The Roberts Page 7

  “No. Not yet.”

  She had some thoughts on the matter, but for the moment kept them to herself. Instead, she returned to the museum, which was vivid in her mind. The way it seemed to explode from the ground, like a vent of steam, thrusting itself upward…it seemed so male to her, so attention-grabbing, so Robertesque, and while it thrilled her to look at it, she wondered what role she could possibly have played in its conception.

  “How did I inspire it? What about me?”

  “Everything.”

  “For example.”

  “All of you. Every bit. Top to bottom, inside out.” He paused, conscious of how lame he sounded. “It’s hard to put into words.”

  But words were what she wanted, specific and concrete, as though the deed itself were not enough. She waited, while Robert struggled to untie his tongue.

  Eventually he said, “I built it for you.”

  “For me?” This seemed unlikely.

  “For both of us. But you were always there, at the back of my mind. I wanted you to like it. I always want you to like what I do.”

  She had a curious reaction to this. At first she thought him rather pathetic, child-like, without the virtue of being a child. But then she remembered who she was.

  “I miss you, Robert.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Come home. Come be with me again.”

  “I can’t. I’m not strong enough. Or uninhibited enough. Or something.”

  ”I’ve stopped sleeping with him.”

  He stiffened. It wasn’t the sex, not in and of itself. It was the sex plus everything else.

  “He must be lonely.”

  She hadn’t really stopped, not in the strict sense of the word, the absolute, unequivocal, lock the door and throw away the key sense, not in that sense, but she had stopped for now. Rōbert (or R Prime, his current nom de guerre) didn’t like it, but that was Rōbert, like all the Roberts, he preferred things his way. And who knew the future? It was prudent, she felt, to keep an open mind.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she replied. “He can take care of himself.”

  “Do you love him, Grace?”

  The question shocked her. “I love you.”

  He wanted to believe her. She could read it all over his face. And the uncertainty, and the wariness, she could read that too.

  “Tell me something, Robert. When you made me, you made me so I wouldn’t be hurt by you. So I couldn’t be. But it hurts to see you suffer. It hurts to see you sad. Why didn’t you make me immune to that, too?”

  He had no answer, except that he had done his best. Perhaps some hurts were inherent to being human.

  Grace considered this. It seemed plausible. On the other hand, wasn’t it equally inherent to being human that humans—including the makers of humans—would aspire to more?

  “Maybe next time,” she said.

  He glanced at her sharply.

  She was teasing.

  He was not amused. “There won’t be a next time. I promise you.”

  “Which means what, Robert? You’re not happy with the results? You’re giving up? Slinking away?”

  “I’m happy with you.”

  “You don’t look happy.”

  He drew a breath. “Give me a minute.”

  It took less. How much less she couldn’t say: she couldn’t see his face, for she was in his arms. But she felt it, the happiness. And she had a revelation: some hurts just had to be fixed after the fact. They brought out the best in people, and that’s why they existed. As reminders, as opportunities, to do good. For two hearts to come together. To mend differences. To love.

  four

  The opening of the museum, scheduled for late October, was delayed by more than a month. It was rare that any building was ever completed on time—it seemed against some natural law—although in this case the structure itself (and everything connected to it: exhibits and displays, security, landscaping, parking) was finished well in advance. Staff had been hired, uniforms created (using a fully-tested, non-reactive Pakki-flex congener spun into a “skin on skin” fabric, producing a wonderful, shimmering, moiré effect), but at the last minute, at the architect’s insistence, who himself was following the sage, if not brilliant, advice of his most beloved, there was a change. The couple who had been selected to inhabit the Domome was asked to step down in favor of another couple, who, nepotism aside, was really the perfect choice. It was several weeks before the house responded, and the new occupants were deemed acceptable. This was not wholly unexpected, but, all things considered, it was a huge relief.

