Forever a Clone
By C. Randall Nicholson
Isn’t it strange?
Feels like I’m lookin’ in the mirror
What would people say?
If only they knew that I was
Part of some geneticist plan
Born to be a carbon-copy man
There in a science lab, late one night,
They took a donor’s body cell and fertilized a human egg and so I say
I think I’m a clone now
There’s one genetic twin always hangin’ around
I think I’m a clone now
‘Cause every pair of genes is a hand-me-down
– “Weird Al” Yankovic
Feels like I’m lookin’ in the mirror
What would people say?
If only they knew that I was
Part of some geneticist plan
Born to be a carbon-copy man
There in a science lab, late one night,
They took a donor’s body cell and fertilized a human egg and so I say
I think I’m a clone now
There’s one genetic twin always hangin’ around
I think I’m a clone now
‘Cause every pair of genes is a hand-me-down
– “Weird Al” Yankovic
With a heavy heart, Camille Sorenson pulled into the driveway of her little white suburban house, turned off the engine, and sulked for a moment. It seemed her heart was heavy more often than not these days, and yet she never got used to the feeling, or hated it any less. This was her lot in life, it seemed, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, and sure enough she didn’t.
Was there a point in getting out of the car? She couldn’t think of one, but she couldn’t just stay here forever. She could sulk in bed with the comfort of blankets, pillows, and mind-numbing television. With a sigh, she opened the door and got out.
She was greeted by the sound of her next-door neighbor and friend, Brandon Bowers, standing on his front porch yelling “Tobias! Tobias!1” He brightened when he saw her. “Oh, hey, Camille.” As he spoke he stroked the black cat in his arms, while a grey one rubbed against his ankles and a Calico lounged on the wicker chair nearby.
“Hey,” she said back. “How many times do I have to tell you? Cats don’t come when you call them.”
“Mine1 do,” he insisted. “Usually, anyway. Have you seen Tobias?”
Camille didn’t want to concern herself with his problems on top of her own, but she tried to be nice. “Which one is he?”
“The orange one with white stripes.”
“I thought that was Keith.”
“No, he’s white with orange stripes.”
“Ah. Thanks for clearing that up.” Camille rolled her eyes. “You know, you’d be better off with a dog.”
Brandon shook his head. “Drool city? No thanks. We’ve been over this.”
“A dog would actually love you.”
“My cats do love me. Usually, anyway.” He put down the black cat, which glared daggers at him, and picked up the grey one. “Look, why must we always fight? It’s the principle of the thing. We both love furry animals.”
“Yeah, sure. Well, I’ll let you know if I see Tobias, unless I get him mixed up with Keith.” Camille turned and headed for her front door.
“Thanks.” Brandon turned and opened his mouth to yell again, then had a thought and turned back. “Oh, hey, I was wondering, would you like to–”
It was too late; she’d already gone inside.
He cursed under his breath.
Inside, Camille was greeted by a golden retriever that expressed his enthusiasm by panting and slobbering all over her, and her spirits lifted slightly in spite of herself. “Hey, Rusty!” she said with a grin, kneeling and scratching the dog’s head. “I know, I missed you too! It’s been three whole hours!”
Rusty calmed down, Camille stood up, and the mood in the room sank immediately. She walked into the kitchen, picked a dog treat off the top of the fridge, and threw it for him; his calm evaporated as he scrambled after it. Then she turned on the radio sitting on the counter. The voice of Kasey Chambers lamented, “Am I not pretty enough? Is my heart too broken? Do I cry too much? Am I too outspoken?”
“Preach it sister,” Camille muttered.
“Don’t I make you laugh? Should I try it harder? Why do you see right through me?”
The music had quickly crossed the line from commiserating to rubbing it in, so she moved the dial to a classic hits station, then thought better of it and turned off the radio altogether. There would be time for music later. For now, she couldn’t think of any song in the world that would lift her spirits.
Camille wandered into the living room, almost in a daze, and flopped herself down in the recliner. As she sank into it she realized she didn’t know if she’d ever get up. At this point, in any case, she had little inclination to do so. Rusty followed and stood beside her, looking at her quizzically.
Finally she sighed. “He just wants to be friends,” she explained to the dog. “Should have seen that coming ten miles away, huh?”
Rusty whined his sympathies.
“Still, three dates. That’s as far as I’ve ever gotten. Maybe I’m getting better, huh? Maybe I should persevere. You know what they say – if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try, try, try, try, try…” She let her voice trail off, as there seemed no point in continuing. She was talking to a dog. There was no one else to talk to.
For a while there was no sound other than the clock ticking as she considered her options. Half an hour passed. Rusty fell asleep.
“Screw it,” Camille finally said, getting out of the chair so quickly that Rusty jumped back in surprise. “I’m going to go get wasted. Don’t wait up.”
Was there a point in getting out of the car? She couldn’t think of one, but she couldn’t just stay here forever. She could sulk in bed with the comfort of blankets, pillows, and mind-numbing television. With a sigh, she opened the door and got out.
She was greeted by the sound of her next-door neighbor and friend, Brandon Bowers, standing on his front porch yelling “Tobias! Tobias!1” He brightened when he saw her. “Oh, hey, Camille.” As he spoke he stroked the black cat in his arms, while a grey one rubbed against his ankles and a Calico lounged on the wicker chair nearby.
“Hey,” she said back. “How many times do I have to tell you? Cats don’t come when you call them.”
“Mine1 do,” he insisted. “Usually, anyway. Have you seen Tobias?”
Camille didn’t want to concern herself with his problems on top of her own, but she tried to be nice. “Which one is he?”
“The orange one with white stripes.”
“I thought that was Keith.”
“No, he’s white with orange stripes.”
“Ah. Thanks for clearing that up.” Camille rolled her eyes. “You know, you’d be better off with a dog.”
Brandon shook his head. “Drool city? No thanks. We’ve been over this.”
“A dog would actually love you.”
“My cats do love me. Usually, anyway.” He put down the black cat, which glared daggers at him, and picked up the grey one. “Look, why must we always fight? It’s the principle of the thing. We both love furry animals.”
“Yeah, sure. Well, I’ll let you know if I see Tobias, unless I get him mixed up with Keith.” Camille turned and headed for her front door.
“Thanks.” Brandon turned and opened his mouth to yell again, then had a thought and turned back. “Oh, hey, I was wondering, would you like to–”
It was too late; she’d already gone inside.
He cursed under his breath.
Inside, Camille was greeted by a golden retriever that expressed his enthusiasm by panting and slobbering all over her, and her spirits lifted slightly in spite of herself. “Hey, Rusty!” she said with a grin, kneeling and scratching the dog’s head. “I know, I missed you too! It’s been three whole hours!”
Rusty calmed down, Camille stood up, and the mood in the room sank immediately. She walked into the kitchen, picked a dog treat off the top of the fridge, and threw it for him; his calm evaporated as he scrambled after it. Then she turned on the radio sitting on the counter. The voice of Kasey Chambers lamented, “Am I not pretty enough? Is my heart too broken? Do I cry too much? Am I too outspoken?”
“Preach it sister,” Camille muttered.
“Don’t I make you laugh? Should I try it harder? Why do you see right through me?”
The music had quickly crossed the line from commiserating to rubbing it in, so she moved the dial to a classic hits station, then thought better of it and turned off the radio altogether. There would be time for music later. For now, she couldn’t think of any song in the world that would lift her spirits.
Camille wandered into the living room, almost in a daze, and flopped herself down in the recliner. As she sank into it she realized she didn’t know if she’d ever get up. At this point, in any case, she had little inclination to do so. Rusty followed and stood beside her, looking at her quizzically.
Finally she sighed. “He just wants to be friends,” she explained to the dog. “Should have seen that coming ten miles away, huh?”
Rusty whined his sympathies.
“Still, three dates. That’s as far as I’ve ever gotten. Maybe I’m getting better, huh? Maybe I should persevere. You know what they say – if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try, try, try, try, try…” She let her voice trail off, as there seemed no point in continuing. She was talking to a dog. There was no one else to talk to.
For a while there was no sound other than the clock ticking as she considered her options. Half an hour passed. Rusty fell asleep.
“Screw it,” Camille finally said, getting out of the chair so quickly that Rusty jumped back in surprise. “I’m going to go get wasted. Don’t wait up.”
* * * * *
Camille had never tasted anything stronger than communion wine, let alone been inside a bar, and the atmosphere made her very uncomfortable the moment she entered. The smell of alcohol was laced with an almost tangible sense of depravity. But she persevered, and four shots of whiskey later it wasn’t bothering her anymore.
What was still bothering her was the situation that had brought her here in the first place. As she stared at her distorted reflection in one of her empty shot glasses she still contemplated the question, “Am I not pretty enough?” With her locks of wavy black hair, the freckles around her sapphire eyes, and the dimples around her full come-hither lips, she wouldn’t have thought it something she needed to worry about.
Perhaps she was showing signs of age? But she wasn’t that old. Perhaps her figure? She didn’t always eat the healthiest, but her figure was nothing to complain about, was it? Maybe her chest was just a bit too small, her rear just a bit too flat – no, it couldn’t be something so stupid and petty as that, could it? Something wrong with her personality. Yes, that had to be it. But that didn’t narrow it down very much. She ordered another shot of whiskey.
Did this flaw – or flaws, she realized with an inward groan – permeate her very appearance, or give her an aura, that made her unattractive from the get-go? She wondered this only because her co-workers always complained about being hit on in places like this, but no one was paying any attention to her. One man had sat down next to her, but he had simply hunched over his own beer and sipped about once every ten minutes, lost in his own thoughts.
He did take notice now, however, as she drained this next shot. “Easy there,” he grunted, not looking up.
“Mind your own business,” Camille said, gesturing to the bartender for another. Secretly she was glad he had acknowledged her existence, though she imagined from the stories that he was about to get annoying and/or creepy in a few seconds.
“Rough day?” he inquired.
“Mind your own business,” Camille said again, but then reconsidered. A free counseling session couldn’t hurt, even from some stranger in a bar. “Guy problems,” she explained.
“That’s redundant. Break-up?”
“Ha! That would require us to have been ‘together’.”
“What’s he like?”
“He writes for the Herald1. Steve Kissell, maybe you’ve read his stuff? Great writer. But he’s well-rounded, too – he’s got a great singing voice, a brown belt in tae kwon do –”
“Don’t sweat it,” the man said, sipping his beer. “There are plenty more where he came from.”
“Don’t I know it.” Camille drained her shot glass and gestured for another. She was starting to feel a little queasy, but at least it distracted her from the feeling in her heart. “I’ve got no luck with any of them. I always run into some kind of wall, early on, and never get anywhere.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my looks, is it? Just my personality, maybe. You know, my parents are always like ‘Why are you still single?’ And I feel awkward telling them, because they might take it personally. I think they think I’m a lesbian, but really I’m just an evolutionary failure.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“It’s also true.” She drained another shot glass. “I just don’t understand men. Everyone says they’re so easy to please, that they only have one thing on their minds. So why do I find them so complicated?”
“Alcohol can’t solve your problem,” the man said, still not looking at her. “But I can.”
There was a moment of silence as Camille’s alcohol-addled brain tried to figure out if it had just heard what it thought it had heard. “Come again?”
“I can solve your problem.”
She laughed even though it wasn't funny. “What, are you like some kind of dating guru? Cause I’ve emailed David Coleman already. He was stumped, so he said he would think about it and get back to me. That was two years ago.”
“This is much simpler, and it will only take a few days.”
“Can you make me attractive to men?”
“No, only you can do that. But obviously you can’t.”
“Can you make Steve fall in love with me?”
“No. Well, technically yes, but that’s more complicated than I want to get into. Why does it have to be Steve, anyway?”
“It doesn’t really, I guess.” She shrugged. “My heart’s just going to be set on him until I recover. It’s so fresh, so recent…”
“Yes, I can see that,” the man said, carefully picking a hair off her jacket. He squinted at it for a moment, then placed it in his pocket.
Camille hardly noticed. “I just want these feelings to be real, you know? I don’t want to think that these feelings that are so deep and so strong are actually worthless, that they’ll just disappear and ten years down the road they may as well have never existed. You know?”
“There are plenty more where he came from, but if he’s the one you want…”
“Wait a minute,” Camille said, pointing an accusing finger and fighting to hold it steady. Thinking was getting harder, but she could tell something was too good to be true when she heard it. “Why would you help me? What do you want?”
The man turned his head and looked at her for the first time, holding up his palms and shrugging. Camille was taken aback by his dark yet shallow eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you have a dog?”
“Y-es…” She already didn't like where this was going.
“Healthy? Well-bred?”
“Look, dude, I’m not giving you my dog. The deal’s off.”
“You’re very attached,” the man said, turning back to his beer. “Why? Because you’re lonely?”
“Because he’s my best friend!”
“Lots of people use animals to cope with loneliness. The stereotypical ‘cat lady’, for example.”
“Hey, I live next door to a cat lady – er, guy, and he isn’t lonely.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s surrounded by cats!” Despite being drunk, she realized that sounded lame as soon as she blurted it out. More to the point, she thought, Brandon had never said anything about it. He must have a boyfriend or something somewhere.
“Oh, of course. Never mind then.” The man smirked; the first overt display of emotion he’d shown in the entire conversation. “You and your dog can grow old together. Of course, he’ll probably die sooner and you’ll have to get another anyway, but you can do that indefinitely. Happy forever. Who needs men?”
He turned away and fell silent once more.
Camille scrutinized the man and tried to drain her shot glass, but found it already empty. How many had she had? Seven? Twelve? She didn’t know, but she did know that the weird man's offer was beginning to sound more attractive.
What was still bothering her was the situation that had brought her here in the first place. As she stared at her distorted reflection in one of her empty shot glasses she still contemplated the question, “Am I not pretty enough?” With her locks of wavy black hair, the freckles around her sapphire eyes, and the dimples around her full come-hither lips, she wouldn’t have thought it something she needed to worry about.
Perhaps she was showing signs of age? But she wasn’t that old. Perhaps her figure? She didn’t always eat the healthiest, but her figure was nothing to complain about, was it? Maybe her chest was just a bit too small, her rear just a bit too flat – no, it couldn’t be something so stupid and petty as that, could it? Something wrong with her personality. Yes, that had to be it. But that didn’t narrow it down very much. She ordered another shot of whiskey.
Did this flaw – or flaws, she realized with an inward groan – permeate her very appearance, or give her an aura, that made her unattractive from the get-go? She wondered this only because her co-workers always complained about being hit on in places like this, but no one was paying any attention to her. One man had sat down next to her, but he had simply hunched over his own beer and sipped about once every ten minutes, lost in his own thoughts.
He did take notice now, however, as she drained this next shot. “Easy there,” he grunted, not looking up.
“Mind your own business,” Camille said, gesturing to the bartender for another. Secretly she was glad he had acknowledged her existence, though she imagined from the stories that he was about to get annoying and/or creepy in a few seconds.
“Rough day?” he inquired.
“Mind your own business,” Camille said again, but then reconsidered. A free counseling session couldn’t hurt, even from some stranger in a bar. “Guy problems,” she explained.
“That’s redundant. Break-up?”
“Ha! That would require us to have been ‘together’.”
“What’s he like?”
“He writes for the Herald1. Steve Kissell, maybe you’ve read his stuff? Great writer. But he’s well-rounded, too – he’s got a great singing voice, a brown belt in tae kwon do –”
“Don’t sweat it,” the man said, sipping his beer. “There are plenty more where he came from.”
“Don’t I know it.” Camille drained her shot glass and gestured for another. She was starting to feel a little queasy, but at least it distracted her from the feeling in her heart. “I’ve got no luck with any of them. I always run into some kind of wall, early on, and never get anywhere.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my looks, is it? Just my personality, maybe. You know, my parents are always like ‘Why are you still single?’ And I feel awkward telling them, because they might take it personally. I think they think I’m a lesbian, but really I’m just an evolutionary failure.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“It’s also true.” She drained another shot glass. “I just don’t understand men. Everyone says they’re so easy to please, that they only have one thing on their minds. So why do I find them so complicated?”
“Alcohol can’t solve your problem,” the man said, still not looking at her. “But I can.”
There was a moment of silence as Camille’s alcohol-addled brain tried to figure out if it had just heard what it thought it had heard. “Come again?”
