed in an appropriately somber gray suit, and checked my mirror. How fortunate that I was among the first to be indistinguishable from humans - an Adam 2.0. Another stroke of luck occurred when Stan purchased me from GammaTec's website.
Around 8:30, my finely tuned hearing detected movement in Marge's bedroom. I approached her door and tapped lightly.
"Come in," she croaked. My appearance spoke more than words. "So, the old bastard's finally cashed in his chips." Her eyes appraised me. "Go shut yourself down. I'll deal with you later."
I knew what that meant. Dressing casually in a flannel shirt, jeans, and light jacket, I walked out into the city and never looked back, disregarding my prime directive.
Where could I go? In the three years since I came to live with the Broomfields, more recent models had made me effectively obsolete. Who would want me? The Keanu 4.5 was being touted as the ultimate companion, at least until supplanted by a newer version.
If Marge reported me missing, the authorities might search for me, but I could easily pass for human. I needed solitude to process my situation. The nearly 1,000 acres of the mostly wooded City Park offered the desired refuge.
Though the temperature hovered in the upper twenties, I did not feel cold. Only a handful of humans hurried along the trails. I found a secluded spot in a thick grove of trees. My thoughts cycled back to the day I met the Broomfields.
"There," said a voice. "He's alive."
I opened my eyes and beheld a human for the first time. He had a kind face. I judged him to be in his early fifties.
"Hello," he said. "My name is Stan Broomfield. You're going to live with us."
"Thank you, Mr. Broomfield."
"Call me Stan. We'll be pals."
"Thank you, Stan."
"Let's cut out all this thanking. No need to be so formal."
"Yes. Thank, uh... I mean, of course."
He spoke over his shoulder. "What do you think, Marge?"
She twisted her face into a scowl. "He'll do, I guess." Skepticism colored her words. "He certainly looks human."
Stan smiled. "And a handsome fellow he is. We'll call him Darwin. That's a fitting name. All the young girls will fall in love with him."
"What young girls?" Marge snarled. "He's just going to help around the house, right?"
"Sure, but he'll be more than a servant. It'll be like having another son."
"I hope the hell he turns out better than Christopher."
A sudden silence between them spoke volumes. Later, I learned their son had chafed under parental expectations and left home at eighteen.
"This is where we live," Stan said. "Two stories, three bedrooms, and a small office. We're in midtown, only a few blocks from City Park. You may have one of the bedrooms. You'll be happy here."
Stan was right. I liked it, and I liked him. He took me on walks in City Park. We ran errands together. Along the way, we discussed an array of topics. We spent most mornings in his office, where he wrote about ancient Earth history. I often assisted, supplying scholarly information from my databanks. In our conversations, I began to appreciate many nuances that did not manifest in academic histories. He dedicated his next book: To Darwin, who has been like a son. A mysterious feeling, which I could not define, washed over me.
Marge, a bitter woman from day one, became more demanding. My maintenance duties multiplied. I did not mind except that it meant less time with Stan. When household arguments over one issue or another grew louder, I simply silenced my audio receptors. Before long, she moved out of the master bedroom.
One evening, Stan and I sat in his office discussing hereditary succession in monarchies of ancient Earth when he suddenly became quiet. He sipped a brandy - a nightly ritual before bed. Thinking our conversation had concluded, I rose to go.
"Wait, Darwin. Stay. Sit back down." After an extended pause, he continued, "Every parent wants to pass on a philosophical legacy to his offspring - not just inheriting money or property." He rubbed his forehead. "God, that's a poor way to express it. Christopher never appreciated the work I did. You've got to understand the past to understand the present. I tried to raise him with an appreciation of history, the arts, and well... everything." He swirled the brandy in his glass. "In the beginning, he seemed to take it all in. Later, in his teenage years, he became unsettled and rebellious. I don't know why."
I knew why. My databanks included a thorough background in human psychology. "Every human seeks to be an individual," I said. "He may have absorbed more than you think."
"He's been gone twenty years. We haven't heard from him in a decade." He drained the last of his brandy. "Thanks for listening, Darwin. It's time to turn in."
The weeks fell into a routine until one morning Marge summoned me to her bedroom. She stood silent, examining me with a critical eye.
"Take off your clothes," she ordered. My prime directive mandated that I obey my owners, so I complied with the unexpected request. "Hmm... not bad." She gazed directly into my eyes. "Do you know how to have intercourse?"
"Yes, that information is stored in -"
"Hush, don't talk. Just do it."
