Story: Switches

Mrs. Murron had glass fingernails.

I don't think she knew I knew, at least not at first.  I figured it out one day when she gave me back my paper on the Automat.  Thick, glossy nails, bulky, smoothed, never growing, see-through.  She could lift one up, maybe that wide flat nail of the thumb, and flip switches underneath to make herself smile or frown if she needed to.  I never saw her do this, but I know it's true, I saw it myself when I thought about her in her classroom grading papers.  Flick open the thumb, flip the switch, smile, flick closed the thumb, grade a paper.  Flick open the thumb, frown, close, grade another paper.  I had worked three nights without sleeping on my paper on the Automat, and it had helped me see things clearly.

I never figured out what the other nails let her do.  Work faster?  Walk in a straight line in the dark?  Stay slim and eat everything?  See through walls?  Fly?  I wanted to grab her, and tie her chair to her chair, tie her with cables I yanked from the wall.  I wanted to get questions from her, and answers, and I wanted to get them by drabbing water on her plastic forehead until it cooked.  Water which her circuits and hidden wires couldn't bear.  Water which is life.

I couldn't tell Betsy about this.  She wouldn't understand.  She's in so much danger; others could be anywhere.  I follow her to classes most days, I don't let her see me.  She needs to be protected even though she doesn't know it.  Why don't they ever make their move?  I haven't been able to follow her every time.  I think she almost saw me once.  I wish I could tell her that she's in danger, but she wouldn't understand.

I got another paper back, another mark from a frown from under that fat, flat thumb.  And then she said it.  She looked me dead in the eye, out of her staring, wax-lidded, porcelain eyes, and gave me my one warning.  She knows.  "I'm very concerned about you, Jeremy," she said, as she handed the new mark over to me.  She knows.  I must act soon before she ties me down and puts glass under my fingernails too.  Then my eyes would turn to porcelain, and say whatever they want, and I could only smile or frown if I flipped my little switches.  I must act soon.

I followed her from class, from her room, to her car, and to her house.  It took three nights; Betsy was in constant peril, but she bore up bravely.  She called me three times the first night, we had had plans for dinner, so that she'd be out of harm's way.  She called me twice the second night, and the third night not at all.  By then I knew which way Mrs. Murron drove home.

She caught me between classes; I'm glad I hadn't been spying.  But it could have been bad; I was bent over the drinking fountain drinking water.  Water which is life.  I was caught unawares.

"Where have you been?" she asked, "I called you five times."  She was angry.  At least, I thought with relief, she was angry because it was right, not because she had flipped switches under her thumbs.

"Busy," I said, wiping water from my mouth.  At first I was confused: was she angry because I hadn't been following her?  But she didn't know.  Why was she angry?  "Sorry," I said.

"Are you alright?" she asked, looking at me.

I tried not to cringe back.  "I haven't been sleeping much," I lied.  It was true, I hadn't slept since Mrs. Murron had warned me, but it was a lie not to tell her everything.  I was used to lying to her, it was for her protection.  I wish I could have told her, but she wouldn't have understood.

She looked at me.  I didn't say anything.

"Well look," she said, and I could tell she was angry.  "Next time you want to stand me up, call me back, okay?" she said, and stormed off.

I wanted to protect her because she could plug code, and especially fix it, better than anyone else, better than me.  She needed to be protected, because the Automat would want her soon if they knew how well she could code.  And they know everything they want to know.  I looked around for Mrs. Murron: she knew about me, but maybe she hadn't seen me with Betsy.  I had to act quickly.

The next night I put the plan to work.  Screwdriver under the hood, so, and up, like a big flat thumbnail in the dark.  She was up overhead in her office, a big box of light on the side of the building.  She couldn't see from where she was, unless she had her x-ray vision switched on.  Three little plugs, one two three, loosened but not pulled out.  And close the hood, and we wait.

One hour, and two.  She comes down.  Tries to start her little blue car, and cannot.  Machines failing machines.  I want to laugh but I don't, she might here me if her windows were down.  It was raining, so her windows probably weren't down, she would be afraid of the water.  

