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“ . . .”
“What was that opinion, Father?”
“It is neither my place to say, nor your place to ask!”
“But I do ask!”
“It is not to your benefit to hear!”
“Then you’re being tested, Father. This is your test: Will you tell the truth, or will you lie to me in your own confessional?”
“My opinion . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“My opinion . . . was that your arrival in this world marked the end of all things we hold dear. But that opinion was borne of fear and ignorance. I admit that! And today I see the awful reflection of my own petty judgments. Do you understand?”
“ . . .”
“I confess that I am humbled by your question. How can I speak to whether or not you carry a divine spark?”
“A simple yes or no will do.”
“No one on earth can answer that question, Mr. Comprix—and you should run from anyone who claims they can.”
al Bodeker, for all of his ire at the use of the word “boeuf” for military youth, apparently had no problem skirting euphemisms and calling Cam’s internal community “parts.”
Cam does not know who to despise more—Bodeker for having purchased his quantified flesh, Proactive Citizenry for selling it, or Roberta for willing him into existence. Cam continues to stare at the back of his door. Hanging there—strategically placed by some unknown entity while he was out—is the full dress uniform of a US Marine, shiny buttons and all. Crisp, just as Roberta had said.
Is this a threat, Cam wonders, or an enticement?
Cam says nothing about it to Roberta when he goes down for dinner. Since their meeting with the senator and the general last week, all their meals have been alone in the town house, as if being ignored by powerful people is somehow punishment.
At the end of the meal, the housekeeper brings in a silver tea service, setting it down between them—because Roberta, an expat Brit, must still have her Earl Grey.
It’s over tea that Roberta gives him the news. “I need to tell you something,” Roberta says after her first sip. “But I need you to promise that you’ll control your temper.”
“That’s never a good way to begin a conversation,” he says. “Try again. This time full of springtime and daisies.”
Roberta takes a deep breath, sets down her cup, and gets it out. “Your request to sign your own document has been denied by the court.”
Cam feels his meal wanting to come back, but he holds it down. “So the courts say I don’t exist. Is that what you’re telling me? That I’m an object like”—he picks up a spoon—“like a utensil? Or am I more like this teapot?” He drops the spoon and grabs the pot from the table. “Yes, that’s it—an articulate teapot screeching with hot air that no one wants to hear!”
Roberta pushes her chair back with a complaint from the hardwood floor. “You promised to keep your temper!”
“No—you asked, and I refuse!”
He slams the teapot down, and a flood of Earl Grey ejects from the spout, soaking the white tablecloth. The housekeeper, who was lurking, makes herself scarce.
“It’s a legal definition, nothing more!” insists Roberta. “I, for one, know that you’re more than that stupid definition.”
“Sweatshop!” snaps Cam, and not even Roberta can decipher that one. “Your opinion means nothing, because you’re little more than the sweatshop seamstress who stitched me together.”
Indignation rises in her like an ocean swell. “Oh, I’m a little more than that!”
“Are you going to tell me you’re my creator? Shall I sing psalms of praise to thee? Or better yet, why don’t I cut out my stolen heart and put it on an altar for you?”
“Enough!”