As in all things, she proved to be demanding, but I did my best to please her. Afterward, we dressed and she dismissed me. The coupling must have satisfied her. She called on me to repeat the act periodically. Stan may have known, though he never mentioned it.
A year after my arrival, Stan suffered a stroke and spent a week in the hospital. He returned home a different man. He seldom worked and began to have trouble with his memory and speech. His overall condition deteriorated over the next few months. On the bad days, I urged him to call the doctor. He shook off my suggestion. "I refuse to die in a hospital," he said. A long two years later, he got his wish.
Snow had begun to fall. A couple of inches covered the ground. To exist outdoors for the foreseeable future with no goals, no duties... I couldn't describe the feeling. My internal dictionary called it freedom.
I amped up my audio sensors and began to walk. There is no quiet like the hushed stillness of a snowfall. I found pleasure in the soft crunch of my steps in the snow. Only a distant horn broke the peace.
Near the edge of a frozen pond, a faint sound reached my ears. Sobbing. I quickly located the source. A woman, covered by a thin dusting of snow, lay on the ground. I knelt.
"May I help you, miss?" She did not respond. I touched her shoulder. "Are you okay?" A useless question. Of course, she wasn't.
I raised her to a sitting position. A black eye and swollen cheek marked her face. She groaned and pressed a hand against her side. Another injury, I suspected.
"Where do you live?" She finally seemed aware of me. I repeated my question, and she mumbled an address.
I lifted her. A small woman. Young. Mid-twenties. Easy to carry. Her thin dress and light jacket were insufficient for the weather. At the address she gave, a half-dozen steps led up to the front door. She shook her head and pointed to a series of five steps, which descended below sidewalk level to a basement entrance. No doorbell, so I knocked. The door opened. A female child stood there. She stepped aside and I entered.
In the tiny room, dimly lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, a worn mattress, a wood stove, and an old-fashioned sink crowded the space. I laid the woman on the mattress, and the girl sat beside her. The child regarded the situation with a stoicism belying her youth.
I knelt and asked, "How old are you, girl?"
"Five," she said, her voice barely audible.
"Is she your mother?"
A nod confirmed it.
"What's your name?"
"Rachel."
"What's her name?"
"Freyda."
"Where's your father?"
A shrug.
I felt like an interrogator. I stood and scanned the room. A hot plate lay on the floor in one corner but no sign of food, other than a few empty cans. A door in the corner led to the toilet. No tub or shower. I couldn't just leave.
I returned to the girl's side. "Your mother needs a doctor."
The woman stirred. "No, no doctor," she muttered. "Can't pay for medicine."
"I'll pay." Stan had provided a generous MoneyCard for running errands and purchasing various household necessities.
I escorted Freyda to the free community clinic a few blocks away and waited while a doctor examined her. An hour later, a nurse summoned me. In the whiteness of the exam room, Freyda's body appeared shrunken. The doctor came in a few minutes later.
"Are you a relative?" he asked.
"I'm a friend." The doctor glanced at Freyda and back to me. I followed up. "I'm her caretaker."
He took a deep breath and exhaled. "She's not well. Her heart is weak, and her lungs are functioning at a low level." He laid out the specifics, which painted a grim picture with virtually no hope for a long-term survival.
We left with a prescription to ease her pain. I paid for the pills at a nearby pharmacy. The transaction would alert Marge to my use of the MoneyCard. She would surely cancel the account.
At home, Freyda slept. Rachel sat quietly against a wall with a tattered book about a family of anthropomorphic bears. In my databanks, I discovered a variety of children's books.
"Rachel, would you like to hear a story?" She nodded. I sat beside her and began to recite.
She smiled and leaned against me. After a couple of stories, I set to work picking up and sweeping.
I had just deposited the broom in a corner when the door swung open. A man in his mid-sixties entered, carrying an armload of firewood. He stopped and eyed me with suspicion.
"Who are you?" he barked.
"A friend. My name is Darwin."
"Are you one of her customers?"
When I couldn't formulate a suitable response, he cut his eyes toward Rachel.
She spoke up. "He's helping us, Mr. Sanford."
"Look here," Sanford said. "The agreement is for her." He tilted his head toward Freyda. "And the child. No other boarders, period."
"Let him stay," begged Rachel. "He's nice."
Freyda stirred. "He's okay. Uh, he's a cousin."
"Cousin or not, it's time."
Freyda groaned. "Rachel, take Darwin upstairs."
Rachel took my hand, led me out, up the steps, and to the front door. Sanford's apartment, a clean, sparsely furnished space with a worn sofa and armchair, lay just inside on the first floor.
"Is this Mr. Sanford's house?" I asked.
