A Scarcity of Condors

by Suanne Laqueur

As soon as she was allowed, she began bringing the baby to the hospital and laying him on Cleon’s chest. The sight of Cleon’s bald head rubbing against Jude’s dark fuzz tied her heart in a knot. A flicker of a smile even as his eyelashes grew wet.

  “He’s so clean,” he said, his nose against Jude’s crown. He dropped a hand on the bedsheets, rubbing them between his fingertips. “Everything’s so clean.”

  Holding his son, breathing in his cool scent, Cleon passed long stretches of time looking at the ceiling, with a fierce concentration that first amused Penny, then worried her.

  “What are you looking at up there?”

  “Nothing.”

  Cleon’s sleep made her anxious. His staring was worrisome. But nothing absolutely terrified Penny. What happened in the Villa Grimaldi was not nothing. If allowed to label it as nothing, hide it away and ignore its existence, nothing would become something.

  “You can tell me what happened,” she said gently. “When you’re ready. I’m not afraid. I want to know, so I can get through it with you.”

  Cleon’s eyes closed and his cheek nestled Jude’s temple. “Not now,” he said. “It’s so clean. Just let it be.”

  It killed her to see him so exhausted and complacent. So docile. He lost both patience and temper exactly once, when a dish of chocolate pudding appeared on his lunch tray for the second time. The first time, he’d sent it back with a polite but firm instruction, “Please, no chocolate.”

  Penny had never known him to be averse to chocolate. But she knew he and his cellmates had essentially been living in their own filth. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to see a container of whipped-up, brown custard with his meal.

  When the pudding appeared the second time, Cleon divided. One side of his body soft and composed, tenderly holding Jude in a crooked elbow. The other side stiffened, reared up, seized the offensive dessert and threw it against the wall, narrowly missing the orderly.

  “Sir,” he cried, whipping around.

  One half of his mouth still grimacing, Cleon held up a finger. “No chocolate,” he said. His hand fell into his lap and he added softly, “Please.”

  He went from the hospital to an inpatient rehab center, learning to walk again. By the time he came home for good, Cleon could discuss medical procedure and rehabilitation protocol in perfect English but he couldn’t say “pass the salt.” Fortunately, he had a baby boy learning to talk. A growing tyke who thought all fathers walked on crutches and stayed home during the day, while mothers went out to work.

  Penny trusted Cleon alone with the baby. In fact, alone with the baby was when Cleon seemed most himself. He was rarely without the child. The stroller doubled as a walker, keeping him balanced as he exercised his weak legs. He only went up and down the driveway at first. As his strength and confidence increased, he ventured onto Balfour Avenue’s tree-lined streets, but didn’t go far from the house. The world was still too dangerous, too full of the unknown.

  Cleon learned most of his English by watching Readalong, The Friendly Giant and Romper Room with Jude. He cooked with the baby in a bassinet or later, in a highchair. He napped when Jude napped, placing the boy on his chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, hands spread wide on Jude’s rising and falling back.

  In bed with Penny at night, he didn’t want to make love, didn’t want to talk about Chile.

  “Later, later,” he murmured, drawing her hair over his face and inhaling. “It’s too clean right now. Just let it be.”

  Penny would shower, then come to bed and press her breasts and belly against his scarred back, her leg over his dented, withered calf, his head cradled in her elbow and their fingers twined. This was the trade-off. Penny could leave him during the day and go out into the dark, dirty world where unspeakable things happened. When evening fell, Cleon wanted clean sheets on the bed and Penny’s naked heartbeat against him.

  Hold me all night. Do not let me go. Do not let me out of your sight again.

  They loved each other terribly, and they endured. A two-person ship sailing through the vast ocean of the dark hours, in a ship bottom-heavy with things Cleon wouldn’t talk about. Not yet.

  “Later,” he said in the dark. “These are things you’ll never un-hear. It’s too soon to tell them. Too soon and too clean.”

  You must survive this. Build your house again. Pick up the knocked-over furniture, straighten the rugs, sweep the floor. Start again because thou shalt survive.

  Imagine yourself. It’s 1970. A year of tremendous changes. Salvador Allende is elected as Chile’s president. You have a weekly column in the Clarín. Your parents decide to move back to Austria. The Beatles break up and break your heart.

  In the midst of feeling terribly sorry for yourself, you meet a woman.

  Not a girl. A woman.

  “Her name is Penny,” you tell your uncle.

  “Lane?”

  “I don’t know her last name.”

  “Take her to dinner and find out,” Louis says. “If it’s Lane, marry her.”

  You come home from the dinner having experienced something between an epiphany and an existential crisis. “Her last name isn’t Lane,” you say. “But her real name is Lucille.”

  Louis lowers both his newspaper and his glasses. “Nu?”

  “She hates Lucille. Hates to be called Lucy. Nobody’s allowed to call her either. She says most people don’t even know what her real name is.”

  “But you do.”

  You don’t answer. You’re gone. In your mind, you follow Lucille Penelope Cambie to a bridge by a fountain. The world tilts beneath your feet like a rocking horse while thick marshmallow fluff fills your chest. Her sweet, simple face set against a night sky, flung with handfuls of diamond stars. You can find something about her in every Beatles song you know. You could love, need and feed this woman until you’re one hundred and sixty-four.

