by CJ Hauser
Inside, he undid her zipper and then his own coat and then he wasn’t sure what to do next. She should do something, Nolan felt, though he wasn’t sure what. He didn’t know what to do because there had only ever been Elsa that one time before and Elsa had known what to do. But he wanted something of his own, that wasn’t Elsa’s, so he had to try. She got everything first. His father, sex. Before he had even known what these things meant for him, they had been hers, and he wanted to take them back from her.
The girl in the ripped tights looked nervous. She was clutching her hands together and looking at the floor like she was waiting for Nolan.
They made it into the bed, but they didn’t take off their clothes until they were under the covers, which was difficult in Nolan’s single. Once they were naked, Nolan grabbed onto himself like he was dying. He assumed she would do the same. But she didn’t. So he took her hand and moved it to her clit. But the girl snatched her hand away. It was in this moment that Nolan realized everything he thought he knew was wrong. The porn he’d watched was wrong. The one sexual experience he had spent five years replaying over and over in his head was wrong. What he and Elsa had done was not what everyone did and maybe it was even awful. Of course, he had been told this before. His parents had yelled and then broken apart the family and then refused to ever mention that night again. So Nolan had known it, factually, yes. But it was not until this moment that Nolan considered that maybe what happened had actually ruined him in some way. That in some other, better version of his life, this would have been the night he lost his virginity and bumbled around sweetly with this broody, shy girl who smelled of gardenias. But it was too late for that, and Nolan understood now that he would never have a chance to do things right the first time.
(Had this been the moment when everything went wrong? Nolan sometimes wondered. But no, there was a difference between realizing how wrongly he’d been made and the moment the wrongness actually happened. And so it was before this. It was further back.)
The girl took Nolan’s hand and put it on her, and she took ahold of him. He yelped. Her hands were so cold.
The girl with ripped stockings tried to stroke his dick with her freezing hands, and Nolan wriggled further under the covers, because he felt like he was going to cry and did not want her to see. He was hard, but he hated it. He got up on all fours, crouched over her, and said, Is this okay?
I’m on birth control, the girl said. For my skin. And Nolan guessed this meant yes.
He took himself in his hand and tried to press into her, but he could not find the place. She did not help to guide him. Elsa would have helped. But this was his job now, he understood. He was supposed to take charge, and Nolan realized that he hated this. He wanted to be led places. To resist and then give in to desire. But he did not know how to tell the girl what he wanted. It was too embarrassing to ask, and he didn’t really think she could give it to him if she tried. Nolan searched again for the place, but failed, and collapsed next to the girl, who had begun to cry.
I’m sorry, she said.
It’s okay, Nolan said. Why are you sorry? I’m sorry.
After he’d walked her back to her dorm, it was almost midnight, and Nolan was walking in alternating patches of darkness and spotlight along the campus path, breaking the ice crust on the banks of fresh snow that had been rained upon and frozen overnight.
The streetlights reflected glossily on the ice crust. Nolan bent down and punched a fist through it. He thought it would feel satisfying to crack the shell. That his hand would go cleanly through. But instead, the top layer shattered like glass and sliced his wrist, once on the way through, and then again on the way out. The cut was not deep but it sang hot and cold as the snow melted. A tiny bead of blood welled up and he sucked it clean. Nolan stood there, watching the next bead of blood rise to the surface, and sucked it clean again. He was so miserable. He would stand here all night until he froze. He would suck every drop of blood from his body until he died.
He took out his phone and called Elsa.
Hello? There was bar noise, but she was up. She was out.
Where are you? Nolan asked.
Are you crying? Elsa said. Come on, New Baby, what can be that bad?
Can you come here?
You know that’s a bad idea, Elsa said.
Where are you?
A bar in Little Falls, she said. There’s a mechanical bull and a bunch of jackasses who think they’re cowboys. They’re all wearing flannel shirts even though their fathers are all soybean farmers.
That’s close, Nolan said. You’re close. You could come.
It’s not, Elsa said. Nolan.
Please, he said.
* * *
——————·
More than two hours later, Elsa parked outside Nolan’s dorm. She texted and he came down.
She was leaning against the ticking hood of her truck, wearing a green Carhartt coat and a gray wool cap pulled over her hair, which was longer than he remembered. There were empty coffee mugs on the dashboard and empty packs of cigarettes. Five years older than the last time he’d seen her and she was so obviously not a college student, so obviously older than him, a woman, that he felt as if he’d summoned a dangerous demigod, and he no longer knew what he’d intended to do next.
This is a bad idea, Elsa said again. Do you have any coffee?
We can’t go up, Nolan said. My roommates came home and they’re sleeping.
I drive all the way out here and we’re going to freeze our asses off?
We could sit in your car, Nolan suggested.
Elsa yanked her truck door open. Nolan pulled the passenger-side handle three times before Elsa unlocked it.
The truck’s heat smelled plasticky, as if something was melting inside. The radio played low guitar music and an orange streetlamp beam was cutting across the parking lot. Nolan felt bulky in his coat. He unzipped it.
Elsa unzipped her jacket and slipped her arms out of it. She lay back against the seat and twisted against the headrest to look at him. Her hair was staticky and danced around, silvery in the dark.
