The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

Sarah heads her off. When Old Teddy Roosevelt informs Fahima that a Muslim Resonant is exactly what normal people are afraid of, Sarah counters, “What they should be afraid of is aging alcoholic telepaths with money and no ethics.” She keeps her eyes on her father as she says it, and no one in the room fails to notice. They go silent for what feels like a full minute before Mrs. Davenport chimes in with another “I think it’s wonderful.” The specific object of her wonder remains undefined.

Patrick is quiet and withdrawn. His father, trim, fit, and so tan that his ultrawhite teeth seem to glow, keeps pouring him whiskey, slapping him on the shoulder, and encouraging him to loosen up, but Patrick keeps to the corners. Abandoning Alyssa to the inquiries of Mrs. Davenport, Fahima goes to check on him.

“How goes the hunt?” she asks.

“You see Owen Curry’s head mounted on the wall?” he says. “I’m chasing smoke. I’m starting to miss teaching is how bad it’s gotten.”

“At least your parents seem horrible,” Fahima says.

“My dad is why there are all those stories about sons killing their fathers.”

Fahima stands on tiptoe and puts her arm awkwardly around Patrick’s shoulders.

“You’re not a total asshole, Patrick.” He laughs and reaches across his chest to pat her hand.

The food is amazing, although it seems as if it’s never been touched by human hands. Fahima imagines machines shaping mashed potatoes into a symmetrical sea of whitecaps, laying the green beans in crosshatched layers, and placing golden pats of butter at the vertices. Being the only sober one at the table, she has the pleasure of watching the conversation slide and slur its way into politics.

“It’s such a lot of fuss,” says Steel Hair. She looks the same age as Mrs. Davenport but has opted for an aesthetic more June Cleaver than Lynda Carter: powder blue gingham with white collar and cuffs. As she gets drunk, she starts to twinkle, little sparkles of light dancing around her eyes and under her chin. When she notices it, she concentrates and it goes away, but she notices it less and less with each glass of wine. “Why do they need to flaunt themselves that way? I’ve always been happy enough knowing what I am. I don’t need the whole world to know.”

“It was always built into the philosophy of that school,” says Mr. Davenport. “You can’t tell children they’re special and then ask them to hide. Bishop primed an entire generation for this…coming-out party for twenty years.”

“That’s exactly it,” says Steel Hair. “A coming out. So flamboyant.”

“It’s the culture he came from,” Old Teddy Roosevelt says. “Chelsea and Fire Island. Those men all throwing it in your face.”

“Do you have a problem with the fact Kevin Bishop is gay?” Sarah asks.

“No, not that,” says Steel Hair.

“No, never that,” Patrick mutters into his glass, smirking.

“It’s just the culture around it,” Steel Hair continues. “It’s so loud. We were never that loud when we were that age.”

“And we did all right for ourselves, didn’t we?” says Davenport. He laughs, a braying sound. In the sixties, Davenport used his ability to persuade all the homeowners on Oceanside Way to sell at a fraction of market prices, then sold the houses off to Resonants, pocketing a fair profit on each deal. To hear Sarah and Patrick tell it, most of his money came from psychically bilking people out of real estate. It’s part of what the people at the table object to about how “loud” the younger generation is. The publicity risks drawing attention to Resonants who’ve quietly used their abilities for personal gain. What happens to a man like Davenport when the world finds out how he’s made his money?

The moment plates are empty, Mrs. Davenport and the other wives begin to clear them to the kitchen. Mr. Davenport and the other men rise solemnly, as if drinking whiskey and smoking cigars in the solarium facing the ocean is a duty they must regrettably dispatch. Fahima hands off her plate to Weird Neck Thing, who huffs with affront. “Let’s do this, then,” she says. The men look at her, but only Patrick is smiling.

“Yes,” says Sarah, standing. “Let us discuss matters of the world. And sports.”

“Also the relative attractiveness of ladies,” says Fahima. “I am here for that.”

“No, you’re not,” Alyssa says. She kisses Fahima on the cheek. “I’m going to take a little postprandial nap.”

“It’s the tryptophan in the turkey,” explains Captain Walrus Stache. “It’s a natural—”

“Yeah, I’m a doctor and that’s a myth,” says Alyssa, balling up her napkin and tossing it on the table before she exits. The wives watch as Sarah and Fahima join the men. Fahima isn’t sure if they look offended or impressed.

“So how is Kevin Bishop?” Davenport asks once the air is thick with the shoe leather smell of cigars.

“Busy,” says Fahima.

“The whole thing’s ridiculous,” Davenport says. “Announcing ourselves to the world like we’re aliens who just landed. There’s power in the shadows.” He pokes his cigar at Patrick’s chest.

“Bishop used to understand that,” Captain Walrus Stache says.

“Raymond Glover understood that,” says Old Teddy Roosevelt. “Bishop was so holier than thou. Convinced we owed the world something.”

“Who’s Raymond Glover?” Fahima asks.

“One of the first,” says Old Teddy Roosevelt. “A true visionary. He was our Casteneda.”

“Glover was the one who taught us who we were,” says Davenport. “He’d gather big groups of us in the mountains or the desert. We’d consider the meaning of what we could do, not just the implications.”

“You’ve never told us about that,” Sarah says.

“I had a life before I had children, duckling,” says Davenport. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. It’s pretty gross. “Raymond Glover’s retreats weren’t the kind of thing you tell your kids about. Glover left us a few years before you were born.”

“I like to imagine him in some castle in Europe, writing a great treatise that no one will ever have the pleasure of reading,” says Captain Walrus Stache.

Old Teddy Roosevelt nods sagely. “Figuring it