The Y Chromosome

by Leona Gom

  He was crying now, the tears running down his cheeks, catching on his lips, uncontrollable sobs breaking up from his throat, sobs that were turning from ones of fear to ones of mourning, like when his grandmother died in the threshing accident, something good and beautiful gone forever, the loss unbearable. He had a sudden vision of the farms burning, the obsessed hunt for others like him; and he was the one who had lit the first torch, begun the destruction.

  “You mustn’t be so upset,” she said, lowering her voice again. But her fingers twisted themselves excitedly around and around each other in front of her. “Please now. Stop crying —”

  But he couldn’t. He stared at her hands, seeing himself pressed and twisted between them.

  “Now, look, Daniel. Don’t be afraid. If you’re honest with me I’ll keep your secret.”

  Her words cut through his despair. I’ll keep your secret. He had to be calm — things were not hopeless. She didn’t seem to be horrified by him; she was willing to discuss. He swallowed, took a deep breath.

  “Why? Why would you?”

  She took a moment before she replied. “Maybe I like secrets, too.”

  “Don’t you think —” He stopped, realizing it was a stupid question, only giving her evidence against him.

  “Don’t I think what?”

  His mind was in too much turmoil to invent a better ending. “Don’t you think I’m dangerous?”

  She laughed, a little wildly. “You don’t seem dangerous to me. Are you dangerous?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Not part of some plot by murderous bands of males to reclaim their history, their territory? Not a spy sent to hunt out our weaknesses, send secret reports back to headquarters?”

  “No,” he insisted, frightened at her language, one he had seen only in books, a vocabulary of war. “I’m just here to learn. That’s all. I just wanted to learn.”

  “Yes,” she said. “All right. Now. You’ve got to answer my questions. How many of you are there? Males, I mean.”

  He looked her straight in the eyes. What made them so compelling, he realized, was not just their vivid blue colour but their clarity, making it seem as if he were seeing the iris as well as the pupil down the tunnel of optic nerve, down a passage of light and neuron and synapse to brain, to pure and absolute intelligence.

  “Just my father,” he said. “We’re all that’s left.” He had to try to protect the others. To his surprise, her gaze dropped first, slid over to the pillow on his bed, as though she were thinking it over.

  “All right,” she said. “I suppose that’s possible.” It wasn’t the same as saying she believed him. “But how did you survive? Your kind, I mean. During the Change.”

  “The Leaders have different explanations.” That, at least, was the truth. “We used to live farther north two or three hundred years ago, much more isolated than we are now. I suppose that might have made a difference. The climate, the way we lived, the things we ate.”

  “So it’s possible there could be others, in other parts of the world. My God. What a discovery —”

  “I’ve never heard of any others,” he pleaded. “We’re no threat. We just want to be left alone, to live out our lives. It’s not our fault we’re who we are; we didn’t choose it.”

  “No, no, of course you didn’t.” But she sounded preoccupied; he imagined her mind rushing ahead, making her sinister plans. To what? To announce him to the world? To have him caged or killed or mutilated?

  “You said you wouldn’t tell,” he said. “Please.” His voice sounded thin and pathetic; perhaps it would only provoke her contempt. But contempt might be better than fear or anger. If it helped to beg, he would beg. He waited for her response.

  She kept looking at the pillow. It was a long time before she answered. Then she raised her eyes to his face. Her voice was soft again, the way it had been when she first stood in the doorway. “I won’t,” she said. “But you’ll have to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to make love with me.”

  He almost laughed, incredulous. Why would she want that? She had Bowden. Why would she want him, an alien, a mutation, a virus — her words from her class leaped back to him.

  “Well,” she said. “Will you?”

  “You mean — if we make love, you won’t tell?” It was incredible, her wanting that.

  “Yes.”

  And suddenly he felt a surge of outrage — how dare she ask that, to buy her silence by making him perform —

  “You think I’m a freak,” he said bitterly, knowing that he shouldn’t risk antagonizing her, that he should agree to anything, his own pride a small price to pay for such a large silence, but he couldn’t stop the angry words. “That’s why, isn’t it? You want me to amuse you? Repulse you?”

  “I’m sorry — I suppose it must seem that way. But, really, I think it’s just —” she paused, thrusting her thin finger knifelike up and down the bridge of her nose; he almost expected to see blood “— just curiosity. There’s nothing disgusting about that, is there? Curiosity? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Curiosity? Wanting to experience something new? To learn?”

  “I suppose so, but this —”

  “Well, then. Unless you find me utterly repugnant, why don’t we satisfy our curiosity?” She shifted her position and a shadow fell on her face, darkening her eyes.

  He stood there, helpless, unable to find an argument. He didn’t dare refuse.

  Well, would it be so bad? He remembered his erection at the touch of her hand; even if his mind was frightened and repelled, his body must have wanted her.

  “And you promise, if I do this, you won’t tell?”

  “I won’t tell.” Her fingers reached up to her throat, began to unbutton her shirt.

  He knew he had to do the same, so, avoiding her eyes, he began to undress, his fingers like pieces of wood he had to manipulate around the buttons, the reluctant cloth.