  October in the city was a time of cloud-studded skies, mild temperatures and gorgeous, golden light. By contrast, December was the season of rain, and the day of the opening dawned drizzly and gray. As he stood at his bedroom window, dressing and rehearsing the few words he would say, unable to see through the heavy curtain of sprinkle and mist, Robert worried that the museum would not show itself to advantage on such a dreary day. He worried about the Domome too, which after all was just a house. What made it different, elevated it (if that was the word), was the Pakki-flex, and Pakki-flex was fickle: perhaps this would be the day that it did nothing, that it chose to take a rest. And if it did, could the house alone justify itself as the centerpiece of such a hullabaloo? Nothing like this had ever been done before, not on this scale. And for good reason, he thought.

  He was no stranger to ribbon-cuttings, nor to the pressures and anxieties attending them, which typically he shouldered alone. Today, however, he had an ally, and at a sound he turned from the window, and there she was. Her hair was up; she wore a new dress. His worries and apprehensions didn’t stand a chance, scattering like autumn leaves at the sight of her.

  “God, you’re beautiful.”

  She smiled, lifting her chin.

  “You make we weak.”

  “Weak?”

  “In the knees.”

  “It’s a big day,” she said.

  They stood there, drinking each other in, all else—the bigness of the day, the weather, the time—forgotten. He crossed the room and laid his hand on her shoulder, which was bare, and gently traced the contour of her neck as it curved ever so gracefully upward toward her face. To Grace the touch was like an electric current. She felt it to the tip of her toes.

  They exchanged a glance.

  “No?” he asked.

  She was half a second slow in responding.

  “I can deal with no.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes meaning what? No?”

  “No,” she said, draping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. “Yes meaning yes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after getting back into their clothes and straightening up, they hurried out the door. They were just in time for the festivities, arriving as the mayor was stepping to the microphone. Flanking him were the directors of the city’s departments of planning, preservation and the arts, various underlings, several leading architects, and Julian with two of his partners. The media, along with a moderate crowd, were also there. Considering everyone who wanted a share of the credit, the ceremony was mercifully brief. Near the end of the speeches the rain slowed, then stopped all together, and the sky began to lift. At the moment the ribbon was cut, the sun put in an appearance, and as the crowd surged forward, it struck the museum with a broad swath of light. The glass seemed to catch fire, which spread from panel to panel and then shot upward, until the museum was wreathed in pale, shimmering, amber light. A gasp went up from the crowd. A few of them glanced at Robert.

  And the Domome…what more could he have asked or hoped for? As the galleries and balconies filled, and the sun played peek-a-boo, creating one felicity after another with the museum’s walls, the dome, as if on cue, began to pucker, as though the air beneath it were liquefying and being brought to a boil. As the pucker grew, a hush came over the crowd, every eye fixed on the steadily enlarging bubble. When it covered most of the dome and seemed on the very brink of
bursting, a rent appeared in it, narrow at first, slit-sized, like a long paper cut. Wrinkles appeared on the surface of the bubble, which, remarkably, retained its shape and did not deflate. There was a collective intake of air, oohs and aahs, followed by sustained applause.

  As if in response, the rent widened, revealing first one man, then another, beneath the dome in the room below. Both, in formal wear, were looking up, taking in the sea of faces trained on them, and if one seemed more pleased with the attention, more in love with it, it didn’t show. They had their arms around each other, and high above them, Robert slipped his around Grace. He was as happy as he’d ever been. He had his masterpiece. He had Grace. In the world there was nothing he wanted more.

  For Grace it was hardly different. She had everything she wanted: her man, her man’s happiness, his love. She also had the museum’s key. Robert had left a copy of it in plain view on a table at home, and after several days, assuming it was there for a reason, she took it. Nothing was ever said.

  The applause grew louder, and it was joined by whistles and cheers. And now the two were smiling, and now they were waving. And Grace, having threaded her arm around Robert, gave him a loving squeeze, and with her other hand, her free one, she waved back.