Dark Benediction

They entered the apartment. The door closed itself, the lights went on. Someone belched, then announced: “I get just as sick of looking at you as you do looking at me, button head. Go take a bath.”

Relke flushed. “It can get pretty rough sometimes. The tapes weren’t edited for mixed company. Better plug your ears if you go in the bathroom.”

Giselle giggled. “I think it’s cute.”

He went into the kitchenette and turned on all the burners of the electric range to help warm the place. “Come stand next to the oven,” he called, “until I see if the heat pumps are working.” He opened the oven door. A libidinous purr came from within.

“Dah-ling, now why bother with breakfast when you can have meee?”

He glanced up at Giselle.

“I didn’t say it,” she giggled, but posed invitingly. Relke grinned and accepted the invitation.

“You’re not crying now,” she purred as he released her.

He felt a surge of unaccountable fury, grunted, “Excuse me,” and stalked out to the transformer vault. He looked around for the heat pumps, failed to find them, and went to lean on the handrail overlooking the pit. He stood there with his fists in his pockets, vaguely anguished and enraged, for no reason he understood. For a moment he had been too close to feeling at home, and that brought up the wrath somehow. After a couple of minutes he shook it off and went back inside.

“Hey, I wasn’t teasing you,” Giselle told him.

“What?”

“About crying.”

“Listen,” he said irritably, “did you ever see a looney or a spacer without leaky eyes? It’s the glare, that’s all.”

“Is that it? Huh—want to know something? I can’t cry. That’s funny. You’re a man and you can cry, but I can’t.”

Relke watched her grumpily while she warmed her behind at the oven. She’s not more than fifteen, he decided suddenly. It made him a little queasy. Come on, Joe, hurry.

“You know,” she went on absently, “when I was a little girl, I got mad at… at somebody, and I decided I was never going to cry anymore. I never did, either. And you know what?—now I can’t. Sometimes I try and I try, but I just can’t.” She spread her hands to the oven, tilted them back and forth, and watched the way the tendons worked as she stiffened her fingers. She seemed to be talking to her hands. “Once I used an onion. To cry, I mean. I cut an onion and rubbed some of it on a handkerchief and laid the handkerchief over my eyes. I cried that time, all right. That time I couldn’t stop crying, and nobody could make me stop. They were petting me and scolding me and shaking me and trying to give me smelling salts, but I just couldn’t quit. I blubbered for two days. Finally Mother Bernarde had to call the doctor to give me a sedative. Some of the sisters were taking cold towels and—”

“Sisters?” Relke grunted.

Giselle clapped a hand to her mouth and shook her head five or six times, very rapidly. She looked around at him. He shrugged.

“So you were in a convent.”

She shook her head again.

“So what if you were?” He sat down with his back to her and pretended to ignore her. She was dangerously close to that state of mind which precedes the telling of a life history. He didn’t want to hear it; he already knew it. So she was in a nunnery; Relke was not surprised. Some people had to polarize themselves. If they broke free from one pole, they had to seek its opposite. People with no middle ground. Black, or if not black, then white, never gray. Law, or criminality. God, or Satan. The cloister, or a whorehouse. Eternally a choice of all or nothing-at-all, and they couldn’t see that they made things that way for themselves. They set fire to every bridge they ever crossed—so that even a cow creek became a Rubicon, and every crossing was on a tightrope.

You understand that too well, don’t you, Relke? he asked himself bitterly. There was Fran and the baby, and there wasn’t enough money, and so you had to go and burn a bridge—a 240,000-mile bridge, with Fran on the other side. And so, after six years on Luna, there would be enough money; but there wouldn’t be Fran and the baby. And so, he had signed another extended contract, and the moon was going to be home for a long long time. Yeh, you know about burned bridges, all right, Relke.

He glanced at Giselle. She was glaring at him.

“If you’re waiting for me to say something,” she snapped, “you can stop waiting. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

“I was just a novice. I didn’t take permanent vows.”

“All right.”

“They wouldn’t let me. They said I was—unstable. They didn’t think I had a calling.”

“Well, you’ve got one now. Stop crawling all over me like I said anything. I didn’t ask you any questions.”

“You gave me that pious look.”