  “Lucy, will you marry me,” you whisper one night as she rolls beneath you, plump and sweet as a strawberry.

  She calls your name to the diamond skies, followed by “Yes.”

  Then the soldiers call your name.

  It’s your turn.

  (Lucy…)

  Your house collapses.

  Jude finally called Serena. “Did I win the Oscar for Most Melodramtic Exit?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Sorry about the scene.”

  “For fuck’s sake, why are you apologizing?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop it. I can’t even…”

  “I know. There are no more evens to can’t.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too. None of that changes. I just don’t know where to put all this.”

  “What can I do, can I do anything? Or have I done enough? I mean, this whole stupid DNA thing was my idea in the first place, I swear I could fucking kick myself.”

  “You know what, you’re right. It’s entirely your fault.”

  “I am completely and unquestionably to blame. I suck.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck me, everyone who looks like me, the horse I rode in on and every horse that looks like that horse.”

  “You’re the worst sister ever,” Jude said, his sadness full of laughter. “And I don’t want any sister but you. I don’t mean to be a sap, but I’m having trouble finding anything to say that isn’t sappy right now.”

  “I feel terrible. Tell me what I can do.”

  “Walk me through this stupid ancestry website?”

  They got on Skype. Serena was in her home office, and from the desk in the background, Giosué waved. “Hey, Jude.”

  Jude raised a palm. “Yeah, I know. Don’t make it bad. I’m trying.”

  “Want me to get lost, I can go in the other room if you—”

  “No no,” Jude said. “Mi pesadilla es su pesadilla.”
/>
  My nightmare is your nightmare.

  Serena logged into her account and shared her screen.

  “So those cards we got just show ethnicities,” she said. “But once you link the test kits to your family tree, then it starts calculating relationships and finding matches. So you can see… Here.”

  SUZANNE MIRIAM THOLET’S DNA MATCHES

  Relationship: Parent/Child

  Cleon Louis Tholet

  Shared DNA: 3,453 cM across 67 segments

  Lucille Penelope Cambie

  Shared DNA: 3,462 cM across 72 segments

  Relationship: Full sibling

  Aiden Walter Tholet

  Shared DNA: 2,715 cM across 65 segments

  “Ouch,” Jude said. “I was prepared not to see me but still…”

  Not only am I not like the others, I’m not even here.

  “What does cM mean anyway?” Giosué asked.

  “Centimorgan,” Serena said. “It’s the unit they use to measure genetic linkage.”

  “And segments?”

  “I think they represent a common ancestor. I’m not sure. All the technical terminology makes my eyes glaze over.”

  Jude rubbed his chin. “So, to see who I’m related to, I’d have to make my own family tree and link my kit.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay.”

  “You think you will?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Whatever you want to do, I’m there. I’ll help you do something, I’ll help you do nothing. All right?”

  “All right. You’ll be the first to know.”

  But as soon as they disconnected, he made an account. He’d do this much alone and decide where to go from there.

  Once he was set up, he created a private family tree with one single box: Juleón Tholet, born 25 November 1973, Santiago, Chile. He attached his kit number to it.

  Thanks, chirped a pop-up box. Give us a few minutes while we find your DNA matches!

  He went upstairs and played the Grand Valse Brilliant from Chopin’s Les Sylphides.

  He came back down to his desk, jiggled the computer screen awake.

  A new pop-up box squealed, View your DNA matches!

  He went back upstairs and played the waltz again.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” he mumbled. “Just look and see what’s there.”

  What wasn’t there was a parent/child match. Or a full sibling match.

  Everyone happy? I came, I linked, I looked.

  Nothing to see here.

  Nothing except a list of a dozen usernames, grouped by generational proximity. 3rd-4th cousins. 5th-8th cousins. Moderate probability. Good probability. Excellent probability.

  Extremely likely probability.

  Who were these people?

  As he scrolled, a red number popped up in the menu bar, on top of the envelope icon. He had a message.

  From: John Pastorino

  To: J_Tholet

  Hey, cousin, we’re a close match! My family’s from Genoa. Your tree is private and I don’t recognize your surname but I’d love to chat.

  Jude unconsciously reared back from the desk, filled with stranger danger.

  Get the fuck away from me.

  You’re not my people.

  He logged out of the account and shut the browser window. He wasn’t ever going back in. None of it was his.

  He looked at his watch—a little past six. He called Penny.

  “Hey, can I come over?”

  “Oh honey,” Penny said. “Of course you can. Please come over.”

  Alki was the birthplace of modern Seattle and had the feel of a California beach town with its bungalows and boardwalk. Jude found parking on 53rd and walked down Alki Avenue. One of the Nouns’ children strolled toward him, importantly leading a rabbit on a leash.

  “Hello, Mr. Jude,” she called.

  “Hey, Pride.”

  “I’m Courage.”

  “My bad, I’m sorry.” He crouched down and held out fingers for the rabbit to sniff. “Is this a boy or girl?”

  “Girl. We had to give away her husband and her bunnies but Mom said I could keep her.”

