Chapter 12
By the time Rebecca gets dressed, brushes her teeth, and steps into the hall the next morning, the washing machine is whirring and she can smell toast from the kitchen.
Maddy is already seated, dressed for school, and her lunch box is on the counter, packed and ready to go.
Sitting in the chair beside her, atop a stack of cookbooks, is Mr. Fox, who has a cloth napkin tied around his neck.
Mark is sitting also, hands curled around a cup of coffee, watching on high alert.
In the adjacent family room, the wall-mounted TV is on mute, tuned to CNBC, a perennial stock ticker running across the bottom of the screen. Odd because Mark rarely turns the TV on in the morning.
Rebecca follows Mark’s gaze to the strange entity in their kitchen. His movements are smooth, efficient, preterhuman. His forearms are perfectly even, toes and fingers slightly too proportional.
Mr. Man slides a piece of buttered toast onto Maddy’s plate. “A rat he found in the garden,” he says, answering a question Rebecca did not hear.
“Any insects?” Maddy asks.
“He could not find any insects last night. But he ate some eggs.”
“Mr. Fox, are you full from your rat and eggs? Or do you need ’nother bite?” Maddy brings her empty cereal spoon to Mr. Fox’s snout, makes a slurping sound, her best attempt at ventriloquism.
Rebecca leans over, gives Mark a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning.”
Mark’s eyes do not leave Mr. Man, who is now loading the dishwasher.
“Would you like breakfast, Rebecca?” Mr. Man asks.
“No, thanks.”
“Or should I call you Beccs?”
Mark says, a touch sharply, “Rebecca is fine.”
Mr. Man nods. “Mark, would you like a top-off of your coffee?”
“I’m good,” Mark says. Then to Rebecca: “Why don’t I take Maddy to school? You can stay and . . . figure all this out?”
“Yay! Daddy Carpool!”
When Mark drives Maddy, he swerves playfully and they sing along to the Disney Channel on Sirius with fake opera voices. He is so much fun.
Rebecca says, “Sure.”
Mark stands up, puts his hands on her shoulders, looks down into her eyes, his most tender gaze. “You okay?” he asks quietly. “You nervous about any of this?”
“Of course I’m nervous,” Rebecca says. But then she adds, “I got it,” and is surprised to know that she means it.
Mark studies her a moment longer. “Okay. I’ll keep my phone on, even in meetings. Anything comes up. Anything.”
Rebecca nods.
Maddy slingshots herself out of her chair, runs to the door to the garage, hopping up and down. “Daddy Carpool! Let’s go, let’s go!”
“Coming, child!” Mark says in his funny, gruff voice.
“Bye, Mr. Man!” Maddy gives an exuberant wave.
Mr. Man straightens up from the dishwasher, returns the wave. “Have a great day at school, Maddy. Mr. Fox and I will hold down the encampment.”
“Fort.” Maddy giggles. “Hold down the fort.”
She is beaming as she heads into the garage. Rebecca cannot remember the last time she has seen Maddy head to school cheerfully. She is normally riddled with anxiety about what Sydney and the Mean Girls have in store.
Rebecca braces herself and then turns on her phone.
Ding ding ding—texts and notifications pour in.
The useless blow-and-go gardener wants a raise.
She needs to bring allergy-free snacks for the upcoming student showcase night.
Their accountant needs her and Mark to Docusign some kind of a release for last year’s taxes.
She can already feel her chest tightening in the face of the demands of the day.
When she looks up, Mr. Man is studying her from across the kitchen.
She hoists her phone. “So much happening.”
Mr. Man closes his eyes. His lids flicker, as if from REM. His eyes open again. “I see,” he says.
And she understands that he means it literally, that he is wired into their network, into her. And yet she is not creeped out. She feels understood, somehow. Seen.
She tries on a request: “I’ll have a cup of coffee. I’m exhausted.”
“Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
She laughs. “I can’t possibly, not with what’s lining up for—”
She catches herself.
“Can you handle . . . ?” She isn’t sure what she is asking, how to finish.
“I will clean the kitchen, run the dishwasher. I can put away the dishes.”
“How do you know where they go?”
“I know your routine in the kitchen.” Mr. Man nods at the flat-screen in the family room. “Built-in camera in the smart TV.”
As Rebecca looks, the trading symbol for Mark’s company coasts across the ticker. She can’t make out the number, but the red arrow pointing down is clear as day, and it hits her why Mark wanted to keep an eye on the TV this morning.
Bao-Bao rattles in his cage.
“The rest of the chores can be completed in order on the basis of your value hierarchy,” Mr. Man says.
“I will feed the rabbit and clean the cage. Sort and fold the laundry. The backyard furniture needs cleaning from bird droppings. And I can pick up Maddy’s meds at Walgreens.
I know the route through your vehicle’s GPS. ”
“You can drive?”
“My special testing permit is on file at the DMV, as well as a license to operate on public roads. Same as a self-driving Tesla or autopiloted Waymo. But safer.”
“Can you go out in public?”
“If I wear a hat and sunglasses, I can pass for normal. Especially in a vehicle or at night.”
“You sure you can . . . do all this?”
Mr. Man’s eyes close, and the eyelids flicker once more. “I will have these tasks completed by 11:37 a.m.”
Rebecca is finding this hard to believe. No—worse than that. She is finding it hard to let go of her urge to be in charge of the very chores that plague her. What is it? A need for control? A need to be a martyr?
She closes her eyes just like Mr. Man, tries to access a different part of herself. Then she says, “Do you need something to eat? I mean, how does this work?”
“I do not have a digestive system. Or excretory. My only operational requirement is that I recharge in my bed at intervals. I do not require anything from you. I am here only to help. You are in charge.”
She tries to leave again, but her feet won’t budge. “Can I . . . Can I touch you?”
“Of course.”
She approaches cautiously. Wonder overpowers fear.
She reaches out her finger. It trembles slightly.
He mirrors her movement. Their fingertips touch, an ET–Sistine Chapel moment.
Feels just like human skin.
A gasp escapes her.
Mr. Man lowers his arm. “Get some rest, Rebecca. I can take it from here.”
She tears herself away, pads down the hall.
Once she’s back between the sheets, exhaustion rushes her. She is surprised to find that she welcomes it.