  At first all she wanted to do was stare at him, her eyes on him insatiate, exclaiming first at his chest, his sudden humiliation of no breasts, which made him slouch forward and pull his arms in, trying to force a swelling, a softening of muscle into normalcy. And then at his genitals — there was nothing he could do to disguise them, although his penis cringed to the smallest size it was able. He felt horribly ashamed, an exhibit on display.

  Delacour came around the bed to him, comfortable in her own nakedness, her body thin but different from the people on the farms, her muscles lacking their tautness. She stood in front of him, her breathing loud in the still room, and reached out her fingers for his genitals. He closed his eyes. What should he think, what should he imagine? When he felt his penis jerk and swell under her touch he wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or dismayed. Delacour said something, but her words were meaningless; he simply stood as he was, his eyes closed, his mind a rumple of confusion. He could feel his penis fully extended now, a tightness in his testicles.

  “The penis,” she said, pronouncing the word as though she were reading it in a textbook. “It’s the part that goes inside me.” She ran her finger lightly along it. He could feel his whole body tremble. “And these are the testicles.” She cupped them in her hands, felt their grainy texture. He winced.

  “Don’t,” he said wretchedly. “It hurts.”

  She took her hands quickly away. “It hurts?” She touched his penis again, lightly. “Does that hurt, too?”

  He shook his head.

  She sat down on the bed, took his hand and drew him down to her. “Show me what you do,” she said.

  Blindly, he pulled her under himself and thrust himself into her. She gave a sharp cry, which she cut short. To his horror he found himself thinking, I’ve hurt her — and I’m glad. The strength of his feelings almost made him withdraw, but he blotted out everything but the rising se
nsation, and it took him only a few strokes to reach orgasm, moaning in that voice that had nothing to do with consciousness, with volition.

  He rolled over on his back and lay staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his mind to understand what he had done, and what he should do now. Exhaustion dropped on him like a suffocating blanket, and he struggled to keep himself awake. He knew Delacour must have felt little pleasure, and he knew he should reach over and stroke her to orgasm, but there was nothing he felt less like doing. Still — he was not free to choose, and surely it would be a mistake not to try to please her as much as he could. Reluctantly, he turned on his side, facing her, and ran his hand across her breasts, her tight brown nipples, down the small bowl of her stomach, into her damp pubic hair, and he began the slow rubbing he had first learned from Bluesky. Bluesky, the image of her cutting through him like pain.

  But Delacour put her hand on his, pressed his movements to stillness. She sat up, sliding back on the bed, away from his hand.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to do that.”

  He sat up, too, looked at her, confused. “It’s … the way I learned,” he said. “I thought you’d like it.”

  She smiled. “And I do,” she said. “But, well, not right now.”

  And so he understood — she was unwilling to surrender to it, to lose her power over him. They had not made love; he had given a demonstration, that was all, a performance to an audience. The anger against her surged up in him again. But he choked back the bitter words — he mustn’t allow himself to give her more knowledge of him than their sordid bargain required.

  She rolled off the bed, reached for her shirt, and slid into it. She did up the buttons slowly, looking down at him. “So,” she said at last. “This is how it was before the Change. Very interesting.”

  Interesting. A euphemism. He remembered the mockery in her voice when he had used the word to describe the moveway.

  “There was a certain violence to it, that’s all,” she said.

  He didn’t know what he should answer, so he only lay there, looking dully at her as she finished buttoning her shirt and reached for her pants. He felt incapable of movement or thought or argument. All he wanted was for her to leave, to let him sleep; perhaps they would come in the night to kill or capture him, he didn’t care, all he wanted was the negation of sleep.

  “I’m sorry,” he made himself say, the only words he could think of, the words he had learned to use as a child to buy forgiveness, to divert punishment. His eyes slid shut, just for a moment, he thought, but when he opened them again she was gone.

  • • •

  WHEN HE AWOKE IN the morning the first thing he noticed was the smell: the sour stink of old sweat and semen. His head ached, and his mouth had a rancid taste. He stumbled to the bathroom for a drink and to wash himself. Only when he looked at himself in the mirror did he remember everything. Trembling, he sat down on the toilet, pressing his hands over his ears.

  Delacour. She knew his secret. That was what it came down to, no matter how his mind twisted to avoid the knowledge. He had betrayed the farm. He had broken First Law.

  He tried to remember everything Delacour had said, clutching eagerly at her promise: I won’t tell. If you make love with me. He had done what she wanted, but would it guarantee her silence? How could he trust someone like her? Had making love with him only convinced her of the evil of his kind? There was a certain violence to it — what would that mean? History taught that violence was what the males had specialized in, carried around like an extra chromosome. So if Delacour saw the violence in him even in the act of making love — his own ugly thoughts returned to him, how he had hurt her and not been sorry.

  He pressed his hands harder against the sides of his head. At last, he sat up, took a deep breath, and made himself start thinking about what he would do now.

  His first impulse was to go home, simply to run away. He looked quickly around his apartment, his eyes like suitcase locks snapping shut on his few possessions. But he knew leaving would be a mistake. Eventually Delacour would follow him, and he would only bring the danger back to the farm. He had to continue, he decided, as though he trusted her promise; he had to go to his classes and do his assignments and behave like a normal, innocent person.

