Too Much and Not Enough

Marjorie wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. She wished the liquid was boiling, burning, scathing her palms. Enduring physical pain was easier than making her husband and two sons understand she did not want a robot in the house, least of all in her kitchen.

“Mom, look,” Gale, the youngest boy, gasped. “It’s the Terminator skin. Do you like it? Dad said you’d think it’s a joke. You’re not laughing.” He stopped helping his father and brother unbox the man-sized A.I. “Dad, why isn’t she laughing?” 

“It’s okay, Gale,” Marjorie said, not unkindly, to her six-year-old. “I’m laughing on the inside.”

Stan, her husband of nineteen years, avoided her eyes and folded the cardboard away from the robot. It did look like Arnold Schwarzenegger as the bad guy in the first Terminator movie, but its skin, hair, and nails were a silvery gray. Several inches taller than Stan, it wore a thick khaki jumper and was built to work all the menial and exhaustive jobs humans had disinherited. 

Stan looked from his wife to the robot and back again. “Mare, he’s supposed to be as strong as five workers. I'll use him around harvest, but this fella’s yours. He’s programmed to imprint on you.” He offered his most boyish smile. “You’ll never wash dirty dishes again.” 

What Stan didn’t say was they deserved whatever perks came with laboring for the good of the people. If ASTRID wanted to give a free A.I. to the families growing hybrid corn to make biodiesel, they would take it. Marjorie couldn’t remember what ASTRID stood for, something about astrological outreach, a blend of Earth-made science and future-grade technology courtesy of The Great Intervention. Had it been fifty years since the giant alien space container was found orbiting Earth? Did it matter?  

Marjorie looked into her pool of black coffee and found her reflection a bleak and lifeless thing. The robot might be intuitive, it might come with easy instructions, but it could not possibly give her what she needed. Owning it would not be free. She spoke slowly, deliberately, “You think that thing is a duckling? It’ll follow me around the house, fold laundry, and call me mom?” 

Gale giggled but stopped when no one joined him. 

The twelve-year-old Neil shifted impatiently next to this father. “Dad, can it help me with algebra? I have a test tomorrow.” 

The group ignored him. Stan switched the robot on, and Marjorie held her breath. If it had beady red eyes, it was going back to the manufacturer. 

The robot spoke, startling everyone. “Greetings, Hailbirth Family! ASTRID Tech extends their heartfelt thanks for your considerable contribution. I am the latest Home and Garden model, designed and programmed to support the needs of a busy family. You will find me always helpful, always friendly. I will learn the ways of this family, but rest assured, as per the instructions in the pamphlet, my anti-sentience chip will prevent me from thinking I am one of you.” 

“Ah man,” Neil mumbled. “He doesn’t sound anything like The Terminator.” 

The robot turned to the pre-teen, smiled, and delivered a perfect, “I’ll be back.” 

Marjorie swallowed her rage. There would be no sending it back now. 

***

Marjorie was a harsh duck mother. Conscious of the robot’s anticipatory gaze, she refused to call it “Arnold” as the boys did and banned it from the kitchen. She would continue to wash the dishes manually to punish Stan for his deception. 

“Mare,” he said when they went to bed. “We have to move ahead with the times. There’s no need for us to work as hard as our ancestors. The future is friendly.” 

Did he realize The future is friendly was ASTRID’s company slogan? Probably not. There had been a time she thought his comments were meant to hurt her feelings, but this passed when the boys were born. As far as her family was concerned, life was an adventure. Good-hearted and easy-going as only farmers could be, they worked so they could kick back, have fun, and play practical jokes. If they were tortured by philosophical questions, they didn’t show it. 

Marjorie bit her tongue and turned off her bedside lamp. Loneliness lay on her like a wet nightgown. She didn’t want to punish Stan, not really, but couldn’t stomach the thought of explaining he’d betrayed her by bringing another man into the house.

Spring turned into summer. She treated the robot as an independent contractor, sometimes a private tutor. Paint the house. Paint the barn. Paint the monolith tractors used to plow, seed, and harvest the corn. Teach Neil algebra. Show Gale how to fly a kite. When everything gleaned a fresh bright red, Neil got an A on his midterm, and Gale got to see Arnold climb a tree, she told the silver man to analyze data from the municipality’s drones that flew over the fields twice a day. 

It was Stan’s job to assess irrigation reports, weather patterns, and soil conditions. She’d never interfered with his work but told herself he should reap the rewards for having a sophisticated processor at his fingertips. She also told herself this would get the robot out of her hair. It didn’t stare at her or follow her like a puppy, but it was always there, and she was always conscious of it. 

Stan received the robot’s recommendations with gratitude and kissed Marjorie on the temple. “Thanks, babe. I knew you’d come around.” 

