Tesseracts Fourteen: Strange Canadian Stories

by John Robert Colombo

  The walls are scrubbed after every birth, but you can still see where the blood spattered. The stain by the door looks like a tern. The one over the window resembles a downy woodpecker. The one on the ceiling makes me wonder why the blood sprayed that high.

  I’m sure all the women before me played this game. There’s not much else to do, and not much in the way of comfort: no point making things nice when they’ll only be ruined. I have a bed, a blanket, and a surprisingly comfortable wooden chair.

  And I have birdsong. The familiar zeet! of a junco finding food is exactly what I need right now. I would live longer just for that. But no one survives childbirth anymore. Hydes can’t even be taken by caesarian — they grow so fast, and move so much, it’s almost impossible to make an incision without cutting the baby. And we do not want to do that. Learned that the hard way.

  Babies aren’t killed at birth anymore. The first few, yes, but now the adult Hydes come for them. They’ve come for mine, and I can’t help thinking of the stain on the ceiling.

  What does that look like?

  “Name three birds in the backyard without looking.”

  I listened for a moment. “Black-capped chickadee.” I could picture the little guy, fat and sassy, picking up sunflower seeds. A familiar sliding whistle cut into his song. “Cedar waxwing.”

  “And?”

  A single sweet, stuttering note. “A robin!”

  We had our own tradition: when we saw the first robin of spring, we made plans to go hiking. We’d done it in snow and rain, and the most glorious sunshine. We had no way of knowing it would be our last hike.

  In my heart I still curse that stupid bird.

  Cal tolerated my quirks with good humor, from bird-watching and graceless yoga to my fondness for making lists. I always had a to-do list; it made me feel as if I was on top of the work. I never was, really, but I enjoyed the illusion. Back when we started dating, he invented a game called Three Things, in which he requested a list out of the blue. In twenty years he never ran out of questions.

  “Three things you like,” he said.

  “James Taylor singing “Mexico,” wasabi ice cream, the soundtrack from Jude.”

  “Three things on the top shelf of the fridge.”

  “Skim milk, raisin bread, the leftover minestrone.”

  “Three things about me.”

  (You have the most beautiful hands that have ever touched me. I’m addicted to the scent of your skin. The way you say my name still makes me shiver.)

  “You snore when you sleep on your back, you think Benny Goodman is God, you don’t like Mondays.”

  And evolution didn’t change his mind. September 10, 2029, was a Monday — the first day all laboring women gave birth to Hydes. The first was a cause for horror — the arrival of a dark little humanoid with leathery skin and its eyes already open. And teeth. Many. The father shrieked at the loss of his wife, and, I’m sure, silently cursed her ancestry.

  But it was just once, they must have thought: the kind of genetic hiccup that only happens once in a horrific while.

  The second Hyde was born fifteen minutes later, in Paster County, three thousand miles away. The third was born the same moment, in the Australian outback.

  Of course, born isn’t exactly the right word. Birth didn’t used to do that much damage.

  “What do you know,” Cal said, “the conspiracy theorists were finally right.”

  They were. Those births couldn’t have been a surprise to everyone. The Hydes’ differences may not be apparent during an ultrasound, but amniocentesis must have shown a few abnormalities. Not every pregnant woman had pre-natal treatment, and there must have been some abortions before the Hydes put a stop to them, but still, medics talk among themselves. Somebody saw this coming.

  Rumors flew. New theories flourished. Survivalists loaded up and headed for their camps in the mountains, not the brightest thing they could’ve done. It was too late for survival. Some geographical oddity caused it, people said. Aliens were forcibly mating with our women. A bio-hacker’s genetics experiment had gone terribly wrong. And that old standby, something in the water.

  Eventually we learned the truth. Most of us would’ve been happier with aliens.

  Extensive tests were done on a dead infant. We paid dearly for that one death, but we learned what we needed to know.

  The Hydes are human. They’re stronger, and able to stand extreme temperatures, an improved if less attractive model, but still … the DNA had too many human markers to be anything else. We were evolving. We were becoming.

  I forget who quipped that they were the Hyde to our Jekyll, but the name stuck.

  I do remember Cal turning off yet another news report and asking, “What will the world be like, if this is what we have to become to survive?”

  There was candy in Luke’s last pillowcase. He must’ve found his mother’s secret stash — Susan Bennett had the worst sweet tooth of any woman I’ve ever known, including me. (My three favorite chocolates: mint, mocha cream, hazelnut truffle.)

  I found Luke sitting on my back doorstep one morning, reading a paperback, glancing around furtively as if smoking his first cigarette. I was town librarian until recently, and it tickled me to see a kid with his nose in a book. Reading is pretty much considered a waste of time now; and Luke’s father, Neil, always thought so anyway. That would’ve been especially hard on his son. Along with the short-story collections Luke checked out, there were a fair number of how-to books. He wanted to be a writer, and I, like a good confessor, said nothing.

  “Hello, Luke.”

  He looked up, startled, his gaze fastening on my baby bump. “Um … hello, Mrs. Zanberger.”

