Humbug (The Unwinding of Ebenezer Scrooge): A Science Fiction Adventure, page 12
Rosy.
“Bah.” He blew his nose in the kerchief and threw it in the garbage. Every little detail seemed to bother him because more money, more problems. Poor people complained about what they didn’t have. Try a mile in Eb’s slippers and they’d see it ain’t all rosy on this side of the spectacles.
The interviews. The haters. The endless details.
And creepy dolls.
He had managed to squeegee the memories of the dolls from his mind. And that earthy smell. Where had he noticed that before? A little voice told him he didn’t want to remember.
It was 1:50 p.m.
Get the interview done and get to the Skeye™ dome. That was all that was on his calendar. After that, his problems would vanish like a magician’s assistant.
“Ten minutes, sir.”
“This.” Eb held up the bow tie.
The droid flipped the white collar and worked the bow tie into place. It was quite snug beneath chin number two. Or is that number three?
“We may need to print another tuxedo, sir.”
Eb just had the three-dimensional fabricator print the tuxedo six months ago. “It must’ve shrunk in the wash.”
“Of course, sir.” The droid stuck out his tongue as he began squaring the knot.
Eb’s projected image would be stellar as usual. He didn’t have to dress the part, but he found it lifted his spirits and made him feel closer to the handsome fellow the public was watching. If he held very still and closed his eyes, he could feel the square chin and high-rise cheekbones. As if that were really him, that he could wish himself into the projection.
One day, maybe.
The droid brushed the jacket and straightened the collar. Eb did a slow circle, examining his backside in case he should ever walk a red carpet.
He looked over the glasses. “Do you think a pipe would be over the top?”
“Why stop now, sir?”
Of course it would be over the top. What were they calling him on social media? Eccentrically charming.
“Five minutes, sir.”
“Are the girls ready?”
“They weren’t invited, sir.”
“Good.” That meant less baby talk from the hosts. “Where are they?”
“Their bedroom, sir. No cookies or milk.”
“We’re going to talk about this after dinner. I want to meet in the Grand Room.”
“A state of the union, sir?”
“A state of the union.”
“Perhaps it could wait until after Christmas, sir. Why smash their spirits now?”
Eb took three steps back and took in the whole Ebenezer Scrooge show from the top of the tilted hat to the bottom of his bare feet. With two minutes to showtime, he hopped on the Segway.
“Now is now, Dum-dum!”
He rolled into the projection room at exactly 2:00 p.m. The Investigative Tonight studio was already on the air when he arrived. A wide, shiny desk with curved edges protruded from the domed wall. Michelle Barrows, the blonde attorney-turned-entertainment-host sat on the other side, her cerulean blue blouse snug around the neck. She smiled as he approached, her peach lips glossy and full.
“Mr. Scrooge,” she said, “pleasure to have you.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Michelle.” His projection pretended to kiss her hand. “Congratulations on your new show.”
“We’ve been airing since last year, but thank you.”
The set was less Christmassy than her last gig on Entertainment Nightly. No tree or ornaments or distracting lights. Just a strand of twining garland over the backdrop.
I can dig this.
“It’s nice to have a very dapper gentleman on my last show of the year,” she said. “Merry Christmas to you, sir.”
“Okay.”
“Why do you always say that?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I notice when someone wishes you a Merry Christmas, you say okay. It’s sort of like grunting when someone says good morning.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why do you hate Christmas, Mr. Scrooge? It made you a very wealthy man; I would think you would love it.”
“Are we on the air?”
She chuckled. “Yes, we are.”
“I, uh, never said I hated it.”
Michelle let a pause drag out. Eb glanced at the monitor off set and saw his projected image smiling with the entire set of pearly whites.
“Jacob Marley died two years ago,” she said. “You two were good friends.”
“Yes, uh-huh. We were.”
“It must’ve been hard after all that time.”
“It was.”
She let another pause hang. Eb’s image didn’t falter despite the fact he had already sweat through his shirt.
“You took custody of his girls, too,” she said. “Very selfless.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Well, legally you had no choice but to take them in, but you haven’t sued them for it.”
“You’re not being very nice, Michelle. What’s that mean?”
“Your legal team is trigger-happy, Mr. Scrooge. What are the girls’ names?”
Eb crossed his legs twice. The tuxedo was becoming a straitjacket. “Um, Addy. Natty.”
“Addy and Natty. Sweet names. What did you get them for Christmas?”
“What they wanted, of course.”
“Whatever they wanted, that’s nice.”
He didn’t say whatever, but he couldn’t quite figure out her angle. Did she want to fight?
“Where are they from?” she asked.
“Guatemala.”
“Have you ever contacted their birth parents?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m assuming their parents made an adoption plan because they were very poor, not because they didn’t want them.”
“I never said that.”
“What’s their favorite food?”
“I don’t know.”
“Their favorite color?”
“Look—”
“We know their favorite clothes.”
Those dreaded dresses. Social media was beginning to catch on, scolding Eb for never buying them anything else when, in fact, there was a whole room of little girl clothes. Somehow they always ended up in those dresses.
