Author’s Note: this was written over 25 years ago, but I give it to you as it was written, without corrections.

Eveningsong

A short story by Linda Newville.

“Sharon’s coming over. And Jeff, you know, the wizard in our Game. And Donald. He’s the cute one. And Tom, he’s a warrior. And I think Marie is coming, too. Oh, you know Marie, Mom! She has curly black hair. Yes, with the smile and freckles.”

This is how Amy describes the evening to me. Her friends will come over and they will all go into the one room in the house that is a “proper” room. Amy will turn on the Computer and decorate the walls with light and it will look like a “real” room. Well, it almost will. The doctor forced me to install headsets for the Computer connection, rather than the ambient thought-pick-up everyone uses. It was too dangerous, he said. I might hurt myself.

Fortunately, Amy’s friends think the headsets are quaint. The whole house is quaint, they say. I am quaint, too, I am sure. I am not like other parents. I do not sit all evening in the ambient around my own computer. I am accessible instead. They like that. There are always one or two of Amy’s friends who feel the need to talk to me. Any grown-up would do, of course, and I am least busy.

I will sit in the kitchen, alone, unless tonight is a night one of her friends needs to talk. They will all go into the Room and wear headsets while the Computer tells them that all their dreams have come true. They call it a Game. I call it wish-fulfillment. In the Game, you can be anything you want to be or do anything you want to do.

I don’t complain. At least they are here, even if I can’t share in what they do. At least someone is here. It gets very lonely all day while Amy is away at school. My social worker tells me I need to associate with others of my own kind. I will not, though. I will not go live in a Home.

They begin to arrive. Amy answers the door herself. She must feel it, the brutal embarrassment of opening it herself. I’ve heard (from Amy, of course) that most houses’ doors are controlled and opened by the central computer. Jeff arrives first. I do like him, he’s one who confides in me. Next is Marie with the bouncy black curls and the smile all the time. Then Sharon arrives and before I realize, the house is full.

Oh, I stay out of their way, they wouldn’t want anybody like me around. I think I’ll bake a cake, that’s always welcome. Amy will get compliments afterwards “I wish my mother were like yours.” They don’t really mean it, though. A mother like I am is too embarrassing.

I get out the flour, eggs, and sugar. You know, you can’t buy the stuff in the stores anymore. The manufacturer’s sell it by dispatcher to COOKs only. I finally had to break open the door of my own COOK to get ingredients for my cooking. The tubes are all unlabeled, so it took me a while to figure out which was which. I’ve got it down, now, though. I use my antique measuring cups to measure everything. I beat the batter well, by hand, beating all the evils and frustrations of my world into the mixture. They flavor the cake well, making it light and airy.

That reporter from Woman’s Day came by again today. They want an interview with me, the only self-sufficient Handicapped adult in the world. Am I the only one then? The others all live in Homes, I guess, where the computers are kept far away. Blind people used to be handicapped. People without arms or legs used to be handicapped, but no more. The Computers took all that away. They can see for the blind, they can walk for the lame. The only people computers cannot help are people like me.

Oh, I have my eyes and my legs. I suppose I should be grateful for that. There’s no purpose in being Handicapped and blind, too. I have all my facilities. I also have a damaged center in my brain–the one that computer ambient hooks up to. I was born that way and no surgeon can repair me.

Father spent a small fortune buying antiques so that I could be self-sufficient. There was a collector once who offered me a large fortune for my collection of mixing bowls, turkey basters and mixing spoons. No thanks, kind collector. I prefer to be self-sufficient.

Its a nice feeling to have people just in the other room. I think the only people I ever see lately are the social worker or Amy’s friends–except for that reporter from Woman’s Day. Will I accept their offer, I wonder? I don’t know.

Now that the cake is into the oven, a real oven and not the Computer Operated something-or-other Kitchen, I can sit down and listen. The faint sounds of the game make me queasy, though. Perhaps I’ll make some popcorn, as well, on the stove.

I had to fight my way through seven courts for my right to keep that stove The fire inspectors declared it was a fire hazard, that no electric stove with open-air burners could possibly be as safe as a COOK. I finally got to keep my stove on the grounds that I was Handicapped. Handicapped! Why can’t I just live as a normal person?

I put the popcorn into one of my few remaining pans. This pan, too, is beginning to wear out. I don’t know where I can get another. The popping sound fills the kitchen. I melt the butter and frost the cake. I pick up the salt shaker and sprinkle. Then I stare. Ah, good, I salted the popcorn this time, sometimes I worry that I will salt the cake by mistake. I guess I listen too much to my social worker.

