her affair with Christopher so she can move on. The world is waiting for her new songs.
And as a bonus, they’ll get mine. Willie Todd’s, I mean. Not Christopher Jennings’. Christopher Jennings is dead.
You are Christopher.
Right. I know.
She’s looking at our eyes. She thinks we’re distracted, and she wants our attention. Her lips are moist. Kiss her.
You bet. I’ll concentrate on being Christopher.
Being Christopher means that Lydia and I have been apart for ten months. She has thought me dead, but here I am. She kisses me hard enough to make my mouth hurt. Her face is wet from crying, and she breathes in sobs. The videos make her look seven feet tall, but she’s no more than five-four. Otherwise, she is as she appears on the tube. Her hair is long, thick, and red. Her eyes are green. Her skin is the color of ivory. Her lips are so full that she always seems to be pouting. I would think she was beautiful even if I hadn’t admired her for so long.
I meaning me. Willie.
You are Christopher.
To Lydia I’ll be Christopher. But to myself I can be Willie.
You are Christopher.
“I didn’t believe it when Daniels called,” Lydia says. She’s still sobbing. “I thought he was mindfucking me like he usually does.”
Say “That son of a bitch.” We hate Danny Daniels.
“That son of a bitch.” It seems ungrateful, considering that Daniels has just now returned us to her.
She’s trembling. Hold her tighter.
A moment ago she was crushing me, but now she seems so fragile that I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. It’s as if she’s two different women.
And why not? I’m two different men.
Carry her to the bedroom. When she gets all soft and girly like this, she wants us to take charge. You’ll know when she’s tired of it.
She weighs nothing. I carry her into the big limestone house, leaving the June heat for cool air that makes me shiver. When I kick the door shut I see that the stained-glass eye is staring at me on this side too. I turn away from it and go through the tiled foyer into the huge front room with the twenty-foot ceiling, the picture windows, the fireplace, the expensive AV components, and the plush couches.
No. Not in here. When she was a child, she went to her bedroom to feel safe. So take her to the bedroom. It’s down the long hall, third door on the right.
I know where it is, and I’ve already changed direction. But the chip’s yammering makes me stumble, and Lydia’s head bumps against the wall. She yelps.
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I say, and think of an excuse. “My leg’s still not right.”
“I know,” Lydia says. “I know they hurt you.”
Who are “they,” I wonder? There was a plane crash, and—in this new version of Christopher’s life—a village. A war was being fought in the ice and snow around the village, but all of my injuries were from the crash. The villagers did their best for me, but there was no way to get me out until I’d healed, and no communication with the rest of the world. The soldiers had cut the telecom lines and confiscated the radios, but had then become too busy fighting each other to do anything more to the village. So if the soldiers didn’t hurt me, and the villagers didn’t hurt me, who are “they”?
There is a “they” in Willie’s story, but while what they did to me was painful, they did it with my consent. Getting my album recorded and released is worth some pain. It’s also worth being Christopher for a while. And it’s for damn sure worth having Lydia Love in my arms.
On the bed. Pin her wrists over her head.
That seems a little rough for a tender homecoming, but I remember that the Christopher chip is my conscience. I let my conscience be my guide.
I still worry that she’ll know I’m not him, but it turns out all right. If there’s a difference between the new Christopher and the old one, she doesn’t seem to be aware of it. The chip tells me a few things that she likes, but most of the time it’s silent. I guess that at some point, sex takes control away from its participants—even from Lydia Love and a computer chip—and instructions aren’t necessary.
She’s sweet.
And here I am deceiving her.
But this pang is undeserved. In any respect that matters to Lydia, I am Christopher. I will live with her, recharge her soul, and give