“I can solve your problem.”
She laughed even though it wasn't funny. “What, are you like some kind of dating guru? Cause I’ve emailed David Coleman already. He was stumped, so he said he would think about it and get back to me. That was two years ago.”
“This is much simpler, and it will only take a few days.”
“Can you make me attractive to men?”
“No, only you can do that. But obviously you can’t.”
“Can you make Steve fall in love with me?”
“No. Well, technically yes, but that’s more complicated than I want to get into. Why does it have to be Steve, anyway?”
“It doesn’t really, I guess.” She shrugged. “My heart’s just going to be set on him until I recover. It’s so fresh, so recent…”
“Yes, I can see that,” the man said, carefully picking a hair off her jacket. He squinted at it for a moment, then placed it in his pocket.
Camille hardly noticed. “I just want these feelings to be real, you know? I don’t want to think that these feelings that are so deep and so strong are actually worthless, that they’ll just disappear and ten years down the road they may as well have never existed. You know?”
“There are plenty more where he came from, but if he’s the one you want…”
“Wait a minute,” Camille said, pointing an accusing finger and fighting to hold it steady. Thinking was getting harder, but she could tell something was too good to be true when she heard it. “Why would you help me? What do you want?”
The man turned his head and looked at her for the first time, holding up his palms and shrugging. Camille was taken aback by his dark yet shallow eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you have a dog?”
“Y-es…” She already didn't like where this was going.
“Healthy? Well-bred?”
“Look, dude, I’m not giving you my dog. The deal’s off.”
“You’re very attached,” the man said, turning back to his beer. “Why? Because you’re lonely?”
“Because he’s my best friend!”
“Lots of people use animals to cope with loneliness. The stereotypical ‘cat lady’, for example.”
“Hey, I live next door to a cat lady – er, guy, and he isn’t lonely.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s surrounded by cats!” Despite being drunk, she realized that sounded lame as soon as she blurted it out. More to the point, she thought, Brandon had never said anything about it. He must have a boyfriend or something somewhere.
“Oh, of course. Never mind then.” The man smirked; the first overt display of emotion he’d shown in the entire conversation. “You and your dog can grow old together. Of course, he’ll probably die sooner and you’ll have to get another anyway, but you can do that indefinitely. Happy forever. Who needs men?”
He turned away and fell silent once more.
Camille scrutinized the man and tried to drain her shot glass, but found it already empty. How many had she had? Seven? Twelve? She didn’t know, but she did know that the weird man's offer was beginning to sound more attractive.
* * * * *
Camille awoke the next morning with a throbbing hangover and no memory of how she’d gotten home. “Ugh,” she moaned. The light hurt her eyes and nearly blinded her, but as she squinted she noticed one thing immediately – the bed was more empty than usual. “Rusty!” she called. “Rusty!”
She was greeted by silence. The familiar sound of dog toenails click-clacking on the hardwood floor was nowhere to be heard.
Her head cleared in a flash and she jumped out of bed, but stumbled and sprawled across the floor. She swore – as much at the mysterious man for taking her dog and leaving nothing in return, as at herself for having been so stupid. Then anger gave way to despair, and she started to cry, but tears were no more effective than cuss words at bringing him back.
She was greeted by silence. The familiar sound of dog toenails click-clacking on the hardwood floor was nowhere to be heard.
Her head cleared in a flash and she jumped out of bed, but stumbled and sprawled across the floor. She swore – as much at the mysterious man for taking her dog and leaving nothing in return, as at herself for having been so stupid. Then anger gave way to despair, and she started to cry, but tears were no more effective than cuss words at bringing him back.
* * * * *
Following the longest and most depressing weekend of her life, Camille rolled out of bed on Monday morning with a groan that signaled how much she would rather be dead than go to work. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day, let alone the week. She didn’t want to risk anything with alcohol again – marijuana, perhaps?
She threw on a bathrobe, stumbled into the kitchen, and turned on the stove to make some oatmeal. Stumbling back through the living room, not paying much attention, she let out a howl as she stubbed her toe on something that hadn’t been there before.
She was wide awake in an instant as she realized what it was. It was a coffin. Not quite an ordinary coffin – the top was transparent, affording a view of the person inside, a person she recognized right away. The outline of his strong jaw, his firm masculine nose, his shock of sandy blond hair –
“Oh, no,” she said, getting to her knees and peering in more closely. She rubbed her eyes to make him go away, but he remained there, taunting her. “Oh, no… no…”
She got to her feet, feeling more dizzy and light-headed than when she’d been drunk. She got to her knees again before she could topple over.
“No…” she whispered again. “Is this what you meant? I didn’t ask for this… I didn’t want this… this is bad. This is really bad.” She said some bad words to emphasize the point.
About that time she noticed a small folded piece of paper sitting on the coffin. Had it been there before? She didn’t think so, but her attention had of course been drawn to Steve’s face, so she couldn’t be sure. Now she grabbed it, unfolded it, and read with desperation.
“Here he is, as promised. A clone of the highest quality, growth-accelerated to the ideal age and with the necessary skills uploaded. He can already speak, read, write, use the toilet, etcetera. You will probably find him a bit naïve with regard to some things, but he’ll learn quickly.
“There have been a few modifications. Unlike his template, he is genetically predisposed to fall in love with you. However, all thought patterns and behaviors are a combination of both genetic and environmental factors, so you will need to provide those latter factors. Follow the enclosed instructions and everything will go smoothly.
“Step 1. Kiss him awake.1”
“No,” Camille said again, shaking her head. “No, this is – this is wrong on so many levels. I won’t do it. I won’t participate.” She was about to crumple up the paper and throw it away, but caught herself and gasped as more writing appeared beneath what she’d read.
“If you don’t, he’ll remain in suspended animation forever.1”
Camille didn’t know whether that was true, but it didn’t seem any crazier than a paper that wrote on itself, so she realized it was her only option. Reaching over, she found the clasp of the coffin lid and carefully opened it. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered, and reluctantly kissed him on the lips.
She jumped back with a crash as his eyelids fluttered open more quickly than she’d anticipated. “Oh,” he said, and gave a little yawn. “Is it morning already?” He blinked. “Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.”
Good, he was alive. Now to get him out of the house. What to do? Call the police? No, she’d never be able to explain this to them. Better to just give him some money and send him on his way.
He held out a hand. “Hey there,” he said. “A little help?”
“Um, all right.” She got to her own feet and pulled him up.
“Thank you.” He gave her a warm smile. Too warm.
She glanced at the note. It now said: “Step 2. Help him up.1”
“No!” she cried out.
He tilted his head quizzically. “Something the matter, beautiful?”
She looked from him, to the note, to the coffin, and back again, trying not to get trapped in his deep blue eyes. “No, nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all, it’s just – er, welcome to my house, I guess.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving her another smile. “It’s a nice place.” His stomach gurgled. “Oh, excuse me.”
“No problem,” she said. “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, if you want –” She slapped herself. Being nice to him would increase the chance of him falling in love with her, which she didn’t want, because it would make her feel horrifically guilty to take advantage of someone who was programmed that way.
Sure enough, when she glanced at the note, it said: “Step 3. Feed him breakfast.1”
“Oh, now you’re just mocking me!” she yelled at it.
“Are you okay?” the clone asked. “Who are you talking to?”
“Nothing. No one. I just – why don’t you just go find something to eat.” She gestured in the direction of the kitchen.
“Are you coming?”
“In a minute.”
“Fine. Don’t be too long.” He gave her another grin, flashing his shiny white teeth this time, and
entered the kitchen with a spring in his step.
Yes, she’d give him a few hundred dollars – a couple thousand, even – and take him to the train station and let him make his way into the world. Problem solved. But she’d need to do it quickly, before he got too attached to her. There was no telling what could go wrong if that happened.
From the kitchen she heard him cry out “Oww!”
Rushing in, she found him standing beside the stove, staring in pained confusion at his right hand. The pot of water she’d been heating for the oatmeal was spilled all over and the burner was red. Putting two and two together she said, “Run cold water over it!”
He blinked at her, uncomprehending.
“Oh, here,” she muttered, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to the sink where she did it herself.
“Ohh,” he said softly in her ear. “Your grip is so firm, yet so… gentle.”
“Yeah, great,” she said, letting go. “Just, um, run that for a few more seconds.”
“I feel better already,” he said, smiling at her.
Sending him out on his own was out of the question, she realized, at least until he learned to take care of himself better – but by then it could be too late. What, then? She could take him to a mental institution or psychiatric hospital – but he was fine, mentally, as far as she knew. He was just naïve, like the note said, and that was understandable if he’d only come into existence over the weekend.
He turned off the sink on his own, then moved to examine something on the kitchen counter. “What’s this?”
“Huh? Oh, that’s the radio. Sometimes I listen to it while I cook.”
“Nice.” He looked over its buttons, then accurately deduced which one turned it on.
When he pushed it they were greeted by voices singing “I was made for loving you, baby, you were made for loving me…”
Swaying to the beat, he smiled at her. “I like this.”
“Ah, you know,” she said, reaching toward the dial, “I’m more of a hip-hop person, myself, so –”
“Just a minute,” he said, moving to block her. He hummed along for a moment as she looked on desperately. “Who sings this?”
“KISS.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Again? I think we’re moving a little fast, but if you’re comfortable with it...” He reached out to embrace her.
She jumped back. “No, no, KISS is the name of the band. It stands for – ‘Knights in Satan’s Service’. Or something like that.”
“I see.”
The song changed, and Sting sang out, “Every breath you take… every move you make…”
“I like this too,” the clone said.
“It’s creepy,” Camille said. “People think it’s sweet, but if you actually listen to the lyrics, it’s creepy.”
“Then I won’t listen to the lyrics,” he said, giving her a wink.
Groaning inwardly, she glanced at the note. It said “Step 4. Play romantic music.1” She crumpled it up and threw it aside.
Still, there was obviously no way she could leave him here by himself, and so it seemed her desire to not to go work would be satisfied, though she didn’t think it was worth it under the circumstances. She called her supervisor.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Don, it’s Camille,” she said, trying her best to sound as if she had a stuffy nose. “I’m not gonna make it in today. I’m feeling really under the weather.”
“Ha!” Don said. “I know how you are, you party animal, you. You’ve been drinking all weekend, haven’t you?”
“No, only on Friday.”
“Ha ha!” Don chortled. “You’re killing me! All right, get better soon. We’ll be falling apart here without you.” He hung up.
“Well. That was easy.” As Camille pocketed her phone, she realized her heart was pounding.
The clone was confused. “Why did you say you’re sick? You don’t seem sick.”
“Oh, ah –” She caught herself as she realized that part of his naïveté was apparently a sort of childlike innocence. She should have anticipated as much. Did she want to be the one who destroyed that? No way. “Um, I was joking. You know, sometimes you say things you don’t mean, as a joke?”
He giggled. “Oh, I see. You have a sense of humor. I like that in a woman.”
She wanted to pull her hair out, but she realized there was no point in fighting it any longer. It was too late; he was too far gone, and fate wouldn’t have it any other way. She would just have to make sure she never let Brandon or Steve or anyone else she knew see him. They’d have to be very careful. She sighed. “Well, I guess we should be properly introduced. I’m Camille, and you are?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Um – Steve Two?”
The words made her queasy, and it took her a moment to recognize why. “Well, Steve is a fine name,” she admitted, “but shouldn’t you have your own?”
“That is my own,” he said. “Steve was my template, so I’m the second version of him. Hence, Steve Two.”
“Yeah, I get that, but you’re not just1 a second version of him. You should have your own identity. A unique1 name.”
“Oh, all right.” He seemed surprised, and bit his lip. “I’ll have to think about that for a while.”
As he fell silent, the radio let out the sounds of Dexy’s Midnight Runners singing “Come on Eileen, oh, I swear what she means…”
His eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” he said. “Eileen! My name is Eileen!”
Camille smiled in spite of herself. “Er, how about Ted? I like Ted?”
“Then Ted it is.” He beamed. “Heck, you can call me Lord Biggles-Chiggles if it makes you happy.”
“Nice to meet you, Ted,” Camille said, shaking his hand and wondering what she’d gotten herself into. “I guess I’ll… show you around town today.” He would have to wear a hat and sunglasses, she figured. Hopefully that would suffice.
Refusing to let go of her hand, he smiled at her. “Your grip is so firm, yet so… gentle.”
She threw on a bathrobe, stumbled into the kitchen, and turned on the stove to make some oatmeal. Stumbling back through the living room, not paying much attention, she let out a howl as she stubbed her toe on something that hadn’t been there before.
She was wide awake in an instant as she realized what it was. It was a coffin. Not quite an ordinary coffin – the top was transparent, affording a view of the person inside, a person she recognized right away. The outline of his strong jaw, his firm masculine nose, his shock of sandy blond hair –
“Oh, no,” she said, getting to her knees and peering in more closely. She rubbed her eyes to make him go away, but he remained there, taunting her. “Oh, no… no…”
She got to her feet, feeling more dizzy and light-headed than when she’d been drunk. She got to her knees again before she could topple over.
“No…” she whispered again. “Is this what you meant? I didn’t ask for this… I didn’t want this… this is bad. This is really bad.” She said some bad words to emphasize the point.
About that time she noticed a small folded piece of paper sitting on the coffin. Had it been there before? She didn’t think so, but her attention had of course been drawn to Steve’s face, so she couldn’t be sure. Now she grabbed it, unfolded it, and read with desperation.
“Here he is, as promised. A clone of the highest quality, growth-accelerated to the ideal age and with the necessary skills uploaded. He can already speak, read, write, use the toilet, etcetera. You will probably find him a bit naïve with regard to some things, but he’ll learn quickly.
“There have been a few modifications. Unlike his template, he is genetically predisposed to fall in love with you. However, all thought patterns and behaviors are a combination of both genetic and environmental factors, so you will need to provide those latter factors. Follow the enclosed instructions and everything will go smoothly.
“Step 1. Kiss him awake.1”
“No,” Camille said again, shaking her head. “No, this is – this is wrong on so many levels. I won’t do it. I won’t participate.” She was about to crumple up the paper and throw it away, but caught herself and gasped as more writing appeared beneath what she’d read.
“If you don’t, he’ll remain in suspended animation forever.1”
Camille didn’t know whether that was true, but it didn’t seem any crazier than a paper that wrote on itself, so she realized it was her only option. Reaching over, she found the clasp of the coffin lid and carefully opened it. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered, and reluctantly kissed him on the lips.
She jumped back with a crash as his eyelids fluttered open more quickly than she’d anticipated. “Oh,” he said, and gave a little yawn. “Is it morning already?” He blinked. “Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.”
Good, he was alive. Now to get him out of the house. What to do? Call the police? No, she’d never be able to explain this to them. Better to just give him some money and send him on his way.
He held out a hand. “Hey there,” he said. “A little help?”
“Um, all right.” She got to her own feet and pulled him up.
“Thank you.” He gave her a warm smile. Too warm.
She glanced at the note. It now said: “Step 2. Help him up.1”
“No!” she cried out.
He tilted his head quizzically. “Something the matter, beautiful?”
She looked from him, to the note, to the coffin, and back again, trying not to get trapped in his deep blue eyes. “No, nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all, it’s just – er, welcome to my house, I guess.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving her another smile. “It’s a nice place.” His stomach gurgled. “Oh, excuse me.”
“No problem,” she said. “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, if you want –” She slapped herself. Being nice to him would increase the chance of him falling in love with her, which she didn’t want, because it would make her feel horrifically guilty to take advantage of someone who was programmed that way.
Sure enough, when she glanced at the note, it said: “Step 3. Feed him breakfast.1”
“Oh, now you’re just mocking me!” she yelled at it.
“Are you okay?” the clone asked. “Who are you talking to?”
“Nothing. No one. I just – why don’t you just go find something to eat.” She gestured in the direction of the kitchen.
“Are you coming?”
“In a minute.”
“Fine. Don’t be too long.” He gave her another grin, flashing his shiny white teeth this time, and
entered the kitchen with a spring in his step.
Yes, she’d give him a few hundred dollars – a couple thousand, even – and take him to the train station and let him make his way into the world. Problem solved. But she’d need to do it quickly, before he got too attached to her. There was no telling what could go wrong if that happened.
