by Marc Barnes
Flesh of My Flesh
By M. J. P. Barnes
Copyright 2011 Marc Barnes
Only when the Holdem family had bid a final farewell, gently pushing the backsides of their children into the minivan and buckling their heavenly, squirming bodies in place did Miriam allow her insides to break. She closed her eyes, squeezed out hot tears, and fell upon her husband.
Isaac was ready. He had felt the string holding his bride's spine erect throughout the dinner, the coffee, the inane conversation about elementary schools and playgrounds, and now he felt it fray and snap, so he bent to cushion her head as it fell like a punch to his shoulder.
"Sorry," he said.
"It's okay."
“No, I mean it. I’m sorry. For both of us.”
“Yeah?” She looked at him, then away. “I said it was okay, honey.”
How to make her happy? Sex was out of the question. It brought no more comfort than a failed task, a job forever undone. Inseminate the ovum. Plant the seed. Fertilize the lawn, with all the passion of a turkey baster. Livestock had better sex lives.
So he held her in the front yard, watching the automatic sprinkler wake and begin its eight o'clock routine. He tucked her blond hair behind her ear and whispered a choice vocabulary of words he knew she found comfort in, half-wondering whether they'd outworn their power.
They had. Miriam listened to them, but his breath burnt her ear canal. Words, words, words. Could they find their way to her fallopian tubes and impregnate her? Oh, she knew she should endure such trials, not sour upon the first heat of difficulty. But Miriam had always amazed herself and her parents - who were killed in a tandem bicycling accident - with an acute ability to diagnose her sins while avoiding any effort to stop committing them. So she allowed her husband to hold her, berated herself for being disappointed in him, and remained deeply, deeply disappointed in him.
Isaac knew this, but was too scared to confront her. He had prayed for a child for three years, more for the sake of her happiness than his, but the heavens only mocked him, planting all shapes and sizes of children in the swelling bellies of neighbors who inhabited the Suburbia around them. Each walk through the housing development was a trip into the Inferno, different circles of torment marked by kiddy-pools, swing-sets and rubber balls.
By a curious coincidence, it was with this very image in her husband's mind - this feeling of being surrounded by a Hell painted in white houses and green lawns - that Miriam gave up on the heavens and sent a prayer, not above, but downwards. She promised Satan - unearthing phrases and titles from her Catholic childhood - any amount of blood or evil he required in exchange for a child. A girl, if it wasn't too much trouble. Her demonic request rang so apathetic; a Baptist preacher might have laughed it off, so she pretended she had made no such prayer and watched the sunset drench the yard in blood.
It was another and equally curious coincidence that, at the very moment his wife sold her soul to the devil, Isaac - likewise rustling up words and teachings from his Catholic childhood - promised St. Michael the Archangel that he would dedicate his life to holiness in exchange for a baby boy. His request was so childish, so caught between a bargain and a whine that he had barely finished making it before he pretended he hadn't. He sniffed, vaguely hoping that he would not be held to such a promise, and focused instead on a rising half-moon that looked like a nickel stuck with violence into a fleshy sky.
There they stood, husband and wife, the former holding, the latter conceding to be held. The air around them began to thicken and heat. Their black neighbor across the road felt it; it added too much to the heat of his barbecue, so he disappeared into his house, seeking refuge in a 74 degrees interior. His door slammed. Windows all around them began to shut. This was followed, in uncanny rhythm, by the sudden hum of every air-conditioning unit on the street; a dark, eastern chant that resonated through the already carpet-thick atmosphere. Children who had been playing grew suddenly tired, sweaty, and returned to their mothers, who locked the doors behind them as they let their treasures into the house. Miriam felt a trickle of sweat roll down her back, and considered leading Isaac into the house, when a sound caught her attention and distracted her retreat.
