A Hundred Thousand Worlds (16 page)

A
fter the casual, loosely structured weekend at Cleveland’s Heronomicon, Val assumed the role of celebrities at these things was to sit in an assigned place for a certain amount of time, and not much else. But when she arrives at Chicago’s McCormick Place convention center with Alex in tow, she’s handed a booklet titled “Windy City Comic Con Talent Code of Conduct” and assigned a handler who goes over the code in detail as he whisks her away from the main convention floor and down a side hallway.

“The most important thing,” he says, “is that we try, as much as possible, to discourage non-official photography.” He is short, balding, and pudgy, with an officious air, a clipboard, and a red windbreaker with
WCCC STAFF
emblazoned on the back. Val is beginning to form the thought that he reminds her of the White Rabbit when she hears Alex softly singing, “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.” Moments like this confirm for her that he could be no one’s child but hers.

“Of course,” the White Rabbit says, “complete containment is impossible. But if someone asks to take a picture with you, respectfully decline and suggest they purchase a ticket for one of the photo ops. Someone will be making the rounds at the signing tables selling them.”

“Purchase a ticket?” says Val.

“It’s all in your contract,” the White Rabbit says. Val hasn’t read the contract. Everything was set up by Elise, who’s in the business of reading contracts and must have thought this was all perfectly normal. “You’ll receive thirty percent of net on all ticket sales, over and above your flat-rate fee.”

“How much are tickets?” says Val, not so she can figure out her cut, but because the entire thing sounds preposterous.

“Fifty dollars,” says the White Rabbit.

“Fifty dollars?” she says, shocked.

“Listen, I know, all right?” says the White Rabbit. They’ve arrived at a door that seems to be their destination, and he takes a moment to give her a patronizing eye roll. “Talent always thinks theirs should be higher,” he says. “But we’ve been doing this for quite a while, and we put a lot of thought into the price points. Trust me, we’ll all make more money with you at fifty than we would at seventy-five.”

“People are going to pay fifty dollars to get their picture taken with her?” asks Alex. The White Rabbit nods enthusiastically.

“We’ve sold—” He checks his clipboard. “Eighty-three tickets so far.”

Alex looks impressed. “Being your kid has saved me hundreds of dollars,” he says. The White Rabbit lets them into the room, where a trio of photographers and a trio of assistants putter with equipment. Diffused flashbulbs go off at random intervals, and the White Rabbit is soon distracted by some other crisis. Val stands somewhat dazed until one of the photographers’ assistants grabs her and says, “Torrey.”

“Yes,” she and Alex say simultaneously. The assistant ignores Alex.

“Stand here,” he says, pointing to a spot in front of a backdrop bearing the
Anomaly
logo: a highly italicized
A
leaning over a tightly packed, sans serif grouping of the remaining letters. Val does as she’s told. The assistant runs a light meter over her like a Geiger counter, then barks, “Two’s a go” over his shoulder and flits off.

“You’re a go, Mom,” says Alex.

“For now, Rabbit,” she says. “Later I’ll be a went.” He laughs at her little grammar joke. He’s in better spirits this morning than he has been. They borrowed her mother’s truck and drove up last night, checking into the hotel near the convention center late. Both of them had been exhausted from the sheer amount of food her mother had compelled them to eat, stuffing them as if they were headed for a food desert rather than the
financial district of Chicago. Once they were settled in, there was a feeling they’d returned to the path, a place where they knew better how to behave toward each other. But there was something forced or off about it. All of her jokes seemed strained, and sometimes she could tell he wasn’t reading his book, but using it to shield himself from her attention.

An older man, well into his sixties, dressed in a red crushed-velvet three-piece suit, approaches Val and Alex.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says with a crisp, upper-class British accent. “Might I trouble you?” An untied bowtie hangs limply over his neck, and he holds up the useless ends of it in his fingertips.

“I don’t know how to tie one,” says Val. He has a great plume of white hair and sparkling blue eyes. His teeth are straight, but his smile is crooked, leaning to the left as if his mouth wants to make room for an absent pipe or cigarette.

“They’re ridiculous,” he says, dropping the end. “But no one recognizes me if I don’t wear it. ‘Give the people what they want’ and all.”

