Red Clocks

by Leni Zumas

  She should have asked Mattie sooner.

  Plunged faster.

  When told, last year, of the biographer’s desire for a child, the meditation teacher suggested that she get a dog.

  With a knife she stirs cream into her third cup of coffee. She inherited the family silverware, which Dad was not interested in carrying to Ambrosia Ridge, but most of the spoons had to be thrown away. The same spoons that had once entered the mouths of the biographer and Archie freighted with ice cream or pudding or soup were later used to heat the heroin and water that was sucked through a shred of cotton into a needle that went into Archie’s skin. The charred spoons were useful to stumble upon (under beds, in creases of couches) when the biographer needed to confront him with irrefutable, unarguable evidence—though he did, in fact, to her amazement, sometimes argue.

  “Ever heard of a dishwasher? They mess up spoons.”

  Or “That’s probably been there for two years; it’s not a current event, my friend.”

  Archie was a dumb fuck.

  And her favorite person of all.

  She will name her kid after him, if she ever has a kid.

  Why does she even want one?

  How can she tell her students to reject the myth that their happiness depends on having a mate if she believes the same myth about having a child?

  Why isn’t she glad, as Eivør Mínervudottír was glad, to be free?

  She sips coffee. Drums her heel to the throbbing clank of the kitchen radiator. Opens her notebook. Writes on a new page: Reasons I am envious of Susan. It embarrasses her to write the word “envious,” but a good researcher can’t be stopped by ugly data.

  1. Convenient/free source of sperm

  2. Has two

  The biographer’s family once looked like the Korsmos—mother father sister brother, a foursquare American family. They had a weedy yard, a house. The biographer doesn’t want a house, but she wants a kid. She can’t explain why. She can only say Because I do.

  Which doesn’t seem like a good enough reason for all of this suffering effort.

  Maybe she has flat-out been programmed by marketing. Awash in images of mother and child, mama bear and baby bear, she learned, without knowing she was learning it, to desire them.

  Maybe there are better things she could be doing with the life she already has.

  She glances down at the pasty insides of her elbows: the tracks are fading. Resemblance to Archie evaporating. Weeks since her last blood draw, since she last laid eyes on Kalbfleisch’s indifferent golden cheeks.

  Reasons I am envious of hate Susan:

  1. Convenient/free source of sperm

  2. Has two

  3. Doesn’t pay rent

  4. Told me to distract self at movies

  5. Has two

  6. Said you don’t truly become an adult until, etc.

  7. Has two

  A less envious, less hateful person would not be hoping that Mattie Quarles was arrested at the Canadian border.

  The ice is a solid floor around our ship. No amount of chopping and sawing and hacking cracks its grip. The rudder hangs useless. Oreius is beset.

  THE DAUGHTER

  Follows the officer into a closet room with a brown table, brown chairs, and no windows. Sits down before being asked. The officer stays standing, hands on hips. “Can you tell me the real reason for your visit?”

  “Going to see a friend in Vancouver.”

  “I said the real reason.”

  The door is closed.

  Nobody knows she’s here, aside from Ash, and what the hell is Ash going to do?

  “That is the real reason, ma’am.”

  “We see a lot of girls like you trying to cross. Problem is, Canada has an official agreement with the United States. We’ve agreed to stop you from breaking your country’s laws in our country.”

  “But I’m not breaking—”

  “The nice thing about pregnancy tests? Results in one minute.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.”

  “Section 10.31 of the Canadian Border Services Agency Regulations states: ‘If an unaccompanied minor registers a positive result on a FIRST RESPONSE Rapid Result Pregnancy Test, and cannot verify a legitimate personal or professional purpose in a Canadian province, she shall be taken into custody and returned to U.S. law enforcement officials.’”

  “But I can verify my purpose. My friend Delphine?” The daughter opens her satchel and pulls out the email.

  The officer glances at it. “Seriously?” Hands the page back.

  The daughter presses her thighs together.

  “This is what’s going to happen, Matilda. I’m going to give you a cup, and you’re going to go down the hall to the bathroom and urinate in the cup.”

  “You can’t randomly drug-test me. That’s illegal.”

  “Nice try.”

  The daughter decides to look this woman in the eye. “I can—I can pay you.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me get back on the bus.”

  “You mean a bribe?”

  “No. Just—” Her mouth is quivering. “Ma’am, please?”

  “Hey, you know who loves being called ma’am?”

  “Who?”

  “Nobody.”

  “I have a hundred dollars,” says the daughter. She can sleep in the bus station and eat when she’s back in Oregon.

