25
At seven in the evening, Jacob Gould heard his mother calling him to dinner. Since he had gotten home from the hospital, it seemed nothing had changed. Or, rather, the phony cheerfulness and fake jollity were even more unbearable. They were forcing him to go to a therapist, a lady with pulled-back hair and a soft voice, who was going to figure out why he was depressed and cure him. As if there was some mystery.
What a joke. All he’d managed to do was get cold and swallow a mouthful of salt water before those surfers had pulled him to shore. They didn’t even keep him in the hospital overnight, just did some tests, warmed him up, and sent him home. And of course it was all over the school. Now he was even more of a loser, a dipshit who couldn’t even pull off a stupid suicide. And he was getting the long glances and poor-little-boy stares and soft, kindly voices from his teachers. Naturally, on instant messaging a couple of football players had written, Too bad and U shld have done it and Big swim fail haha.
Next time he wouldn’t fail.
He closed his computer and heaved himself off his bed. His foot had been aching all day. It made him angry as he limped down the hall, through the living room, into the dining room. His mother had laid out a fancy dinner with candles and low lighting, and that annoyed him even more.
He took a seat. Before, he’d been required to help carry plates to the table, but now they never even asked. Everything was such bullshit. And it was her fault—she had been driving the car. She should have avoided that drunk driver.
Jacob’s father came in and silently took his place at the head of the table. His mother brought in the plates of food—seafood pasta—and set them down, then took her own place.
“Well, Dan,” she said brightly to his father, “how was your day?”
His dad poured out a big glass of wine and didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “It wasn’t bad.”
A pause.
“The VC guys want another round of presentations.”
A silence. His mother laid down her fork and wiped her mouth. “This has gone on for months. What could they possibly still want?”
Jacob wasn’t completely sure what it was all about. He knew his father was trying to get money to start a company to produce his Charlie robots. Robots like the one sitting in his closet. He wondered who would want a robot like that.
His dad ran his fingers through his almost nonexistent hair. “I’ve got another meeting next week with a different VC group, out of Palo Alto. Instead of looking for seed money for manufacturing, I might just look for financing to pursue a licensing deal. It wouldn’t require so much. It might force these other guys to get serious.”
“I wonder when this is going to end?” There was an edge in Jacob’s mother’s voice that he recognized only too well.
“Well, if it comes down to it, the big money is always in manufacturing.”
“We don’t need ‘big’ money. All we need is enough to keep the bank from taking our house before we sell it.”
Silence.
Jacob pretended to be busy eating. He knew exactly where this was going. He was relieved, at least, that they weren’t, for once, trying to talk to him with big fake smiles on their faces. He was almost happy they were finally arguing in front of him again.
“You don’t have to tell me what I already know.” Jacob’s father poured himself another glass of wine.
“Maybe you should think about doing some consulting, getting a part-time job.”
“Look, the clock’s ticking on Charlie. It’s going to be obsolete if I don’t get the funding now. This is the big push.”
Jacob, stuffing the pasta into his mouth, saw out of the corner of his eye his mother staring down at her plate.
“Maybe it’s already obsolete,” his father said. “If I can’t get my own son interested in it, how can I get anyone else?” He glanced at Jacob, then looked away.
His mother gave his father a daggerlike, “Jacob isn’t to be upset” look.
Jacob felt his face heat up. “Dad, I think the robot’s great.”
“It’s been sitting in your closet since I gave it to you.”
“Dan, this is neither the place nor the time,” said his mother sharply.
Jacob felt his face burning. “I’ve played with it, you know, a couple of times.”
An excruciating silence.
“Maybe,” said his mother to his father, with a sudden change of tone, “you might ask Jacob how Charlie might be improved? He is, after all, your target audience.”
Jacob felt bad. He should have made a bigger show of playing with the robot.
“Jacob, what is it that you don’t like about Charlie?” his father asked.
“I do like Charlie.”
A long silence while he felt his father’s eyes on him, unable to meet his gaze. “Come on, Jacob. Help me out here. What is it about Charlie that didn’t catch on with you?”
“I said I like Charlie … but…”
“But…?”
“He needs a bigger vocabulary. He doesn’t know a lot of words. He’s always saying, I don’t understand that word.”
“Like what words?”
“A lot of words. Words that kids use.”
“You mean bad language?”
“Yeah. That.”
“That’s a reasonable suggestion,” said his mother.
“There are legal issues with programming bad language.”
“To hell with the legal issues,” said his mother. “I think you ought to let Jacob help you make Charlie better. I think that … would be a good thing.”
“Well, yes, okay.” He turned to Jacob. “What else?”
“Well … Charlie’s just … a little lame, that’s all.”
“Lame?”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Such as?”
“Anything. Surfing. Music groups. Movies. And he’s annoying.”
“His personality is annoying, you mean?”
“Yes. And his voice is too high.”
“He’s supposed to have a child’s voice.”
“But it’s whiny and high.”
Again his mother spoke: “Dan, I hope you’re listening, because Jacob may be giving you the best advice you ever had.”
“I am listening.” Jacob found his father looking at him curiously. “I wish I’d talked to you about this before.”
“Can you reprogram it?” his mother asked. “How difficult would it be? I mean, to give Charlie a sense of humor, some personality, and make him a little … badass?”
“It’s not impossible.” His father rose from the table.
“Where are you going?”
“Into the shop. To do some coding.” He clapped his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “Want to come with me, pardner?”
“Um, I don’t know.”
“Go with your father. He needs your help.”
Jacob got up from the table. He wasn’t sure at all that his father needed his help, or that he had any interest in giving it. But he followed his father to the workshop anyway.