Asimov's SF, January 2012 by Dell Magazine Authors Page B

in tonight, pack a bag and step out the door. It's 7:59. The drive from Portland to Boston takes three hours. It used to take two, but that was before they cordoned off the city into districts. Little Bangkok. Little Ethiopia. Guatemalita. And more generally, the Black, Yellow, Brown, and Red Districts, surrounding and eating up the smaller neighborhoods, assimilating them into America.
    I've got a hangover I can't shake and I haven't gone to see my family in eight months. Before that, it was about a year. Grandpa was sick then, too, but then again he's been sick since I was ten years old.
    "He has too much white man in him,” Dad explained to me. I was eleven or twelve.
    "Do I have too much in me?” I asked. Some of the kids in school had started wearing dark foundation. Two years after the virus killed all the whites, it had become a fashion statement to be dark. Like having the right shoes or the newest quikfone.
    Dad held my hand close to his face and squinted. He said, “You look Indian enough to me, son."
    Of course, now I know the fear that underlay these concerns. Even if I don't understand it. My memory of white people isn't clear, but it is benign. Mostly, I remember how they smelled, lemony and astringent like a spray you use to clean your sink. Why this is, and if it's true, I can't say.
    I pull into the driveway at 10:41. The lights are on all over the house. Shit. I was hoping everyone had gone to bed. Especially Mom, because she'll start crying all over again when I walk in the door, and not just about Grandpa.
    "We don't see you enough,” she tells me all the time. “You live so close, Mike."
    My brother, he's in there already, all the way from Philadelphia. I can feel him. I bet he told his boss what had happened and within an hour had the kids packed up and on the road. Six hours, which means he's been here for an hour.
    Last time I talked to him, about two months ago, he asked me, “Why's it so hard for you to love your family, Mike? Why's it always look like you swallowed something rotten the moment you walk in the door?"
    It's not important what I said in response. We've had the conversation more than a few times. If he doesn't get it now, he won't ever.
    I shut the car door softly because I don't want everyone rushing out. My mother, hands to her mouth, looking like she's about to collapse. Hugging me as if there's a chance I'll float away. My brother, clapping me on the shoulder. A brave smile for the two of us, taking care of things.
    And Dad. Yeah, and Dad. Standing at the top of the steps, hands in his pockets, staring down at me, looking me over, reading something in my posture, the way I wear my clothes.
    An expression on his face. As if he can't quite place me.
    * * * *
    I knock on the door and everyone crowds around me in the foyer. After Mom's done soaking my shoulder and Ben's patted my back, Dad shakes my hand. I look him in the eye. He looks right back, but there's no warmth, no nothing.
    "How was the drive?” he asks me.
    "Fine,” I say. “Like clockwork."
    "How's the job?"
    "Good. Can't complain."
    And just like that, we're caught up.
    We all shuffle inside. My niece and nephew are asleep on the couch. In the kitchen Mom pours four glasses of wine. The bottle is nearly empty, which tells me she and Dad have been at it. As if on cue, she tells me Vikram's coming over in a little while. My cousin. Which means his wife and their kids. The kids will wake up my niece and nephew, Vikram and my father will argue.
    I won't be going to sleep for a while.
    I grab a few aspirin out of the medicine drawer, sit down across from Dad and drink half my wine before anyone's said anything.
    "Do you know what happened to Vikram?” Mom asks me.
    How would I know, Mom? I almost say. Instead, I shake my head.
    "Oh, Lord,” she says. “Mitul, it was so awful. I don't even like talking about it."
    Dad grunts. Gets up for a beer.
    Mom leans forward and grabs my wrist. “They broke his wrists,” she