From the kitchen she heard him cry out “Oww!”
Rushing in, she found him standing beside the stove, staring in pained confusion at his right hand. The pot of water she’d been heating for the oatmeal was spilled all over and the burner was red. Putting two and two together she said, “Run cold water over it!”
He blinked at her, uncomprehending.
“Oh, here,” she muttered, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to the sink where she did it herself.
“Ohh,” he said softly in her ear. “Your grip is so firm, yet so… gentle.”
“Yeah, great,” she said, letting go. “Just, um, run that for a few more seconds.”
“I feel better already,” he said, smiling at her.
Sending him out on his own was out of the question, she realized, at least until he learned to take care of himself better – but by then it could be too late. What, then? She could take him to a mental institution or psychiatric hospital – but he was fine, mentally, as far as she knew. He was just naïve, like the note said, and that was understandable if he’d only come into existence over the weekend.
He turned off the sink on his own, then moved to examine something on the kitchen counter. “What’s this?”
“Huh? Oh, that’s the radio. Sometimes I listen to it while I cook.”
“Nice.” He looked over its buttons, then accurately deduced which one turned it on.
When he pushed it they were greeted by voices singing “I was made for loving you, baby, you were made for loving me…”
Swaying to the beat, he smiled at her. “I like this.”
“Ah, you know,” she said, reaching toward the dial, “I’m more of a hip-hop person, myself, so –”
“Just a minute,” he said, moving to block her. He hummed along for a moment as she looked on desperately. “Who sings this?”
“KISS.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Again? I think we’re moving a little fast, but if you’re comfortable with it...” He reached out to embrace her.
She jumped back. “No, no, KISS is the name of the band. It stands for – ‘Knights in Satan’s Service’. Or something like that.”
“I see.”
The song changed, and Sting sang out, “Every breath you take… every move you make…”
“I like this too,” the clone said.
“It’s creepy,” Camille said. “People think it’s sweet, but if you actually listen to the lyrics, it’s creepy.”
“Then I won’t listen to the lyrics,” he said, giving her a wink.
Groaning inwardly, she glanced at the note. It said “Step 4. Play romantic music.1” She crumpled it up and threw it aside.
Still, there was obviously no way she could leave him here by himself, and so it seemed her desire to not to go work would be satisfied, though she didn’t think it was worth it under the circumstances. She called her supervisor.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Don, it’s Camille,” she said, trying her best to sound as if she had a stuffy nose. “I’m not gonna make it in today. I’m feeling really under the weather.”
“Ha!” Don said. “I know how you are, you party animal, you. You’ve been drinking all weekend, haven’t you?”
“No, only on Friday.”
“Ha ha!” Don chortled. “You’re killing me! All right, get better soon. We’ll be falling apart here without you.” He hung up.
“Well. That was easy.” As Camille pocketed her phone, she realized her heart was pounding.
The clone was confused. “Why did you say you’re sick? You don’t seem sick.”
“Oh, ah –” She caught herself as she realized that part of his naïveté was apparently a sort of childlike innocence. She should have anticipated as much. Did she want to be the one who destroyed that? No way. “Um, I was joking. You know, sometimes you say things you don’t mean, as a joke?”
He giggled. “Oh, I see. You have a sense of humor. I like that in a woman.”
She wanted to pull her hair out, but she realized there was no point in fighting it any longer. It was too late; he was too far gone, and fate wouldn’t have it any other way. She would just have to make sure she never let Brandon or Steve or anyone else she knew see him. They’d have to be very careful. She sighed. “Well, I guess we should be properly introduced. I’m Camille, and you are?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Um – Steve Two?”
The words made her queasy, and it took her a moment to recognize why. “Well, Steve is a fine name,” she admitted, “but shouldn’t you have your own?”
“That is my own,” he said. “Steve was my template, so I’m the second version of him. Hence, Steve Two.”
“Yeah, I get that, but you’re not just1 a second version of him. You should have your own identity. A unique1 name.”
“Oh, all right.” He seemed surprised, and bit his lip. “I’ll have to think about that for a while.”
As he fell silent, the radio let out the sounds of Dexy’s Midnight Runners singing “Come on Eileen, oh, I swear what she means…”
His eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” he said. “Eileen! My name is Eileen!”
Camille smiled in spite of herself. “Er, how about Ted? I like Ted?”
“Then Ted it is.” He beamed. “Heck, you can call me Lord Biggles-Chiggles if it makes you happy.”
“Nice to meet you, Ted,” Camille said, shaking his hand and wondering what she’d gotten herself into. “I guess I’ll… show you around town today.” He would have to wear a hat and sunglasses, she figured. Hopefully that would suffice.
Refusing to let go of her hand, he smiled at her. “Your grip is so firm, yet so… gentle.”
* * * * *
“I came as soon as I could,” said Father Harold Moffett, running up to the gazebo in the city park. “Good day, Miss Sorenson. And you must be Ted? Delighted to meet you.”
“Thanks,” Ted said, shaking his hand.
Moffett turned back to Camille. “We haven’t seen you at Mass in a while.”
“I’ve been busy,” Camille lied. Actually, she just hadn’t felt like it.
He gave her a look that said he wasn't buying it. “Too busy for God?”
“Yes. I mean no. Look, I’m making up for it now,” Camille said quickly. “Let’s just get down to business. In case the tuxedo and wedding dress didn’t give it away, we want to get married.”
“Right now,” Ted added.
Moffett rubbed his forehead warily. “Right this minute?”
“As close to it as you can get, yeah,” Camille said. “It will get my parents off my back. Also, we’ve kind of been cohabitating already because he has nowhere else to go.”
“Okay, we need to fix that, but –”
“And we don’t have a marriage license,” Ted added.
“What? Why not?”
“We don’t have the paperwork for it,” Camille said. “He’s an – undocumented immigrant.”
Moffett raised an eyebrow at Ted. “You don’t look like an – undocumented immigrant.”
“Oh, no?” Camille feigned indignation. Beside her, as rehearsed, Ted did the same; she had told him they were playing an elaborate practical joke on the priest. “And what, exactly,” she continued, “is an undocumented immigrant ‘supposed’ to look like?”
“Er, nothing,” Moffett said, becoming flustered. “I just meant –”
“He’s Canadian. You got a problem with that?”
“No, of course not,” Moffett said, wiping some sweat off his brow. “I loved ‘The Red Green Show’. But look, I can’t just marry you guys without a license. It won’t be recognized by the government. It won’t be a real marriage.”
“We’re not looking for government handouts,” Ted said. “This is about love.”
“That’s great,” Moffett said, “but –”
“Screw the government,” Camille said. “Stick it to the man. Just say some words and do some little ceremony that looks official. God will understand.”
Eventually they wore him down. And so, on a bright sunny day with the wind gently rustling through the trees and grass as people ran and frolicked through the park, Camille and Ted Sorenson were married by a priest saying “By no authority whatsoever, I now pronounce you man and wife until death do you part.”
“Real funny,” Camille said. “How about with a little less cynicism?”
“What do you want from me? This isn’t in my job description.” The priest turned to go, muttering under his breath, then stopped and turned back. His face softened. “You don’t even want the benefits,” he said. “That will make your lives more difficult. But it stands as evidence of your commitment. It really is about love for you, and that has benefits all on its own.”
“That was perfect,” Camille said. “Thank you.”
“Do you realize marriage for love wasn’t even invented until, like, the eleventh century?” Moffett continued. “And it didn’t really catch on until the nineteenth. Still hasn’t, in some places. It takes effort, commitment, sacrifice. I salute any young couple who are willing to do that for each other, and take that leap into the great unknown together.”
“Not that unknown,” Ted said. “We've known each other for a whole week.”
Moffett blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Thanks again, Father,” Camille said. “Bye.”
After he’d gone, Camille and Ted lay in the grass and enjoyed the sunshine. The sounds of laughing children and twittering birds soothed their ears as they contemplated their future together. Camille couldn’t believe this day had come. Okay, so it had been brought about by unethical scientific intervention, but that wasn’t her fault, and the important thing was that it had come. She wouldn’t die lonely after all.
So why did she still have, beneath the happiness, an empty feeling inside?
The feeling became more pronounced when a golden retriever ran past her, chasing a Frisbee. It looked just like Rusty. Rusty…
Pushing those thoughts away, she turned onto her side and smiled at Ted. “We didn’t have a cake,” she said. “Want to get a cake?”
He smiled. “I’ve love to. Or we could make one ourselves, since we’re already being so unorthodox about the whole thing.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling more genuinely now. “We can make a better one. Normal wedding cakes are way overrated.”
She gazed deeply into his eyes, but not deeply enough – or perhaps the problem was simply that she still didn’t understand men. If she had, perhaps she would have noticed that buried beneath his own happiness, he had an empty feeling as well.
“Thanks,” Ted said, shaking his hand.
Moffett turned back to Camille. “We haven’t seen you at Mass in a while.”
“I’ve been busy,” Camille lied. Actually, she just hadn’t felt like it.
He gave her a look that said he wasn't buying it. “Too busy for God?”
“Yes. I mean no. Look, I’m making up for it now,” Camille said quickly. “Let’s just get down to business. In case the tuxedo and wedding dress didn’t give it away, we want to get married.”
“Right now,” Ted added.
Moffett rubbed his forehead warily. “Right this minute?”
“As close to it as you can get, yeah,” Camille said. “It will get my parents off my back. Also, we’ve kind of been cohabitating already because he has nowhere else to go.”
“Okay, we need to fix that, but –”
“And we don’t have a marriage license,” Ted added.
“What? Why not?”
“We don’t have the paperwork for it,” Camille said. “He’s an – undocumented immigrant.”
Moffett raised an eyebrow at Ted. “You don’t look like an – undocumented immigrant.”
“Oh, no?” Camille feigned indignation. Beside her, as rehearsed, Ted did the same; she had told him they were playing an elaborate practical joke on the priest. “And what, exactly,” she continued, “is an undocumented immigrant ‘supposed’ to look like?”
“Er, nothing,” Moffett said, becoming flustered. “I just meant –”
“He’s Canadian. You got a problem with that?”
“No, of course not,” Moffett said, wiping some sweat off his brow. “I loved ‘The Red Green Show’. But look, I can’t just marry you guys without a license. It won’t be recognized by the government. It won’t be a real marriage.”
“We’re not looking for government handouts,” Ted said. “This is about love.”
“That’s great,” Moffett said, “but –”
“Screw the government,” Camille said. “Stick it to the man. Just say some words and do some little ceremony that looks official. God will understand.”
Eventually they wore him down. And so, on a bright sunny day with the wind gently rustling through the trees and grass as people ran and frolicked through the park, Camille and Ted Sorenson were married by a priest saying “By no authority whatsoever, I now pronounce you man and wife until death do you part.”
“Real funny,” Camille said. “How about with a little less cynicism?”
“What do you want from me? This isn’t in my job description.” The priest turned to go, muttering under his breath, then stopped and turned back. His face softened. “You don’t even want the benefits,” he said. “That will make your lives more difficult. But it stands as evidence of your commitment. It really is about love for you, and that has benefits all on its own.”
“That was perfect,” Camille said. “Thank you.”
“Do you realize marriage for love wasn’t even invented until, like, the eleventh century?” Moffett continued. “And it didn’t really catch on until the nineteenth. Still hasn’t, in some places. It takes effort, commitment, sacrifice. I salute any young couple who are willing to do that for each other, and take that leap into the great unknown together.”
“Not that unknown,” Ted said. “We've known each other for a whole week.”
Moffett blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Thanks again, Father,” Camille said. “Bye.”
After he’d gone, Camille and Ted lay in the grass and enjoyed the sunshine. The sounds of laughing children and twittering birds soothed their ears as they contemplated their future together. Camille couldn’t believe this day had come. Okay, so it had been brought about by unethical scientific intervention, but that wasn’t her fault, and the important thing was that it had come. She wouldn’t die lonely after all.
So why did she still have, beneath the happiness, an empty feeling inside?
The feeling became more pronounced when a golden retriever ran past her, chasing a Frisbee. It looked just like Rusty. Rusty…
Pushing those thoughts away, she turned onto her side and smiled at Ted. “We didn’t have a cake,” she said. “Want to get a cake?”
He smiled. “I’ve love to. Or we could make one ourselves, since we’re already being so unorthodox about the whole thing.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling more genuinely now. “We can make a better one. Normal wedding cakes are way overrated.”
She gazed deeply into his eyes, but not deeply enough – or perhaps the problem was simply that she still didn’t understand men. If she had, perhaps she would have noticed that buried beneath his own happiness, he had an empty feeling as well.
* * * * *
“…are baffled by the absence of clues, but police spokeswoman Kim LeFevre today urged citizens not to give credence to the many rumors that have been circulating.”
“This is no time for hysteria. We understand the legitimate concerns, but we can do our job more effectively when the populace isn’t caught up in speculation. We need to find the truth, not make things up.”
“In other local news, state Senate candidate Gina Rodriguez has sworn in an affidavit that the allegations of –”
“Boring,” Camille said, and switched the radio back to the classic rock station. It was currently on a commercial break, and therefore boring as well, but that would rectify itself in a couple minutes at the most.
“I thought you preferred hip-hop,” Ted said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes. “Eh, that was a joke, you know? Actually, tonight I was thinking we could put on more of a lite station. I’m in the mood for some ‘Red, Red Wine’, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do,” he said.
“Hang on a sec.” Her phone was vibrating in her pocket.
When Camille looked to see who was calling, she almost had a heart attack. She considered not answering, but then chastened herself for being paranoid. There was nothing to worry about. She didn’t know why he was calling, and never would have expected it, but there was no reason to assume it was anything out of the ordinary.
So she held up a finger to Ted, ducked into the living room, and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hi, Camille,” Steve said. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” she lied. “You?”
“I’m good, thanks. Been working on an interesting story. There’s this creepy old house on the outskirts of the city that has its basement lights on 24/7, right? Well, the police figured somebody was making meth or something, so they did some asking around, and it turns out the city doesn’t run those lights. The whole house is off-grid.”
“How strange,” Camille said, feeling more nervous by the minute. “I'm sure your story will be great. Now sorry, but I’m really busy, so –”
“But hey, listen, I was out the other day when I ran into your neighbor Brandon. You know, the cat guy?”
“Yeah, I know him,” Camille said, feeling her stomach tie itself in knots as she got a hunch where this conversation was going and that her paranoia had been correct.
“So he was like ‘Oh hi, Steve. I didn’t know you and Camille were still together.’ And I was like ‘What? We’re not. We weren’t really ‘together’ in the first place.’ And he was like ‘Oh, sorry, it’s just that I’ve seen you over at her house a few times since then.’”
Camille realized she’d stopped breathing, and forced herself to start again.
“Crazy, huh? So, I don’t suppose you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“Oh, well –” She fought to think of something. “I’ve been around, you know. I’ve been seeing a lot of men, and I guess one of them might have looked kind of like you.”
“Hm. Lucky guy.”
“Right?” She breathed a little easier. “But it’s not really that strange, is it?”
“Maybe not,” Steve said. “But something1 is. Can’t you feel the weird aura that’s been over this city the last few weeks? And some other stuff I’ve written about, like the UFO sightings last month, or how the Humane Society hasn’t had any stray dogs or cats coming in since about that time.”
Camille snorted. “You think there’s a correlation? There were sightings a couple decades ago too, and nothing happened. I saw Bigfoot yesterday, but that doesn’t mean it’s his fault I have a hangnail today.” She was trying to hide her nervousness with flippancy, and hoped it was working. He seemed to be forgetting the topic of his mysterious lookalike.
“In this business I’ve learned not to ignore my hunches,” Steve said, sounding miffed. “Research impartially, write objectively, but don’t ignore hunches.”
“I’ll eat my words when you win your Pulitzer Prize. I can see the headline now: ‘Invasion of the Doggy Snatchers’.” As soon as she had said it, she thought of Rusty, and felt even sicker.
“Laugh if you want,” Steve said, oblivious to her discomfort, “but something’s going on, and I’m going to –”
Behind her, from the kitchen, came Ted’s voice crooning along with the radio, “Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living goes on…”
Camille’s heart leaped into her throat. She ran into the bedroom and shut the door behind her, but it was too late – she could almost hear Steve’s eyebrows shooting up. “That sounded like my1 voice,” he said.
