Heinlein, Robert A – Friday

The following week I went back to work, both sad and warmly happy. For the next seventeen years I would be paying NZ$858.13 per month, or I could pay it faster. For what? I could not live at home until it was all paid because I had to keep my job to meet those monthly payments. For what, then? Not for sex. As I told Captain Tormey, sex is everywhere; it’s silly to pay for it. For the privilege of getting my hands into soapy dishwater, I guess. For the privilege of rolling around on the floor and being peed on by puppies and babies only nominally housebroken.

For the warm knowledge that, wherever I was, there was a place on this planet where I could do these things as a matter of right, because I belonged.

It seemed like a bargain to me.

As soon as the shuttle floated off, I phoned ahead, got Vickie, and, once she stopped squealing, gave her my ETA. I had intended to call from the Kiwi Lines lounge in Auckland port but my curly wolf, Captain Ian, had used up the time. No matter-although the shuttle floats just short of the speed of sound, a stop at Wellington and a stop at Nelson uses up enough time that I thought someone would meet me. I hoped so.

Everybody met me. Well, not quite everybody. We’re licensed to own an APV because we raise sheep and cattle and need power transportation. But we aren’t supposed to use it in town. Brian did so anyhow and a working majority of our big family was spilling out the sides of that big farm floatwagon.

Most of a year since my last visit home, over twice as long as any such period earlier-bad. Children can grow away from you in that length of time. I was most careful about names and made sure that I checked off everyone in my mind. All present save Ellen, who was hardly a child-eleven when they married me, she was a young lady now, university age. Anita and Lispeth were at home, hurrying together my welcome-home feast . . . and again I would be gently scolded for not having given them warning and again I would try to explain that, in my work, once I was free to leave, it was better to grab the first SB than it was to try to get a call through-did I need an appointment to come to my own home?

Shortly I was down on the floor with kids all around me. Mister

Underfoot, a gangly young cat when I first met him, waited for opportunity to greet me with dignity befitting his status as senior cat, elderly, fat, and slow. He looked me over carefully, brushed against me, and buzzed. I was home.

After a time I asked, “Where is Ellen? Still in Auckland? I thought university was closed for vacation now.” I looked right at Anita when I said this but she appeared not to hear me. Getting hard of hearing? Surely not.

“Marjie-” Brian’s voice-I looked around. He did not speak and his face held no expression. He barely shook his head.

(Ellen a taboo topic? What is this, Brian? I tabled it until I could speak to him privately. Anita has always maintained that she loves all our children equally, whether they are her own bio children or not. Oh, certainly! Save that her special interest in Ellen was always clear to everyone within reach of her voice.)

Later that night when the house was settling down and Bertie and I were about to go to bed (under some lottery system in which our teasing darlings always insisted that the loser had to spend the night with me), Brian tapped at the door and came in.

Bertie said, “It’s all right. You can leave. I can take my punishment.”

“Stow it, Bert. Have you told Marj about Ellen?”

“Not yet.”

“Then fill her in. Sweetheart, Ellen got married without Anita’s blessing. . . and Anita is furious about it. So it’s best not to mention Ellen around Anita. Verb. sap., eh? Now I must run before she misses me.”

“Aren’t you permitted to come kiss me good-night? Or to stay here for that matter? Aren’t you my husband, too?”