“We can’t find their birth parents.” Michelle flipped a page over. “We did a search of Jacob’s custody and can’t find a single picture of the children or where they came from.”
Her long stare drilled for oil between his eyes.
There were rumors that the girls were made up, some sort of publicity stunt to appeal to the public. If only he would’ve thought of that before, then he wouldn’t be stepping in milk puddles when he walked through the kitchen.
“You’re not being kind to me,” Eb said. “I was very nice to you on the other show, so it’s very unfair of you to treat me this way.”
“Jacob had a vision.”
Michelle had not flinched, her shoulders square and taut. Her image was replaced by a video of Jacob visiting a children’s hospital, sitting at bedsides with gifts for juvenile patients, their eyes dark, scalps bare. He would smile that wide Jacob smile—the smile that all the newsfeeds ran, the smile that captured Philanthropist of the Year—as he went bed to bed in his Santa coat and pulled stuffed animals from his Santa bag. One year it was lions, the next tigers, then rhinos, then bears. Always something new. Something special.
Every year.
Eb went once but couldn’t take the smell. It was the antiseptic and old skin, the smell of an open wound.
“Since his death,” Michelle said, “you’ve cut all medical spending. How has the mission statement changed at Avocado?”
Eb grimaced, but his projection appeared serious and empathetic.
“We entertain the world, Michelle. It’s what people want. The proof is sitting right in front of you. Every dollar spent is their vote cast. They’ve spoken very loudly. Who am I not to give them what they want?”
“How about giving them what they need?”
“People are responsible for their own decisions, Michelle. Quite frankly I’m surprised you feel like we should decide for them.”
“You don’t give booze to a child.”
“Nor have I. And the public are not children. They’re adults, Michelle.”
Score.
“Jacob envisioned technology that could rebuild organs, could eliminate cancer. The test trials were all very promising and you cut the investments entirely for what, entertainment? I find that irresponsible, Mr. Scrooge.”
“I didn’t cut the spending, not entirely.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“It’s confidential, Michelle.”
He was telling the truth. He had reinstated a portion of medical research, pretending to give way to Jerri’s request when, in fact, he was hoping to find something that would eat fat from his belly and chins.
“We’re not expecting immortality,” Michelle said. “We’re talking improvements in the quality of life, enhanced recovery from accidents, stable mental health. You, Mr. Scrooge, could deliver the greatest Christmas gift to the world instead of entertaining us into a coma.”
“You can’t change the world overnight, Michelle.”
“Change happens one person at a time.”
“Is that what you’re trying to do, change me?”
“Only you can do that.” She blinked slowly.
Eb flinched. His projection also flinched, less so. Eb had nearly fallen out of his seat. Where have I heard that?
“You have money, Mr. Scrooge. You have power. You have opportunity. Don’t squander it. Make Jacob happy.”
His projection maintained a pleasant smile while tracks of sweat pooled on Eb’s eyebrows and dripped down his cheeks. His teeth hurt. She asked another question. Eb couldn’t hear it over the sound of grinding molars.
“Have a pleasant day,” Eb’s projection replied, an automated response to whatever hateful question she spewed. Then the projection smiled brightly, waving like a beauty queen in the back of a convertible.
The walls turned blank.
Eb clutched the edge of the desk, holding his breath until his inky periphery began to close on him. He sucked in a long breath and choked on saliva as he looked around the vanilla room, the walls the silvery shade of a dead theater.
“Noooooo!” The scream vibrated through his foaming lips. “No! No! No!”
He flipped the desk on its back, kicked it with his bare feet, and picked up one of the splintered legs. It spun like a throwing knife, the sharp edge sticking into the far wall.
The screams continued. His protests mingled with the sounds of a dying animal, the wet slap of sweaty palms against the floor, the crumpling of compressed wood as the desk was tortured into unrecognizable pieces. His reflection had appeared on the wall and watched him flail on the floor.
A sloppy beast in a top hat and crooked bow tie looked back.
Eb tore the shirt open, buttons popping like plastic bullets. He ripped at the bow tie, but it refused to budge beneath his pudgy grip. His hat took the worst of it.
The top hat.
He put his foot through it, ground it beneath his heel, pulled it apart, beat it with a table leg until black shreds covered the floor like black snow. He only stopped to breathe.
On his hands and knees, a single strand of drool hung from his lip like a sagging instrument. He dropped on his back, sobs clogging his windpipe. He rolled once, twice until he came to the edge of the room and sat up, the curvature of the wall pushing his head forward.
His enormous belly was tacky with sweat.
Sooner or later, the haters attack.
Only the sound of raspy breath, a plump uvula rattling in his throat, filled the room. When the door opened, he was half naked, hunched over with a knotted bow tie squeezed between chin number two and chin number three.
The droid stood with a stack of neatly folded clothes on his forklift arms. Eb continued massaging his stomach, curly hair swirling around the vortex of his belly button.
“I need a vacation” he said.
“How about Florida, sir?”
He shook his head; the round spectacles were shattered. All his anger and agitation had been incinerated by the nuclear tantrum. Only a hollow of exhaustion remained.
His heart was granite.
