Theory of Bastards

by Audrey Schulman

  Into Frankie’s mind flashed an image of her mattress on the floor of the closet of her office, her spork and hot pot sitting on the shelf above. During office hours, she kept the door to the closet shut. She asked, Do you think I care if you have to pick up chicken tonight instead of steak?

  The doctor blinked and glanced at her, his distraction evaporating. His eyebrows were so blond they were nearly invisible, making him look a little like a newborn. She wondered how much personal experience he had with pain.

  He said, If you want me to update your prescription, you’re going to have to fill out the survey.

  His attempt at coercion so unimaginative.

  Through her years of being a patient, Frankie had earned the equivalent of a doctorate in how to make the medical system meet her needs. She knew why a shark would bite, tired of the grinding of its belly.

  She said, If you ever use that word, survey, in my presence again, I will call 911 to say I suspect widespread drug abuse by the personnel in this clinic.

  The doctor’s gaze changed in some essential way. Instead of just looking in her direction, he focused on her, registering her for the first time as a separate human soul.

  Frankie had reached the stage in her disease where she felt violence inside her, just beneath the skin, a savagery that pulsed in her throat and behind her eyes. She knew if it would decrease her pain even a fraction, she would stave this man’s skull in with a rock. What she felt shone in her face.

  She said, I’ve read 15% of medical personnel are addicted to the drugs they have access to. If I make that call, every employee here will have to take a urine test. What are the chances this clinic will be locked down for months while the situation’s addressed?

  In her years of pain, she’d developed her ability to find the soft spot in anyone, her instinct unerring.

  She said quietly, every consonant enunciated, Write out my prescription now.

  And he did.

  *

  A few days later there was a heat wave in Manhattan, accompanied by a rolling brownout as every AC in the city struggled to cope. The temperature on the sidewalk hovered at 112°, the entire grid strained. Rotating brownouts were mandatory any time the temperature exceeded 105°—all discretionary power turned off in the affected area, including Sim towers and elevators in buildings under six stories. A neighborhood’s brownout lasted two hours before it was automatically rotated to a new area. The affected area visible from blocks away, hundreds of people lined up along the perimeter where they could get a signal, engaged in urgent conversations on their EarDrums. Once the brownout was over, the human perimeter dispersed.

  Without the elevator working, she had to walk up three stories to her office. Her cold had gotten worse, the coughing yanked on her adhesions. Each step an effort.

  Halfway up the third set of stairs, she fainted. With her last thought, she tucked forward, so she slammed onto her shoulder rather than capsize backward headfirst down the concrete stairs. Long illness can train anyone into an acrobat’s roll.

  Unconscious, her cheek pillowed on concrete, she had a dream or perhaps something more powerful: a hallucination. A vision. She saw her womb walking around a room, separate from her, people talking to it. Fleshy and panting, it stomped about on its clumsy ovary feet, barking orders out its cervix, its flesh surgically mangled, a creature from the black lagoon, scarred and imperfect. It moved forward only with effort and, as it got closer, she saw this difficulty came from having to drag her limp body along behind.

  Within a week of this vision, she made her main doctor put her on Monopherix, the drug shoving her into an artificial menopause. She experienced hot flashes mixed with an adolescent’s temper tantrums, but the drug stopped menstruation, decreasing her pain. A year before she’d started shaving her hair short as a nun’s and wearing bright toddler clothes, stretchy and comfortable.

  In her costume of a child nun, she meditated constantly on relationships and procreation and babies—not in terms of herself, but in terms of her research—as though she were an extraterrestrial studying the human species. She finally found herself able to look at babies without pain, somewhat in the same way she might examine zoo animals, curious creatures she wouldn’t encounter in normal life. She began to relate to men as though they were taller women who were less likely to confide.

  Without pain, she crunched through her statistical analysis in under a month on all the data she’d pulled together on the families from the 1970s blood-bank study. She told the families she was doing a long-term follow-up on the blood-bank study.

  The questionnaire, along with follow-up research, showed on average the “extra-marital” children did better than their half siblings. Their stronger immune systems resulted in fewer urgent-care visits, as well as fewer chronic or genetic diseases. Perhaps because of their improved health, they grew three-quarters of an inch taller and a double-blind test graded their faces in their high-school photos more attractive.

  Some combination of fewer sick days and a winning smile created a slightly higher grade point average, which was what probably led to an average of six months more schooling. These taller better-looking more-educated adults secured jobs with a higher salary and had an average of 0.7 more children per person.

  She published her paper in Science magazine, calling it “The Secret Benefits of Bastards.” She concluded the evolutionary duty of each mother was to secure the best genetics and resources for her offspring, and logically of course these benefits might not be found within the same man.

  She was 33 years old and $73,000 in debt when this research got published. The uproar was intense, not only in the field, but also in the popular press. Study Calls the Wealthy: Bastards, ran the Wall St. Journal headline. Women Designed to be Unfaithful, said the Times. She didn’t care, because a few days before this her pain doctor had finally figured out a way to get back at her.

