The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  Catty as she gets sometimes, Cally is one of the funnier people I know. We giggle about how silly the boys look while we gather up the rest of our stuff. Then we head for the cars.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say.

  “Bright and early.” She smiles.

  Kyle gets out, Patrick moves over to the passenger side. I get in and turn down the volume. An earsplitting shrill supersedes all other sound. My jaw clenches. I grip the steering wheel and wait for it to subside.

  “Mom, you okay?”

  The harsh noise goes away as quickly as it came.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I reach down and turn off the radio. I’ve heard enough sound for one day.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Blood-tinged syrup hangs from the bottom of the cart like strands from a spider’s web. It pools in the gutter and forms a bodily fluid gelatin. There is no rain hard enough to wash away the stains. There’s no weather at all, not anymore. No nights, no electricity, or battery power. Something happened. Everything stopped working. The sky became a perpetual red dusk. Maybe it’s a mirror image of all the spilled blood.

  The bleeding disease was only the beginning. Within a few months, thousands of people went to sleep and never woke up. They were found dead, soaking in crimson pools. It would happen overnight, during naps, any period of sleep—bodies would seep blood. Scientists were baffled. No cure could be found. A few months more, and the death toll was in the hundreds of thousands. It was a pandemic that led to more war. The air was rife with gun smoke and the odor of rust. As people quickly died off, the global wars diminished to local fighting and looting. Madmen ran the streets pillaging any and all drugs that would keep them awake and killing anyone who got in their way. In the end, some even resorted to removing their eyelids hoping the mutilation would ward off slumber. They were Earth’s dying days, and the complete collapse of humanity.

  My work here is almost done. My last two neighbors from the cul-de-sac are in the cart. Bishop Almeida is a private Catholic school. It was built three years ago, a block away. There is a large metal cross planted firmly in front. The icon can be seen for miles around—a beacon for sinners. It makes me feel better about dumping the bodies there. The school was so close, we gave Patrick the option of attending, but he preferred his Lutheran school.

  Within the storehouse of implements once called our garage, the long barbecue lighter sits among an assortment of screwdrivers in one of the toolbox drawers. Jon had so much crap shoved in there it took me forever to find the right tools when I first got started. Rather than look through the toolbox when he needed to fix something, he would go to the hardware store and buy everything new. When he was finished, he would add anything left to the tool box. Poor man is dead, but I still find myself nagging him. Jon and Patrick are at the bottom of the pile. I stacked the other bodies on top of them so I wouldn’t have to see them anymore.

  The lighter slides down into the apron pocket easy. I grab the axe and red gas can and balance them carefully around the bags in the cart. It is stuffed solid, which makes it bulky and awkward to push. I wonder what people would think if they saw me coming down the street, pushing a shopping cart full of body parts in my designer plaid rain boots, a bloody apron, welder’s gloves, and goggles.

  The mound does not seem as large as it should, being made up of over twenty-five bodies. No animal tracks; they must all be dead, too. I haven’t even seen a cockroach, which scientists said would survive a holocaust. Next to the mound are piles of empty bags.

  This will be an epic funeral pyre, symbolic of my affection for the people whose bodies I used to create it. They have been soaking in the gasoline from all their cars. The caustic smell sort of helps to curb the stench.

  After removing the gas can and axe, I unload the last two of my neighbors. I’m careful not to look at their faces as I swing the can upwards. Gas spills out everywhere. Even on me, but it makes me smell better too. Their souls will rise up through the red sky. They are my only call for help—a human smoke signal to God.

  The mound ignites into a roaring fire. I push the cart and jump out of the way. Flat on my back, looking up at the sky, endless swirls of black smoke rise and curl upwards. The flames are raging, the heat so intense, I feel myself burning—My God, I am burning. The apron is on fire!

