Shelter (14 page)

    Preston had always replied that MacroCorp did just fine without actually manufacturing bombs, using child labor, or logging old-growth forests. He said that caring needn't represent self-sacrifice, that the best help is the kind by which both parties profit, and that ethical businesses didn't knowingly trade in destruction. He acknowledged that all things were interconnected, but said that he would do his best to make MacroCorp an agent of light, not darkness. His critics called this self-serving solopsism. His many beneficiaries, the victims of famine, flood, and plague, called him a saint.

    When Meredith was seven, her father had been dubbed by some netcast "the founder of the new sainthood." Preston had pooh-poohed this, explaining to his wide-eyed daughter that the old saints had been people who died under horrible circumstances in the service of what they loved. "I plan to do what I love by staying alive and healthy, Merry, so don't you worry." But a friend at school had told her that in fact, Preston would never die at all, because her mommy had said that when you help people, you live forever. Meredith had continued to believe this, quite literally, long after she had lost faith in the Tooth Fairy, the Vernal Rabbit, and the Summer Solstice Sloth. She joined the rank of Preston's critics only in adolescence, when it became clear that in his perpetual quest to help everyone on the planet, he would never be able to make time for her. He went through the motions—every night he talked to her and Constance via netcam, from wherever he was in Africa or Asia or Europe—but he was never home. He hadn't been at one of her birthday parties for five years; he dutifully asked about her pets and friends and teachers, even remembered some of their names, but she knew it was just another PR ploy. If he really cared about his wife and daughter, he'd be home. If he really cared about them, he'd be using the netcam to talk to his staff in Africa and Asia and Europe, not to his family.

    Meredith had grown to detest all things connected with MacroCorp: computers, the CuteBots she'd played with when she was a little girl, the cleaning bots who roamed through the house eating dust. Animals were beautiful: they did things you didn't expect them to, and they had personalities you couldn't program. They were little packages of mystery. But Constance considered Meredith's passion only an unfortunate developmental phase. Several weeks before the Squeaky incident, Meredith had overheard her mother fretting on the phone, venting to her friend Brenda as she added yet another delicate brushstroke to yet another delicate watercolor painting of microcircuitry. "I know, I know, all children like animals. And honestly, it's not that I don't like animals; I'm as Green as anyone else. I just wish she'd pay more attention to the rest of the world, spend more time online. She's such a bright child, really, and all of her friends, I mean, they're all writing subroutines to hack into weather satellites and, and, I don't know, make the forecasts look so bad that school will be canceled for the rest of the year. Yes, I'm sure she'll catch up. I know, Brenda. Of course the animals are cute, except for the snakes. I just wish we didn't have so many of them in the house."

    And now Squeaky was really in the house, loose, out of his cage. From the looks of it, he was contemplating lunching on one of Constance's brushes. Meredith took a step closer, and with a whisk of his tail, Squeaky retreated to the top of the easel. "Squeaky? Over here, sweetie—"

    "Sweetie?" Constance snapped. "Meredith, the thing's not a bot. You can't pin human labels on it. It's a rodent, a rat with social pretensions. You have to stop anthropomorphizing."

    "I'll get him back in his cage, Mom! Calm down. You're scaring him."

    "Meredith, that painting would have been worth twenty-five thousand dollars! It was supposed to be the centerpiece of my opening next month."

    "You can repair it," Meredith said impatiently. "Or repaint it. You've got the sketches. Come on, Mom, the opening's a ViralAid benefit, right? So have the buyers give the money directly. It's more honest. Squeaky, darling, come to me. Come on, baby."

    Behind her, she heard her mother's sigh. "Honey, if they were going to give the money directly, they'd have done it by now. They want something in return; that's very understandable."

    "Well, aren't they supposed to feel good for helping? Shouldn't that be enough?" Squeaky had now scampered onto the back of the wicker couch. He flicked his tail at her again, as if they were playing a game. Meredith took a slow step toward him, holding out a closed fist she hoped he would believe contained food. What had gotten into him? Did she need to build another wing onto his cage? It was already a five-foot terraced affair, with tunnels and perches containing all the toys any squirrel could ask for. The latch on the door must have worked loose again; she'd have to find a better way to repair it.