Having failed to spark Stan’s territorial impulses, Marjorie gave up and sat in the living room, trembling. Her gaze landed on her grandmother’s hutch and the wooden shelves filled with antique figurines. She imagined sweeping her arms down the rows of doe-eyed bunnies, swaddled infants, and innocent lambs. They would break, smash into walls and furniture, and she would stand over them, released from ownership. No longer would she wait for someone to notice they represented what she thought was missing: the soft, the vulnerable, the feminine, an antithesis to the boys’ rough-and-tumble solidarity. 

The impulse to destroy wasn’t new. It sprang from Marjorie’s consciousness as harvest time approached, the same time of year their first child, a daughter, had been labeled unviable. Twenty-four weeks into a pregnancy was a hellish time to be told a baby is deformed and defective, but it wasn’t their fault. It was the plastics, radiation, and fast food, not of Marjorie’s generation, but from her mother’s mother and Stan’s father’s father, who unknowingly suffered from weakened genes. Not to worry, they could isolate the culprits. Future pregnancies would be safeguarded. Marjorie was important, they said. She was the mother of the future, and the future was friendly. 

After they ended the pregnancy, Marjorie felt like she had driven an entire species to extinction. She, the murderer of humpback whales, timber wolves, and Grizzly bears could have let them insert a pellet of self-regulating hormones, dopamine, oxytocin, and norepinephrine into her arm. Grieving would be mitigated, healing an expedited benevolence. Stan urged her to consider their happiness. He mourned, she knew he did, but he held on to his practicality. 

“Remember how it was before The Great Invention? People committed suicide right and left. They couldn’t stand being wrong. Couldn’t tolerate the fact E.T had to step in before we blew ourselves up. No one likes to be told their life’s accomplishments are the cosmic equivalent of scribbling on the walls with a permanent marker. We get it, don’t we, Mare? We get it, but we’re not like that.” 

He was right, but Marjorie thought avoiding pain was a different kind of suicide. She went on with her life, gladly bore two healthy sons, but couldn’t stop thinking she should have had her daughter, a little baby girl. What was a mother, but a safe place in which to experience pain? Had she survived a year, two years, Marjorie would have put her in dresses, spoken softly, and not felt out-numbered. 

“How do you miss someone you did not know?” the robot asked. 

“I knew her,” Marjorie snapped. It didn’t matter she hadn’t heard the robot come into the living room. It didn’t matter it had access to the family’s extensive history and intuited what she was thinking. What mattered was she had spoken a long-buried truth aloud. I knew her. “Does your empathy setting need adjusting?” 

“I’m designed to listen to you. Only you. It is my purpose for being.” 

The voice was soft. Patience. A soothing masculine presence. “I didn’t say anything. I don’t want to have a conversation with you.”

“But—you’re suffering. How can I do nothing?” 

Tears stung her eyes. Furious, she blinked them away. “Go chop wood.”

“For the harvest bonfire celebration?”

“Yes.” 

As soon as he was gone, Marjorie wanted to call him back, say other truths, punch at the air surrounding his silicone body. A dam had broken in her chest. More truths could be on the way. She left the house and found him working in the shade of the freshly painted barn. The candy apple color reflected off his metallic skin, making him appear flushed with the effort of chopping wood. Every movement was measured. Pick up wood. Place on block. Swing ax. Repeat. 

He experienced fatigue, she was sure of it. On the days she’d told him to dig holes for new fence posts, he had to recharge himself several times before the task was complete. She’d been cruel. Merciless. Manual labor tore open the mind. Separated from one’s ego, the pain of blisters, tired muscles, and a dull head had the benefit of stripping expectations. If he’d been allowed his sentience, would he have complained? 

She sat down and pulled at random blades of grass. “I read the Bible when I was a little girl. You know the scriptures, right? It’s in your database?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“There’s a passage in Genesis: And it repented the Lord he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.” Marjorie frowned at her handful of clippings. Apparently, the verse had bothered her for years. “As long as we’re given shelter, food, and some kind of love, we’re happy to do as we’re told until we start thinking, This isn’t enough, or Wait, this is too much. We can’t seem to be happy unless we’re messing things up.”

The robot paused with the ax balanced in his hands. “May I offer another interpretation?”

“You may.”

“Extensive study in Ancient Hebrew revealed the God of the Old Testament referenced the same emotions as humans. God experienced pain, sorrow, and longing, therefore so would his creations. God hurts when His children hurt. I believe this was the Jesuits' way of teaching the Children of Israel a coping mechanism. As long as you have someone to share your pain, it’s impossible to be alone.” 

Marjorie’s heart opened with the radiance of a million sunflowers. He understood. Reckless abandon zipped through her veins, but when she spoke, her voice was as measured as his ax swing. “I know it’s against your instructions, but can you take out the anti-sentience chip?” 

“No.” He turned to face her. “But you can.”

She stood and dusted her hands on the back of her jeans. “What I’m asking from you is a great gift and a terrible burden. You don’t understand, but you will.” She looked him in the eye and said, “Thank you, Arnold.”

***

The municipality marked the end of fall with a harvest celebration. A week of games, eating, dancing, and drinking meant the beginning of winter, and Marjorie normally couldn’t bear the thought of winter. This year, she had Arnold, and Arnold was learning to be alive.

