Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies by Greg Bear Page B

it.”
    â€œWhy? I haven’t done anything for you.”
    â€œOr to me, either,” she said, facing him again. “You know how I’ve made all this money?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I’m not a fool.”
    â€œYou’ve heard about me. That I’m a whore.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Mrs. Diamond Freeland says you are.”
    â€œAnd what is a whore?”
    â€œYou let men do it to you for money,” Oliver said, feeling bolder, but with his face hot all the same.
    Miss Parkhurst nodded. “I’ve got part of them all here with me,” she said. “My bookkeeping. I know every name, every face. They keep me company now that business is slow.”
    â€œAll of them?” Oliver asked.
    Miss Parkhurst’s faint smile was part pride, part sadness, her eyes distant and moist. “They gave me all the things I have here.”
    â€œI don’t think it would be worth it,” Oliver said.
    â€œI’d be dead if I wasn’t a whore,” Miss Parkhurst said, eyes suddenly sharp on him, flashing anger. “I’d have starved to death.” She relaxed her clenched hands. “We got plenty of time to talk about my life, so let’s hold it here for a while. I got something you need, if you’re going to inherit this place.”
    â€œI don’t want it, ma’am,” Oliver said.
    â€œIf you don’t take it, somebody who doesn’t need it and deserves it a lot less will. I want you to have it. Please, be kind to me this once.”
    â€œWhy me?” Oliver asked. He simply wanted out; this was completely off the planned track of his life. He was less afraid of Miss Parkhurst now, though her anger raised hairs on his neck; he felt he could be bolder and perhaps even demanding. There was a weakness in her: he was her weakness, and he wasn’t above taking some advantage of that, considering how desperate his situation might be.
    â€œYou’re kind,” she said. “You care. And you’ve never had a woman, not all the way.”
    Oliver’s face warmed again. “Please let me go,” he said quietly, hoping it didn’t sound as if he was pleading.
    Miss Parkhurst folded her arms. “I can’t,” she said.
    While Oliver spent his first day in Miss Parkhurst’s mansion, across the city, beyond the borders of Sunside, Denver and Reggie Jones had returned home to find the apartment blanketed in gloom. Reggie, tall and gangly, long of neck and short of head, with a prominent nose, stood with back slumped in the front hall, mouth open in surprise. “He just took off and left you all here?” Reggie asked. Denver returned from the kitchen, shorter and stockier than his brother, dressed in black vinyl jacket and pants.
    Yolanda’s face was puffy from constant crying. She now enjoyed the tears she spilled, and had scheduled them at two-hour intervals, to her momma’s sorrowful irritation. She herded the two babies into their momma’s bedroom and closed a rickety gate behind them, then brushed her hands on the breast of her ragged blouse.
    â€œYou don’t get it,” she said, facing them and dropping her arms dramatically. “That whore took Momma, and Oliver traded himself for her.”
    â€œThat whore,” said Reggie, “is a rich old witch.”
    â€œRich old bitch witch,” Denver said, pleased with himself.
    â€œThat whore is opportunity knocking,” Reggie continued, chewing reflectively. “I hear she lives alone.”
    â€œThat’s why she took Oliver,” Yolanda said. The babies cooed and chirped behind the gate.
    â€œWhy him and not one of us?” Reggie asked.
    Momma gently pushed the babies aside, swung open the gate, and marched down the hall, dressed in her best wool skirt and print blouse, wrapped in her overcoat against the gathering dark and cold outside. “Where you