    "Maybe it should," her mother said, "but it isn't, at least not for everybody. And that means I'm in a real position to do good here. Not everyone can get twenty-five thousand dollars for a canvas, Merry."

    No, Meredith thought, just the wife of the CEO of MacroCorp. "Of course not, Mom. Squeaky, come here!" He turned around, gave her a coquettish look over his shoulder, and leaped nimbly onto the hanging pot of philodendron next to the window.

    "Merry, there's no such thing as pure compassion, even among Greens. Altruism is only enlightened self-interest; you know that. And not everyone understands that we're all connected. Plenty of people call themselves Green and aren't."

    Meredith rolled her eyes. Look who was talking. "I know, Mom. Squeaky, no! That's poisonous!" Meredith leapt at the pot to keep him from chewing the philodendron, and he launched himself gracefully back onto the couch. "Oh, Squeaky! Mom, maybe this would be easier if you left the room."

    Her mother went on as if Meredith hadn't spoken. "We need to honor the big picture, even if other people don't. The UDPs need whatever we can give them, even if it comes from trendy art collectors. Do you understand?"

    Right, Mom. Of course, the Underdeveloped Peoples don't call them- selves underdeveloped. That's your word for them, because they like plants and animals better than machines. "Sure, Mom. Come on, Squeaky—"

    "Oh, Goddess!" Constance said. Squeaky had jumped back onto the painting and resumed nibbling the torn edge of the canvas. "Meredith! Make him stop that!" Constance rushed toward the squirrel, flapping her arms, but he only cocked his head at her.

    "I'll get him back in his cage, Mom! If you'd just go away and give me a chance—"

    "Get him cff my painting! Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here!" And as Meredith watched in horror, her mother rushed behind the canvas and opened the window, through which Squeaky, with one last wave of his tail and a chittering cry of joy, streaked in a blur of gray fur.

    "Mom! How could you do that!"

    "He'll come back, Merry. He knows who feeds him."

    "Squeaky!" Meredith cried, and ran to the window. It was a cold day, and foggy; she couldn't see the Bay, which normally shone far below, down the terraced length of Lyon Street. She could barely even see the eucalyptus trees of the Presidio, which began just beyond the low wall bordering her family's property. She frantically scanned the manicured lawn, but couldn't find Squeaky anywhere. He had already disappeared.

    She ran outside, calling him, making the chittering sounds he had responded to when he was a baby and thought she was his mother. "Chhhh—chit—chit—Squeaky? Where are you?" She scanned the lawn, empty, ran to the wall and squinted between trees and along branches—was that a flash of gray? no, it was a bird, and flown—and then, heart pounding, began patrolling the perimeter of the lawn, peering into the Presidio. He could be anywhere. "Squeaky?" she called softly, and then bit her lip to keep from crying.

    "Merry?" Her mother had followed her outside. "Honey, I'm sorry. Really I am. Can I help you?"

    Meredith, furious, ignored her. "Squeaky? Chhhh—chit—chit?" One circuit of the lawn completed, she began another, and ended it with a taste of lead in her mouth. He was gone.

    "Meredith?" Constance still stood forlornly on the lawn, an anxious shape in the fog. "Sweetheart, you can put out food for him. He'll come back, once he's done exploring. Come inside now. I'll have the bots make you some tea."

    "I don't want tea."

    "Come inside. We'll put out food. Squeaky will be fine."

    "Mom, he's a tame animal! He can't survive on his own!"

    "He'll be all right, Merry. Remember what the vet said? Squirrels can't really be domesticated. You would have had to let him go sooner or later anyway, when he reverted back to the wild. Squirrels always do. The doctor said so. Now have some tea."

    Meredith swallowed tears. "He hasn't reverted yet, and he doesn't know how to find his own food, and he's not scared enough of people! Somebody might hurt him! He'll die, Mom! He'll die and it will be your fault!"

    "Merry, please ... "

    Meredith felt her fists clenching. "He wasn't trying to hurt your stupid painting! He didn't know what he was chewing—he's a squirrel and he needs to chew!"

    "Meredith, I'm sorry."

    "You are not! You hated Squeaky! You hate all my animals! That's what you told Brenda! I heard you!"