Camille fought to keep her own voice steady. “Yeah? Jeez, what an ego you have.”
“I’ve heard enough recorded interviews to know what my voice sounds like, Camille. But you don’t have any recordings of me singing, do you?”
“A lot of people have the same voices. Same vocal cord structures or something. Once I thought I heard Shelley Duvall in a crowded airport, but it was just some lady.”
“I see. So whose voice was that just now?”
“Just some guy,” she said, beginning to babble. “One of those others I mentioned. There’s a lot of them. Probably two or three of them have the same voices too. Who knows? I haven’t compared. Listen, my, uh, bowl of cereal is getting soggy, so I’ve gotta go. Thanks for calling, Steve, and have a nice –”
“Camille.” His voice was so powerful and firm that she froze in spite of herself. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” she said, feeling melancholy even now as she remembered that night. “Yeah, I think we are.”
“And friends are honest with each other. Aren’t they?”
“Yeah. Usually.”
“Usually?”
“I don’t know. There could be extenuating circumstances… sometimes…”
“Like when?”
“Just… sometimes. It’s a case-by-case thing…” She realized she was going to crack, and he was going to find out he had a clone of him in his house, and he was going to think she was a horrible obsessive pervert or something. Would he call the police? No, they wouldn’t believe him either. Unless they came and saw for themselves... But she hadn't broken any laws, right? She told herself to hang up the phone while she still could. Hang up the phone…
It was unnecessary, as he unexpectedly gave up his line of inquiry. “Right,” he said. “Well, take care, Camille. It was nice talking to you.” The line went dead.
Camille realized she was in a cold sweat. She almost jumped out of her skin when Ted entered the room.
“Who was that?” he asked casually.
“Oh,” she said, “just, uh, a telemarketer. I told her we don’t want ‘Hooked on Phonics’, but she was very persistent.”
“Hmm.” Ted didn’t give it a second thought, as his mind seemed preoccupied elsewhere. He sat on the bed and stretched his legs. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” he said.
She glanced at the clock. “What, now? It’s not even eight.”
“I know, but I just – I just feel like it. It’s just one of those nights.”
She felt his forehead. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
If he had been a woman, ‘nothing’ in this context would have meant ‘something’, but he wasn’t so she couldn’t tell. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what do you mean, ‘one of those nights’?”
Ted smiled, but it was a lackluster smile compared to what she was used to. “I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s just forget it and enjoy the evening.”
“Right,” Camille said, nodding outwardly while on the inside she shook her head. “Well, ah, feel better soon.” And she hoped he would, on his own, because she certainly didn’t know what to do about it. She was certain now that something was wrong, but was it just tonight or had it been wrong all along? Had she been blind to it? Was it something that would pass on its own, or not?
“This is no time for hysteria. We understand the legitimate concerns, but we can do our job more effectively when the populace isn’t caught up in speculation. We need to find the truth, not make things up.”
“In other local news, state Senate candidate Gina Rodriguez has sworn in an affidavit that the allegations of –”
“Boring,” Camille said, and switched the radio back to the classic rock station. It was currently on a commercial break, and therefore boring as well, but that would rectify itself in a couple minutes at the most.
“I thought you preferred hip-hop,” Ted said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes. “Eh, that was a joke, you know? Actually, tonight I was thinking we could put on more of a lite station. I’m in the mood for some ‘Red, Red Wine’, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do,” he said.
“Hang on a sec.” Her phone was vibrating in her pocket.
When Camille looked to see who was calling, she almost had a heart attack. She considered not answering, but then chastened herself for being paranoid. There was nothing to worry about. She didn’t know why he was calling, and never would have expected it, but there was no reason to assume it was anything out of the ordinary.
So she held up a finger to Ted, ducked into the living room, and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hi, Camille,” Steve said. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” she lied. “You?”
“I’m good, thanks. Been working on an interesting story. There’s this creepy old house on the outskirts of the city that has its basement lights on 24/7, right? Well, the police figured somebody was making meth or something, so they did some asking around, and it turns out the city doesn’t run those lights. The whole house is off-grid.”
“How strange,” Camille said, feeling more nervous by the minute. “I'm sure your story will be great. Now sorry, but I’m really busy, so –”
“But hey, listen, I was out the other day when I ran into your neighbor Brandon. You know, the cat guy?”
“Yeah, I know him,” Camille said, feeling her stomach tie itself in knots as she got a hunch where this conversation was going and that her paranoia had been correct.
“So he was like ‘Oh hi, Steve. I didn’t know you and Camille were still together.’ And I was like ‘What? We’re not. We weren’t really ‘together’ in the first place.’ And he was like ‘Oh, sorry, it’s just that I’ve seen you over at her house a few times since then.’”
Camille realized she’d stopped breathing, and forced herself to start again.
“Crazy, huh? So, I don’t suppose you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“Oh, well –” She fought to think of something. “I’ve been around, you know. I’ve been seeing a lot of men, and I guess one of them might have looked kind of like you.”
“Hm. Lucky guy.”
“Right?” She breathed a little easier. “But it’s not really that strange, is it?”
“Maybe not,” Steve said. “But something1 is. Can’t you feel the weird aura that’s been over this city the last few weeks? And some other stuff I’ve written about, like the UFO sightings last month, or how the Humane Society hasn’t had any stray dogs or cats coming in since about that time.”
Camille snorted. “You think there’s a correlation? There were sightings a couple decades ago too, and nothing happened. I saw Bigfoot yesterday, but that doesn’t mean it’s his fault I have a hangnail today.” She was trying to hide her nervousness with flippancy, and hoped it was working. He seemed to be forgetting the topic of his mysterious lookalike.
“In this business I’ve learned not to ignore my hunches,” Steve said, sounding miffed. “Research impartially, write objectively, but don’t ignore hunches.”
“I’ll eat my words when you win your Pulitzer Prize. I can see the headline now: ‘Invasion of the Doggy Snatchers’.” As soon as she had said it, she thought of Rusty, and felt even sicker.
“Laugh if you want,” Steve said, oblivious to her discomfort, “but something’s going on, and I’m going to –”
Behind her, from the kitchen, came Ted’s voice crooning along with the radio, “Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living goes on…”
Camille’s heart leaped into her throat. She ran into the bedroom and shut the door behind her, but it was too late – she could almost hear Steve’s eyebrows shooting up. “That sounded like my1 voice,” he said.
Camille fought to keep her own voice steady. “Yeah? Jeez, what an ego you have.”
“I’ve heard enough recorded interviews to know what my voice sounds like, Camille. But you don’t have any recordings of me singing, do you?”
“A lot of people have the same voices. Same vocal cord structures or something. Once I thought I heard Shelley Duvall in a crowded airport, but it was just some lady.”
“I see. So whose voice was that just now?”
“Just some guy,” she said, beginning to babble. “One of those others I mentioned. There’s a lot of them. Probably two or three of them have the same voices too. Who knows? I haven’t compared. Listen, my, uh, bowl of cereal is getting soggy, so I’ve gotta go. Thanks for calling, Steve, and have a nice –”
“Camille.” His voice was so powerful and firm that she froze in spite of herself. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” she said, feeling melancholy even now as she remembered that night. “Yeah, I think we are.”
“And friends are honest with each other. Aren’t they?”
“Yeah. Usually.”
“Usually?”
“I don’t know. There could be extenuating circumstances… sometimes…”
“Like when?”
“Just… sometimes. It’s a case-by-case thing…” She realized she was going to crack, and he was going to find out he had a clone of him in his house, and he was going to think she was a horrible obsessive pervert or something. Would he call the police? No, they wouldn’t believe him either. Unless they came and saw for themselves... But she hadn't broken any laws, right? She told herself to hang up the phone while she still could. Hang up the phone…
It was unnecessary, as he unexpectedly gave up his line of inquiry. “Right,” he said. “Well, take care, Camille. It was nice talking to you.” The line went dead.
Camille realized she was in a cold sweat. She almost jumped out of her skin when Ted entered the room.
“Who was that?” he asked casually.
“Oh,” she said, “just, uh, a telemarketer. I told her we don’t want ‘Hooked on Phonics’, but she was very persistent.”
“Hmm.” Ted didn’t give it a second thought, as his mind seemed preoccupied elsewhere. He sat on the bed and stretched his legs. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” he said.
She glanced at the clock. “What, now? It’s not even eight.”
“I know, but I just – I just feel like it. It’s just one of those nights.”
She felt his forehead. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
If he had been a woman, ‘nothing’ in this context would have meant ‘something’, but he wasn’t so she couldn’t tell. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what do you mean, ‘one of those nights’?”
Ted smiled, but it was a lackluster smile compared to what she was used to. “I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s just forget it and enjoy the evening.”
“Right,” Camille said, nodding outwardly while on the inside she shook her head. “Well, ah, feel better soon.” And she hoped he would, on his own, because she certainly didn’t know what to do about it. She was certain now that something was wrong, but was it just tonight or had it been wrong all along? Had she been blind to it? Was it something that would pass on its own, or not?
* * * * *
At work the next day, Don was as usual the only person to notice something was bothering Camille. He had always been a father figure to her, and often given her relationship advice, though it hadn’t worked for her so far. What she needed was a miracle worker. Well, she’d found one of sorts, hadn’t she? But still her problems continued.
As soon as it was time for lunch, he followed her to the break room and asked, “What’s wrong, Camille?”
She knew better than to lie to him. “It’s my husband,” she said as she took her slices of cold pizza from the fridge.
His jaw dropped. “Your what now?”
Too late, she remembered that she hadn’t told anyone besides her parents even that much, and hadn’t intended to. But now the cat was out of the bag. “Yeah, I got married a couple weeks ago.” She sat down and started eating.
“That’s awesome!” Don said, slapping her on the back as he moved to get his lasagna out of the fridge. “Oh, I’m overjoyed! The rest of the betting pool won’t be happy, though.”
“Wait, what?”
“Why wasn’t I invited, huh?” He slid into a chair across from her. “After all we’ve been through here together?”
“It was kind of rushed. We just wanted to get it over with.”
“How long did you know him?”
“A week. But,” she added before he could protest, “he’s a BYU graduate. By his standards, we had already put it off too long.”
Don laughed. “Touché.” Then his smile fell. “But you said something’s wrong with him? What’s going on?”
She told him as much as she could.
Don wrinkled his forehead, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and motioned for Camille to lean in closer. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said.
She leaned in closer. “Yeah?”
“Maybe men are a bit more complicated than the stereotype of sex fiends. Maybe we think differently and express ourselves differently, but at our core, we all have most of the same human needs and desires as you.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” Camille said. “But he won’t tell me what the pertinent need or desire is in this case.”
“Maybe it’s something you can’t fix. Men don’t need everything to be fixed either. When my father died, there was nothing that anyone could say or do to take the pain away, and I didn’t want them to try. All I wanted them to do was show that they cared, and that meant the world to me.”
Camille mulled this over for a while. What to do? What would a man want to be surprised with? She decided to go with something basic and not overcomplicate things. That night, she surprised Ted with a fancy dinner and a movie. He was even more ecstatic than she could have hoped for.
“That was great,” he said as they left the theater. “We need to do it again soon. But next time, my treat.”
“You don’t even have a job,” she said, laughing. She checked her phone, which had been off in the theater; one missed call from Steve. Her stomach lurched and her smile wavered. Maybe she’d have to block his number.
“Well, let me get one!” he said, laughing back. “How long do I need to keep hidden, anyway?”
Her smile wavered again. “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll see.” But her heart sank as she contemplated the legitimate question. Probably never, she realized, at least as long as they stayed around here. But where could they go? She didn’t know if she could get another job somewhere else anytime soon.
“Just curious,” Ted said, stepping into the street. “No big deal.”
As she followed him she looked up at the night sky, trying to distract herself, but her view was marred by smog and light pollution. “Ugh,” she said. “I don’t know how people were claiming to see UFOs when you can barely see the freaking stars. It’s a bit better at our house, but we still need to go out to the country sometime and get a real eyeful.”
“Are they romantic?” Ted asked.
“More than you can imagine,” Camille said. “At least that’s what my co-workers say. We can make a fire, and roast marshmallows, and stuff them in each other’s mouths and lie in the grass and look up at the stars and –”
Ted interrupted by bending her back and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. They stood there, locked in an embrace that seemed it would last forever. This was what Camille had yearned for, had dreamed of for years. A moment like this. It wouldn’t really last forever, but what it exemplified would last a lifetime. She and her true love would always be happy together.
As at last they let go of each other and climbed into her car, her thoughts were on the night of passion ahead. It never occurred to her that Ted’s recovery from depression may have been only temporary; that her solution, while effective, addressed only a symptom and not the disease.
As soon as it was time for lunch, he followed her to the break room and asked, “What’s wrong, Camille?”
She knew better than to lie to him. “It’s my husband,” she said as she took her slices of cold pizza from the fridge.
His jaw dropped. “Your what now?”
Too late, she remembered that she hadn’t told anyone besides her parents even that much, and hadn’t intended to. But now the cat was out of the bag. “Yeah, I got married a couple weeks ago.” She sat down and started eating.
“That’s awesome!” Don said, slapping her on the back as he moved to get his lasagna out of the fridge. “Oh, I’m overjoyed! The rest of the betting pool won’t be happy, though.”
“Wait, what?”
“Why wasn’t I invited, huh?” He slid into a chair across from her. “After all we’ve been through here together?”
“It was kind of rushed. We just wanted to get it over with.”
“How long did you know him?”
“A week. But,” she added before he could protest, “he’s a BYU graduate. By his standards, we had already put it off too long.”
Don laughed. “Touché.” Then his smile fell. “But you said something’s wrong with him? What’s going on?”
She told him as much as she could.
Don wrinkled his forehead, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and motioned for Camille to lean in closer. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said.
She leaned in closer. “Yeah?”
“Maybe men are a bit more complicated than the stereotype of sex fiends. Maybe we think differently and express ourselves differently, but at our core, we all have most of the same human needs and desires as you.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” Camille said. “But he won’t tell me what the pertinent need or desire is in this case.”
“Maybe it’s something you can’t fix. Men don’t need everything to be fixed either. When my father died, there was nothing that anyone could say or do to take the pain away, and I didn’t want them to try. All I wanted them to do was show that they cared, and that meant the world to me.”
Camille mulled this over for a while. What to do? What would a man want to be surprised with? She decided to go with something basic and not overcomplicate things. That night, she surprised Ted with a fancy dinner and a movie. He was even more ecstatic than she could have hoped for.
“That was great,” he said as they left the theater. “We need to do it again soon. But next time, my treat.”
“You don’t even have a job,” she said, laughing. She checked her phone, which had been off in the theater; one missed call from Steve. Her stomach lurched and her smile wavered. Maybe she’d have to block his number.
“Well, let me get one!” he said, laughing back. “How long do I need to keep hidden, anyway?”
Her smile wavered again. “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll see.” But her heart sank as she contemplated the legitimate question. Probably never, she realized, at least as long as they stayed around here. But where could they go? She didn’t know if she could get another job somewhere else anytime soon.
“Just curious,” Ted said, stepping into the street. “No big deal.”
As she followed him she looked up at the night sky, trying to distract herself, but her view was marred by smog and light pollution. “Ugh,” she said. “I don’t know how people were claiming to see UFOs when you can barely see the freaking stars. It’s a bit better at our house, but we still need to go out to the country sometime and get a real eyeful.”
“Are they romantic?” Ted asked.
“More than you can imagine,” Camille said. “At least that’s what my co-workers say. We can make a fire, and roast marshmallows, and stuff them in each other’s mouths and lie in the grass and look up at the stars and –”
Ted interrupted by bending her back and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. They stood there, locked in an embrace that seemed it would last forever. This was what Camille had yearned for, had dreamed of for years. A moment like this. It wouldn’t really last forever, but what it exemplified would last a lifetime. She and her true love would always be happy together.
As at last they let go of each other and climbed into her car, her thoughts were on the night of passion ahead. It never occurred to her that Ted’s recovery from depression may have been only temporary; that her solution, while effective, addressed only a symptom and not the disease.