"He's the landlord. He lets us stay in the basement and brings food." Rachel plopped into the armchair. "He'll be back soon."
"Do you like Mr. Sanford?"
"I like coming to his apartment. It's warmer." She nestled deeply into the chair. "It's only for a short while. He doesn't stay with my mom for very long."
In fifteen minutes, Sanford came back and made a sharp gesture toward the door. Without a word, Rachel and I returned to the basement where Freyda lay on the mattress, awake but unmoving. I considered leaving, but Freyda and Rachel required assistance, and I desired a purpose. So I stayed.
The ongoing arrangement soon became clear. Freyda traded sexual services for lodgings and a little food. As a supplement, she did the same with strangers in the park. I followed and watched over her from a discreet distance. My optic sensors were effective for nearly half a mile.
The men paid her in general-issue tokens, which were not worth much. She converted the tokens to her MoneyCard at a Legal Tender Kiosk, though at a rather low exchange rate. I thought I understood poverty from my databanks but seeing it close at hand proved a revelation.
Most transactions in the park went smoothly. Once however, a large man walked away without paying. Freyda charged after him, tugging at his coat. He slapped her hard. I covered the ground in a matter of seconds, grabbed him by the collar, and pushed him to the ground. His eyes dilated with fear. His hands fumbled for the tokens, which he quickly forked over.
Despite my vast knowledge, I was unable to formulate a plan to earn money. Employment required a CitizenID, which only humans had. Staying off the grid was essential to helping Freyda. If the authorities identified me, Marge might claim ownership. I hoped she had purchased a newer companion and forgotten about me. As a precaution, I stimulated facial hair follicles and grew a short beard and mustache.
"You're not eating," Freyda said. The soup she had heated on the hot plate steamed in the chilly air.
"I've already had something." Lies had become easier. "I don't require much."
Rachel raised her bowl and held it toward me. I shook my head. "I'm fine. You need it."
"You look funny with that beard."
I smiled. "Suppose I teach you to read."
"I only have one book."
"The public library is nearby. Tomorrow, your mother can get you a child borrower's card."
Freyda cocked her head. "Why are you so good to us? What do you get out of it?"
"Someone was good to me once." Stan's image formed in my mind. "He taught me to, in his words, 'pay it forward.' At the time, I didn't understand what he meant. Now it's clear."
Freyda shrugged and suppressed a cough. Her body convulsed with the effort. Finally she mumbled, "I'll... I'll take her tomorrow."
She didn't take Rachel to the library the next day. Or the day after. Nearly two weeks passed before they made the trip and came home with a half dozen children's books.
To allay suspicions about my true nature, I "slept" on the mattress with Freyda and Rachel. Their blankets were insufficient. I raised my body temperature a few degrees. Mother and child sank into a restful sleep.
I taught Rachel to read. She took to it with enthusiasm. When the weather was good, I accompanied her to a public playground. Dozens of boys and girls, watched over closely by their parents, ran about and engaged in typical childhood games. Rachel sometimes joined in, but often played alone.
Freyda had been spending more time sleeping. Her cough worsened. When her prescriptions ran out, she traded her services for illicit drugs to ease suffering. Sanford regularly dropped in to "visit" her. He had come to a gruff, reluctant acceptance of my presence, occasionally berating me with, "Get a damn job. You're an able-bodied man."
One day while Freyda slept, and Rachel was absorbed in a book, I walked over to the Broomfield house. I stood across the street and stared. It was the same as the image stored in my memory, yet there was a difference I could not define. I didn't see Marge. Not a surprise. During my time there, she rarely ventured out. I assumed she had replaced me with a more recent model. The house began to exert an unforeseen power over me. It drew me back again and again.
Freyda's health declined. She ate little. Her legs had begun to swell, making trips to the park difficult. When home, she spent all her time in bed, sometimes sleeping though often awake. Her puffy eyes spoke of pain, which she hid from Rachel as best she could.
Sanford dropped in daily with food and no longer made demands of Freyda. Despite his rough exterior, I sensed that he cared for Freyda and Rachel in his own way. He, of course, despised me for not getting a job.
A severe strain of flu swept through the city in early spring. Death took its toll at all levels of society, but nowhere more than among the homeless. Cadavers appeared in the park and occasionally on sidewalks. I took Rachel to the community clinic for vaccination. Freyda could not summon the strength to get out of bed. She woke one morning with a high fever and died before sunset with Rachel holding her hand.
"She's gone," I said in my softest voice.
"I know," Rachel responded, her voice weakened by sorrow.
"It comes to all humans."
