The Impossible Fortress(24)

“She’s at Crenshaw’s,” Zelinsky said. Crenshaw’s was the pharmacy across the street, next door to the train station. “She’ll be back in a minute.”

“All right,” I said.

I waited for Zelinsky to tell me what to do. Instead he just returned to work. He wedged a screwdriver in the open cavity of the typewriter and tugged backward, pulling harder and harder until something cracked and tiny plastic shards ricocheted off the walls. One of the fragments struck me in the forehead, just above my eyebrows. The pain was hot and quick, like a bee sting. I didn’t mean to cry out but couldn’t help myself.

“Careful!” Zelinsky snapped, shooing me away with his fingers. “Go stand someplace else. You’re too close.”

I decided this was an invitation to stick around until Mary returned. I paced in front of the news rack, reading the headlines on all of the tabloids and magazines. Bernard Goetz was on trial for shooting four youths on a subway train. Gary Hart resigned from his presidential campaign after admitting to an affair with Donna Rice. More and more people were dying from the mysterious AIDS virus. I didn’t know the details behind any of these stories, and I didn’t really care. The only magazines I read were full of computer code.

Beside the cash register were two glass cases—one filled with boxes of cigars, the other with new and antique cigarette lighters. There were all different colors and brands—Zippo, Dunlap, Penguin, and Scripto—and many were decorated with icons and military insignia. I was astounded to see that some of these lighters sold for as much as $300 or $400. I reached for the door of the case to take a better look, but it wouldn’t open.

“No touching,” Zelinsky said. “Don’t touch anything you’re not going to buy.”

“Sorry,” I told him.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Sorry,” I said again.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and stood perfectly still. I didn’t see how I could disturb him if I didn’t move or touch anything or say anything. But Zelinsky looked up from his typewriter, exasperated. “Can you please not stand there? You’re blocking the doorway.”

I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t stand next to Zelinsky. I couldn’t stand by the door.

“Should I wait outside?”

Zelinsky nodded. “Maybe that’s best.”

I turned for the door as Mary returned, carrying a brown paper bag from the pharmacy. “Hey,” she said, “where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” I said, turning around yet again. “I was just waiting for you.”

“Awesome. Let’s get to work.”

She passed the bag to Zelinsky and led me through the store. She was moving quickly, like she couldn’t wait to get started. Hall and Oates were on the radio singing “You Make My Dreams Come True.”

“You’re not going to believe this,” I said, “but the radio was playing the same song yesterday.”

“It’s not the radio,” she said. “It’s a mixtape. My mom’s favorite songs. She taped them all off the radio.” I nearly made a smart-ass comment, but I was glad I didn’t because Mary continued, “She died two years ago. Stomach cancer.”

She said this so matter-of-factly, I thought I’d misheard her. “Did you say stomach cancer?”

“Yeah. June 21, 1985. It was the last day of school.”

Up until that moment, I assumed Mary and her father went home every evening to a warm dinner and a houseful of siblings, but Mary explained it was just the two of them. She was quick to steer the conversation back to the mixtape. “I know the songs are cheesy, but my dad likes them, so I put up with it.”

“I don’t think they’re cheesy,” I said, because I wanted to say something nice, but Hall and Oates hooted “ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh,” and Mary laughed.

“This song has more cheese than a quesadilla,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re cool with it, because you’re going to hear it a billion times. The stereo loops it automatically.”

We arrived in the showroom, and I saw that Mary had rearranged the furniture so there were two chairs beside the computer. I brought out my own copy of How to Learn Machine Language in 30 Days so we could study side by side. The book was full of mini-programs to type and try, so I started keying one into the 64. But after a few lines, I noticed Mary frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is just a suggestion,” she said, “but what if you read the code aloud and I do the typing?”

It took me a moment to catch her meaning.

“You think I type slow?”

“You’re hunting and pecking. Your fingers are nowhere near home row.”

“What’s home row?”

“Exactly,” Mary said, as if this proved her point. “Sister Benedict clocked me at ninety words a minute. She called my typing skills a miracle. And coming from a nun, that really means something.”

We settled the debate by unpacking a second 64 from inventory, placing the machines side by side, and then racing to input the first paragraph of the user’s manual word for word, no mistakes, on your marks get set go! I was lightning quick, my fingers flying all over the keyboard with perfect accuracy, but when I shouted, “Done!” I heard Mary echo me. We had finished together in a dead heat.