So what’s wrong, New Baby?
Nolan began to cry.
Jesus Christ, Nolan.
It’s all your fault, he said. You did this to me.
Let’s not.
It’s like you pressed the fast-forward button on my life and made me do things early, but now I’m here and I’ve already done everything, but I did it weird, and I don’t know how to do things the normal stupid way like I’m supposed to. He sniffed.
You could have just yelled at me on the phone, Elsa said. I was in a warm bar and a man named Dylan was buying me drinks.
Nolan continued to cry.
All I’m saying is, I had a good situation going. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman in bumfuck Minnesota and I’ve got to take good situations where I can find them.
She opened the console and took out a rumpled plastic baggie with two joints in it. Nolan calmed a little.
Elsa dug a lighter from her pocket. You had a good situation going earlier? Is that what this is about?
Why—
Your shirt’s on backward.
You don’t even care, Nolan said, pulling his sleeves.
I’m here, aren’t I? Elsa said. She cracked her window and lit one of the joints. I drove over two goddamn hours so you could yell at me in person. She took a hit and exhaled out the window slit. You want some? she said.
Does this mean you’re staying? Nolan asked.
I can drive fine.
He reached for the lit joint, but as he leaned in to take it, he found his face close to Elsa’s and it had a kind of gravity to it, so Nolan leaned in and kissed her, palming her face with his cold hand, hooking his thumb beneath her jaw.
Her mouth was
soft but he felt her tense up and recoil almost immediately and she pushed him back across the cab, hard.
Aw, fuck, Nolan. No.
They sat there for a long while.
Elsa took another hit of the joint. The radio was playing cowboy songs.
He leaned toward her again. He wanted this to make sense. If Elsa didn’t make sense now, then what did that mean about everything that had happened before?
Nolan, she said, and drew her elbow back, like she might hit him, but she looked afraid.
I know, Nolan said, and he took the joint instead.
Leap’s Island
See? Gwen said.
Down in the mud and reeds, a male duck had mounted a female and was beating her with his wings, pinning her still as he entered her.
A mosquito whined by Elsa’s ear. Gwen, in her muddy swim shoes, without a baby, with a duck uterus nailed to her wall, gave Elsa a crawling feeling all over her skin.
The ducks were still fucking.
They’re really going at it, Nolan said. He was leaning over the wooden railing, heimliching himself on the beam. Elsa felt like grabbing him and saying: Stop messing around. You’re not a little kid. That was the problem with Nolan: he would always be younger than her. The New Baby. And somehow, this meant that she would always be more responsible for the two of them.
Have you ever seen a duck banded number twelve? Nolan asked.
His Paradise Duck? Gwen said. He could have been here, but I wouldn’t know. I’m not interested in tracking males. I’m focused on the choices made by the females, and the repercussions for the ducklings. And, of course— She pulled them closer to the uterus, a sketched map in progress next to it.
This was your idea, Nolan whispered hoarsely near Elsa’s ear. Let the record reflect, I did not suggest this.
See this? Gwen said, pointing at something fleshy that meant nothing to the Greys. Goes to nowhere. Nowhere! All these, she insisted, will not result in fertilization. Gwen was staring at the uterus as if it might have something to say in its defense.
Elsa had expected the Reversalists to be crazy. Legitimately mentally ill, or else crackpot hippies. But instead, Elsa found them willfully alone, playing out their misery in weird scientific pageants without audience. It had been a long time since she had seen him, but Elsa loved her father. She was proud of the elastic strength of his mind, uncluttered and expansive. The possibility that this was what had become of Ian was too much.
Sit! Gwen said suddenly, perhaps sensing she was losing them, and the children sank to the floor, cross-legged. Gwen dragged an Igloo cooler over to them.
So, are you ready? she said to Elsa.
Sure thing, Nolan said. Ready.
Actually, Gwen said, I’m only interested in female choice for this study.
I thought you were only interested in ducks, Elsa said.
Nolan said, I thought the whole reason we trekked out here was to be in your study.
I don’t need you, Gwen said. But as you may have noticed—she gestured around at the island—I’m pretty short on female test subjects. So are you ready? she repeated to Elsa.
That definitely depends, Elsa said. How involved are my ovaries?
Only very indirectly, said Gwen. She rooted around in the Igloo cooler. From it she pulled five Ziploc bags with what appeared to be gray t-shirts inside them. She set them in a row in front of Elsa.
Sniff, she said.
What? Elsa said.
I’d like for you to smell each of these shirts, and then describe its smell to me in terms of intensity, pleasantness, and sexiness.
I’m sorry, sexiness?
This is a classic test, Gwen said.
What are you testing? Nolan asked.
Can’t say. It would affect the results, Gwen said.
Nolan was intrigued. He had been to Sonoma once and the sommelier, a South African woman in a low-cut dress, had told him he had an excellent nose. Janine said the sommelier was just flirting with him, but Nolan had been proud when the sommelier confirmed that he did indeed smell fresh cherries, and pipe tobacco, and fresh-cut grass. Whatever this test was, he was sure he’d be good at it, and it seemed unfair that only Elsa would get to participate.