  But if he didn’t go home, what he must do, he knew, was to write Highlands and tell her what had happened. Yet the thought of telling her made him leap up and pace his apartment in despair. She would be furious, that he had let it come to this, that from the moment he had first seen Delacour here he had made one stupid mistake after another. And what could she do to help? Involving her might only make things worse. He stopped at the window facing the outside and leaned his feverish face against it.

  Finally he decided to wait a few days before he wrote; it was possible, after all, that the worst was over, that Delacour had simply satisfied her curiosity and would leave him alone now.

  He set the shower selector for hot and quickly washed himself clean. He was finished before the timer beeped. He shaved, applied the skincream, and dressed, not letting himself think about anything but the movements of his hands, and then he went down to the common dining-room, where he sat as usual beside Mitchell-Star.

  “You look like as if you’ve just been exhumed,” she said when she saw him.

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it. You look awful. You should get more sleep.”

  “I know.”

  “You better watch out.” She jabbed a piece of buttery toast at his elbow. “Anatomy lab’s always looking for more cadavers.”

  He laughed sadly, thinking already how he would miss her when whatever terrible future Delacour was planning for him arrived. He had a sudden urge to confide in Mitchell-Star, tell her everything, and appeal to her for compassion, for help. But the impulse passed.

  “Well, gotta go,” Mitchell-Star said. “See you in Geology.”

  Daniel sat there for longer than he should have. But finally he got up and made himself go to his first class.

  As he opened every door he was sure he would see Delacour, turning toward him with her ironic smile. But it was an ordinary day, and an ordinary evening, even though his eyes would rise repeatedly from the pages he was supposed to be reading, waiting for the knock, the door opening, someone stepping through to claim his life.

  After a week he was ready to consider that he might be safe, that she would keep her word, and after two weeks he was almost in a delirium of joy, someone recovered from a critical illness. He went everywhere Mitchell-Star asked him to, and people who had ignored him before now greeted him in the hallways, responding to his eager smiles, his sudden extroversion. When he told Mitchell-Star how his Internationalism teacher had singled out his report on desertification for special commendation, he was so uncharacteristically gleeful Mitchell-Star accused him crossly of being a braggart.

  But of course it wasn’t over. Three weeks later Delacour came to see him again. When he opened the door she stood in his doorway exactly the way he had feared seeing her, with a light smile on her face.

  “Hello,” she said. She was wearing her black teacher’s-robe and, incongruously, a large red ornament in her hair.

  “Hello,” Daniel said. He was surprised at how even his voice sounded. He felt not panic, not fear, only a kind of dull despair, someone seeing Doctor at the door and knowing she had come to tell him the cancer was back, the cure illusory.

  “I’ve just been wondering how you were,” she said. “May I come in?”

  He stood aside to let her enter, not bothering to answer. She went over to the sofa in the centreroom and sat down, gesturing for him to join her. He sat on a chair facing her, but he fixed his eyes on a point somewhere behind her left ear.

  “So,” she said, sitting back. “How have you been?”

  “Fine.”

  “I was afraid you might have
panicked and gone back to the farms. I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “I just want to finish my courses and then go home. I’m no threat to you.”

  “I didn’t say you were.” Her smile widened. “You mustn’t be so defensive.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you promised to leave me alone.”

  “Ah, no, not quite. I promised to keep your secret. That’s not the same thing.”

  He let his eyes snap her back into focus, her features so sharp and distinct in her white face it was as though someone had drawn them on with coloured pencils. “What do you want from me?”

  But already he knew. Or his body knew, had known from the moment she appeared at the door. She took his hand, and he followed her blindly into the sleeproom, their clasped hands like a knot she had tied somewhere deep inside of him.

  This time she allowed him to bring her to climax as well. After, as they lay beside each other, she reached over and ran her fingers through his hair, clenching it lightly and then releasing, sending small stings of pleasure through his scalp. “Such beautiful hair,” she murmured. Daniel lay with his eyes closed, watching the geometric patterns form and reform on his eyelids, not letting himself think.

  The next day his head was thick with despair and self-loathing. How could he have gone with her as he had, unprotesting? She was his enemy. Yet even now, remembering it, brought a quickening in his body, a pulse beating through him like an adreno injection from Doctor’s needle. But this was no drug to bring him health; it was madness, anarchy. The first time, at least, he could blame her coercion, but this time — He tried to tell himself that he had only done what was most prudent, what might seem to Delacour most normal, but he knew he was just making excuses. He paced the floors of his apartment, picking up books and putting them back down.

  He missed his first class, and in the others twice Mitchell-Star asked if he was all right. Finally he accepted the excuse she offered and said he was feeling rather ill, and he cancelled the theatre-play tickets he had reserved with her and went home, sat in his apartment without turning the lights on. When he heard voices outside his door, he looked up in what he realized was eagerness, that it might be Delacour. Appalled at himself, he went into the bathroom and masturbated, not for pleasure or even release, but as a kind of punishment.