  I said, “It’s okay, I’m only a couple of months along. And you can call me Reann.”

  I had maybe six months left. I was looking for red-winged blackbirds.

  “It’s good to see you, Luke. I don’t get much company.” I sat on the step beside him, glad we were at the back of the house where we wouldn’t be seen — he could get in big trouble for hanging out with a time bomb like me.

  “What are you reading?”

  He showed me the cover. “Repairman Jack.”

  “Ah. I haven’t read that one.” It said volumes about him. Like all boys his age, he dreamed of being a hero. But what a role model! “A mysterious jack-of-all-trades who fixes impossible situations. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? I don’t think there’s a way to fix this one, though.”

  He sighed, “Yeah. As if.”

  My laughter surprised both of us. “As if. I haven’t heard that one for a while.”

  “What?”

  “I miss listening to you guys in the library. I liked all the new expressions. You know, ‘as if.’ And ‘not.’ —that was a good one.”

  He grinned, “I thought you were supposed to be mad at us for mangling the language.”

  “No, that was just the English teachers.” It felt good to smile again. “I always liked the way you broke down whole paragraphs into a few words. It wasn’t poetry, but it was efficient. Although I didn’t much care for ‘Waddup.’”

  He snorted, “Don’t blame you.”

  “Who else do you like?” I said, tapping the book. It was one of the few non-abrasive questions I could think of.

  He shrugged, still a little shy; probably not used to talking to women. Just at the age where he liked girls but wasn’t sure what to do about it. Not that you can do much about it at all anymore. The facts of life have changed drastically. These days the rules of sex can be summed up in one word: Don’t.

  “I miss your mother,” I said.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  She’d died in labor, one of the first. His father wouldn’t talk about it, just buried himself deeper in his work. Neil’s a truck driver, one of the he
roes of the modern world. He leaves Luke alone for long periods of time. Not much peace to be had for a boy in that house.

  In another time my friendship with Luke would’ve been inappropriate, even suspicious. In this one, friendships have fewer, and newer, protocols. Maybe Susan would have been happy her son came to me.

  “I thought you’d be at work, ” Luke said. “I didn’t mean to trespass.”

  “No harm done. I’m through at the library now. I make people uncomfortable.” He nodded. “And, really, it doesn’t matter if they bring the books back anymore.”

  So many things come under the heading of “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “What other writers do you like?”

  He talked about Ray Bradbury and Neil Gaiman. I talked about Alice Hoffman and Robert Frost. I don’t remember the last time I heard of a new book being published. We have so little time left, we’ll never finish the books that are already here. Though I’m sure there are still books being written by hand in secret corners. Most of them will never be read, but there are still those of us who need to put words on paper.

  I said. “I’ll be right back,” I gave him my copy of Sean Stewart’s Perfect Circle, and watched his face light up.

  “Do you have morning sickness?” he asked suddenly. It’s in bad taste to mention pregnancy these days. It’s akin to asking a death row inmate, “When do you hang?” But I didn’t mind. We’re all on death row now, and who else was there to tell him? I was willing to bet Neil never talked to him about his mother.

  “I have nausea. But, frankly, I don’t know how much is pregnancy and how much is fear.”

  “Do you think it’s … bad?”

  A distant scream was his answer. He reached for me, unthinking, a child seeking reassurance from the grownup. I had none to offer, but held his hand anyway.

  “Who?” he whispered, as if speaking aloud could bring the Hydes down on us.

  “Winnie Martell. They took her down to the birth house last night.”

  The screams were louder, and lasted longer, than I would’ve thought possible. Then they ended suddenly, and the evening was soft and quiet again. I thought of asking Luke to stay so he wouldn’t have to go home to an empty house, and I could feel someone else disturbing the air in mine.

  But he was already gone, clutching his new book like armor. I rose to go inside, and made a small clatter as I kicked something. He’d left his novel behind. He hadn’t forgotten it, not a boy who loves books so much.

  I made tea and read, and got through the night. It was a kindness, the first of many.

  There’s one basic theory of evolution, but many assumptions. My favorite is the one that says you see it coming.

  Not.

  Pigeons hatch already fearing hawks, which they’ve never seen. The warning is in their DNA. Ours is warning us to adapt now. What do we already know that we haven’t told ourselves?

  (Three things we know about the Hydes: they’re suited to thinner air and colder climes; they have excellent night vision; they’re obsessive about protecting their young. Three things we can infer from this: the world to come will be cold, dark, and more dangerous.)

  That first year, a lot of pregnant women committed suicide. It was an act of well-founded fear. Then it was a very bad idea. The Hydes started coming back. Not mature, not quite full-grown, but big enough to cripple anyone who fought them. We saw it on TV like everyone else: a dozen of them showing up in Seattle, holding vigil on Alma Dechesne’s lawn as she went into labor, demonstrating an unsuspected bond with the unborn. They stood quietly, obviously waiting for their child.