  He’d never stopped hating her in a restrained Nordic way. At this appointment he pointed out that the Monopherix was no longer working, not surprising since it normally was effective for only six months.

  She nodded, having realized this weeks ago.

  Since that time she’d threatened him, he was very attentive to her, never letting his eyes drift away—in a strange way acting like the ideal doctor.

  He said, Well, perhaps you didn’t know this part. Considering all the pain you’ve experienced, even if you got a hysterectomy today and had all the endo cut out of your body, your nerves might have become so habituated to reporting pain, they could continue—like the way amputees sometimes feel pain in their missing limbs.

  He said, If this happens, you’ll have pain for the rest of your life, no matter what you do.

  *

  The next day in the swimming pool’s changing rooms, Frankie saw a very pregnant woman. Watching the woman waddle toward the showers, Frankie felt nothing at all.

  Instead, staring after the woman, she heard that voice again, speaking in her ear, that raspy crossing-guard voice that she heard during moments of extreme duress.

  The voice stated flat and factual, Honey, it’s time.

  Three weeks later, her cell phone rang. A man’s voice introduced himself as the Director of the MacArthur Fellowship Program and asked to speak to Dr. Francine Burk.

  The day she stepped off the stage with her prize money, the money everyone assumed would further her research, was the day she booked the surgery.

  DAY 24

  Twenty Six

  As Frankie made breakfast in the morning, she noticed her fridge’s voice was slow, sounding a bit like a computer’s impression of a drunk person.

  When she asked what was wrong, the fridge said, Processing, and then took so long to answer, she told it to forget her question. She wondered if she had a roach in her BodyWare and it had moved into her appliances.

  Walking to the enclosure, she saw both side
s of the highway were now heading in the same direction, the autos as tightly packed as ball bearings rolling North, away from the storm.

  Then Bellows came striding up the path, head down and muttering to himself in the light of dawn, a large trash bag clutched to his chest. She’d never spotted him at work before nine.

  He stopped short when he saw her. Ahh, he said, Dr. Burk, ready to leave?

  No.

  He paused, then tried again, Perhaps I can assist you? Help you pack? We’ll be back in 10 days. We always are.

  I’m not going. I’m finally making progress with my work.

  He examined her. She stood there in her overalls covered with smiling robots, her hair still wet from the shower. He was dressed in a pressed shirt and pants—the only difference from his normal attire was he wore no tie.

  He said, It’s a mandatory evacuation.

  She watched him with interest.

  He added hopefully, Ordered by the governor.

  The trash bag he held was full of stuff. From the bumps and outlines in the plastic, it seemed to be mostly papers and folders. These days, only important documents were printed: property titles and business contracts. He probably had to bring these along each time he evacuated. The corners of the folders had torn the bag in a few places and the rips were stretching wider.

  She stated, If you try to make me leave, I won’t come back.

  He paused. She knew what her face looked like when she’d made up her mind.

  She added, And I’ll send a note to my NSF admirer who’s giving you all the grant money. I’ll tell him I’ve left.

  One of the rips in the bag was big enough that some of the papers were close to spilling out. He cradled the bag closer to his chest, then glanced toward the parking lot where he’d been headed.

  He exhaled then and drew himself up to say, Ok Bindi, record. Dr. Francine Burk, please note I have informed you the dust storm Mavis is coming and that the governor of the state has issued a mandatory evacuation. I have informed you that you must leave the premises of the Foundation until the evacuation is over. If you choose to stay, it is without the permission of the Foundation and the state. Is this true?

  She nodded.

  He blinked and added, Please answer for the recording.

  She said, This is Dr. Francine Burk and I confirm you’ve informed me and I am staying at the Foundation without permission.

  Ok, he said, Bindi, time and date stamp. Stop recording.

  Then he jumped slightly—probably an incoming Sim-call—and looked past her to the car, Ok Bindi, tell her to hold her horses. I’ll be there in a second.

  He became less official, his voice rushed as he addressed Frankie, Well, if you’re staying then maybe you can help the keeper care for the bonobos. They’re very sensitive to respiratory problems. Breathing the dust would be bad for them.

  She nodded.

  Do you have enough food for yourself?

  She said, Yep, my kitchen’s stocked. I’ll be fine.

  He paused and seemed ready to ask more questions, but then startled instead and touched his ear, saying, Ok Bindi, tell her to take it easy.

  He waved and hurried away, calling back over his shoulder, Have fun.

  *

  During her hysterectomy, she was given just a local and thus felt a distant tugging and prodding throughout the operation. The instruments were inserted through two small incisions on her lower belly. Carbon dioxide was pumped in to inflate her body cavity, allowing the instruments enough room to work. With her gut puffed up like this, she looked pregnant.

  Early on during the procedure, the surgeon figured out she was that Dr. Frankie Burk and began questioning her about her research and ideas. At no point did he look her in the face, but asked his questions while looking up and to the right on his Lenses, his empty hands gesturing, controlling the laparoscopic instruments that worked inside her. The conversation roughly followed the format of the newspaper interview she’d given the day before, only in this case the interviewer was busy slicing her uterus up and tugging the pieces out her vagina, a birth process of a very perverse kind. Her surgical menopause at the age of 33, the delivery of herself into what she’d decided to think of as a third sex.