  Frantic and patting my chest is how I wake up. I have the comforter pushed down to the foot of the bed. Sweat trickles between my breasts. My nightshirt is drenched. I’m amazed Jon is still asleep. Careful to keep it that way, I slip out of bed, then gently close the door when I get in the bathroom. My shirt peels off as if I were shedding a second skin. I wring it out then lay it over a towel bar. One shiver and I’m suddenly trembling all over, waiting for the washcloth I threw in the sink to soak up warm running water. Jon would surely wake if I turned on the shower. When I’m done cleaning up, I put on a new nightshirt then creep back into bed. My side is cool and damp, so I wiggle over to Jon and snuggle against his back. Gently, I pull the comforter up.

  For the rest of the night, I mimic the rise and fall of his breathing patterns. When his alarm goes off, I pretend I’m asleep. There’s no need to make him worry. Only two days until my appointment with Dr. Light.

  He brought me coffee a while ago, then left.

  At my vanity, I drink lukewarm coffee, but I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting. I scan the room for some wall space. We really need a clock in here. My watch is in the closet.

  “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” Patrick shuffles into the bathroom. Awake and dressed for school.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost time to leave.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why are you here and not getting your backpack ready?”

  “Will you show me how to fix my hair again? The messy way.”

  “See, I knew you’d be back. Hand me the gel.”

  Patrick tosses the tube at me, and I let it fall to the floor. “Mom.” He picks it up and then hands it to me. I put a dab in the palm of my hand then rub it into my other and tousle his hair.

  “The idea is to make sloppy look effortless. Get it?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I’m hearin’ ya.”

  “’Kay now, get out. I’ve got to get dressed for Pilates.”

  “I don’t get how you have to get dressed to go work out.”

  “You will.”

  “Whatever. Thanks for the hairdo. I’m lookin’ all good now.” He pretends to slick his hair back while he stares at himself in the mirror.

  “Out.”

  “I’m going. I’m going,” he says, as he struts out the door.

  “Be ready. I’ll be down in a minute.” I put my hair into a clip, put some eyeliner and lip gloss on, grab my watch then head downstairs.

  “Mom, we can’t leave now. It’s too early.”

  “Fine. I’ll finish my coffee then. Turn up the news, please. Anything going on?”

  “No. Just the end of the world.”

  “What?” My heart nearly skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

  “Relax, Mom. It’s just sunspots. They’re saying it could interrupt your cell service. And that would be like the end of the world—for you.”

  “No way. You use your cell phone much more than me.”

  “I text, and that’s totally different.”

  * * *

  After Pilates, the girls and I meet up for coffee in the old part of Summerlin. We get our drinks at the café next to a clothing boutique we frequent and then head over to shop. Jordan and I are the first ones there. Nothing screams I AM WOMAN like sipping coffee while perusing the latest fashions.

  “Now these are a sweet pair of jeans,” Jordan says. She’s got them pulled away from the rack with one hand, eyeing them up and down. With the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, she pinches then tweaks the dark little spikes of hair above her ear.

  “They’re cute,” I say. “How much?”

  “Not bad. Two-forty, with twenty perce
nt off.”

  “You better hang on to them before Tara sees.”

  A voice comes from the back of the store. “Hello, Jordan. Hello, Stacy.” It’s Janelle, the owner. “We just got those in. Aren’t they cool? You want me to put them in a room for you?”

  “No, I’m not going to bother trying them on,” Jordan says. “They’ll fit.”

  “Of course they will,” Janelle says, rather snide.

  “If they don’t, you can always bring them back,” I remind her.

  “I’m bad about that,” Jordan says. “If they don’t fit, or I change my mind, I’ll give them to Jamie’s girlfriend. And I tell ya, I’ve given that girl a wardrobe fit for a princess.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “Wish I was Jamie’s girlfriend,” Janelle says.

