rental car and back. Benjamin was suddenly in love with the look of her under the wet porch awning in her tight jeans and a raggedy sweater and her breath steaming into the cold, wet air.
Not for John,
he thought: what Susan Christopher had asked for, his “help,” he might give, even if it meant an end to everything he had assembled here, his real life (which might be ending anyway); but not for John or even for himself.
For her,
he thought, for Amelie on the porch in her old clothes, Amelie who had drawn him out of the vacuum of himself with a word and a touch… because there was a chance, at least, that he might survive where John did not, and he owed her that chance; owed her the possibility of a happy ending; or—if that failed—if everything failed—at least the evidence of his courage.
Susan watched from the Volvo as Benjamin entered the rooming house.
Scary, she thought, how easy it was to accept him as Benjamin. “Multiple personality”—she had seen the movies, the PBS documentaries. But those people had always seemed just slightly untrustworthy, as if the whole thing might be—on some level—a sort of confidence trick, the nervous system’s way of committing a sin without taking the blame.
This was different. Benjamin was not the product of a normal mind pushed beyond its limits. He was an invention—a work of art, a wholly synthetic creation. A “normal” mind, Susan thought, can’t do that. It was a feat unique to John Shaw, as unpredictable and utterly new as the fiercely coiled cortical matter under his skull.
Unnerving.
A new disease, Susan thought. She put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. A new disease for a new species. Hypertrophy of the mind. A cancer of the imagination.
Chapter 6
Bad night for Amelie.
The rain didn’t let up. Worse, she felt as if a similar cold cloudiness had invaded the apartment. Benjamin was quiet all through dinner, which was spaghetti and bottled sauce with some extra garlic and hamburger; the kind of meal Amelie assumed a man would like,
substantial,
with the steam from the cookpot fogging the windows. Amelie seldom had the opportunity to fix dinner. But today was her day off; she had planned this in advance.
Benjamin was quiet all through the meal. He didn’t pay attention to the food, ate mechanically, frowned around his fork.
She put on the kettle for coffee, brooding.
It was that woman, Amelie knew, the one who had come looking for John—the one who had driven Benjamin home. She had said something to him; she was on his mind. Amelie wanted to ask what this was all about, but she was scared of seeming jealous. Of seeming not to trust him. Maddeningly, Benjamin didn’t talk about it either. His silence was so substantial it was like an item of clothing, a strange black hat he had worn into the house. She tried to negotiate around it, to accommodate herself to his mood… but it was too obvious to really ignore.
She stacked the dishes and put Bon Jovi on the stereo. The tape-player part still worked, but Roch’s little two-step had twisted the tonearm off its bearings. Amelie hoped Benjamin wouldn’t notice. She didn’t want to tell him about Roch.
The truth was that Amelie didn’t feel too secure about men in general. She imagined that if she had a shrink this was the kind of thing she would confess to him.
I don’t feel too secure about men.
It was one of those things you can know about yourself, but knowing doesn’t make it better. Maybe this was because of her shitty adolescence, her absentee father—who knew what? On TV these problems always had neat beginnings and tidy, logical ends. In life, it was different. The time when she came here from Montreal with Roch—that was an example.
It’s funny, she thought, you say a word like
prostitution
and it sounds truly horrifying. Like “AIDS” or “cancer.” But she had never thought of it that way when she was doing it. She met a couple of other
Not for John,
he thought: what Susan Christopher had asked for, his “help,” he might give, even if it meant an end to everything he had assembled here, his real life (which might be ending anyway); but not for John or even for himself.
For her,
he thought, for Amelie on the porch in her old clothes, Amelie who had drawn him out of the vacuum of himself with a word and a touch… because there was a chance, at least, that he might survive where John did not, and he owed her that chance; owed her the possibility of a happy ending; or—if that failed—if everything failed—at least the evidence of his courage.
Susan watched from the Volvo as Benjamin entered the rooming house.
Scary, she thought, how easy it was to accept him as Benjamin. “Multiple personality”—she had seen the movies, the PBS documentaries. But those people had always seemed just slightly untrustworthy, as if the whole thing might be—on some level—a sort of confidence trick, the nervous system’s way of committing a sin without taking the blame.
This was different. Benjamin was not the product of a normal mind pushed beyond its limits. He was an invention—a work of art, a wholly synthetic creation. A “normal” mind, Susan thought, can’t do that. It was a feat unique to John Shaw, as unpredictable and utterly new as the fiercely coiled cortical matter under his skull.
Unnerving.
A new disease, Susan thought. She put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. A new disease for a new species. Hypertrophy of the mind. A cancer of the imagination.
Chapter 6
Bad night for Amelie.
The rain didn’t let up. Worse, she felt as if a similar cold cloudiness had invaded the apartment. Benjamin was quiet all through dinner, which was spaghetti and bottled sauce with some extra garlic and hamburger; the kind of meal Amelie assumed a man would like,
substantial,
with the steam from the cookpot fogging the windows. Amelie seldom had the opportunity to fix dinner. But today was her day off; she had planned this in advance.
Benjamin was quiet all through the meal. He didn’t pay attention to the food, ate mechanically, frowned around his fork.
She put on the kettle for coffee, brooding.
It was that woman, Amelie knew, the one who had come looking for John—the one who had driven Benjamin home. She had said something to him; she was on his mind. Amelie wanted to ask what this was all about, but she was scared of seeming jealous. Of seeming not to trust him. Maddeningly, Benjamin didn’t talk about it either. His silence was so substantial it was like an item of clothing, a strange black hat he had worn into the house. She tried to negotiate around it, to accommodate herself to his mood… but it was too obvious to really ignore.
She stacked the dishes and put Bon Jovi on the stereo. The tape-player part still worked, but Roch’s little two-step had twisted the tonearm off its bearings. Amelie hoped Benjamin wouldn’t notice. She didn’t want to tell him about Roch.
The truth was that Amelie didn’t feel too secure about men in general. She imagined that if she had a shrink this was the kind of thing she would confess to him.
I don’t feel too secure about men.
It was one of those things you can know about yourself, but knowing doesn’t make it better. Maybe this was because of her shitty adolescence, her absentee father—who knew what? On TV these problems always had neat beginnings and tidy, logical ends. In life, it was different. The time when she came here from Montreal with Roch—that was an example.
It’s funny, she thought, you say a word like
prostitution
and it sounds truly horrifying. Like “AIDS” or “cancer.” But she had never thought of it that way when she was doing it. She met a couple of other
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