A minute later, after a tremendous amount of whirring and a few dozen clicks, Norman crawled into his box and settled among the foam peanuts and straw. He was still missing an eye; inside the empty socket I could see red and blue wires and what looked like part of a circuit board. It was like seeing someone’s guts. I didn’t like it.
“Maman does not approve of me,” the robot said. “Scanning . . . scanning . . . scanning . . .”
And again. “Maman does not approve of me. Scanning . . . scanning . . . scanning . . .”
And again. “Maman does not approve of me. Scanning . . . scanning . . . scanning . . .”
I guessed that Norman was searching his data files for information that might help him understand why his mother, according to his programming, had pushed him away. I thought I should say something.
“I’m sure Mom approves of you, it’s just that . . .” That sentence started out smart, but then it turned dumb on me. “. . . girls are weird.” Yes, girls are weird, but that’s not exactly news, and those words didn’t help Norman. I had failed my first test as the big brother. Big brothers are supposed to be able to say smart things when needed. Not that I really thought of robo-boy as my brother . . .
But I guess it didn’t matter, because Norman found what he was looking for in his database.
“In the animal kingdom,” he said, in a voice that sounded tinny, “mothers will sometimes reject their offspring, especially the runt of the litter, if they believe that the offspring will not survive until adulthood. This evolutionary adaptation provides two benefits. First, the mother will not have to bond with a newborn that may only be around for a short time. Second, a limited food supply can be distributed to the offspring more likely to survive, while being denied to the doomed runt, perhaps ultimately hastening its premature death.”
The robot peered at me with his good eye. “Am I a runt?” he asked. “Did Maman reject me because I will soon be gone? I would like the truth, Matthew, s’il vous plaît.”
The day was in danger of becoming like one of those shows on Animal Planet where the mama giraffe rejects the skinny little baby giraffe, leaving it to survive on its own. I hate those shows! I always wish the rejected kid good luck, and that he not get eaten by a lion. And then a lion eats the poor runt, even though the cameraman filming the horror could have stopped it if he had wanted to. Stupid cameraman. Save the baby giraffe next time, jerkwad!
Sorry. I just get so upset when people turn away from animals and people that need help.
“You’re not a runt, you’re a strong, healthy kid,” I said to Norman. “If anything, I’m the runt. And this is the people kingdom, and the robot kingdom, not the animal kingdom. We do things differently around here.”
“Logic error,” Norman said, his body shaking like he wasn’t built to handle logic errors. “You have been accepted by Maman and I have been rejected. Therefore, logically, I am the runt.”
I didn’t feel like arguing about which one of us was runtier, so I fetched the runaway eyeball, hoping that getting his eye back would make Norman feel better about himself. I stuck the eyeball in its socket, which made my guts a little twisty. Dad would tighten the eye later, but for now it was still loose, rolling around in the socket. More freakiness to deal with on a day already stuffed to the max with it.
“Merci, mon frère,” Norman said, the lens in his good eye zooming in and out like he was trying to adjust to having only one working eyeball. “Now restore the lid to my box, s’il vous plaît.”
“But . . . you’ll be in the dark in there!”
“Oui,” he said. “I believe it would be for the best.”
But I didn’t think it would be for the best, so I told Norman that we should wait until Dad came back—he’d know what to do. Dad was still trying to talk Mom into coming out of the office. It was sounding like it might take a while.
That was when Norman powered down. He wasn’t in sleep mode—no blinking lights underneath his eyelids—but he was completely shut off. If I had known where his power button was I would have rebooted him, and he probably would have turned himself off again, and I would have rebooted him, and on and on.
See, with Norman turned off I could better hear Mom and Dad squabbling.
“Please, honeycakes, just give Norman a chance,” Dad said, from the hallway.
“I am not a cake, honey or otherwise,” Mom said, from the office. “Either the machine goes or I go.”
Not having a way to power down like Norman did, I turned on the TV and cranked up the volume.