Itsy Bitsy Spider

Itsy Bitsy Spider
James Patrick Kelly

When I found out that my father was still alive after all these years and
living at Strawberry Fields, I thought he'd gotten just what he deserved.
Retroburbs are where the old, scared people go to hide. I'd always
pictured the people in them as deranged losers. Visiting some fantasy
world like the disneys or Carlucci's Carthage is one thing, moving to
one is another. Sure, 2038 is messy, but it's a hell of a lot better than
nineteen-sixty-whatever.
Now that I'd arrived at 144 Bluejay Way, I realized the place was worse
than I had imagined. Strawberry Fields was pretending to be some long,
lost suburb of the late twentieth century, except that it had the sterile
monotony of cheap VR. It was clean, all right, and neat, but it was
everywhere the same. And the scale was wrong. The lots were
squeezed together and all the houses had shrunk-- like the dreams of
their owners. They were about the size of a one car garage, modular
units tarted up at the factory to look like ranches, with old double-hung
storm windows and hardened siding of harvest gold, barn red, forest
green. Of course, there were no real garages; faux Mustangs and VW
buses cruised the quiet streets. Their carbrains were listening for a
summons from Barbara Chesley next door at 142, or the Goltzes across
the street, who might be headed to Penny Lanes to bowl a few frames,
or the hospital to die.
There was a beach chair with blue nylon webbing on the front stoop of
144 Bluejay Way. A brick walk led to it, dividing two patches of carpet
moss, green as a dream. There were names and addresses printed in
huge lightstick letters on all the doors in the neighborhood; no doubt
many Strawberry Fielders were easily confused. The owner of this one
was Peter Fancy. He had been born Peter Fanelli, but had legally taken

his stage name not long after his first success as Prince Hal in Henry IV
Part I. I was a Fancy too; the name was one of the few things of my
father's I had kept.
I stopped at the door and let it look me over. "You're Jen," it said.
"Yes." I waited in vain for it to open or to say something else. "I'd like
to see Mr. Fancy, please." The old man's house had worse manners than
he did. "He knows I'm coming," I said. "I sent him several messages."
Which he had never answered, but I didn't mention that.
"Just a minute," said the door. "She'll be right with you."
She? The idea that he might be with another woman now hadn't
occurred to me. I'd lost track of my father a long time ago -- on purpose.
The last time we'd actually visited overnight was when I was twenty.
Mom gave me a ticket to Port Gemini where he was doing the
Shakespeare in Space program. The orbital was great, but staying with
him was like being under water. I think I must have held my breath for
the entire week. After that there were a few, sporadic calls, a couple of
awkward dinners -- all at his instigation. Then twenty-three years of
nothing.
I never hated him, exactly. When he left, I just decided to show
solidarity with mom and be done with him. If acting was more
important than his family, then to hell with Peter Fancy. Mom was
horrified when I told her how I felt. She cried and claimed the divorce
was as much her fault as his. It was too much for me to handle; I was
only eleven years old when they separated. I needed to be on someone's
side and so I had chosen her. She never did stop trying to talk me into
finding him again, even though after a while it only made me mad at
her. For the past few years, she'd been warning me that I'd developed a
warped view of men.
But she was a smart woman, my mom -- a winner. Sure, she'd had
troubles, but she'd founded three companies, was a millionaire by
twenty-five. I missed her.

A lock clicked and the door opened. Standing in the dim interior was a
little girl in a gold and white checked dress. Her dark, curly hair was
tied in a ribbon. She was wearing white ankle socks and black Mary
Jane shoes that were so shiny they had to be plastic. There was a
Band-Aid on her left knee.
"Hello, Jen. I was hoping you'd really come." Her voice surprised me.
It was resonant, impossibly mature. At first glance I'd guessed she was
three, maybe four; I'm not much good at guessing kids' ages. Now I