* * * * *
As Camille got out of her car and walked down the driveway, she contemplated the shrubbery and flowers out front. She hadn’t realized before, living by herself, how far she’d let them fall into disrepair. And the lawn needed mowing, and the house could use a fresh coat of paint. She would have to do it herself. Ted would love to help, of course, but she couldn’t let him wander around the yard.
“Oh, Camille!” Brandon called out. “It’s horrible! Now Keith is gone too!”
Maybe he needed to take better care of his pets, she thought. “Orange with white stripes?”
“White with orange stripes!” Brandon was as upset as she’d ever seen him. “I stopped letting them outside by themselves, with all the disappearances going on, but he must have slipped out. The animal shelter is no help at all. Nothing’s been brought in for weeks. Not so much as a guinea pig.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and meant it. She wouldn’t tease him about buying a dog instead this time. And as much as she hated to admit it to Steve, the goings-on were strange. What could be happening? Some of her co-workers were speculating that there was an anti-stray vigilante on the loose, or worse yet, a group of Satan worshipers somewhere performing animal sacrifices – but that was just comic book stuff and urban legends, wasn’t it?
“Hey, I haven’t seen you out walking Rusty for a while,” Brandon said.
“Oh, yeah, he, uh, hasn’t been feeling up to it,” Camille lied quickly. “Getting old already. Who knew, right? Seems like just yesterday he was a puppy.”
“That’s the trouble with pets, eh?” Brandon said. “Always out of your life so soon.”
“Yeah,” Camille said, wanting to throw up. Had Rusty been sacrificed? Whether he had or not, he wasn’t here with her, and that was bad enough.
“You seem happier these days, though. Life is going well, other than that?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, but right now I –”
“You even found a guy who looks just like Steve. How cool is that?”
“Oh, him? We’re just friends. He just hangs around sometimes. Listen, I’ve got to go, uh, make dinner.” She hoped he didn’t notice her starting to tremble and sweat. “I’ll keep an eye out for Keith. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” Brandon turned and opened his mouth to yell again, then had a thought and turned back. “Oh, I was wondering, would you like to –”
It was too late; she’d already gone inside.
He cursed out loud.
Inside, Camille cursed even more loudly when she realized Ted was gone. Gone, like Rusty, but this time she had no clue where or why. She ran through every room of the house, but the only things she found out of the ordinary were her old Bible sitting on the coffee table – fingerprints smeared in the layer of dust over its cover – and a note on the fridge saying “Don’t worry about me.”
She read it again, front and back, looking for some other words. Those were the only ones.
She swore again. “But I will,” she mumbled, as her eyes began to well with tears. “I always will.”
“Oh, Camille!” Brandon called out. “It’s horrible! Now Keith is gone too!”
Maybe he needed to take better care of his pets, she thought. “Orange with white stripes?”
“White with orange stripes!” Brandon was as upset as she’d ever seen him. “I stopped letting them outside by themselves, with all the disappearances going on, but he must have slipped out. The animal shelter is no help at all. Nothing’s been brought in for weeks. Not so much as a guinea pig.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and meant it. She wouldn’t tease him about buying a dog instead this time. And as much as she hated to admit it to Steve, the goings-on were strange. What could be happening? Some of her co-workers were speculating that there was an anti-stray vigilante on the loose, or worse yet, a group of Satan worshipers somewhere performing animal sacrifices – but that was just comic book stuff and urban legends, wasn’t it?
“Hey, I haven’t seen you out walking Rusty for a while,” Brandon said.
“Oh, yeah, he, uh, hasn’t been feeling up to it,” Camille lied quickly. “Getting old already. Who knew, right? Seems like just yesterday he was a puppy.”
“That’s the trouble with pets, eh?” Brandon said. “Always out of your life so soon.”
“Yeah,” Camille said, wanting to throw up. Had Rusty been sacrificed? Whether he had or not, he wasn’t here with her, and that was bad enough.
“You seem happier these days, though. Life is going well, other than that?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, but right now I –”
“You even found a guy who looks just like Steve. How cool is that?”
“Oh, him? We’re just friends. He just hangs around sometimes. Listen, I’ve got to go, uh, make dinner.” She hoped he didn’t notice her starting to tremble and sweat. “I’ll keep an eye out for Keith. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” Brandon turned and opened his mouth to yell again, then had a thought and turned back. “Oh, I was wondering, would you like to –”
It was too late; she’d already gone inside.
He cursed out loud.
Inside, Camille cursed even more loudly when she realized Ted was gone. Gone, like Rusty, but this time she had no clue where or why. She ran through every room of the house, but the only things she found out of the ordinary were her old Bible sitting on the coffee table – fingerprints smeared in the layer of dust over its cover – and a note on the fridge saying “Don’t worry about me.”
She read it again, front and back, looking for some other words. Those were the only ones.
She swore again. “But I will,” she mumbled, as her eyes began to well with tears. “I always will.”
* * * * *
“Come in!” Harold Moffett said in response to the tapping on his office door. His face brightened when he saw the young man who stepped inside. “Ah, if it isn’t the man who made me a rebel!” he said, rising from his chair and extending a hand. “How have you been, Ted?”
“Not so well, I’m afraid,” Ted said, shaking his hand and sitting down at the desk without prompting. “I have some questions.”
“Anything, anything,” Father Moffett said, brushing some papers aside and clasping his hands together. “Newlywed life is full of questions. How is that treating you, by the way?”
“Oh, it’s great,” Ted said. “Can’t complain. Camille is wonderful. But there are some things that I don’t think she can help me with, and maybe you can. I don’t know.”
“I am but a humble servant of the Lord,” Father Moffett said, spreading his hands, “but I’ll do whatever I can to be His instrument in helping you. What’s the trouble?”
Ted hesitated, started to say something, and stopped. He squirmed in his seat and fidgeted with his hands for a minute. He started to say something again, and stopped again. Finally he heaved a great sigh and spit it out.
“Do you believe that God has a plan for everyone?”
“Of course!” Father Moffett said, relaxing a little. “Each and every person in the world.”
“I don’t feel like he has one for me,” Ted said. “I was a – an ‘accident’.”
“Oh, you poor child,” Father Moffett said, reaching across the desk to clasp him on the shoulders. “Don’t ever say that. No one is an accident in God’s eyes. He created all of His children, and He loves them, no matter how or when they were born.”
“Each person is special to him?”
“Yes, most definitely!” Father Moffett reached for his Bible. “But someone else can explain it better than I. The Psalmist wrote –”
“See, I don’t feel unique or special,” Ted said. “I feel like I was never meant to be here, but now that I am, I’m being forced to live someone else’s life. I’m like a puppet who can see the strings. Is that God’s plan for me?”
Father Moffett paused. “I’m not sure what you mean. Familial pressures? Parents trying to live vicariously through you, or imposing certain expectations?” He snapped his fingers. “Is that why you married Camille a week after meeting her?”
“What? No! I love her. I truly, deeply love her,” Ted said. “And she feels the same.” He frowned a little. “I’m pretty sure.”
“But you feel forced into someone else’s identity? Like a, I don’t know, an identical twin or something?”
Ted smirked. “Something like that, yeah.”
“No matter what’s on the outside, everyone has an individual and unique soul, and God recognizes that better than anyone,” Father Moffett said, reaching for his Bible again. “Maybe you should talk to a therapist about these things. But in the meantime, let’s see what God’s Word can tell us.”
“That’s what brought me here,” Ted said.
Father Moffett grinned. “Good, good. And is it helping?”
“Too soon to tell,” Ted said. “Carry on.”
“Not so well, I’m afraid,” Ted said, shaking his hand and sitting down at the desk without prompting. “I have some questions.”
“Anything, anything,” Father Moffett said, brushing some papers aside and clasping his hands together. “Newlywed life is full of questions. How is that treating you, by the way?”
“Oh, it’s great,” Ted said. “Can’t complain. Camille is wonderful. But there are some things that I don’t think she can help me with, and maybe you can. I don’t know.”
“I am but a humble servant of the Lord,” Father Moffett said, spreading his hands, “but I’ll do whatever I can to be His instrument in helping you. What’s the trouble?”
Ted hesitated, started to say something, and stopped. He squirmed in his seat and fidgeted with his hands for a minute. He started to say something again, and stopped again. Finally he heaved a great sigh and spit it out.
“Do you believe that God has a plan for everyone?”
“Of course!” Father Moffett said, relaxing a little. “Each and every person in the world.”
“I don’t feel like he has one for me,” Ted said. “I was a – an ‘accident’.”
“Oh, you poor child,” Father Moffett said, reaching across the desk to clasp him on the shoulders. “Don’t ever say that. No one is an accident in God’s eyes. He created all of His children, and He loves them, no matter how or when they were born.”
“Each person is special to him?”
“Yes, most definitely!” Father Moffett reached for his Bible. “But someone else can explain it better than I. The Psalmist wrote –”
“See, I don’t feel unique or special,” Ted said. “I feel like I was never meant to be here, but now that I am, I’m being forced to live someone else’s life. I’m like a puppet who can see the strings. Is that God’s plan for me?”
Father Moffett paused. “I’m not sure what you mean. Familial pressures? Parents trying to live vicariously through you, or imposing certain expectations?” He snapped his fingers. “Is that why you married Camille a week after meeting her?”
“What? No! I love her. I truly, deeply love her,” Ted said. “And she feels the same.” He frowned a little. “I’m pretty sure.”
“But you feel forced into someone else’s identity? Like a, I don’t know, an identical twin or something?”
Ted smirked. “Something like that, yeah.”
“No matter what’s on the outside, everyone has an individual and unique soul, and God recognizes that better than anyone,” Father Moffett said, reaching for his Bible again. “Maybe you should talk to a therapist about these things. But in the meantime, let’s see what God’s Word can tell us.”
“That’s what brought me here,” Ted said.
Father Moffett grinned. “Good, good. And is it helping?”
“Too soon to tell,” Ted said. “Carry on.”
* * * * *
“…that maybe you’re just not right for each other. I know, we all want that person to be ‘the one’, but real life is more complicated than that. If you try these steps and can’t kindle an emotional connection within a month, then it’s probably time to move on. I’m Al Denton, and you’re listening to –”
Camille turned the radio off. It seemed to be a machine possessed, that often found a way to torment her and add insult to injury regardless of what she was going through or what station it happened to be on. Maybe a Spotify subscription would be worth the investment. But for now, she passed the minutes in horrific, interminable silence. No dog, no husband. What a life. What a freaking life.
When the front door opened and familiar footsteps walked in, she leaped up and ran to it like a gunshot, wanting to hug and strangle him at the same time. She settled for hugging him and then yelling as she burst into a fresh round of tears. “You blockhead!” she said. “I was worried sick! Where have you –”
“Father Moffett,” he said, stonefaced. “I didn’t tell him anything. I just needed some guidance.”
“You could have told me you would be back!”
“I didn’t know if I’d be back. It was contingent on the outcome of our discussion. Oh, here,” he said, handing over a bouquet of roses that he’d been hiding behind his back, now slightly crushed by her embrace.
“Oh,” she said, taking the flowers, her frustration somehow evaporating in the face of his calmness. “Thanks. You go to a clergyman for guidance? I guess I could try that. Don’s idea didn’t work so well.”
“Which idea?”
“The dinner and movie last week. It was supposed to cheer you up.”
“It did,” Ted said. “It brightened my spirits for several days afterward. But I don’t know if you, or Don, or even Father Moffett can help me.”
“At least tell me what’s wrong,” Camille said, gently maneuvering him over to the couch. “And don’t just say it’s ‘one of those nights’. I can’t even try to help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.” Clearly, Don had been wrong this time, and this was something that needed to be fixed. If it could be.
Ted sighed, then told her what he had told Father Moffett. “But I don’t know if God has anything to do with it,” he concluded. “More like men playing God. My existence is unnatural. I never should have been born.”
“Don’t say that!” Camille said. “I mean, yes it was unethical, but you’ve brought so much joy into my life. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” Ted said, “of course it does. But I’ve brought joy into your life by being a replacement for Steve. And I know you’ve tried to let me go my own way and do my own thing, but at the end of the day that’s still the only reason I exist in the first place. You gave me a real name instead of ‘Steve Two’, but at the end of the day, ‘Steve Two’ is still what I am.”
Camille wanted to protest, but she knew it wouldn’t convince him. She had no idea what else to say.
“And another thing,” Ted said. “Do clones even have1 souls?”
Camille’s heart sank. She cried. Still not knowing what to say, she just embraced him and held him tight, willing him to believe that she loved him and that he was valuable and that everything would be all right if he could just hold himself together. But as her shoulders shook with her sobs, she wondered which of them really needed that reassurance the most.
Camille turned the radio off. It seemed to be a machine possessed, that often found a way to torment her and add insult to injury regardless of what she was going through or what station it happened to be on. Maybe a Spotify subscription would be worth the investment. But for now, she passed the minutes in horrific, interminable silence. No dog, no husband. What a life. What a freaking life.
When the front door opened and familiar footsteps walked in, she leaped up and ran to it like a gunshot, wanting to hug and strangle him at the same time. She settled for hugging him and then yelling as she burst into a fresh round of tears. “You blockhead!” she said. “I was worried sick! Where have you –”
“Father Moffett,” he said, stonefaced. “I didn’t tell him anything. I just needed some guidance.”
“You could have told me you would be back!”
“I didn’t know if I’d be back. It was contingent on the outcome of our discussion. Oh, here,” he said, handing over a bouquet of roses that he’d been hiding behind his back, now slightly crushed by her embrace.
“Oh,” she said, taking the flowers, her frustration somehow evaporating in the face of his calmness. “Thanks. You go to a clergyman for guidance? I guess I could try that. Don’s idea didn’t work so well.”
“Which idea?”
“The dinner and movie last week. It was supposed to cheer you up.”
“It did,” Ted said. “It brightened my spirits for several days afterward. But I don’t know if you, or Don, or even Father Moffett can help me.”
“At least tell me what’s wrong,” Camille said, gently maneuvering him over to the couch. “And don’t just say it’s ‘one of those nights’. I can’t even try to help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.” Clearly, Don had been wrong this time, and this was something that needed to be fixed. If it could be.
Ted sighed, then told her what he had told Father Moffett. “But I don’t know if God has anything to do with it,” he concluded. “More like men playing God. My existence is unnatural. I never should have been born.”
“Don’t say that!” Camille said. “I mean, yes it was unethical, but you’ve brought so much joy into my life. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” Ted said, “of course it does. But I’ve brought joy into your life by being a replacement for Steve. And I know you’ve tried to let me go my own way and do my own thing, but at the end of the day that’s still the only reason I exist in the first place. You gave me a real name instead of ‘Steve Two’, but at the end of the day, ‘Steve Two’ is still what I am.”
Camille wanted to protest, but she knew it wouldn’t convince him. She had no idea what else to say.
“And another thing,” Ted said. “Do clones even have1 souls?”
Camille’s heart sank. She cried. Still not knowing what to say, she just embraced him and held him tight, willing him to believe that she loved him and that he was valuable and that everything would be all right if he could just hold himself together. But as her shoulders shook with her sobs, she wondered which of them really needed that reassurance the most.
* * * * *
“My life is disintegrating,” Camille said. “Everything sucked, and then everything was great – well, almost everything, and now everything is starting to suck again.”
“Welcome to planet Earth, kid,” Don said, slurping his stroganoff and licking his fingers. “Seriously, though, I’m sorry. I know the feeling.”
“Your advice was good, but it wasn’t enough,” Camille said. “Is1 anything enough?”
“Beats me,” Don said. “Maybe I should meet your husband. Actually, I’m just an old geezer trying to separate my half-decent advice from the crazy stuff. Maybe you and he should seek marriage counseling. ”
“I dunno... I always felt like those were for people facing divorce and stuff.”
“Are you?”
“No!” Camille snapped, and then paused. “At least – I’m pretty sure – we love each other. I love him. This problem is nobody’s fault. It’s just a thing we have to deal with.”
“I know it’s a bit late for this, but really, maybe you should have waited longer to marry him,” Don said. “Maybe rushing works for BYU people. Maybe they’re ‘special’. But in the real world, you’ve got to get to know people, for Pete’s sake!”
That was of very little comfort. She couldn’t possibly explain the situations that had driven them to it, so she just scowled. “You’re right, it’s a bit late for that.”