  Jude smoothed the quivering brow. “Well, she’s real sweet. What’s her name?”

  “Spay.”

  “Brilliant.” He stood up, knees popping.

  “Tell your mom and dad I said hello.”

  He watched the little girl walk away, the rabbit’s cotton-tailed posterior bouncing beside her, thinking, Courage says hello.

  Sounded like an album title.

  A prim, wrought-iron fence enclosed the Tholets’ bungalow, and the beds were crammed with tulips in popsicle shades of pink, orange and purple. The yellow front door opened before Jude had even closed the gate, and Penny was waving. Inside, she had boxes of papers and pictures stacked on the kitchen table, along with her laptop.

  “You’ve been busy,” Jude said.

  “Busy is the new obsessed. Glass of wine?”

  “Please. ¿Papi está en casa?”

  “He’s at the marina with his buddies. He said it would only be for an hour, which means he’ll be back around midnight.”

  Jude shed his jacket and pulled out a chair. “So let’s pretend we’re detectives,” he said. “Or archaeologists. Detach, be robotic and look at what we know.”

  One at a time, each document was examined and set to the side. Penny’s Canadian birth certificate. Cleon’s Chilean one, plus his expired passport. His Canadian citizenship papers. Their American papers. Photocopies of Jude’s two birth certificates. One under the seal of the Chilean civil clerk, the other under the seal of the Canadian consulate in Santiago.

  “When did you get this?” Jude asked, holding up the Chilean document.

  “I left the hospital with it.”

  “And this one you filled out at the embassy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If I was switched, I assume it was at the hospital.”

  Penny drew the laptop closer. “I tried to look into documented cases.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not unknown but it’s rare. I made a list.” She turned the screen toward Jude.

  1931, Albinusdreef, Netherlands: Agnes van Vegten and Lenie van Duyn switched at the Leiden University Medical Center.

  1951, Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin: Sue McDonald and Martha Miller switched in the hospital. Miller’s mother Mary always suspected a switch occurred but did not pursue her suspicions for 43 years.

  1953, Heppner, Oregon: DeAnn Angell and Kay Rene Reed switched at Pioneer Memorial Hospital. Angell’s mother insisted she had been given the wrong baby after nurses returned from bathing them, but her concerns were ignored. DNA tests confirmed.

  1953, Tokyo, Japan: Two baby boys switched at San-Ikukai Hospital. Became a Japanese “prince and pauper” tale.

  1966, Canary Islands: One of identical twin girls switched with another female infant in a state hospital.

  1971, Ottowa, Canada: Brent Tremblay and Marcus Holmes switched not in hospital, but within foster care through the Children’s Aid Society of Ontario.

  1978, Wachula, Florida: Kimberly Mays and Arlena Twigg switched in the hospital. Dramatized as the TV movie Switched at Birth.

  1989, Johannesburg, South Africa: The sons of Margaret Clinton-Parker and Sandra Dawkins were switched.

  1995, Charlottesville, Virginia: Callie Johnson and Rebecca Chittum switched in the hospital.

  “Less than ten cases,” Jude said.

  “And none from malicious intent. The ones in Wisconsin and Oregon both had a mother who suspected something was off but didn’t follow through for one reason or another. All the rest seem like random mistakes. Human error.”

  They were quiet a moment, no
closer or further to anything.

  “Pure human error,” Jude said. “One nurse picked me up, another picked up your baby, and each was put down in the other’s bassinet.”

  “That’s the simplest story.”

  “Or it could’ve been a more malicious swap.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not sure but you know me, anything worth doing is worth overdoing.”

  She gave a sad smile. “I wish I remembered more.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I thought about hypnosis.”

  “What, you mean to try to loosen some memories?”

  She shrugged, the color high along her cheekbones. “It’s silly.”

  “Hey, if we’re dealing with a plot device problem, why not try a plot device solution?”

  “Does Phil do it?”

  “I could ask.”

  They stared off into private thought. Jude tugged his lower lip, wondering what might be pried out of his mother’s memory after nearly four decades. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of taking her back to that horrific day when she watched her neighbors terrorized and her husband’s uncle gunned down. How could anyone ask her to re-live giving birth on the floor of her house with only two unqualified friends to help her. It would be as cruel as making Cleon go through his days in the Villa Grimaldi.

  But it might give some answers.

  She’d do it for me.

  He squeezed his eyes closed, overcome with love and frustration. “I’m so sorry about all of this.”

  “It’s not your fault. None of this is anyone’s fault.”

  “I asked Papi if he wanted revenge on his interrogators. Or even Pinochet. Right now, I’d gladly time-travel to kill some of those people.”

  The backs of her fingers brushed his cheek. “That’s not you, though.”

  Maybe it is, he thought. Maybe this really is me. I dig aggressive lovers and I’m consumed with murderous revenge.

  He reached for one of the boxes and drew out a random handful of photographs. Black and white snaps with miniscule timestamps in their margins. 1965. 1967. 1971. Individual shots of his parents. Group gatherings with friends. Uncle Louis reading on the patio of his little bungalow. Ysidro and Tatán lounging against the side of a hearse, sharing a smoke.