  Big mistake. Jordan looks up and glares at her so evil, it would send Satan back to Hell. Jamie is Jordan’s only son from her first marriage. He is twenty-six now and an established attorney in Santa Barbara, but Jordan won’t relinquish her overprotective maternal instincts. Her claws come out when women show any interest. Especially… women like Janelle. She may be a successful entrepreneur, but she also has a reputation for being a major party girl.

  Janelle shrinks back then quietly slinks away.

  “Whore,” Jordan whispers.

  “Jordan, she might hear you.”

  “Good. She needs to hear it. I spend thousands in her store, and if she wants to keep my business, she needs to learn her place.” A woman on fire, she flips through clothes on a rack.

  I quickly step away. I’ll be more comfortable when I’m clear of her striking distance. There’s a table lined with folded T-shirts. I lean up against it and pretend to look interested. I’ve never seen her get this agitated before. There is more verity to her cougar title than I thought. Besides being nearly ten years older than the rest of us—I’m just sure of it—she’s also in her fourth marriage, and her husband, Samuel, is twenty years her junior.

  Tara and Cally come into the store. Thank God.

  “Any good deals?” Tara says.

  “I found these jeans, but I’m not sure I’m going to get them.” Jordan directs her comment to Janelle, acting busy behind the cashier’s desk.

  “Ooh, I like those. I’ll buy ‘em if you don’t.”

  “No. I’m getting them,” Jordan says.

  “Are they the only twos?”

  “Yep. And they’re mine.” Jordan walks off toward the cash register.

  “Janelle, you need to order more of the smaller sizes,” Tara shouts out.

  “Look at this,” Cally says.

  Tara moves quickly to the other side of the store. “Cute. I love it. Come and look, Stacy.”

  I walk over to them huddled around a rack of bright, patterned halters. “A little cool for those now, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yeah, but great for spring. We should all get one. Look, there are four different designs. How perfect.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Cally says.

  Jordan joins us, and after glancing at the halters says, “That’s a stupid idea.” She cocks her head for me to follow her out.

  “We’ll just be a minute,” Tara says in a huff.

  “Take your time. We’ll be outside,” Jordan says.

  Jordan and I walk back to the café and sit down on a couple of patio chairs out front.

  “Thanks for saving me,” I say. “Those tops were hideous.”

  “Well, hell yeah they were, but even more than that, I was thinking of the sun spots on my back and shoulders. I can’t do halters anymore.”

  Sunspots…Patrick…I take the cell phone from my purse. Four bars. He must have been pulling my leg. I’m sure Jordan means age spots, but I guess using sun spots doesn’t make her sound so old.

  “Ooh, I got a text from Jon.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “Ugh. He’ll be home late. Add-on cases.”

  “Oh, that reminds me…I’m glad he texted you. Would it be all right if we had lunch tomorrow instead of Friday? Something’s come up, and I’ve got to take Samuel to the airport.”

  “Yeah, sure, but everything’s okay, right?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s nothing bad. The original dates he had down for his Arizona conference got switched around is all.”

  “I’ll call The Bistro and change the reservation. Same time though?”

  “Yeah, twelve’s fine. Really, you don’t mind do you?”

  “Not at all. Don’t worry about it.”

  Still, something doesn’t feel right. She was edgy in the store. I can tell she’s holding back, but unlike Cally, I won’t force the issue. Maybe she’ll feel more like telling me tomorrow at lunch.

  Cally and Tara walk toward us empty handed.

  “Didn’t find anything?” Jordan says.

  “You got the only thing I wanted,” Tara says. “If you don’t wear those jeans, you better give them to me and not Jamie’s girlfriend. She’s got enough clothes.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Tara whines. “I’ve got real stuff to do today.”

  “Like what?” Jordan says.

  “I’ve got to give the chef the menu for Saturday’s dinner party. You’re coming, right?” Tara looks at Cally and me.

  “We wouldn’t miss it, dear,” Cally says.