“He’s the Curator,” says Alex. He’s looking up at the man, wide-eyed.

“Indeed I am,” he says. “You’re a little young to have seen my era of the show, though.”

“My friend let me watch some,” Alex says. He turns to his mother. “The Idea Man has them all on DVD. Shelves and shelves of them. He says you’re the best one,” he tells the man.

“Then your friend has excellent taste,” the man says.

“I don’t think I know what either of you is talking about,” says Val.

“
The Curator
. It’s a British TV show,” Alex says. “He used to be on it.”

“Long before you were born,” says the man. “Probably before your mother was born as well.” Slowly and carefully, he lowers himself to one knee so he’s at eye level with Alex. “Would you mind helping me?” he says.

“Sure,” says Alex.

“First cross left over right,” says the man. Alex takes the ends of the bowtie and crosses them. “Then bring that one under and up. And the other gets folded. That’s it. Now bring the first over and through and fold it behind.
Now we pull the whole thing tight. There!” Val watches as Alex goes through the complex series of movements with surety, then finally pulls the whole thing taut into a perfect bow. And once the bowtie is on, she does recognize the man, from afternoon reruns on WTTW on days she was home sick from school. Painted fabric sets that occasionally billowed breezily. Rubber monster suits and plots with fever-dream logic. “So much easier when it’s someone else’s hands,” he says. “Mine shake something awful these days. My jazz hands, my wife calls them. But now we’re ready to play wax museum, eh?” He smooths out bits of his suit and straightens the tie.

“You’ve done these before?” Val asks.

“I hardly do anything else,” he says. “It seems seven years of playing a beloved hero has made me unqualified to play any other character.”

“I’m familiar,” says Val. But is she? She’s never tried to go back into television, and in the world of little New York theater, her time as Bethany Frazer has been irrelevant. It certainly hasn’t prevented her from getting roles; it even opened certain doors for her. Grant, her director on
Millennium Approaches,
told her once that Valerie Torrey helped the play work, but Bethany Frazer helped it sell tickets.

“Yours was the American time travel show?” he asks.

“
Anomaly,
” says Val.

“Couldn’t wrap my head around it,” he says, apologetic and not unkind. “Audiences in my day required much less science in their science fiction. Whenever we needed to explain something, we’d say
particle
this or
morphogenic
that. Introduce some machine with
tron
at the end of it. The episodes they’re doing now, you need to be Stephen Hawking to follow them.”

“They still make the show?” Val asks. The old man laughs.

“
The Curator
’s a British institution,” he says. “Fifty years on Auntie Beeb. Which makes me something of a museum piece, I guess.” At the far end of the room, the White Rabbit has returned. He’s leading a line of people, each of them with tickets in hand, and reading another long list of rules off his clipboard.

“Talent will spend as much time at their table as possible,” he says. “Please remember that talent, like you, need time to rest, recharge, eat, et cetera, so please be respectful of their need to take breaks. Head shots will be available at the table for signing, or bring your own item! Cash is the only method of payment accepted. Talent reserves the right to refuse to autograph any item they deem inappropriate. Bootleg merchandise is not allowed.”

The old man looks at the oncoming crowd wearily. “The Internet’s made Lazaruses of all us old television hacks,” he says. “Or zombies, perhaps.”

“It feels a little exploitative, doesn’t it? Charging people to take a picture with you?” says Val. She inspects her outfit, unsure if it’s photo-op worthy, but it’s too late to change now.

“A little monetary sacrifice at the altar of the television gods, it’s all right,” the old man says in a grand, airy tone. “Pays for the wife and I to pop over once a summer. Our daughter’s at University of Chicago. She’s getting a doctorate in economics.”

“That’s great,” says Val, because it’s the kind of thing you say when someone’s child is getting an advanced degree.

“This from two parents who could never balance a checkbook,” he says.

“You must miss her,” says Val, looking at Alex, who has staked out a corner of the room to sit and read in.

“They don’t stay his size forever, you know,” says the man. “You there,” he calls to Alex, who looks up immediately. “Stop growing. You’ll end up breaking your mother’s heart.” Alex smiles the way you would at a child who’s trying to be cute, then returns to his book. “It’s one thing I liked about
The Curator,
” the man says. “The idea that every few years, he becomes a completely different person. And the audience has to decide whether they like this new person or not.”

