Henry Cando Reviews

Foe by Iain Reid

“Well ladies, Brut and me chewed on this one a good while, and I'll tell ya — it's a peculiar tale.” Henry settled back in his favourite café banquette. Brut snuggled in beside him and closed his eyes; after all, he'd heard it all before. “The fella at the center of it is named Junior, and the whole shebang is about him and his wife Henrietta — Hen, he calls her. Now these two live way out on a farm in the middle of nowhere, in a house worn down by the elements where if it isn’t the roof leakin', then the windows don’t shut."

Adjusting his reading glasses he checked his notes then continued. “I said to Brut, I said, now there's a couple a man can understand.” He looked around the table. “Y'all are newcomers to the County, but back in my day, before every second barn got turned into a boutique winery—no offense Bella—and every farmer's field sprouted a lavender maze for the tourists, me and Mary lived that same sort of life. Worked sunup to sundown, family 'round the table, and company? Well, company was whoever dropped in at Christmas whether you’d invited them or not."

"Henry," Betty cut in, tapping a manicured nail against her mug, "what on earth do your farming days from forty years ago have to do with this book?"

“I'm gettin' there, Betty, hold your horses." He took a long, appreciative sip of whisky infused coffee and reached for one of Frannie's chocolate chip cookies which disappeared in a bite, leaving a crumb moustache stuck to his stubble. “Now picture this. You're out on that lonesome farm, blackness smothering you at night, not a light from there to Picton, and middle of the night — headlights come crawlin' up your lane. Well, that'd put the fear into anybody, wouldn't it? That's just what happens to these two. A stranger knocks on the door and tells 'em Junior's been picked, like a blue ribbon hog at the county fair, to go off on some experimental trip to outer space. Can you beat that?"

Bella's eyes went wide over her coffee cup.

“So, the story sort of moseys along — and I'll tell ya, this Reid fella, he doesn't waste words, writes simple-like, no four syllable fancy stuff. Anyway, the closer it gets to Junior leaving, the more the idea of her husband being gone for years starts niggling on Hen. She gets cool with him, snippy-like. They start squabbling. Not the throwin'-plates kind, mind you, just that quiet, slow-burn kind where two people sit at the same table and somehow manage to be in different townships."

He leaned in like he was about to share a secret.

“Now here's where it gets queer. That stranger tells Junior his corporation — whatever that means — has a little arrangement worked out so Hen won't be lonesome. They're gonna send a robot fella to the farm. A robot built to be just like Junior. Same face, same voice, same bad habits, I reckon."

Bella blinked. “A robot? Henry, this must be set in the future then?"

“Oh. Yeah. Didn’t I mention that part? It's one a them utopian deals, where the big shots up top run everybody's business —men with control issues."

“Dystopian, Henry," Betty sighed.

"Maudit, Betty, arrête donc!" Frannie threw her hands up. “This story is already slow as molasses; let the man finish! Henry, get to the good part before we all grow old."

“Harrumph." Henry gave them both a look over his glasses. “Well, you’re not wrong, Frannie — put me to sleep more than once, I'll admit. Brut here too. Put his paws over his ears and off he drifted. But I'll give the writer fella credit. He wrote about that couple like he'd been married himself a time or two. You could feel them reachin' for each other and missin' by a mile. Two hands fumblin' in the dark."

He pulled a little treat from his flannel pocket and Brut took it with the patience mirrored by Henry’s audience.

“Now the ending. Oh, the ending snuck up on me like a skunk under the porch. I did not see it comin'." He took another slow pull of his whiskey coffee, drawing it out. “You wanna know?"

Three heads nodded in unison.

“Turns out — and I read it twice to be sure — the Junior we been followin' the whole durn book was the clone robot. The real Junior was up in space the whole time. And when the real one comes back, them corporation fellas just switch off the robot like you'd unplug a kettle. Decommissioned, they called it. Fancy word for the scrap heap." He shook his head. “And Hen — well, Hen was madder than a wet hen, pun intended,” he grinned. “Cause she'd figured out somewhere along the way that the clone fella was actually a decent sort. Listened to her. Noticed things. And her real husband? Well, he came marchin' back expectin' the bacon on the table and little lady in his bed, everything just like he left it."

Henry shrugged.

“So one mornin' Hen walks out the door and doesn't come back. Not to him, not to the farm, not to none of it." He paused, letting that hang in the air a moment, then wagged a finger. “But hold your horses, ladies — that ain't even the kicker."

He raised his mug as a toast to the grande finale.

“Last we see of ol' Junior, he's sitting there chatting away with a sweet, agreeable Hen, just like the good ol' days. Only somewheres along the line — and the author doesn't draw you a map, mind you — Hen got herself swapped out for a clone too. Don't ask me how she ended up there 'cause I sure couldn't tell ya. But there she is, smilin’ and making Junior happier than the flesh-and-blood version ever did."

He let out a low whistle and scratched Brut behind the ears.

“Now ain't that something to dwell on? Cuz I’m not pretending to see how this tale is building bridges for the readers like the contest says. I reckon it's more a cautionary tale — every married couple out there chasin' after perfection might just be better off ordering a robot from Amazon." He took another sip and stared into his mug. “I gotta say… I don't know what my Mary woulda made of all that. She'd probably have whacked me with a tea towel just for thinkin' it."

Brut thumped his tail once in solemn agreement.