    To her infinite satisfaction, Constance flinched. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I said I'm sorry. But yes, I'm also a little—well, all right, a lot—tired of my house being a zoo."

    "What do you mean, 'your house'? It's my house too! Are you going to dump all the animals out the window the way you dumped Squeaky?"

    "I didn't dump him, Merry! He went of his own accord. Now look, I shouldn't have opened the window. I know that. I was frantic to get him away from my canvas. But maybe we should work on finding more appropriate habitats for the others too. Can you do that?"

    "Mom! That's not fair!"

    "Merry, we both have to live here. There are other places you can spend time with animals. You can go to the SPCA downtown, or to the Gaia Temple. Now please: I know I should have talked to you about this before. If I had, you wouldn't have lost Squeaky that way. But I'm talking to you about it now. I'd like to see the animals, at least most of the animals, go somewhere else, all right?"

    "Why should you care? You don't take care of them! You don't even have to look at them! Mom, it's a big house."

    "I know. That's what I keep telling myself. But clearly, I don't feel it's big enough. Obviously that's why I opened the window. Please, Meredith?"

    "No," she said, and stormed inside.

    * * *

    When her father called from Africa that night, Meredith tried to enlist him. "Daddy, tell her it's not fair. Tell her there's enough room in the house for my pets. Tell her—"

    The face on the screen looked harassed. "Merry, she spends more time there than I do. I'm not getting into the middle of this. You and your mother have to work it out."

    "Right," Constance said. "And I want the animals gone."

    "No! That's not—"

    "Hush," Preston said. "Listen, I can't talk long, but I called to tell you I'm corning home tomorrow—"

    "Preston!"

    "—for a day or two before I leave for Buenos Aires—"

    "Daddy, why can't you ever stay home for more than five minutes?"

    "—so please don't make plans for tomorrow night."

    "What time will you be home, Preston? Why are you coming back so soon? I thought the plant opening there was—"

    "It's been delayed. We're having labor problems. I should be home in the late afternoon. Listen, I'm not feeling terrific and it's going to be a long day tomorrow, so—"

    "Preston, what's wrong? Are you ill? You look exhausted."

    "Daddy, you have to tell her it's not fair!"

    "Merry, we'll discuss it tomorrow. Good night. I love you."

    "If you love me, tell her it's not fair!" Meredith yelled, but the image was gone; he'd already signed off. "I can't believe this. He hung up on us!"

    Constance stood up and started to pace, a caricature of a concerned wife. "He really didn't look well. I hope he's not getting sick."

    "It would serve him right if he did. I hope he does."

    "Meredith, that's a terrible thing to say! You know you didn't really mean that."

    "All right, I didn't really mean it. But, Mom—"

    "No buts. That's enough, Merry. We're both tired. We'll talk about this in the morning, all right? Sleep well."

    She hardly slept at all. She stayed awake, worrying about Squeaky, trying not to imagine him flattened under the wheels of a car. Maybe Constance was right; maybe he'd come back if she put out food for him. In the meantime, she had to work on ways to keep the other animals. It really was a big house; there were entire rooms Constance never entered. The gerbils were already in Meredith's room, and the mice could join them, in a separate set of cages. Surely Constance couldn't object to that. The gerbils were no bother at all, and Meredith needed to keep the mice to be able to keep the snakes. She could move the snakes from the dining room, where their terrarium was now, to the upstairs library, where her mother hardly ever ventured. The finches, meanwhile, could be moved into the attic guest suite, where they'd get more sunlight than they did now in the east-wing den. That way no one except Meredith and the bots would have to see them. And if Merry talked to her father when he came home tomorrow, she was sure she could get him to intercede with Constance. His first day back from a trip was the best time to ask him for anything.

    * * *

    Preston's homecomings were always the same: he bounded out of the limousine and bounced up the walk, balancing luggage. The luggage inevitably included lavish gifts for his wife and daughter, whom he greeted with expansive exclamations—ones Meredith had long since stopped believing—about how much he'd missed them.

    But this time he came home differently. The limo pulled up the drive as usual, and Preston got out, but he walked slowly up the walk from the car, and he wasn't carrying anything. A schlepper bot followed with his bags. "He looks terrible!" Constance said.