The droid cut away the bow tie with a pair of scissors. “I took the liberty of printing a larger shirt, sir.”
“I’m going to put more money into medical research.”
“Wonderful, sir.”
“I’m so fat.” He slapped his belly, wet and sticky.
“Would you care to lose weight, sir? I have an exercise program and diet menu that will guarantee results.”
“No, dummy. We’ll use Jacob’s research to develop fat-eater cells.”
“Fat-eater, sir?”
“Instant results. We’ll start with that and see where it goes.”
The droid helped him to his feet, dried him with a towel and dressed him. The freshly printed shirt was toasty. Eb left the projection room with a table leg stuck in the wall.
“Cancel all my interviews,” he said. “All of them.”
He would never do another one.
SIXTEEN
~
Eb faced golden doors.
Dry and naked beneath a fresh robe, he smelled like baby powder. Nothing was tied around his neck, no belt cinching his waist or collar choking his windpipe. He was free.
It was 11:00 p.m. He was ahead of schedule.
Eb watched the girls on a holo. They were curled up in bed—lying on their sides, arms on top of the bedspread, foreheads touching. Dreaded rag dolls crushed against their chins. The closet doors were closed, the room clean. No jibberish to be heard.
He didn’t go to dinner. Skipped it altogether. It was time to shed some weight. After the interview disaster, he went for a steam shower. Then another after that.
He cancelled the state of the union address. No need to bring the girls to tears about the cookies and milk in the closet and the dirty little doll that looked too much like the one he’d shredded. Those were answers he would get, just not now. He needed the night to end on a high note. If not a high one, then at least a quiet one.
The droid kneaded his shoulders, whispering affirmations past the cloth hood draped over his head.
“You’re good, sir.”
Eb’s fingers were wrinkled worse than wet cotton. The lotions were nice; the baby powder soothed his chafed belly folds. The droid was only expressing what Eb wanted to hear. He didn’t really mean it, didn’t really believe that nonsense.
“You’re a very good boy, sir.”
Wait. Did he say ‘boy’?
“I will send up food, sir.”
“Do not disturb me.”
“Of course not, sir. You deserve this. You earned this.”
He had earned it. Who were these self-righteous reporters that could tell him what to do with his money? They were jealous, plain and simple. He started Avocado; he dominated the gift-giving season. She needed to accept that.
Quite simply, he won.
The golden doors slid open. An evergreen breeze fell over him, the minty exhalation of an ancient conifer breathing on him. A vague mist wafted beneath his hood. Eb vacuumed it up with his nostrils. He nearly wept.
The spoils of war.
Funny how he thought of it as war. But business was a battle. Take it lightly and you’d be filling potholes. Life was a business. And no one wanted to fill potholes.
The droid guided him inside the elevator, a golden tube with polished walls. Eb fell onto the bench seat along the back.
“I will see you soon, sir.”
If everything went right—and it better—he wouldn’t see that dull gray face until morning.
Eb avoided his reflection on the inside of the elevator doors. The tube began a slow rise. He braced his hands on the bench and felt something papery next to him.
Two gifts. One green, the other red.
He shook the weighty boxes. There was no need to open them; he recognized the heavy rattle, the same gifts they had given him the year before, the smooth-edged rocks that he could use to weigh down paper. Or skip across a pond.
The elevator stopped so smoothly that he didn’t notice his arrival. The evergreen scent captured his attention. He closed his eyes once again and inhaled.
On his feet, he could no longer avoid his gold-tinted reflection. The concave surface slimmed him down a shade. The image was distorted but better. He was wheezing just from the two attempts it took to stand.
He thumbed the only button on the wall, a button that would only respond to his fingerprint.
The ceiling slid open; the floor began to rise.
A warm breeze fluttered his hood. The night sounds of crickets and cicadas called forth. A nervous buzz sang in his stomach. He tipped his head back as the floor lifted him out of the Castle and into the Skeye™ dome.
Dizzy with anticipation, saturated with insect song and fresh-scented boughs, he opened his eyes.
Pines and hemlocks, spruce and cedar. Rhododendrons in bloom.
A veritable forest.
Between sagging branches, the sky was littered with celestial diamonds. There was no hint of a dome, nothing that seemed to separate him from the outside world. As if he were in it. Of course, he wasn’t, but what was the difference?
A temperate breeze ruffled the hem of his robe. Eb walked the paved paths that journeyed through the miniature forest, a conservatory of hidden ponds and small alcoves for meditation. Chairs and loungers could be found in larger niches, a place to rest and relax. Even sleep.
The face of the mountain soared over him.
He cautiously approached the stone wall. Snow crusted near the bottom of the invisible dome, the first hint of a barrier. As he neared the perimeter, the surface of the dome turned milky white. And when he backed up, it turned transparent.
A proximity warning. Genius. And beautiful.
He wiped away tears.
It had been seven years since he’d left the Castle, not since the day he moved in. Now he had the experience of being in touch with nature again, with real trees and seventy-two-degree breezes and the stars and the mountains. The insect sounds were simulated—miniature speakers strategically installed in the trees and little burrows. He wasn’t going to do real bugs; he could only take so much nature.