  Occasionally while she talked, the surgeon made a tch-ing noise with his tongue. She thought at first he disapproved of what she was saying, then realized he was instead contemplating his next cut.

  After he’d removed her uterus, he searched through her now less cluttered abdomen, cutting away all the endometrial adhesions he could find. Cleaning up, he called it, as though her body cavity was a kitchen after a meal. As the last step, he searched methodically for any capillaries still bleeding, using a hot needle to cauterize them. He said inside of a month she wouldn’t even know she’d had the surgery.

  The machine that the needle was connected to sat beside her right hip. It made a busy humming noise each time it was used and at one point, she got a whiff of what smelled like pork chops.

  A button-sized implant—that she’d agreed to more for health reasons than for social ones—was inserted under the skin of her right shoulder, to keep her hormonal levels within a preset range.

  In the recovery room afterward, she and the other women lay bloated with carbon dioxide, beached on their beds like seals, their crotches singing out musical notes, their bellies gradually deflating. Sometimes these noises sounded like low sighs of relief; other times like a dog barking or a tuba warming up. At one point, her vagina exhaled a thoughtful hmm, as though it was ready finally to tell its story.

  *

  The Foundation grounds were deserted by 10 A.M. except for the keeper, Stotts and two other staff: a guy with a beard who Frankie had seen around the chimp enclosure and the skinny young woman who worked with the orangutans. From her spot up in the climbing structure, she watched them bustling up and down the paths carrying boxes or pushing dollies.

  About 11 A.M., Stotts stepped into the enclosure to call for Goliath. He spotted her in the climbing structure and asked, You managed to stay?

  Yes, she said.

  You’re in for some work, you know.

  She nodded, Yep, that’s why I’m staying.

  He considered her, his eyebrows raised. Alrighty, he said, You want to come down for some knapping? I only have a few minutes but I thought I’d get in one last bit of research before the storm.

  No, she said, Lucy is ovulating. I’ll watch her instead.

  Alright, he said and then called, Goliath, you coming?

  They both turned to look for Goliath. They spotted him high in the climbing structure, faced away, chewing on a mango pit.

  Stotts added, Goliath, I’ve got a People and a Glamour.

  Goliath didn’t turn around.

  Stotts added, The Glamour has a photo spread on fur coats. Pretty women in fur. Your favorite.

  Goliath put the pit down, but continued to face away.

  Stotts put his hands on his hips, staring upward. He said, He’s tired of not succeeding. It’s your fault. You try.

  Me? asked Frankie.

  You’ve hurt his ego by getting better at the knapping. You call him.

  He won’t come to me.

  Look, bonobos obey women more than men. They’re just born that way. And Goliath, he likes you.

  He what?

  Stotts turned, examining her.

  She saw she’d missed something obvious.

  Embarrassed she called out, Goliath.

  High in the climbing structure, he looked over his shoulder at her.

  She paused at this.

  See, Stotts whispered.

  She refused to be distracted, didn’t look away from Goliath’s eyes.

  Hey, she said lifting her hand in the begging gesture and making a bonobo pout, Come on down.

  Goliath watched
her for a moment, considering the request.

  She added the sign-language gesture for please.

  He climbed down to where she was and they swung out of the structure onto the ground. He stood up on his feet to slide his hand into hers and she decided she could take a few minutes away from watching Lucy.

  Walking to the research room, she studied him from the corner of her eyes. Next to her, he moved with pride, this short and hairy male.

  They took their seats on the desk and each picked their rocks. Unlike him, she’d grown to enjoy the knapping. She found it absorbing and rather meditative, like washing the dishes. It seemed appropriate that today every hit she made was perfect, as clean as if she’d been knapping for years. It took her only 15 minutes to sculpt a sharp edge three inches long. A shard. A Stone-Age knife.

  She held it in her hand for a moment, turning it from side to side, the rippled glass of the rock’s secret interior. Its beauty gave her great satisfaction. She tested the point against the metal of the desk and there was a high-pitched screech. Goliath and Stotts turned to look.

  Stepping over to the box that held the treats, she began slicing through the rope that tied it shut. The other two never looked away. When the last fiber was cut, it broke with an audible snap. Opening the box, she pulled out the gummy bears. She handed half of them to Goliath, sharing as a bonobo would. He took them with ceremonial care, his fingers grazing hers, the burnished leather of his skin.

  She was already hungry again or perhaps had never stopped being hungry. Sitting down beside him on the desk, she tossed all her gummy bears into her mouth.

  Goliath delicately started chewing on a single gummy, bouncing around with happiness like a child. In his excitement, one of the gummy bears slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the floor. He knuckled down to get it. She watched him move, on all fours, his wrists locked and weight-bearing.

  Her jaw stopped and she focused on his wrists, thinking.