Most of Amy’s friends are deep into the game as I enter the room. Jeff and Amy, however, have their headsets off and are talking quietly. The Computer is on, patterning paintings of light about the walls. They make me dizzy. For a moment, I let my imagination go. I imagine I am playing the game, too. I see Marie in her robes as a princess and Sharon as a beggar. Then the warrior, Tom comes riding by. I remember the computer hook up, though, and my thoughts swirl away from the old pain and dark horror. The world must remain as it is, always.

“I thought you’d like something to eat.” I say. Amy is pleased, but her eyes say “don’t embarrass me in front of my friends. Don’t stay.” so I retreat to the kitchen.

I have nothing to do. I find some papers and manage to look busy at the table. Even such a simple action demonstrates the extent of my Handicap. I cannot even pay my bills over the computer network, I must have them printed out so I can see them. I tried buying an old-fashioned computer, once, one with a keyboard. I couldn’t connect it to the network, though. I gave it up after a while. I prefer to avoid machines as much as possible.

After a while, Amy pokes her head in. She and her friends walk over to the COOK. One by one, they try on the headset and drinks of punch and soda come sliding out. It is just so easy, of course, to operate a COOK. They gather at the other end of the kitchen drinking and talking. At least they do not offer me a drink, they know better by now. I am resourceful. I even managed to tap the water supply of the COOK.

Any comes over for a minute to say they are going out for a while to a Complex with better games. She sees what I am doing. “Haven’t you paid the bills, already?” she asks. I mumble something about yes I have, but I just wanted to check something. I fumble with the papers and tell her to have a nice time–and don’t stay out too late.

My eyes are watery. Amy’s a good girl, really she is. I keep my head bent so no one will see and I pretend to be very busy. “Goodbye” I call as the door slams. I wonder if anyone even heard.

They are gone. Slowly, I gather the papers together, ignoring the one wet mark, and shove them somewhere–perhaps a drawer, I don’t care. The house is empty.

With no one to see, I move into the Room, my thirsty eyes staring at the bare walls. Amy has thoughtfully turned off the Computer. I guess the doctor really scared her after that last time. I touch the “on” button, but dare not push it. There are some small figurines on the table. They have something to do with the Game. I touch one, a red one, but my hand draws back with guilt; or perhaps it is shame.

I reach fumblingly for a headset and slip it over my head. There is nothing. I sit there a while, just rocking, wondering what it is like, what it is really like when the Computer is on. I dare not try again, through. I haven’t the money for another stay in the Hospital.

“What does it feel like?” that reporter asked. “How does it feel when you try to attach to a computer?” It hurts. It always hurts. People like me have no control, or so the social worker told me. That is why I am avoided. If I cannot even control a computer, how could I possibly control myself?

I finger the switch that will turn the computer on. The doctor warned me I could do irreparable damage to my brain if I tried it again. The social worker will use it for an excuse to get me put away in a Home–if there is any of me left. Amy . . . Amy would cry, but she would be free to live in a real house with real people.

I visualize the dream I want the computer to play out: I am beating on the small box that is the computer, my hands are tearing out its innards. I do this to every computer in the world, one by one. It is an ugly desire, I know, one that is full of hate, but I hate. I have had my fingers slapped for trying too many times. I have been treated as incompetent too many times. I have been toadied to too many times and ignored too often. I know, I am Handicapped. I cannot understand what it is really like to access a Computer. There is only one thing I understand about the game Amy plays in this Room: dreams come true, there. In a moment I will turn the Computer on.

 

Author’s Note:

[Author’s Note: This is the short story that won second place in the only contest I ever entered. It was written (cough, cough) over 25 years ago. As I re-read it now, my fingers itch to change some words and fix a few parts. But I give it to you as it was written.

This is also the story that changed my direction as a writer. I wrote it. I won the prize. I re-read it. And I realized that it is depressive. The world doesn’t need more depressive stories. I don’t need more depressive stories. So I spent years learning to be more upbeat.

Also, and lastly, I mistakenly referred to “Woman’s Day” in the story. “Woman’s Day” is a copyrighted or trademarked title of a specific magazine I don’t have the rights to use. I probably shouldn’t have made that reference, but I didn’t know any better back then. Let this be the copyright notice and apology.]