  They didn’t get it. In an act of malicious bravado, Alma’s husband killed the baby. He didn’t live long enough to regret it. Neither did the neighbors on either side of him. We saw that on TV, too, and learned from it. Best just to give them their young; the birth mothers wouldn’t be around to raise them anyway.

  I turned off the newscast, my hands shaking. “It’s like those old war movies where the guy beside you gets shot if you make trouble.”

  Another quirk Cal put up with: endless film references. He took me to the movies every weekend, our Saturday night date. I loved scarfing hot popcorn and watching the latest thriller. But there haven’t been any new films since the Hydes showed up. Entertainment isn’t a huge priority anymore. I miss hearing new songs on the radio, but at least no one has to listen to the sobbed details of some pop diva’s traumatic pregnancy. There are no more divas, and traumatic is the only kind there is.

  There’s no school, either — no point in learning history when you’re about to join it — and I wondered sometimes what Luke did in that big house by himself. “You don’t read all the time, right? Do you like movies, too? Susan said your dad bought a lot of DVDs.”

  I had Luke figured for a chop-socky fan, until he looked away, blushing, and I guessed he’d been into someone’s porn collection. I doubt anyone would scold him for watching it, though. These days porn is the only really safe sex there is.

  There are no math classes, but the numbers aren’t hard to tally — the current-model human is obsolete.

  We are dinosaurs.

  Cal asked me once, “What was the first bird called?”

  “Archaeopteryx. I don’t know if I pronounced that right.”

  He leafed through my bird book idly, pausing for the more colorful photos. His dark hair was silvered at the temples. His dark eyes turned silver when the moonlight hit them just right. He’d spent the morning playing clarinet along with Glenn Miller’s Greatest Hits, and finished his practice with the usual comment, “That’s a good note to go out on.”

  He said, “What do you think of the theory that birds evolved from dinosaurs?”

  “Or lizards?”

  “Whatever.”

  I shrugged. “It says their scales evolved into feathers when they started leaping from tree to tree looking for food.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “There’s no fossil evidence to support it.”

  “But do you believe it?” he prompted.

  “I’d like to,” I admitted. “It’s a lovely thought.”

  “Adapt or die,” Cal mused. “That’s quite a spectacular adaptation.”

  “Not as spectacular as the Hydes. Evolution is supposed to take a lot more time.”

  “Maybe we don’t have much left.”

  He didn’t.

  I replay his death in my head every so often. Not that I want to, but sometimes it’s just there. Twenty years together and we parted with no fond words or loving gestures. But he died for me, and how much more could I want?

  I could want him back. I could want that much.

  If he’d had his way, we’d have gone camping, but I could never see why we should sleep on the ground when we had a comfortable bed at home. Hiking seemed a reasonable compromise. On our last morning, heading up the mountain, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” I was admiring the view across the gorge, listening with only one ear.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you.” The other ear perked up. We rarely kept secrets. “We have more money than you think. But I waited too long to use it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was saving to take you someplace for our anniversary. Paris would have been nice.”

  “Ah.” Money was worthless, and travel more difficult. “You romantic, you. I don’t mind, dear. Really.”

  He didn’t look convinced. I wound my arms around his neck, determined to persuade him, and stepped back, taking him with me. Through a scruffy pile of windfall. Into the Hyde standing behind it.

  Maybe nothing would’ve happened if the three of us hadn’t been startled. But I screamed; Cal made a move to protect me; the Hyde made one to protect itself. As it leapt, Cal op
ened his arms, snaring it. The Hyde’s momentum knocked him backward, taking them both into the gorge.

  I stopped shrieking when my voice became a croak. And even knowing Hydes rarely travel alone, I waited a desperate hour to see if Cal might climb out. The logical part of my brain, the tiny part that was still functioning, didn’t believe he would.

  But Robin Hood and Indiana Jones survived terrible falls. My heroes always came back.

  Except one.

  The police came to the house. There were questions, but not many. Their hearts weren’t in the job. Every day there are fewer humans and more Hydes, and no one polices them. It’s possible a lot of murders are blamed on them.

  But the Inspector was obliged to ask if my husband’s death was one more.

  By the time I told my story I’d had good reason to reflect on some of the nights in our comfortable bed. (Three things I remember: the pleasant rumble of Cal’s voice; the taste of the curve of his right shoulder; his fingers ghosting over my face.)

  No method of birth control is perfect, and I’d thought I was too old. Not.

  I said, “I’m pregnant.”

  The conversation stopped. Notebooks closed. “I see.” He seemed to search for words. Take care would be meaningless. Good luck would be cruel. He settled for, “Good day, then.” Yes, that was still reasonably safe. I wasn’t his problem anymore. This thing in my belly calling to the Hydes made me their concern. Guilty or not, I’d been handed a death sentence.

  I watched them leave, as glad to see them go as they were to be gone. A wild dove folded its wings on the lawn, a movement like a man cutting a deck of cards with one hand. I could never do that. Cal could. I waited for tears but none came. Not that I didn’t mourn, but there was just so damned much to mourn I didn’t know where to start.