Smell, Gwen told Elsa again, pointing to the first bag.
Fine, Elsa said. She’d got them here, she could get it over with quickly. She took out the first shirt and smelled.
I mean, it smells like a sweaty guy wore it, Elsa said. It smells iron-y like sweat and maybe a little funky too. Herbal.
Gwen twirled her pen at Elsa, requesting further information.
Elsa sighed. I would say the smell is very intense, not that pleasant, and largely unsexy, she said.
Okay, Gwen said. Next one.
As Elsa pressed her face to each soft shirt, she ultimately had to admit that there was something sexy about smelling mysterious men’s clothing. One smelled like rising bread. Another like tomato soup and the can it came in. The fourth smelled like orange peels gone slightly rancid. The last shirt Elsa smelled, then balled up and smelled a second time, and a third, before she said: It smells like pond water. It smells like someone maybe wore it into a pond.
He didn’t, Gwen said. The subjects just slept in them.
Well, okay, it smells like pond. Kind of vegetable and fresh.
How would you describe the intensity and sexiness?
Jesus, Elsa said. I mean, it’s not that intense. That’s what’s nice about it, I guess. It’s only a little bit there, in a way that makes you want to smell it again to make sure. That’s sexy, I guess. Sure. This is the sexiest-smelling shirt. Is that what you wanted to hear?
Wow, Gwen said. Yes, absolutely. So just to be clear, shirts two and five are somewhat pleasant smelling and only shirt five you would describe as sexy.
Yes. Put it down for posterity, Elsa said. Are we done?
We are, Gwen said, closing her notebook.
Nolan, still feeling left out said, Now can you tell us what you were testing for?
Sure, Gwen said. In mate selection, traditional data show that women prefer the smell of pheromones from men who are significantly genetically different from them. It gives offspring a better chance of avoiding genetic diseases and increases viability. And that translates to the smell response to their pheromones.
Wait, Elsa said.
But in my case, what I’m looking for is a decrease in the overall rate of positive response. Gwen gestured to the ducks. I’m looking for a downward trend that trumps any genetic dissimilarity.
Are those t-shirts from—
The men on the island, sure, Gwen said.
Was one of them Ian’s? Nolan asked.
Number five, Gwen said.
Oh God, Elsa said.
Two out of five is slightly lower than average, Gwen said. So depending on how the comparative DNA tests come back, it likely supports my hypothesis.
That’s a horrible thing to have done. Not telling me that, Elsa said. She had her hand to her mouth. Nolan was gaping.
Remy’s shirt was number two, which makes sense. Mitchell and the boys could be similar or not…She tapped her notepad with her pencil. The Grey shirt is confusing. Huh. Well, I’ll just need a DNA sample from you so we can confirm, Gwen said.
Elsa didn’t move.
How many do people normally find sexy? Nolan asked.
At least three, Gwen said, sometimes four, according to the original study. But they all smell terrible to me. That’s the whole problem. That’s my point.
Nolan said, I want to smell them.
It doesn’t really work with same-gender samples, Gwen said. The biological reproduction element isn’t in play.
Nolan said, Shuffle them around so that I won’t know which is which.
Elsa said, Nolan, can we just�
�� I’d like to go home.
I can’t believe you didn’t realize it was him, Nolan said. I have a really good nose, and his smell is so particular.
That’s not really what the experiment is for, Gwen said.
Just do it, Nolan said. He slid across the floor, closer to her.
Gwen shuffled the shirts.
Nolan smelled each shirt twice. On the second pass he picked out the third shirt.
Nolan, you don’t need to do this, Elsa said. It doesn’t have anything to do with—
It’s this one, he said. This is Dad’s shirt.
It is, Gwen said. That’s it.
Elsa rubbed her face with her hands.
Nolan smelled the shirt once more. He wasn’t sure what he hoped getting this right would make him feel, but it hadn’t worked and he felt desperately sad imagining his father here. He looked around the tree house. He could imagine Ian crouched by the shore, observing ducks. He could even imagine Ian on Esther’s porch with a pair of binoculars. But the idea of Ian helping Gwen map a uterus put him over the edge.
This doesn’t have anything to do with Duck Twelve? he asked.
Your father’s duck? Gwen said. No, of course not. She looked at Nolan strangely.
Below, the ducks were still going at it by the sound of things. The female was honking.
Why “of course not”? Nolan asked.
Gwen said, I’m trying to sound the alarm here. These ducks are slowing procreation. It’s only a matter of time before that ripples up the food chain. Your father, on the other hand, thought Reversalism was going to save us all. She made a sweeping circular gesture with her pencil.
Wait, what? Elsa said.
Gwen put down her notebook and looked at them like they were idiots. Slowly, she repeated herself: Ian didn’t think the Reversal was cause for alarm. He was using Duck Twelve to prove we should embrace the Reversal. He was obsessed with that duck. With one data point. She shook her head.
I thought the whole point of Reversalism was that we were fucked, Elsa said. Isn’t that why everyone’s even here? She knew she sounded panicky, but ever since Ian had moved to Leap’s, she’d understood that her father had joined a doomsday cult.