  When we’re finished with our customary air hugs and air kisses, we head our separate ways. It will take me nearly thirty minutes to get to the other side of town. Summerlin has grown exponentially in the nine years since Jon and I moved here. The entire community is adjacent to the Red Rock Canyon State Park. There is a lot of hiking to be had for the people who enjoy that kind of thing, and cyclists come from all over the country to ride the terrain. It’s a desert kind of beautiful that some tourists and nature lovers appreciate but only the people who live here can truly see. Every evening, magnificent sunsets and cloud formations hover over the red clay plateaus. They are unreal—breathtaking. I’d never want to live anywhere else.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The room temperature is set at over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, melding the stale odors of sweat and earthy bamboo. Every breath singes my airway; breathing is a slow burden, and my heartbeats are lazy, bounding. My muscles expand beyond normal limits. They have become elastic bands unable to snap in the heat. They continue to stretch out, enabling me to twist back into myself like a wilting flower poised to collapse. I close my eyes and imagine the back of my head resting between my shoulder blades. There is peace in it.

  Distant bells chime, filling my head with soft celestial melodies. They are a multitude of separate symphonies playing together to create a single harmony. They extinguish the throaty drone of Tibetan chants.

  I open my eyes and slowly bring myself to a standing pose. The more aware I become, the more the bell tones fade. By the time class is done, they have completely disappeared.

  “Ah, thank God that’s over,” Cally says.

  “Did the bell music mess you up, too?”

  “What bell music?”

  “The bells in the middle of the monk chant.”

  She gives me a strange look.

  “Hey, Burl,” I speak out to the instructor.

  “Namaste, ladies.” He puts his prayer hands together and bows.

  “Yeah Namaste. Hey, what was that bell music you played between the monk chants?” I say.

  “There is no bell music in the Twenty-One Emanations.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  “See,” Cally says. “You’re ears were probably ringing. I thought for sure I was going to pass out during the camel pose. Come on. Let’s go.”

  We roll up our mats then leave, bowing to Burl on our way out. “Was it me, or did he seem overly sensitive about the music?”

  “It’s him. He’s that way about everything. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a big deal, but remind me never to harp on his music.”

  “I wasn’t harping
.”

  “Just kidding—relax—it’s yoga.”

  “Tell that to Burl.”

  Cally and I spend Wednesday mornings at the appropriately named Sweatbox, a Bikram Yoga studio. Tara and Jordan have never been, and they never will. They refuse to sweat. Tara hates it so much, she got Botox injections under her arms to paralyze the nerves that stimulate her sweat glands. It’s her cure-all for everything.

  Gail was actually the one who started Cally on this type of yoga, but she stopped coming after her divorce went public. The two of them used to be a lot closer, and sometimes, I feel guilty because Cally spends more time with me now. But I’m sure when Gail is ready, she and Cally will be good friends again, and it will be like she never took a hiatus.

  We get out to our cars and put away our gear.

  “So, what’re your plans for today?” Cally says. “Want to go shopping?”

  “Lunch with Jordan.”

  “I didn’t get an invite.”

  “It’s for the fundraiser.”

  “Ugh, boring.”

  “That’s why I didn’t ask, but you’re welcome to join us.”

  “No thanks. I’ll see you later, and don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “I’ll try. Bye.”

  * * *

  I grab my day planner from between the seats on my way into The Bistro. I’ve scribbled an arrow with two ends where lunch changed from Friday to today. Between the days, there’s the letter X and a really bad sketch of a light bulb. Oh yes...Dr. Light tomorrow.

  I can see Jordan from the hostess podium. She’s already seated at a corner table. She waves, and the hostess brings me over.

  “You look hungry,” she says, then laughs.

  “Well, you look great. And hungry, too.”

  “So how was it, sweatin’ like a pig this morning? You two still doing that?”

  “Yeah. It was good. Makes me feel like I’m getting rid of those bad toxins.”

  “A few martinis would take care of that.” She cackles. “Speaking of which…” She raises a martini glass. “What’re you drinking?”