Stations of the Tide - Michael Swanwick [15]
“The moment Mother’s estate is settled,” Ambrym was saying, “I intend to leave the house and never return. As far as I’m concerned, without Mother there is no family, and I am not related to either of you.”
“Ambrym!” Esme squeaked, horrified.
“This is a shameful way to talk, with Mother dying just above us!” her elder sister cried.
“She won’t die, not when she knows how happy that would make us. Spite will keep her alive,” Ambrym said. Her siblings turned disapproving frowns on her, but did not disagree.
They came to an abrupt halt then, and there was about the group a satisfied air of fulfillment, as if they had just enacted a private drama for his benefit and were awaiting applause so they could link hands and take their bows. There, their collective attitude seemed to be saying, now you know all about us. It was a well-rehearsed scene, and he could tell that no one who entered the house would be allowed to escape without witnessing some variant of it.
At that moment the doctor descended the stairs, and all three looked up expectantly. He solemnly shook his head at the sisters, and departed. It was an ambiguous gesture at best.
“Come.” Linogre started up the stairs.
In a somber mood, he followed.
* * *
She led him into a chamber so dimly lit he was not sure of its exact dimensions. An enormous bed dominated the room. Bed-curtains hung from brass hooks set into the ceiling, a tapestry of some bright land where satyrs and astronauts, nymphs and goats, frolicked. The edges were bordered with the constellations of Old Earth, wands and orchids, and other symbols of generative magic. Age had faded the colors, and the browned fabric was torn by its own weary weight.
Within the bed, propped up on a billowing throne of pillows, lay a grotesquely fat woman. He was reminded inevitably of a termite queen, she was so vast and passively immobile. Her face was doughy white, her mouth a tiny gasp of pain. A ringed hand hovered over a board floating atop her swollen belly, on which was arranged a circle of solitaire cards: stars, cups, queens, and knaves in solemn procession. A silent television flickered at her feet.
The bureaucrat introduced himself, and she nodded without looking up from her slow telling out of cards. “I am playing a game called Futility,” she said. “Are you familiar with it?”
“How does one win?”
“You don’t. You can only postpone losing. I’ve managed to keep this particular game going for years.” She looked up at her daughter.
“Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“All is pattern,” she said. She had to pause ever so slightly between sentences to take in air. “Relationships between things shift and change constantly; there is no such thing as objective truth. There is only pattern, and the greater pattern within which the lesser patterns occur. I understand the greater pattern, and so I’ve learned to make the cards dance. But inevitably the game must someday end. There is a lot of life in how one tells the cards.”
“Everyone knows. You’re not very subtle about it. Even this gentleman beside you understands.”
“Do you?” The mother looked directly at him for the first time, both she and her daughter awaiting his answer with interest.
The bureaucrat coughed into his hand. “I must have a few words in private with you, if I may, Mother Gregorian.”
She favored Linogre with a cold look. “Leave.”
As the daughter closed the door, her mother said loudly, “They want to put me away. They conspire against me, and think I don’t notice. But I notice. I notice everything.”
In the hallway Linogre made an exasperated noise. Her footsteps descended the stairs.
“It’s the only way to keep her from listening at the door,” the old woman whispered. Then, louder, almost shouting, “But I’ll stay here, I’ll die here. In this bed.” Quieter, conversationally, “This was my bridebed, you know. I had my first man here.” On the ghostcandling television, he could see Byron staring out his window again. “It’s a good bed. I’ve taken each of my husbands to it. Sometimes more