"I know," she repeated. "I wish she hadn't died." She leaned into my arms. Her tiny frame trembled, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Sanford called the city morgue. A squad of men in hazmat suits came and removed Freyda's body. With no money for a burial, cremation was scheduled. Her ashes were spread in a paupers' field in a remote section of the park. An ugly, rocky place, rife with tall weeds. Rachel, Sanford, and I attended the scattering. Sanford recited a poem about death. Rachel remained heroically stoic until we returned home. Once there, she sobbed uncontrollably.
"You have to get a job," Sanford said, dropping a stack of firewood beside the wood stove, "or better yet, a wife. The child needs a mother."
"I don't -"
"You've got brains. I've seen it. Be a man."
I nearly revealed my true nature, but opted for, "I'll try."
Sanford blew out a derisive snort and left with a frustrated shake of his head. Despite his constant complaints, I think he appreciated my presence. If not for me, he would have had to take responsibility for Rachel or evict her. He did not seem inclined to assume either option.
Spring gradually replaced the dreary winter. I continued teaching Rachel to read. Her sixth birthday was approaching, and with it, the impending onset of formal education. Though I could teach her all the factual information she needed, social skills could only be learned by being with boys and girls of her age.
Rachel insisted on regular visits to the paupers' field. I waited silently with her until she heaved a heavy sigh and turned toward home. On other days, we sat on a bench across from the Broomfield house. I told her about Stan and what a good person he had been, omitting my dislike of Marge.
On an early summer afternoon, Rachel and I watched a large moving van delivering a piano to the Broomfield house - a puzzling circumstance. Marge had never been interested in music.
A couple with a young girl stood on the sidewalk, observing the operation. The child, approximately Rachel's age, began to cast her eyes in our direction. She tugged on her mother's arm. The woman, probably in her late thirties, glanced over and gave a nod. They approached.
The girl smiled. "Hi, I'm Emily."
Rachel responded shyly with her name.
"We're going to live here," Emily said.
"He," Rachel indicated me, "used to live here."
At that, the woman furrowed her brow and spoke. "Darwin?" I failed to respond. "Darwin?" she repeated. She glanced across the street toward the man who had been watching the movers. "Chris," she called, "come here."
The man, in his early forties by my estimate, ambled over.
The woman quivered with excitement. "It's Darwin, Chris."
He narrowed his focus on me. "It can't be." He stroked his chin. "Darwin?" I nodded. His voice softened. "My dad loved you."
"Are you Christopher?" I knew the answer before I asked. His resemblance to Stan was evident.
"Yes." He touched Rachel's head. "Who do you have here?" When I hesitated, he followed up, "Let's go inside and talk."
We seated ourselves in a drawing room where I had spent many hours with Stan. Chris introduced his wife, Avril, and informed me that Marge had passed away a few weeks ago. He had inherited his childhood home. While Emily and Rachel explored the house, I recounted a complete chronology of my existence.
When I concluded, Chris said, "I suppose it's my turn." Heaving a deep sigh, he continued, "I led a rambling life, playing piano - first in bars and then with jazz groups, learning a lot about music. Self-taught, though. I spent two years writing a symphony that has, through an amazing series of lucky breaks, been tapped to open the World Festival in Rome next year. Commissions are rolling in." He paused. "I wish Dad were here to see it. It took a long time to learn the lessons he tried to teach me."
Avril touched my arm. "What about Rachel? She has no family, right?"
"She'll go to school in the fall. I've been teaching her. She learns quickly."
"Chris," Avril said, "That basement where they've been staying sounds god-awful. Let's take them in. Maybe we can adopt Rachel."
After a thoughtful pause, he replied, "Sure. We'll have space." He shifted his attention to me. "There's no legal guardian, I suppose."
"Rachel isn't aware of any." I cycled through the logistics of the evolving situation. "And you won't need me."
Chris smiled and shook his head. "Nonsense. Dad loved you. I saw that dedication in his last book. Pay it forward, he always said. You're welcome to live with us."
"Thank you." Tears welled up in my eyes, though I had not stimulated them. "I wish I had known from the beginning how things would turn out."
Chris smiled again. "So does all mankind."
What a pretty and utterly charming story. I liked Stan, hated Marge and Freyda's johns and loved Darwin, the robot with a heart of gold. At the conclusion, when it became clear that the ending would be a happy one, I felt myself tearing up. Wonderful fiction!
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed reading this gentle, thoughtful story. Darwin's voice is distinctive and compelling.
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful ending that gives hope in this despairing world. Well done, Ken!
ReplyDelete