“All I’m trying to say is maybe you’re still too fixated on understanding ‘men’, plural. We’re not cookie-cutter models of each other. Focus on understanding this man. What makes him tick?”
“I understand him just fine,” Camille said, a bit more harshly than she’d intended. She forced herself to soften. “I mean, I haven’t been able to share the details with you. They’re too personal. But I know his problem. I just can’t solve it.”
“Then I’ll pray for you,” Don said. “That’s probably all I can do either.”
Father Moffett said much the same things when she went to see him after work. She’d dreaded doing so because she was worried he would lecture her about coming back to Mass. But to her surprise, he never even mentioned it. He was simply pleased to see her and concerned about her welfare.
“We are here to be tested,” he said after promising to pray for her. “It sounds like both of you are in a particularly difficult test right now. And the only one with the answer key is God.”
“Yeah?” She thought of Ted’s remark that he wasn’t sure if God had anything to do with it. That reminded her of something else, and she asked what was a rather bold question under the circumstances. “This is off-topic, Father, but if we could clone viable humans, would they have souls?”
“Undoubtedly,” the priest said with no hesitation. “Personally I’m against the idea, because that isn’t the Lord’s method of procreation and it raises a Gordian knot of ethical concerns. But a human being is a human being.”
“And all humans have souls?”
“All humans and all living things. Heck, if there are little green men on Jupiter or wherever, they have souls too. Let them come here and we’ll baptize ‘em.”
Camille smiled in spite of herself. The conversation was keeping her distracted from her troubles, at least momentarily. “Is that just hypothetical, or do you actually believe in intelligent life from space?”
“I think I do,” Father Moffett said. “As much as God loves us, I don’t think He created all these billions of galaxies just for our benefit, do you? There must be someone else. But as for whether they ever visit us, or we can ever visit them, that’s way beyond me.”
“Some people right here in town think so,” Camille said, standing up and extending her hand. She needed to get home for dinner. “I’ll spread the word that the next time they see a flying saucer, to flag it down and send it to you.”
He smiled. “You do that. I’ll bone up on my interplanetary communication skills.” Instead of shaking her hand, he formed a Vulcan hand signal and said, “Na-nu na-nu!”
Camille laughed. “All right.” As she turned to go, she remembered Brandon’s predicament, and thought of another question. “Okay, way off-topic, but do you happen to know if there are any Satan worshipers in the area?”
She expected him to say something like “Heavens, no!” Instead, his smile vanished and he said, “No, not since ’92. By the power of Christ we sent them all packing. They know better than to show their faces around here again.” He crossed himself.
Was he still joking? This didn't seem like a joking matter for someone in his position. It sounded like there could be an interesting story in it, or possibly one that would give her nightmares. She didn’t need that on top of everything else at this point. “Good,” she said. “Didn’t think so. Well, see you.”
“Funny,” he said, “you’re the fifth person to ask that this week. It’s all this weird stuff going on, isn’t it? I don’t know about the proximate causes, but I can say to expect more of it. These are the end times.” His smile returned, but seemed strained. “Thanks for stopping by, Camille, and good luck with everything.”
“Welcome to planet Earth, kid,” Don said, slurping his stroganoff and licking his fingers. “Seriously, though, I’m sorry. I know the feeling.”
“Your advice was good, but it wasn’t enough,” Camille said. “Is1 anything enough?”
“Beats me,” Don said. “Maybe I should meet your husband. Actually, I’m just an old geezer trying to separate my half-decent advice from the crazy stuff. Maybe you and he should seek marriage counseling. ”
“I dunno... I always felt like those were for people facing divorce and stuff.”
“Are you?”
“No!” Camille snapped, and then paused. “At least – I’m pretty sure – we love each other. I love him. This problem is nobody’s fault. It’s just a thing we have to deal with.”
“I know it’s a bit late for this, but really, maybe you should have waited longer to marry him,” Don said. “Maybe rushing works for BYU people. Maybe they’re ‘special’. But in the real world, you’ve got to get to know people, for Pete’s sake!”
That was of very little comfort. She couldn’t possibly explain the situations that had driven them to it, so she just scowled. “You’re right, it’s a bit late for that.”
“All I’m trying to say is maybe you’re still too fixated on understanding ‘men’, plural. We’re not cookie-cutter models of each other. Focus on understanding this man. What makes him tick?”
“I understand him just fine,” Camille said, a bit more harshly than she’d intended. She forced herself to soften. “I mean, I haven’t been able to share the details with you. They’re too personal. But I know his problem. I just can’t solve it.”
“Then I’ll pray for you,” Don said. “That’s probably all I can do either.”
Father Moffett said much the same things when she went to see him after work. She’d dreaded doing so because she was worried he would lecture her about coming back to Mass. But to her surprise, he never even mentioned it. He was simply pleased to see her and concerned about her welfare.
“We are here to be tested,” he said after promising to pray for her. “It sounds like both of you are in a particularly difficult test right now. And the only one with the answer key is God.”
“Yeah?” She thought of Ted’s remark that he wasn’t sure if God had anything to do with it. That reminded her of something else, and she asked what was a rather bold question under the circumstances. “This is off-topic, Father, but if we could clone viable humans, would they have souls?”
“Undoubtedly,” the priest said with no hesitation. “Personally I’m against the idea, because that isn’t the Lord’s method of procreation and it raises a Gordian knot of ethical concerns. But a human being is a human being.”
“And all humans have souls?”
“All humans and all living things. Heck, if there are little green men on Jupiter or wherever, they have souls too. Let them come here and we’ll baptize ‘em.”
Camille smiled in spite of herself. The conversation was keeping her distracted from her troubles, at least momentarily. “Is that just hypothetical, or do you actually believe in intelligent life from space?”
“I think I do,” Father Moffett said. “As much as God loves us, I don’t think He created all these billions of galaxies just for our benefit, do you? There must be someone else. But as for whether they ever visit us, or we can ever visit them, that’s way beyond me.”
“Some people right here in town think so,” Camille said, standing up and extending her hand. She needed to get home for dinner. “I’ll spread the word that the next time they see a flying saucer, to flag it down and send it to you.”
He smiled. “You do that. I’ll bone up on my interplanetary communication skills.” Instead of shaking her hand, he formed a Vulcan hand signal and said, “Na-nu na-nu!”
Camille laughed. “All right.” As she turned to go, she remembered Brandon’s predicament, and thought of another question. “Okay, way off-topic, but do you happen to know if there are any Satan worshipers in the area?”
She expected him to say something like “Heavens, no!” Instead, his smile vanished and he said, “No, not since ’92. By the power of Christ we sent them all packing. They know better than to show their faces around here again.” He crossed himself.
Was he still joking? This didn't seem like a joking matter for someone in his position. It sounded like there could be an interesting story in it, or possibly one that would give her nightmares. She didn’t need that on top of everything else at this point. “Good,” she said. “Didn’t think so. Well, see you.”
“Funny,” he said, “you’re the fifth person to ask that this week. It’s all this weird stuff going on, isn’t it? I don’t know about the proximate causes, but I can say to expect more of it. These are the end times.” His smile returned, but seemed strained. “Thanks for stopping by, Camille, and good luck with everything.”
* * * * *
As Camille drove home she felt better than she had for a while, which wasn’t saying a lot but still nice. With the exception of his last couple remarks, Father Moffett had lifted her spirits with his light-hearted personality and corny little jokes. If he acted more like that during Mass, then maybe she would start showing up once in a while.
Her mood lasted until she stepped out of the car and saw Steve headed up the sidewalk toward her, as if he’d been waiting for her to arrive. Indeed, he probably had. She gave him a curt nod and power-walked toward her door.
“Camille,” he said, rushing after her and looking as if he were trying to contain his annoyance, “I want to leave you alone as much as you want me to leave you alone, but this is completely my business now. This isn’t Steve the reporter talking anymore, it’s Steve the-guy-who-wants-you-to-stop-ruining-his-life talking. Just level with me, okay?”
“Ruining your life?” Camille said, stopping right at her door. “Were your three dates with me really that bad?”
“Cut the crap, Camille. I don’t know how, or why, but you keep being seen hanging around with some guy who looks and sounds exactly like me. And I do mean exactly. I’m no celebrity, but I’m known enough around here that people notice these things. People have started asking when I’m going to propose. But the worst part, the kicker, is that I started seeing this other girl, and now she thinks I’m cheating on her and she won’t return my calls.”
“How rude,” Camille said. “I1 meant to return your calls, really. I’ve been busy. But I have nothing to hide.”
“Then stop hiding it,” Steve said. “Let me meet this guy, see what he’s about. Some kind of robot?”
“He’s not home right now,” she said, starting to babble. “I mean, not here. At my home. He doesn’t even live here. We just hang out a lot. Look, why’s it so weird, anyway? There are more than seven billion people in the world. I read somewhere that everyone has a ‘twin’ out there somewhere. I believe it, don’t you? Like, remember Harrison Ford and Vic Armstrong back in the day, or those pictures on the internet?”
He looked skeptical. “So you’re saying my ‘twin’ just happens to also live right in the same area as me.”
“Not quite. He lives here in the suburbs, like me,” she said, her mind racing as desperately as it ever had. “And maybe that’s really improbable, but actually it’s bound to happen now and again, you know, with seven billion people in the world. Actually, it’s more likely than having him live halfway across the world, because if he were Chinese or something he couldn’t be your ‘twin’, right? And actually, it’s probably more like quintuplets, you know, with seven billion people…”
“Look, I guess I just need to talk with him and get this sorted out,” Steve said, clearly not buying a word but not knowing how to refute it. “Because it’s affecting me, okay?”
“What do you want me to do, get him plastic surgery? He has a right to look like himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I’m hungry. Tee-tee-why-ell.” Camille pulled open the door.
“Honey!” Ted said, running toward her with arms outstretched. “It’s so good to –”
Time froze. Steve gasped.
Camille elbowed him in the stomach, spun inside and slammed the door with enough force to shake the house, collapsing to the floor against it and bracing herself against the loud thumping noises that were either Steve banging on the door, or her own heart, or both; she couldn’t tell. After what seemed like ten minutes but in reality was probably thirty seconds, all was still, and she was left trembling and hyperventilating in a puddle of her own sweat and tears.
“I’m sorry,” Ted said. “I’m so sorry.” He extended an arm to help her up.
She waved him off, just for a moment. She felt as if she were going to die. What could she do? What could she possibly do now?
Her mood lasted until she stepped out of the car and saw Steve headed up the sidewalk toward her, as if he’d been waiting for her to arrive. Indeed, he probably had. She gave him a curt nod and power-walked toward her door.
“Camille,” he said, rushing after her and looking as if he were trying to contain his annoyance, “I want to leave you alone as much as you want me to leave you alone, but this is completely my business now. This isn’t Steve the reporter talking anymore, it’s Steve the-guy-who-wants-you-to-stop-ruining-his-life talking. Just level with me, okay?”
“Ruining your life?” Camille said, stopping right at her door. “Were your three dates with me really that bad?”
“Cut the crap, Camille. I don’t know how, or why, but you keep being seen hanging around with some guy who looks and sounds exactly like me. And I do mean exactly. I’m no celebrity, but I’m known enough around here that people notice these things. People have started asking when I’m going to propose. But the worst part, the kicker, is that I started seeing this other girl, and now she thinks I’m cheating on her and she won’t return my calls.”
“How rude,” Camille said. “I1 meant to return your calls, really. I’ve been busy. But I have nothing to hide.”
“Then stop hiding it,” Steve said. “Let me meet this guy, see what he’s about. Some kind of robot?”
“He’s not home right now,” she said, starting to babble. “I mean, not here. At my home. He doesn’t even live here. We just hang out a lot. Look, why’s it so weird, anyway? There are more than seven billion people in the world. I read somewhere that everyone has a ‘twin’ out there somewhere. I believe it, don’t you? Like, remember Harrison Ford and Vic Armstrong back in the day, or those pictures on the internet?”
He looked skeptical. “So you’re saying my ‘twin’ just happens to also live right in the same area as me.”
“Not quite. He lives here in the suburbs, like me,” she said, her mind racing as desperately as it ever had. “And maybe that’s really improbable, but actually it’s bound to happen now and again, you know, with seven billion people in the world. Actually, it’s more likely than having him live halfway across the world, because if he were Chinese or something he couldn’t be your ‘twin’, right? And actually, it’s probably more like quintuplets, you know, with seven billion people…”
“Look, I guess I just need to talk with him and get this sorted out,” Steve said, clearly not buying a word but not knowing how to refute it. “Because it’s affecting me, okay?”
“What do you want me to do, get him plastic surgery? He has a right to look like himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I’m hungry. Tee-tee-why-ell.” Camille pulled open the door.
“Honey!” Ted said, running toward her with arms outstretched. “It’s so good to –”
Time froze. Steve gasped.
Camille elbowed him in the stomach, spun inside and slammed the door with enough force to shake the house, collapsing to the floor against it and bracing herself against the loud thumping noises that were either Steve banging on the door, or her own heart, or both; she couldn’t tell. After what seemed like ten minutes but in reality was probably thirty seconds, all was still, and she was left trembling and hyperventilating in a puddle of her own sweat and tears.
“I’m sorry,” Ted said. “I’m so sorry.” He extended an arm to help her up.
She waved him off, just for a moment. She felt as if she were going to die. What could she do? What could she possibly do now?
* * * * *
As Steve walked away, fuming, he saw Brandon out on his front porch once again. “Hey,” Brandon said. “Any luck?”
“No,” Steve said. “She’s determined to keep him from me. I have no clue what could possibly be going on.”
Brandon laughed. “Maybe she cloned you.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Sure, that was my first thought.” Then he reconsidered. “Heck, with half the stuff going on around here lately, I wouldn’t be too surprised. But more likely she’s hired an impersonator or something, because she’s just that obsessed with me.”
“That doesn’t sound like her,” Brandon said.
“No, it doesn’t, but there aren’t a lot of possibilities. Even the clone thing would be obsessive, huh?” Steve sighed. “Anyway, I’ve wasted enough time on this. Call me as soon as they leave the house, will you?”
“Sure thing,” Brandon said, looking very uncomfortable. Steve continued to walk away, until Brandon cleared his throat and said, “Hey, can I ask something?”
“Go for it,” Steve said.
“Look, I know this is none of my business, but I’ve just wondered – Camille is a really amazing woman. She’s intelligent, kind, witty, talented, drop-dead gorgeous, and all kinds of stuff. Why didn’t you want to date her?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’re right about all that, but there was just no emotional connection between us. No ‘spark’. You know how it goes sometimes, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said, staring wistfully at Camille’s house. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“Maybe it’s not fair, but that’s life. Happens to all of us.”
“Yeah.”
“No,” Steve said. “She’s determined to keep him from me. I have no clue what could possibly be going on.”
Brandon laughed. “Maybe she cloned you.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Sure, that was my first thought.” Then he reconsidered. “Heck, with half the stuff going on around here lately, I wouldn’t be too surprised. But more likely she’s hired an impersonator or something, because she’s just that obsessed with me.”
“That doesn’t sound like her,” Brandon said.
“No, it doesn’t, but there aren’t a lot of possibilities. Even the clone thing would be obsessive, huh?” Steve sighed. “Anyway, I’ve wasted enough time on this. Call me as soon as they leave the house, will you?”
“Sure thing,” Brandon said, looking very uncomfortable. Steve continued to walk away, until Brandon cleared his throat and said, “Hey, can I ask something?”
“Go for it,” Steve said.
“Look, I know this is none of my business, but I’ve just wondered – Camille is a really amazing woman. She’s intelligent, kind, witty, talented, drop-dead gorgeous, and all kinds of stuff. Why didn’t you want to date her?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’re right about all that, but there was just no emotional connection between us. No ‘spark’. You know how it goes sometimes, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said, staring wistfully at Camille’s house. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“Maybe it’s not fair, but that’s life. Happens to all of us.”
“Yeah.”
* * * * *
Camille had finally calmed down enough to get up off the floor. She drank a glass of water and took several deep breaths as Ted gave her a hug and scratched her back. “Never thought I’d need to keep a man away from me,” she said. “They always did that just fine on their own. But what can we do, get a restraining order? He hasn’t done anything wrong. I have.”
“No, Camille,” Ted said. “This isn’t your fault.”