Three hours.  Finally the little truck comes along.  One of them?  No way to be sure from here, though he's not afraid of the water.  She climbs out, big glossy coat made shinier in the rain, big wide umbrella to keep her safe, of course.  She stands by as he opens the big thumb nail and looks over the switches inside.  One, two, three, and the engine will start again.  She climbs in and starts it.  I see her pretty smile in the headlights of the little truck when she climbs out; she must have flipped it on when she was behind the wheel for a moment. She's quick.  Now it is late, the roads will be empty, her car has had trouble, she will be going home.  I sneak to my car, I have to hurry.

The road to her house from the University curves over a long bridge over the lake.  It is very late, the roads are empty.  I leave my car on a side road and run, run flat out, run with all the glossy nails in the world behind me for speed, out onto the bridge, there to get in the way of a certain blue car as it passes.

I see it coming.  Is it her?  I have to guess, but I will guess correctly I know it.  I will feel it.  I do feel it, it is her.

I wait until it is almost too late, and I run straight out into the road, to be caught in the glare of her headlights.  She sees me.

Will she harm me without orders?  

Courage, Jeremy. 

Will she have time to flip her switch?

She doesn't.  She has to save me, so I can kill her.

I stand in the headlights.

Her car skids, screams, flies.  

The low barrier crunches aside obligingly, and before I can even see through the rain, her headlights are in the water, and the curtain of dark stormy gray is closing around the one tire still rising above the water.  I am panting and choking myself, but it is done, and I go to watch the end.

For an instant I am panicking that it is the wrong car until I see half her license plate, and know that it's all right.  The water is closing, the car is going away, machine carrying machine to where it belongs.  Down under the water which will choke her and her glass nails and her hidden wires and put her cold fire out.  Water which has saved us.  Water which is life.

I am home.  It is almost morning.  I pull my soaked and soggy clothes off and leave them where they fall on the floor.  A hot shower, and dry towels, and I climb into bed.  Time enough now to rest, and I can resume my work tomorrow.  Writing about the Automat so that everyone who listens will know.  Protecting Betsy.  Maybe I will tell her.

Suddenly it's tomorrow, bright afternoon on my ceiling.  I am warm in bed.  I almost sit up in remembrance:  Mrs. Murron's class was in the morning.  But there's no class today.  Someone will come in soon and tell me all about it, when they do I must say nothing, I must give no sign, I can never know who is on their side and who isn't.

The door opens.  Betsy comes in.  She has a bag of groceries.

"Finally sleeping?" she says, her voice sounds like sunshine.  I am so happy to see her that I almost tell her that instant, but I check myself, hold back.  I have to play it safe, I'm not the only one I have to think of.

"Finally," I say.  "Groceries?"

"Breakfast," she says, "or rather lunch now.  Feeling better?"

"I feel fine," I say.  "I'm sorry about, about before.  I didn't mean to leave you," all alone I almost add, but I don't.

"Just tell me next time," she said.  "I know we're all going crazy."

"I feel like I've been working on this forever," I say, remembering the project she's talking about.

"Maybe we can talk to Steinholtz about another extension," she says, buttering bagels.  "I know we've had one already, but he's got to know how huge this thing has gotten.  It's drawing it almost everybody."

"It's getting almost important," I say, to be saying something.  Betsy smiles as if I'm clever.  I know I'm clever, but she doesn't know by half. My throat hurts because I want to tell her everything, this is getting more difficult than I thought.

"You missed Mrs. Murron this morning," she says, holding out the plate of bagel to me.

"Thanks," I say, accepting a bagel without getting out of bed. "What's that?" I ask.  I am starting at her hands.

"Mrs. Murron," she said, turning back to the counter.  "We missed you there.  Though I can't really blame you, I'm not sure she knows what she's even saying anymore.  She just drones on and on, it's like nothing can slow her down or stop her."

I don't answer.  I have to tilt my hand to keep the bagel from sliding to the floor.

"Are you going to the lab tonight?" she is asking, but I cannot hear her over the blood in my ears.

"A bunch of us are going to work there," she says.  "We're thinking of getting a pizza."

I cannot stop staring at her hands.  I have to stop.  I cannot stop.  They had me watching her.  Protecting her.  Encircling me the whole time.  I have to stop, I cannot stop staring.

"What is it?" she asks, noticing my quiet.  "It's just a bagel, did I manage to screw that up too?"

I am staring at her nails.  How is it that I never saw them before?  They are thick nails, glossy, buiky and smoothed.  Never growing.  See-through.