Things got quiet for a few minutes, just Charlie Brown’s “Christmas Song” and the clinking of food being served. Then Lorrie ventured how tasty the butter was, and Nells said she’d rather have plain old butter, and that made Isaac smile. He asked who she had for social studies, and Nells told him Mr. Reynolds, and Isaac said, “Good man. He got you reading the paper every day?”
“Yeah. Last week we read how robots might have feelings someday.”
“If they really do have feelings, would they still be robots?” asked Lorrie.
“What else would they be?” Nells said.
“I don’t know, but isn’t a robot by definition a machine, and isn’t a machine something without feelings?”
Evangeline jumped in. “They wouldn’t have real feelings. They’d be programmed, like fake feelings, pseudo-feelings.”
“No, Mr. Reynolds said it’d be more than that someday,” Nells said. “That they’d have actual feelings they’d make up on their own.”
“Who can say,” Lorrie said, “whether one feeling is real and another not?”
Isaac spoke for the first time. “My question is this: would the robot be capable of true suffering?”
Capable of suffering. Now there was a festive thought. And that odd way of saying it, as if suffering were a skill or an art form one could practice or have a gift for. An awkward minute passed, and then Nells said, “I read in People magazine that Sarah Dellerin—you know, the actress?—is married to a guy twenty-five years younger. She’s like forty-eight, and he’s in his early twenties. Don’t you think that’s weird? She could be his mom or something.”
“Guys marry women that much younger all the time,” said Evangeline.
“That’s different.”
“But why? I don’t get why.”
The girls argued back and forth, then turned in unison to Lorrie and Isaac.
“Sounds like they’re both adults,” Isaac said. “Love is what matters. The rest is trivia. Our meeting has recognized all kinds of marriages for decades now. Age and gender are irrelevant.”
The girls glanced at each other, and then Nells turned to Lorrie. “What do you think, Mom? Don’t you think it’s pretty weird?”
“Isaac’s right. When two people love each other, it shouldn’t matter whether it seems strange or wrong to anyone else.” She kept her head down, speaking to her plate, as though afraid of what she’d reveal if she dared look up.
46
Peter, Elaine, and the three girls stopped by the house the afternoon before New Year’s Eve. When I opened the door, six-year-old Hannah, the oldest child, stood front and center. Bundled in a pink puffy jacket and clutching a glittery gift bag, she tossed wavy blond hair so like her mother’s and said with great imperiousness, “This is for the celebration.”
Though she showed no intention of releasing it, she added, “I made it for you. Oh! And for . . .” She glanced at her father, a question on her face. Peter nodded silent encouragement. “And for Evange . . . Evange . . .”
“Evangeline,” Peter said.
“That’s right,” Hannah said firmly, as if she’d only been testing his knowledge.
Three-year-old Zoe, with her curly dark hair, swayback, and impressive round belly, wriggled out of her mother’s arms and lunged at the bag. “I helped! I sparkled them!”
Hannah batted Zoe’s hand away. “Stop it! You’re ruining the surprise. Isn’t she, Mommy? Isn’t she ruining the surprise?”
“I’m already surprised,” I said. “Come in. Come in. It’s cold out there.”
Elaine reached back to take the hand of four-year-old Mia, who’d been hiding behind her legs. “Mia’s been excited to see Rufus,” Elaine said, and the little girl peeped up from under heavy, dark bangs.
As they hung up their coats, I said to Mia, “I’m not sure where Rufus is, but I bet he’ll come if you call.”
She ducked behind her mother’s legs again.
Peter scooped her up, swung her high in the air, making her giggle before setting her on his hip. “How ’bout you and I track that mutt down,” he said. “He loves you best, so you better do the calling.”
Held by her father like that, Mia sprang open, unfolded like an origami bird, throwing her head back, laughing and shouting, “Rufus-Bufus! Come here, silly! Come here Rufus-Bufus, you silly puppy!” Peter joined in, shouting in unison with her, “You silly puppy!” as if it were a chorus they’d written together.
Rufus came running from Evangeline’s room. He jumped on Peter, nudging his head against Mia’s legs. She squealed in happiness and slid down, hurling herself on Rufus, who rolled onto his back so she could pet his pink tummy. Peter was right, Rufus always had liked shy little Mia best.
As the other girls piled on, Evangeline, who’d come out of her room, plunked on the floor with them. When she saw Zoe batting the dog like he was an annoying toy, she touched Zoe’s arm and said in a confidential whisper, “Want to know what Rufus really loves?”
Zoe nodded vigorously.
“It’s kind of tricky, but I’m thinking maybe you can do it. See what I’m doing?” Evangeline gently stroked his ears with two fingertips. And with that, Zoe was all softness and caution, using the full force of her concentration to control her wild, urgent hands.
Then Hannah tugged at Evangeline’s arm, trying to wrest her away from Zoe. “We have a present for you. Come on.”
In the kitchen, Hannah snatched up the bag and thrust it toward me as she and Zoe shouted, “Look inside! Look inside!”
“How about we let Evangeline do the honors,” I said, suggesting we gather at the kitchen table.
Zoe yelled, “Yes! Evange do it!” and all three attempted to climb onto Peter’s lap to get a good view.
“Hey!” Elaine said. “Do I have cooties or something?”
“No, Mommy,” Mia said, sliding onto her mother and snuggling in. Zoe, having won the battle for her father, stood mightily on his thighs, her knees bouncing, her hands fisted through his hair as if she were water-skiing on a rough bay and he was her towline. Then she began working his scalp, making locks stick up at odd angles as she sang, “Messy Daddy, Messy Daddy.”
When Zoe finally settled, Evangeline carefully loosened the bow and flourished out each item, announcing with impressed joy the sparkling cider, the noisemakers, the microwave popcorn. She saved a particular awe for homemade cookies with colorful candies forming our initials: some with an I and others with an E.
Peter tapped Mia’s shoulder. “Tell Isaac and Evangeline whose idea the decorations were.”
She burrowed into her mother’s chest, murmuring, “My idea.”
“Maybe a little louder? So they can hear.”
She turned her face just enough to free her mouth. “My idea,” she said, sounding scared but proud too, checking her father’s face for approval. Peter beamed at her, and she beamed back, then twisted around so she was facing the group.
Evangeline asked if they could each take an early cookie and “go play” in her room.