get through to her. The phone service over there is terrible. I got somebody who didn’t speak English, and then I got cut off, and when I tried again, they said the whole city was down.”
Thank you, I breathed silently. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Grandma Karen has a right to know, Mother. Think of the effect this could have on Twidge. She thinks Perdita’s wonderful. When Perdita got the eyebrow implants, Twidge glued LEDs to hers, and I almost never got them off. What if Twidge decides to join the Cyclists, too?”
“Twidge is only nine. By the time she’s supposed to get her shunt, Perdita will have long since quit.” I hope, I added silently. Perdita had had the tattoo for a year and a half now and showed no signs of tiring of it. “Besides, Twidge has more sense.”
“It’s true. Oh, Mother, how
could
Perdita do this? Didn’t you tell her about how awful it was?”
“Yes,” I said. “And inconvenient. And unpleasant and unbalancing and painful. None of it made the slightest impact on her. She told me she thought it would be fun.”
Bysshe was pointing to his watch and mouthing, “Time for court.”
“Fun!” Viola said. “When she saw what I went through that time? Honestly, Mother, sometimes I think she’s completely brain dead. Can’t you have her declared incompetent and locked up or something?”
“No,” I said, trying to zip up my robe with one hand. “Viola, I have to go. I’m late for court. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to stop her. She’s a rational adult.”
“Rational!” Viola said. “Her eyebrows light up, Mother. She has Custer’s Last Stand lased on her arm.”
I handed the phone to Bysshe. “Tell Viola I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” I zipped up my robe. “And then call Baghdad and see how long they expect the phones to be out.” I started into the courtroom. “And if there are any more universal calls, make sure they’re local before you answer.”
Bysshe couldn’t get through to Baghdad, which I took as a good sign, and my mother-in-law didn’t call. Mother did, in the afternoon, to ask if lobotomies were legal.
She called again the next day. I was in the middle of my Personal Sovereignty class, explaining the inherent right of citizens in a free society to make complete jackasses of themselves. They weren’t buying it.
“I think it’s your mother,” Bysshe whispered to me as he handed me the phone. “She’s still using the universal. But it’s local. I checked.”
“Hello, Mother,” I said.
“It’s all arranged,” Mother said. “We’re having lunch with Perdita at McGregor’s. It’s on the corner of Twelfth Street and Larimer.”
“I’m in the middle of class,” I said.
“I know. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to tell you not to worry. I’ve taken care of everything.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What have you done?”
“Invited Perdita to lunch with us. I told you. At McGregor’s.”
“Who is ‘us,’ Mother?”
“Just the family,” she said innocently. “You and Viola.”
Well, at least she hadn’t brought in the deprogrammer. Yet. “What are you up to, Mother?”
“Perdita said the same thing. Can’t a grandmother ask her granddaughters to lunch? Be there at twelve-thirty.”
“Bysshe and I have a court-calendar meeting at three.”
“Oh, we’ll be done by then. And bring Bysshe with you. He can provide a man’s point of view.”
She hung up.
“You’ll have to go to lunch with me, Bysshe,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Why? What’s going to happen at lunch?”
“I have no idea.”
On the way over to McGregor’s, Bysshe told me what he’d found out about the Cyclists. “They’re not a cult. There’s no religious connection. They seem to have grown out of a pre-Liberation women’s group,” he said, looking at his notes, “although there are also links to the pro-choice movement, the University of Wisconsin, and the Museum of Modern Art.”
“What?”
“They
Thank you, I breathed silently. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Grandma Karen has a right to know, Mother. Think of the effect this could have on Twidge. She thinks Perdita’s wonderful. When Perdita got the eyebrow implants, Twidge glued LEDs to hers, and I almost never got them off. What if Twidge decides to join the Cyclists, too?”
“Twidge is only nine. By the time she’s supposed to get her shunt, Perdita will have long since quit.” I hope, I added silently. Perdita had had the tattoo for a year and a half now and showed no signs of tiring of it. “Besides, Twidge has more sense.”
“It’s true. Oh, Mother, how
could
Perdita do this? Didn’t you tell her about how awful it was?”
“Yes,” I said. “And inconvenient. And unpleasant and unbalancing and painful. None of it made the slightest impact on her. She told me she thought it would be fun.”
Bysshe was pointing to his watch and mouthing, “Time for court.”
“Fun!” Viola said. “When she saw what I went through that time? Honestly, Mother, sometimes I think she’s completely brain dead. Can’t you have her declared incompetent and locked up or something?”
“No,” I said, trying to zip up my robe with one hand. “Viola, I have to go. I’m late for court. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to stop her. She’s a rational adult.”
“Rational!” Viola said. “Her eyebrows light up, Mother. She has Custer’s Last Stand lased on her arm.”
I handed the phone to Bysshe. “Tell Viola I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” I zipped up my robe. “And then call Baghdad and see how long they expect the phones to be out.” I started into the courtroom. “And if there are any more universal calls, make sure they’re local before you answer.”
Bysshe couldn’t get through to Baghdad, which I took as a good sign, and my mother-in-law didn’t call. Mother did, in the afternoon, to ask if lobotomies were legal.
She called again the next day. I was in the middle of my Personal Sovereignty class, explaining the inherent right of citizens in a free society to make complete jackasses of themselves. They weren’t buying it.
“I think it’s your mother,” Bysshe whispered to me as he handed me the phone. “She’s still using the universal. But it’s local. I checked.”
“Hello, Mother,” I said.
“It’s all arranged,” Mother said. “We’re having lunch with Perdita at McGregor’s. It’s on the corner of Twelfth Street and Larimer.”
“I’m in the middle of class,” I said.
“I know. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to tell you not to worry. I’ve taken care of everything.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What have you done?”
“Invited Perdita to lunch with us. I told you. At McGregor’s.”
“Who is ‘us,’ Mother?”
“Just the family,” she said innocently. “You and Viola.”
Well, at least she hadn’t brought in the deprogrammer. Yet. “What are you up to, Mother?”
“Perdita said the same thing. Can’t a grandmother ask her granddaughters to lunch? Be there at twelve-thirty.”
“Bysshe and I have a court-calendar meeting at three.”
“Oh, we’ll be done by then. And bring Bysshe with you. He can provide a man’s point of view.”
She hung up.
“You’ll have to go to lunch with me, Bysshe,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Why? What’s going to happen at lunch?”
“I have no idea.”
On the way over to McGregor’s, Bysshe told me what he’d found out about the Cyclists. “They’re not a cult. There’s no religious connection. They seem to have grown out of a pre-Liberation women’s group,” he said, looking at his notes, “although there are also links to the pro-choice movement, the University of Wisconsin, and the Museum of Modern Art.”
“What?”
“They
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