Later, when there is a lull, Val goes over to the corner and slides down the wall to sit next to Alex. “Hey, Rabbit,” she says, “how about that story I owe you?” Alex doesn’t say anything, but he closes his book and tucks
it in his backpack. For a moment it looks as though he’s trying to figure how to position himself. As if he doesn’t know how to listen to a story unless they’re curled up in bed. He folds his hands in his lap and looks at her expectantly.

“Frazer is eight weeks pregnant,” she says. “This is season four. She hasn’t told anyone yet, not even Campbell. Anomaly Division gets called in on a series of couples who claim their pregnancies have been sped up. You know how long a pregnancy is supposed to be?”

“Nine months,” says Alex.

“Some of these are lasting three weeks, but the babies are being born perfectly healthy. Not premature at all. And once they’re born, they’re growing up too fast. Walking at one month. Talking at nine weeks.

“It’s funny,” says Val, wandering off the story’s path a little, “because we all think that. That it’s happening too fast, maybe even that something might be wrong. But we think time is passing quicker than it should, not that the child is actually growing up faster than they ought to, even though that’s how we say it:
They grow up so fast.
Looking back, I’m amazed at how Tim nailed that feeling, even though he and Rachel never had kids. It was before you were even around.”

She finds it easier to remember Andrew during the pregnancy than to remember herself. He attacked the pregnancy like it was a problem to be solved. He brought home bags of prenatal vitamins, of lotions and creams. He read half a dozen books and took notes on all of them; she’d find Post-its around the apartment that read “folic acid supplements” or “increased levels of prolactin.” She began to feel like the sole patient in an overly specialized hospital, but didn’t notice that as this went on, Andrew became more interested in the pregnancy than in her: the two became oddly separated. They talked about the varying effects pregnancy could have on a couple’s sex life, but never noted the effect it had on theirs, which was to bring it to a mutually and tacitly agreed-upon halt. He looked at her now like the mother of his child and touched her gently as if she might break. She was so grateful for his help, his solicitous assistance, that she assumed
the physical bond between them would be easily repaired after, later. That it hadn’t been severed but only put aside.

“There were weeks of the pregnancy that stretched out into months,” she says, “or felt like they did. Nausea and backaches and constant trips to the bathroom. And then I was huge and I couldn’t remember getting huge, or being a little big. All of the interim states had passed me by before I had time to notice them.

“And then you were there,” she says.

He leans in against her, tucking his head into her armpit. There was a moment, that first day in the hospital, when Tim and Rachel had left and Andrew was asleep in the chair in the corner. Val and her baby, whose name they hadn’t decided yet, alone for the first time; his heart, which had a day before been inside her, beating next to hers, and she felt as if she was returning to herself after a long time away.
Everything will be different now,
she remembers thinking, with no idea what would be different or how, whether it would be better or worse.

The major difference in those first few weeks was a break from everything outside of herself and Alex, one enforced by the sheer exhaustion resulting from Alex’s constant need for attention, for feeding, for holding. Val had continued shooting right up to the day before she went into labor, even though she moved with all the grace of a zeppelin. Tim and the other writers had come up with a couple of Frazer-free scripts they’d shoot after the baby was born, and he held things off as long as he could so Andrew could have time away from the set, but a week and a half after Alex was born, Andrew had to go back to shooting, working longer-than-normal days to make up for the time they’d lost, until the longer-than-normal days became the norm. Each week, Tim would drop by to see Alex and ask Val if she felt ready to come back, and each week she said no, not yet. When she saw Andrew, he was usually asleep on the couch as she passed through to the kitchen to get water or a snack during one of Alex’s brief periods of quiet.

When Val and Andrew found time to talk, it was like they were speaking in different languages. Val would report on Alex’s moods, digestive
issues, minor developmental milestones. Andrew would recount plot details and rumors going around the set. In some ways, she was aware she was making a little world sufficient unto itself and that she was waiting for Andrew to find his way in. But in those weeks, he became even further invested in the show, spending time in the writers’ room contributing ideas, bringing home books on multiversal theory and the epistemology of time travel, most of which would end up dropped on the floor by the couch, barely read.