“You know how many lies I’ve told since I met you?” She sighed. “My whole life has become a lie. I’m lying to preserve something that was never meant to happen. And I don’t mean your existence – I mean your love. A man loving me.”
He looked at her quizzically. “What’s a ‘lie’?”
Camille froze as she realized that miraculously, somehow, this aspect of his childlike innocence had been retained all this time. She also realized that she was about to have to shatter it. Appropriate enough, after everything else she’d ruined. “Well,” she said, pacing and choosing her words carefully, “it’s like – when you say things you don’t mean, but not as a joke. It isn’t funny.”
“Oh,” he said, processing this information. “And you do that?”
“At least eight times a day since I met you.”
“Why, if it isn’t funny?”
“Because sometimes you have to protect yourself. You feel like you don’t have a choice. But it can destroy you anyway.” She entered the bedroom and flopped down on the bed.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to.” She rolled over and sighed. “You’re too good for this world, you know? For me, anyway.”
“Oh, stop it. I love you.”
“I know.”
They passed a few minutes in silence, neither having any idea what to say.
“So now both of us are depressed,” Ted finally continued, staring at the ceiling. “Why can’t we make each other happy? Love is supposed to conquer all.”
“I used to think so too,” Camille said. “But love doesn’t equal wisdom, I guess. You’re too complicated. And I’ll probably be the same for you.” Maybe marriage counseling wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Surely they’d helped more hopeless cases than her in the past – right? She rolled her eyes. “If only men came with –” She froze.
“What?” Ted said.
“Instruction manuals…” She pushed herself up, sprang off the bed, and ran for the kitchen. The floor had just been vacuumed, but some clutter remained here and there, which she and Ted hadn’t bothered to pick up because they never had company over. She rummaged through it desperately as he watched her with a questioning look; then, with a surge of triumph, she found behind the fridge a crumpled-up piece of paper that she’d tossed away what seemed like eons ago.
“What’s that?” Ted said.
“Your instruction manual,” she said, beaming at him. “In a manner of speaking.” She un-crumpled it and eagerly looked to see what it said.
It said, “Do you wish you’d kept this paper now?1”
“Bite me,” she snapped.
“Who are you talking to?” Ted asked.
“No one,” she said, only half listening to him. More words were appearing beneath those ones.
“If for any reason you are unsatisfied with your clone, you may bring it back within ninety days for a free tune-up or exchange.”1
“Tune-up or exchange,” she muttered angrily. “Like he’s a freaking dishwasher or something.” Still, the gist was clear. Maybe the creepy man who had created him for her would have some idea how to help him with his emotional problems. That was what really mattered, she realized. Once he was happy, she would be happy, and avoiding Steve wouldn’t be such a hassle compared to that. They would just move across the country. It would be an adventure.
“Well?” Ted said. “Is that helping?”
“It might be,” Camille said. She slapped herself. “Only one problem, though – I don’t know where the guy is, and there’s no address on here.” She turned the note over, in case she’d missed something, but to no avail. “Maybe it’s written on the coffin you came in. What happened to that?”
“We put it in the basement, remember?”
She ran downstairs, found it, and checked it frantically, but again to no avail. “What’s the point of having a return policy with no address?” she muttered angrily.
“Maybe he thought you could figure it out on your own,” Ted suggested.
“Maybe he doesn’t actually want to be found,” she muttered. “Do you remember anything, any clues about the location at all?”
“No, I was in suspended animation between there and here. I only remember the inside of his house. Huge place, all kinds of noisy, buzzing machinery. He never turned it off. Must have had one heck of an electric bill –”
Camille snapped her fingers. “Hey! I wonder…” She ran over to another corner of the basement where several newspapers, not very old but already yellowing, lay piled up. She rummaged through them, looking for one article in particular.
“What are you doing?” Ted asked. “You think his address is in there?”
“Not exactly,” Camille said. “Maybe it’s a long shot, but he’s a weird guy and he lives in a weird house, eh? I remember Steve mentioned a house he was investigating, that was off-grid, where the lights were always on...”
“And you saved these newspapers because Steve's articles are in them?”
“Don’t judge me. Ah, I think this is it!” The headline read Mysterious House Intrigues Authorities1, and the accompanying picture looked mysterious indeed. “Is the address in here? Let’s see… yes!”
“I wonder how the house’s owner felt about his privacy being violated,” Ted said. “Couldn’t that invite vandalism?”
“Nah, teenage hoodlums don’t read the paper,” Camille said. “Neither does hardly anyone else for that matter. Come on, let’s go.” She raced up the stairs.
Ted had to hurry to catch up to her, and then they were out the door. Brandon hardly had time to say “hi” before they'd gotten into her car and pulled out the driveway.
“I hope this works,” Camille muttered to herself. “I hope this works, I hope this works…”
Behind them, Steve’s car pulled away from the curb and followed at a discreet distance.
“No, Camille,” Ted said. “This isn’t your fault.”
“You know how many lies I’ve told since I met you?” She sighed. “My whole life has become a lie. I’m lying to preserve something that was never meant to happen. And I don’t mean your existence – I mean your love. A man loving me.”
He looked at her quizzically. “What’s a ‘lie’?”
Camille froze as she realized that miraculously, somehow, this aspect of his childlike innocence had been retained all this time. She also realized that she was about to have to shatter it. Appropriate enough, after everything else she’d ruined. “Well,” she said, pacing and choosing her words carefully, “it’s like – when you say things you don’t mean, but not as a joke. It isn’t funny.”
“Oh,” he said, processing this information. “And you do that?”
“At least eight times a day since I met you.”
“Why, if it isn’t funny?”
“Because sometimes you have to protect yourself. You feel like you don’t have a choice. But it can destroy you anyway.” She entered the bedroom and flopped down on the bed.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to.” She rolled over and sighed. “You’re too good for this world, you know? For me, anyway.”
“Oh, stop it. I love you.”
“I know.”
They passed a few minutes in silence, neither having any idea what to say.
“So now both of us are depressed,” Ted finally continued, staring at the ceiling. “Why can’t we make each other happy? Love is supposed to conquer all.”
“I used to think so too,” Camille said. “But love doesn’t equal wisdom, I guess. You’re too complicated. And I’ll probably be the same for you.” Maybe marriage counseling wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Surely they’d helped more hopeless cases than her in the past – right? She rolled her eyes. “If only men came with –” She froze.
“What?” Ted said.
“Instruction manuals…” She pushed herself up, sprang off the bed, and ran for the kitchen. The floor had just been vacuumed, but some clutter remained here and there, which she and Ted hadn’t bothered to pick up because they never had company over. She rummaged through it desperately as he watched her with a questioning look; then, with a surge of triumph, she found behind the fridge a crumpled-up piece of paper that she’d tossed away what seemed like eons ago.
“What’s that?” Ted said.
“Your instruction manual,” she said, beaming at him. “In a manner of speaking.” She un-crumpled it and eagerly looked to see what it said.
It said, “Do you wish you’d kept this paper now?1”
“Bite me,” she snapped.
“Who are you talking to?” Ted asked.
“No one,” she said, only half listening to him. More words were appearing beneath those ones.
“If for any reason you are unsatisfied with your clone, you may bring it back within ninety days for a free tune-up or exchange.”1
“Tune-up or exchange,” she muttered angrily. “Like he’s a freaking dishwasher or something.” Still, the gist was clear. Maybe the creepy man who had created him for her would have some idea how to help him with his emotional problems. That was what really mattered, she realized. Once he was happy, she would be happy, and avoiding Steve wouldn’t be such a hassle compared to that. They would just move across the country. It would be an adventure.
“Well?” Ted said. “Is that helping?”
“It might be,” Camille said. She slapped herself. “Only one problem, though – I don’t know where the guy is, and there’s no address on here.” She turned the note over, in case she’d missed something, but to no avail. “Maybe it’s written on the coffin you came in. What happened to that?”
“We put it in the basement, remember?”
She ran downstairs, found it, and checked it frantically, but again to no avail. “What’s the point of having a return policy with no address?” she muttered angrily.
“Maybe he thought you could figure it out on your own,” Ted suggested.
“Maybe he doesn’t actually want to be found,” she muttered. “Do you remember anything, any clues about the location at all?”
“No, I was in suspended animation between there and here. I only remember the inside of his house. Huge place, all kinds of noisy, buzzing machinery. He never turned it off. Must have had one heck of an electric bill –”
Camille snapped her fingers. “Hey! I wonder…” She ran over to another corner of the basement where several newspapers, not very old but already yellowing, lay piled up. She rummaged through them, looking for one article in particular.
“What are you doing?” Ted asked. “You think his address is in there?”
“Not exactly,” Camille said. “Maybe it’s a long shot, but he’s a weird guy and he lives in a weird house, eh? I remember Steve mentioned a house he was investigating, that was off-grid, where the lights were always on...”
“And you saved these newspapers because Steve's articles are in them?”
“Don’t judge me. Ah, I think this is it!” The headline read Mysterious House Intrigues Authorities1, and the accompanying picture looked mysterious indeed. “Is the address in here? Let’s see… yes!”
“I wonder how the house’s owner felt about his privacy being violated,” Ted said. “Couldn’t that invite vandalism?”
“Nah, teenage hoodlums don’t read the paper,” Camille said. “Neither does hardly anyone else for that matter. Come on, let’s go.” She raced up the stairs.
Ted had to hurry to catch up to her, and then they were out the door. Brandon hardly had time to say “hi” before they'd gotten into her car and pulled out the driveway.
“I hope this works,” Camille muttered to herself. “I hope this works, I hope this works…”
Behind them, Steve’s car pulled away from the curb and followed at a discreet distance.
* * * * *
They accomplished the drive in silence until the house loomed up over them. Camille had gotten used to a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, but now she almost threw up right then and there. The place was creepy - more than creepy; it felt1 wrong. In a moment she became a true believer in ghosts. Was Rusty in here too? Was he all right?
“So if they think the person is making meth,” Ted asked as they pulled up the long driveway, “then why haven’t they looked into it more?”
“They need more evidence than just their suspicions,” Camille said, “and with all the stuff going on lately they don’t have time to get any. Besides, the public wouldn’t side with them on this. ‘Breaking Bad’ has made meth producers cool.”
They parked, got out and walked to the front door even though all Camille wanted to do was bolt in the opposite direction. A light evening breeze tousled her hair, dwarfed by the wave of relief that washed over her when the man they were seeking opened the door.
He didn’t look at all surprised to see them. “Oh, hello,” he said. “You found me.”
“Yeah,” Camille snapped, the relief quickly replaced by anger. “No thanks to you. What’s the big idea, offering a refund policy with no address or way to contact you?”
“The people who want it badly enough figure it out,” the man said. “The rest aren’t worth my time. I’m a very busy man.” He stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?”
“Um, not exactly,” Camille said as she tentatively stuck in a foot, half-expecting it to be sliced off by a booby trap, “but we’ve got a big problem on our hands.”
“A big one,” Ted repeated. “Even though we were made for each other – well, I was for her, anyway – we just aren’t happy anymore.”
“Hang on,” the man said. “Let’s sit down.” He led them through a long foyer lined with paisley wallpaper and antique paintings, into a large sitting room with commodious furniture and a wall of bookshelves towering to the ceiling. He gestured for them to take the sofa. “Can I get you anything to drink? Lemonade?”
“Sure,” Ted said.
“Why not,” Camille said, looking around, “but more importantly, can I see my dog? You still have him, right?”
The man pursed his lips. “Your dog? Certainly. Just a moment.” He wandered off to what they presumed was the kitchen.
“This is a nice place,” Ted whispered as soon as he had gone, “but it kind of gives me the creeps.”
“Did it give you the creeps when you were here before?” Camille asked.
“No, but I didn’t know anything then. I was brand new and totally naïve. Now…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I feel uneasy, too,” Camille said. That was an understatement. “But I’m sure I’ll be better when I see – Rusty!” she yelped, jumping out of her chair and running to meet him as he entered the room. Instantly she knew something was wrong. He panted and looked happy to see her, but didn’t come running and didn’t shower her with affection. In fact, it was as if he didn’t remember her at all. Or maybe he was just mad at her for giving him away?
“There you go,” the man said, entering behind him with two glasses of lemonade. “He’s really mellowed out since he’s been here. More space to stretch his legs, I guess.” He handed her one of the glasses, walked over to give the other one to Ted, and then sat down in a reclining chair perpendicular to the sofa. “Now, the problem?”
The immediate problem was Rusty, but not much could be done about that. Camille returned to her seat as Ted started talking and describing everything that had happened. She wasn’t paying much attention. She just stroked Rusty’s head and looked into his eyes. What was wrong with his eyes? She saw no recognition in them whatsosever. There was something different, something she couldn’t put her finger on and didn’t like.
“I see,” the man said when they’d finished. “Very interesting…”
“I thought this was supposed to be foolproof,” Camille said, finally looking up from the dog.
“Nothing is foolproof,” the man said. “Some things just aren’t meant to work. No one can force destiny…”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Ted said. “And no offense, but I think you shouldn’t have been trying. I think that men playing God is exactly what created this mess.”
“And I told him not to think like that,” Camille said. “But honestly, I don’t know where God fits into any of this. What’s his plan for Ted? Does he even have one?”
“I didn’t let you in here to give me a religious discussion,” the man snapped, his eyes growing darker for a second. Then he softened. “Look, I don’t know exactly what the issue is, but it could be that this clone is slightly defective.” He was addressing only Camille now. “Tell you what, I’ll replace him free of charge and see if that takes care of it.”
Camille was taken aback. “Re– replace him?”
“Of course,” the man said. “It won’t take but another day or two. Really, the process is mostly automated. I never would have gone to the trouble otherwise.”
“…just to get my dog,” Camille finished, looking into Rusty’s eyes again. She glared at the man. “What did you want with him, anyway?”
“I like animals,” he said, standing up and stretching. “And it gets lonely around here. But you know a thing or two about that, don’t you? Now do you want the clone replaced or not? I need to get back to my work.”
“You talk about him like he’s – some kind of machine or something,” Camille said, fuming as she rose to her own feet. “He’s a person1.”
Ted got up and started inching toward the doorway they'd come through. “Hey, it’s all right. Let’s go. No need to argue about this.”
“A person, sure,” the man said, remaining calm. “A person that I created. Call it ‘playing God’ if you like, because that actually seems rather accurate. Did he create himself? I think not.” He opened the closet door next to him. “Or these, either.”
It wasn't a closet after all, but a much larger space that seemed to take up half the house. Camille was horrified at the sight of the caged animals behind the door, but more so by the monstrosities across the room from them. The man grinned. Crossing the room with supernatural speed, he grabbed Camille by the neck, pushed her into one of the cages and activated a ray shield in front of her.
“Hey!” Ted bolted forward, angry for the first time in his life as far as Camille was aware. Before he could take five steps, however, the man pulled a small rod-shaped device from his pocket and thumbed a switch on the side. Ted screamed as his body locked up to the floor, where he continued to scream and spasm in pain.
“I didn't think you'd forget your place so soon, but better safe than sorry,” the man said. He thumbed the switch again and picked up the whimpering clone. Carrying Ted over his shoulder with ease, the man deactivated the ray shield for just a moment and tossed him inside on top of Camille.
“Are you all right?” Camille asked him frantically. He moaned in response. She looked out the door to where her former dog stood watching them, unblinking, their only hope now. “Please, Rusty!” she said. “Help us! Help me! I'm sorry I got you into this, but I still love you... and I hope you still care about me... please?”
Rusty turned and trotted away.
Ignoring him, the man stood in front of the cage and gestured at the monstrosities. “The best traits from all these animals – fine-tuned, galvanized, and completely altered. Smarter, faster, stronger. More powerful senses. Impervious to bullets, can shred steel like paper, and breed like flies.” He grinned from ear to ear in a very unpleasant manner. “Oh, and I mustn’t neglect to mention their insatiable craving for human flesh.”
He had no proof of his assertions, but Camille wasn’t about to ask for any. The look on his face was enough to convince him he was serious. And she was scared speechless.
“This city will only be the first to drown in its own blood,” he said. “Then one after the other, all will fall, as if victims of an unstoppable plague.”
Camille managed to blurt out, “Why?”