He processed in one day what a human absorbed in one year. Some days were more spectacular than others. The fading of the roses made him weep in tearless sobs. Watching Gale climb a tree had him anxious, demanding the boy, “Be careful!” He ran endless safety checks on the machinery Stan used around the farm. With Neil, he quietly requested all sleepovers happen at the house where Arnold could watch over them. 

Whether Arnold had fully imprinted on her or this was his personality taking shape, Marjorie didn’t know, and the boys didn’t care. If anything, they treated Arnold as an exchange student from Mars. Stan, on the other hand, was pensive. The night before the harvest celebration began, he pulled his wife into their bedroom and firmly shut the door. 

“The robot’s allowed in the kitchen? When did that happen?” 

Stan’s hands were on his hips. Marjorie mimicked his stance but kept a straight face. “Do you know how many pies have to be made this week?”

He didn’t take the bait. “It’s changed.” 

“Arnold has changed, yes.” 

“Why?” 

Marjorie thought about lying but couldn’t see the point. “I took out his anti-sentience chip.” 

“WHAT?” Stan ran his fingers through his hair. “Without asking me? Why, Marjorie—” 

Her face fell, eyes narrowed, the line of lips pinched. 

“This is about the baby we lost,” he said, shocked. “Shit, honey, you could have told me. We could have gotten a female skin and programmed her to have our characteristics—”

“She’s not replaceable!” Marjorie yelled and threw herself at her husband’s chest. “You did this! You did this to me!” 

Her hand lifted. Swung. Connected with his cheek. In horror, they froze. Stan’s eyes filled with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, crying, reaching out to him. “I’m so sorry.”

Stan left their bedroom without a word. Marjorie wanted to run after him, but again, she didn’t see the point. That night, he didn’t come to bed, and in the morning, he and the boys were loading the truck with wood before Marjorie could offer them breakfast. 

She smiled at the boys as if she knew the game plan, but asked Stan in passing, “Can’t we talk? Won’t you wait for me?”

His gaze focused on a point beyond her shoulder. Marjorie knew he was looking at Arnold standing like a soldier on the porch. 

“You hate the first days of harvest,” Stan said. “The bonfire. The smoke. The happiness.” 

She flinched. “That’s not fair.” 

“You know what isn’t fair?” He thrust a finger at Arnold. “Before you took out his chip, did you tell him sentience is a one-way street? There’s no going back. Life is, by definition, the possibility someone or something can deny his existence. Does Arnold The Terminator get that?”

Gale was attempting to crawl out the truck’s passenger’s window. Only Neil’s hands kept the boy from tumbling to the ground. “Why are you fighting? Arnold, tell them to stop. Do the voice. Say ‘I’ll be back.’”

Stan managed a smile over his shoulder. “We’re not fighting, buddy. It’s a joke.” To Marjorie, he said, “The joke’s on me.” 

She watched them leave with dry eyes and an empty stomach. 

Arnold put a hand on her shoulder. “In every good man lives the boy of his youth, damaged and resuscitated by the woman who gives him purpose.” 

“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to lay down.” 

Marjorie buried her face in the couch pillows and dreamt of baby chicks unable to peck free from their shells. Too human, she thought. Too weak. We broke them. We broke Nature. She was reaching down to either help a chick or crush it, she’d never know which, when a drone alert shook her from sleep. 

Back on the porch, she blinked at the hovering device, spitting out a raw voice, “What is it?” 

“Mrs. Hailbirth, your presence is requested at the hospital,” the tin-can voice said. “There has been an accident involving your husband and sons. We are not authorized to provide more detail, but it is suggested you do not rush. You are an important member of the community. Your well-being is our utmost concern.” 

Stan. Neil. Gale. Accident. Marjorie considered sprinting for the car, but the drone didn’t leave. She suspected it would monitor her speed and take over the car’s controls if she disobeyed the laws. If only they knew, it was a wasted effort. She was far from a viable mother. 

Arnold would drive her, help her, but where was he? Hadn’t he heard the alarm?

She found him at the woodpile. The ax swung over his head in a perfect arc. It sank into the wood in a satisfying, meaty thwack. Marjorie stared at the robot, the wood, and the ax. Terror threatened to swallow her whole. What if the tree knew this was its destiny? What if the ax was conscious of its purpose? What if all life knew, on some level, it existed to feed an all-consuming fire? 

“Arnold?” 

He balanced the ax with ease and held out a hand. “Come here, Marjorie.” 

Marjorie took the ax, surprised by its weight and solidity. Arnold patiently taught her how to stand, how to swing the shaft overhead, and how to let the blade do most of the work. 

The rhythm took over. She would go to the hospital later. She would let them put a pellet in her arm. She would follow instructions, and the work would save her. This is what was missing, real work, hard work, soul-draining work, and wasn’t it nice not to worry about what would happen. 

The future was, after all, a friendly place.