Drifting over the white houses and green lawns and eastern hum was a melody, growing louder in approach. It was unrecognizable at first, tumultuous and chaotic. Then the noise was arranged, pulling itself into shape. The heated sounds of a saxophone could be heard pealing over the groans and moans of an upright bass; a wild and unconfined solo, full of passionate phrasing, lilting and falling and rising and growling and groaning.
With the heat and the music, Isaac had the distinct impression that his small, standardized neighborhood had been suddenly and rudely remodeled into the throbbing heart of New Orleans. The music held an almost virile, reckless quality; the drums shattered and splayed around the beat, verging between the off-time and the deranged, but somehow managing to stay with the song.
"What is that?" Isaac muttered.
"I dunno. Shh." Miriam’s lips were parted. She wet them with the tip of her tongue.
The music grew louder.
Isaac snorted. "It sounds ridiculous."
A second of silence from Miriam, in which a trumpet joined in a messy harmony with the saxophone, and then:
"I like it."
Isaac didn't like it. It made his right leg twitch, and his father - who had been killed by a bowling ball dropped from an incredible height - had always warned him of the prophetic power of bodily twitches.
Louder still.
"It's coming this way," Miriam noted.
"It'll pass."
"What will pass?"
"Whatever it is."
"What is it?"
"I dunno," said Isaac. He was still holding her, no longer out of compassion; he had simply forgotten she was in his arms.
"It's jazz,” he said.
She nodded.
"It'll pass," he said again, not knowing why he felt the need to repeat himself.
Then, with a swell in sound as if they had removed earplugs, a vehicle screeched around the corner, blaring the music at an ungodly decibel. Isaac guessed it was doing 70 in the 25 mph zone, with no sign of slowing. It barely made the turn into their street, the outer wheels lifting an inch or two from the ground, then slamming down, smoke pouring out of the exhaust pipe, tires leaving ugly streaks across the impeccable asphalt. It weaved and skidded, looking more like an evil, untamed stallion than a van. Isaac began to pull Miriam inside. She resisted, pushing his hands away and leaving his embrace.
"Don't!" Isaac shouted over the music, for it truly looked as if the vehicle was bearing down on them. It was driving on the wrong side of the road, the side their house was on, at an angle likely to bring it over the sidewalk and onto the grass. But Miriam stepped a pace forward, fascinated. The van maintained its reckless speed. Just when Isaac was certain they would both be killed, a screech split the muggy heat like a baby's scream. Black smoke and the smell of burning rubber filled the air as the vehicle bounced crazily, jolting, shuddering and finally skidding to a complete stop, directly in front of Miriam, who was lit up a ghastly white by its headlights. It was an ice-cream truck.
"What the hell?" Isaac muttered.
The music stopped with a click, plunging their yard into an even louder silence.
It truly was an ice-cream truck, flavors and prices stuck to the side of the black van, jostling for attention. A large window was cut into its side. Miriam moved back to Isaac, and they looked inside, together in their bewilderment. It was black, empty, as if the interior was sucking in the last of the day's light. They could just barely distinguish a movement, a rustle in the shadow. Then a face appeared in the sea of bl
ack, thrust forward with a grin. It was pale and sickly, with slick, black hair, thinning and plastered with gel onto a pointed scalp. The face spoke.
"I scream, you scream, we all scream."
"For ice-cream?" Miriam finished, unsure.
"Why not?" he said, grinning. "Hm, yes, why not, and what an attractive lady you are."
Isaac bristled.
"What do you mean, driving like a lunatic out here?"
"I think, a cone for the lady?" the ice-cream man said, ignoring him. A male hand, holding a brown sugar cone, joined his face.
Miriam shook her head.
"Ah, but for a lady so beautiful, so exquisite, the ice-cream is free! Choose a flavor." Another hand appeared, this one gesturing to the stickers on the side of the van. Isaac was shocked to see Miriam begin to examine them, her hand on her chin.
"Hang on," he cried, feeling the world had gone mad, "You can't just drive like a maniac, almost killing us! You do know children live