“None of your business,” he said, grinning again. “Do you think I’m some republic serial villain who reveals his entire plan just to gloat? But I will reassure you of this – most of the deaths will be nothing personal. Most of them.” He turned and walked away. Under his breath, he could barely be heard to mutter to himself, “Let’s see how long your ‘power of Christ’ holds up against this1.”
“So if they think the person is making meth,” Ted asked as they pulled up the long driveway, “then why haven’t they looked into it more?”
“They need more evidence than just their suspicions,” Camille said, “and with all the stuff going on lately they don’t have time to get any. Besides, the public wouldn’t side with them on this. ‘Breaking Bad’ has made meth producers cool.”
They parked, got out and walked to the front door even though all Camille wanted to do was bolt in the opposite direction. A light evening breeze tousled her hair, dwarfed by the wave of relief that washed over her when the man they were seeking opened the door.
He didn’t look at all surprised to see them. “Oh, hello,” he said. “You found me.”
“Yeah,” Camille snapped, the relief quickly replaced by anger. “No thanks to you. What’s the big idea, offering a refund policy with no address or way to contact you?”
“The people who want it badly enough figure it out,” the man said. “The rest aren’t worth my time. I’m a very busy man.” He stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?”
“Um, not exactly,” Camille said as she tentatively stuck in a foot, half-expecting it to be sliced off by a booby trap, “but we’ve got a big problem on our hands.”
“A big one,” Ted repeated. “Even though we were made for each other – well, I was for her, anyway – we just aren’t happy anymore.”
“Hang on,” the man said. “Let’s sit down.” He led them through a long foyer lined with paisley wallpaper and antique paintings, into a large sitting room with commodious furniture and a wall of bookshelves towering to the ceiling. He gestured for them to take the sofa. “Can I get you anything to drink? Lemonade?”
“Sure,” Ted said.
“Why not,” Camille said, looking around, “but more importantly, can I see my dog? You still have him, right?”
The man pursed his lips. “Your dog? Certainly. Just a moment.” He wandered off to what they presumed was the kitchen.
“This is a nice place,” Ted whispered as soon as he had gone, “but it kind of gives me the creeps.”
“Did it give you the creeps when you were here before?” Camille asked.
“No, but I didn’t know anything then. I was brand new and totally naïve. Now…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I feel uneasy, too,” Camille said. That was an understatement. “But I’m sure I’ll be better when I see – Rusty!” she yelped, jumping out of her chair and running to meet him as he entered the room. Instantly she knew something was wrong. He panted and looked happy to see her, but didn’t come running and didn’t shower her with affection. In fact, it was as if he didn’t remember her at all. Or maybe he was just mad at her for giving him away?
“There you go,” the man said, entering behind him with two glasses of lemonade. “He’s really mellowed out since he’s been here. More space to stretch his legs, I guess.” He handed her one of the glasses, walked over to give the other one to Ted, and then sat down in a reclining chair perpendicular to the sofa. “Now, the problem?”
The immediate problem was Rusty, but not much could be done about that. Camille returned to her seat as Ted started talking and describing everything that had happened. She wasn’t paying much attention. She just stroked Rusty’s head and looked into his eyes. What was wrong with his eyes? She saw no recognition in them whatsosever. There was something different, something she couldn’t put her finger on and didn’t like.
“I see,” the man said when they’d finished. “Very interesting…”
“I thought this was supposed to be foolproof,” Camille said, finally looking up from the dog.
“Nothing is foolproof,” the man said. “Some things just aren’t meant to work. No one can force destiny…”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Ted said. “And no offense, but I think you shouldn’t have been trying. I think that men playing God is exactly what created this mess.”
“And I told him not to think like that,” Camille said. “But honestly, I don’t know where God fits into any of this. What’s his plan for Ted? Does he even have one?”
“I didn’t let you in here to give me a religious discussion,” the man snapped, his eyes growing darker for a second. Then he softened. “Look, I don’t know exactly what the issue is, but it could be that this clone is slightly defective.” He was addressing only Camille now. “Tell you what, I’ll replace him free of charge and see if that takes care of it.”
Camille was taken aback. “Re– replace him?”
“Of course,” the man said. “It won’t take but another day or two. Really, the process is mostly automated. I never would have gone to the trouble otherwise.”
“…just to get my dog,” Camille finished, looking into Rusty’s eyes again. She glared at the man. “What did you want with him, anyway?”
“I like animals,” he said, standing up and stretching. “And it gets lonely around here. But you know a thing or two about that, don’t you? Now do you want the clone replaced or not? I need to get back to my work.”
“You talk about him like he’s – some kind of machine or something,” Camille said, fuming as she rose to her own feet. “He’s a person1.”
Ted got up and started inching toward the doorway they'd come through. “Hey, it’s all right. Let’s go. No need to argue about this.”
“A person, sure,” the man said, remaining calm. “A person that I created. Call it ‘playing God’ if you like, because that actually seems rather accurate. Did he create himself? I think not.” He opened the closet door next to him. “Or these, either.”
It wasn't a closet after all, but a much larger space that seemed to take up half the house. Camille was horrified at the sight of the caged animals behind the door, but more so by the monstrosities across the room from them. The man grinned. Crossing the room with supernatural speed, he grabbed Camille by the neck, pushed her into one of the cages and activated a ray shield in front of her.
“Hey!” Ted bolted forward, angry for the first time in his life as far as Camille was aware. Before he could take five steps, however, the man pulled a small rod-shaped device from his pocket and thumbed a switch on the side. Ted screamed as his body locked up to the floor, where he continued to scream and spasm in pain.
“I didn't think you'd forget your place so soon, but better safe than sorry,” the man said. He thumbed the switch again and picked up the whimpering clone. Carrying Ted over his shoulder with ease, the man deactivated the ray shield for just a moment and tossed him inside on top of Camille.
“Are you all right?” Camille asked him frantically. He moaned in response. She looked out the door to where her former dog stood watching them, unblinking, their only hope now. “Please, Rusty!” she said. “Help us! Help me! I'm sorry I got you into this, but I still love you... and I hope you still care about me... please?”
Rusty turned and trotted away.
Ignoring him, the man stood in front of the cage and gestured at the monstrosities. “The best traits from all these animals – fine-tuned, galvanized, and completely altered. Smarter, faster, stronger. More powerful senses. Impervious to bullets, can shred steel like paper, and breed like flies.” He grinned from ear to ear in a very unpleasant manner. “Oh, and I mustn’t neglect to mention their insatiable craving for human flesh.”
He had no proof of his assertions, but Camille wasn’t about to ask for any. The look on his face was enough to convince him he was serious. And she was scared speechless.
“This city will only be the first to drown in its own blood,” he said. “Then one after the other, all will fall, as if victims of an unstoppable plague.”
Camille managed to blurt out, “Why?”
“None of your business,” he said, grinning again. “Do you think I’m some republic serial villain who reveals his entire plan just to gloat? But I will reassure you of this – most of the deaths will be nothing personal. Most of them.” He turned and walked away. Under his breath, he could barely be heard to mutter to himself, “Let’s see how long your ‘power of Christ’ holds up against this1.”
* * * * *
Camille fell asleep in Ted's arms, which offered her the closest thing to a semblance of comfort she could get. She was awakened when a man who looked just like him landed on top of both of them.
“So, Ted,” Steve said, stretching his arms behind his head, “what do you think of how clones are portrayed in the media? Well, they aren't much, but have you seen the Star Wars prequels, or the Clone Wars cartoons?”
Ted grimaced. “Oh, yeah. It’s disgusting to create a bunch of growth-accelerated human beings, genetically modified to obey orders, and use them as cannon fodder in a war between equally corrupt superpowers. But at least in the TV show and the books and stuff, where they actually explore those kinds of moral issues and also the clones’ individuality and depth of character. Some clones loved their Jedi Generals so much, they managed to resist Order 66!”
“That’s some touching dedication, huh?”
“Almost brings me to tears,” Ted agreed.
“Did you ever hear that Weird Al song ‘I Think I’m a Clone Now’?”
“Yeah, saw it on YouTube. I enjoyed it, but there were a few lines I found distasteful, like ‘I can be my own best friend and I can send myself for pizza’ or ‘I can stay at home while I’m out of town’. I’m like, Al, buddy, the clone is not you and you are not him. Get that into your head.”
“I think he knew that,” Steve said. “It’s just a comedy song, really, not meant to be taken that seriously.”
“I realize that, but people need to be prepared to take these things seriously. They don’t realize that it’s going to become a very real issue within their own lifetimes. I mean, I do like the song, and I’ve got nothing against Weird Al, but I just think that –”
“Okay, look, this is a great conversation,” Camille said, her patience having officially worn out, “but for the time being could we please focus on getting the heck out of here?”
“Right,” Steve said, turning serious. “Well, I don't even know where to start, do you?”
The ray shields fizzled out and Rusty appeared in front of them with a joyful bark. His eyes looked normal again.
“How –?” Camille said. Never mind that, it didn't matter. “Thanks, boy. Come on.” She stood up and bolted.
“Wait!” Ted said. “We've got to rescue the other animals, and then we've got to make a stand. You heard this madman. He's planning something awful. We have to save the world.”
Camille didn't disagree, but she wasn't ready for this level of responsibility. “We'll get the police.”
“There might not be time for that!”
“And I suppose you have some brilliant idea?”
“I do,” Steve interrupted before Ted could say anything.
“So, Ted,” Steve said, stretching his arms behind his head, “what do you think of how clones are portrayed in the media? Well, they aren't much, but have you seen the Star Wars prequels, or the Clone Wars cartoons?”
Ted grimaced. “Oh, yeah. It’s disgusting to create a bunch of growth-accelerated human beings, genetically modified to obey orders, and use them as cannon fodder in a war between equally corrupt superpowers. But at least in the TV show and the books and stuff, where they actually explore those kinds of moral issues and also the clones’ individuality and depth of character. Some clones loved their Jedi Generals so much, they managed to resist Order 66!”
“That’s some touching dedication, huh?”
“Almost brings me to tears,” Ted agreed.
“Did you ever hear that Weird Al song ‘I Think I’m a Clone Now’?”
“Yeah, saw it on YouTube. I enjoyed it, but there were a few lines I found distasteful, like ‘I can be my own best friend and I can send myself for pizza’ or ‘I can stay at home while I’m out of town’. I’m like, Al, buddy, the clone is not you and you are not him. Get that into your head.”
“I think he knew that,” Steve said. “It’s just a comedy song, really, not meant to be taken that seriously.”
“I realize that, but people need to be prepared to take these things seriously. They don’t realize that it’s going to become a very real issue within their own lifetimes. I mean, I do like the song, and I’ve got nothing against Weird Al, but I just think that –”
“Okay, look, this is a great conversation,” Camille said, her patience having officially worn out, “but for the time being could we please focus on getting the heck out of here?”
“Right,” Steve said, turning serious. “Well, I don't even know where to start, do you?”
The ray shields fizzled out and Rusty appeared in front of them with a joyful bark. His eyes looked normal again.
“How –?” Camille said. Never mind that, it didn't matter. “Thanks, boy. Come on.” She stood up and bolted.
“Wait!” Ted said. “We've got to rescue the other animals, and then we've got to make a stand. You heard this madman. He's planning something awful. We have to save the world.”
Camille didn't disagree, but she wasn't ready for this level of responsibility. “We'll get the police.”
“There might not be time for that!”
“And I suppose you have some brilliant idea?”
“I do,” Steve interrupted before Ted could say anything.
* * * * *
“Hey!” Ted said. “Were you looking for me?”
“Oh, it's you,” the man said. He shot at Ted without blinking.
Ted dodged. The beam hit the generators, sending the entire house up in a fireball that could be seen for miles.
“Oh, it's you,” the man said. He shot at Ted without blinking.
Ted dodged. The beam hit the generators, sending the entire house up in a fireball that could be seen for miles.
* * * * *
The flames reflected in Camille's horrified eyes, transfixing her too much to notice the flying saucer lift up from behind the explosion and zip away into space. Around her, the animals stared as well, and several of the dogs barked in distress.
“Looks like Steve's plan worked, more or less,” Ted said.
Camille barely heard him. She shook her head and started to cry as she scratched Rusty behind the ears. “I'm so sorry, Steve,” she whispered. “It's my fault that any of this happened... I'm so sorry you're gone because of my foolishness.” She came to her senses at the sound of a police car in the distance. “Oh no. How will we explain this?”
“We won't,” Ted said. “Not most of it, anyway. Call me Steve from now on.”
“Huh?”
“He told me to assume his identity if he didn’t make it. And I have to, don’t I? We’ll never be able to explain what happened to him. We can’t tell anyone the truth.”
Camille winced. “Great. More lies. More misery.”
“Maybe it's for the best. For me, anyway.”
Camille stared at him. “How so?”
“Camille... it's been great knowing you, but I need to forge my own path in life, find out what God wants me here for. I know you'll understand.”
Camille started to protest, then nodded, realizing that if there was a niche for Ted it had to be one he wasn't forced into. She tried to ignore the water in her eyes and hoped he wouldn't notice. “So, you're going?”
He put an arm around her and gazed into her eyes. “I'll be Steve Kissell for a while, and see about transferring somewhere I can start a new life on my own terms. But I'll come back to visit, I promise. Maybe I'll come back for good. Who knows?”
“Who knows?” she repeated, in a daze.
“Looks like Steve's plan worked, more or less,” Ted said.
Camille barely heard him. She shook her head and started to cry as she scratched Rusty behind the ears. “I'm so sorry, Steve,” she whispered. “It's my fault that any of this happened... I'm so sorry you're gone because of my foolishness.” She came to her senses at the sound of a police car in the distance. “Oh no. How will we explain this?”
“We won't,” Ted said. “Not most of it, anyway. Call me Steve from now on.”
“Huh?”
“He told me to assume his identity if he didn’t make it. And I have to, don’t I? We’ll never be able to explain what happened to him. We can’t tell anyone the truth.”
Camille winced. “Great. More lies. More misery.”
“Maybe it's for the best. For me, anyway.”
Camille stared at him. “How so?”
“Camille... it's been great knowing you, but I need to forge my own path in life, find out what God wants me here for. I know you'll understand.”
Camille started to protest, then nodded, realizing that if there was a niche for Ted it had to be one he wasn't forced into. She tried to ignore the water in her eyes and hoped he wouldn't notice. “So, you're going?”
He put an arm around her and gazed into her eyes. “I'll be Steve Kissell for a while, and see about transferring somewhere I can start a new life on my own terms. But I'll come back to visit, I promise. Maybe I'll come back for good. Who knows?”
“Who knows?” she repeated, in a daze.
* * * * *
Camille was exhausted when she got back from dropping Ted off at the airport, so she gave Brandon a friendly nod and hurried past before he could strike up a conversation. He had his hands full anyway playing with Tobias and Keith, or Keith and Tobias, or whomever.
As soon as she opened the door, though, Rusty bounded up to her, ready to play. She smiled in spite of herself. She wasn't in the mood, but she couldn't help feeling good about such a reception. It was apparent that he had forgiven her unconditionally.
They played fetch in the backyard until the stars came out. As Rusty brought back the stick yet again, Camille's stomach growled and she realized she had better get inside. “It's dinner time, boy,” she said, kneeling and taking the stick. “We'll continue tomorrow, eh?”
Rusty wagged his tail and panted to indicate that was all right with him.
She rubbed his ears and gazed into his grateful eyes. “Oh, Rusty,” she said. “I promise I’ll never try to trade your love for somebody else’s again.”
Main Page: Short Stories by C. Randall Nicholson
As soon as she opened the door, though, Rusty bounded up to her, ready to play. She smiled in spite of herself. She wasn't in the mood, but she couldn't help feeling good about such a reception. It was apparent that he had forgiven her unconditionally.
They played fetch in the backyard until the stars came out. As Rusty brought back the stick yet again, Camille's stomach growled and she realized she had better get inside. “It's dinner time, boy,” she said, kneeling and taking the stick. “We'll continue tomorrow, eh?”
Rusty wagged his tail and panted to indicate that was all right with him.
She rubbed his ears and gazed into his grateful eyes. “Oh, Rusty,” she said. “I promise I’ll never try to trade your love for somebody else’s again.”
Main Page: Short Stories by C. Randall Nicholson