  “Keep it, eh?” The officer takes a plastic-wrapped cup from her jacket pocket and plunks it on the brown table. “Ready to pee, or do you need water?”

  “Water,” says the daughter, because it means delay.

  Yasmine said she didn’t intend to be anyone’s stereotype. Black teen mother slurping welfare off the backs of hardworking citizens, etc.

  And Mrs. Salter was the only woman of color in the Oregon State Legislature. She didn’t intend to jeopardize her mother’s career.

  She gave herself a homemade abortion.

  Blond Frizzy comes back without any water, followed by a man officer, blue eyed and in charge. He smiles at the daughter. “I’ll take it from here, Alice.”

  “I was almost—”

  “Why don’t you go on your lunch?”

  The subordinate officer does a long blink at the daughter. Wrinkles her mouth. “You betcha.” And leaves.

  “How are you today, Miss Quarles?” says the guy, propping one black boot on a chair. His crotch is at eye level.

  She shrugs, too scared to be polite.

  “So you’re visiting the True North for pleasure? For fun?”

  She nods.

  “You know, we may be nice up here, but we still don’t enjoy being lied to.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Your face is very expressive. It betrays a lot.”

  Fear pricks up along her arms, across her chest.

  “Some folks have unreadable faces. They’re the tough ones, you know? The ones you second-guess yourself with. Not you, Miss Quarles. But”—he lifts up the propped foot, bangs it down on the floor—“I’m not going to arrest you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’ve got two daughters aboot your age. Let’s say I’ve got a soft spot.”

  “That’s—wow. Thank you.”

  “You’ll need to go back where you came from, though. Next bus south gets here in three and a half hours. I will personally ensure that you’re on it. If you don’t already have a return ticket, you can pay the driver.”

  Back? Soft gray hole in her throat.

  “Your photo and driver’s license,” says the guy, “will be distributed to every border patrol office in Canada, so don’t even think aboot trying to cross again.”

  You can’t tell from looking (scarves, big sweaters), but her stomach is thicker and harder. Soon it will be too late.

  “I want you to learn a lesson from this. Don’t repeat your mistakes. Like I tell my daughters: be the cow they have to buy.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t be th
e free milk.”

  In the chilly waiting room, she eats chocolate-covered peanuts from the machine.

  Mom has called twice to ask about the conference. Listening to her messages (“So proud of you, pigeon!”) makes the daughter’s nose run.

  The daughter is ashamed to be ashamed of Mom when cashiers say “You and your grandma find everything you were looking for?”

  This is the worst day of her life.

  Second worst: when her father mistook Representative Salter for the school bus driver.

  Is the failure of this trip a sign? She has tried twice now. Maybe she should just stay pregnant. Skip the Math Academy and push it out and give it to some couple with gray hair and good hearts. It’s the legal way. The safe way. Think of all the happy adopted families that wouldn’t exist.

  She could skip the Math Academy and push it out and quit Central Coast Regional. Finish high school online. Let her mom help her wash and dress and feed it. When the daughter tries to picture herself as a mother, she sees the wall of trees by the soccer field, swaying and faceless.

  She doesn’t want to skip the Math Academy.

  (She kicks Nouri’s gothsickle ass at calculus.)

  Or to push it out.

  She doesn’t want to wonder; and she would.

  The kid too—Why wasn’t I kept?

  Was his mother too young? Too old? Too hot? Too cold?

  She doesn’t want him wondering, or herself wondering.

  Are you mine?

  And she doesn’t want to worry she’ll be found.

  Selfish.

  But she has a self. Why not use it?

  Oreius would be trapped in the ice for seven months.

  THE WIFE

  Thanks Mrs. Costello for coming early. Kisses John’s perfect ear. Gets on the road.

  Twice almost turns the car around.

  She hasn’t been inside a courtroom since law school. This one is sultry with rain drippings raised to a boil by the heaters. At the front table sit Edward and Gin Percival. The wife can’t see their faces. Fluorescent light bounces off Edward’s shaved head. No sign of Mrs. Fivey, but Mr. is in the front row, checking his watch. Eight forty-five a.m.

  The wife takes a seat against the back wall. In the jury box are seven women, five men, middle-aged and elderly, all white. Edward should have asked for a bench trial. Temple’s niece won’t make a good impression on any jury around here.

  “Gin Percival,” says the gnomish judge, “you will stand while the charges against you are read.”

  She gets to her feet. Dark hair in a bun, orange jumpsuit loose at her waist. She’s gotten thinner since the wife last saw her, on the low metal stool at the library.

  The bailiff intones:

  “One misdemeanor count of Medical Malpractice by Commission against Sarah Dolores Fivey.

  “One felony count of Conspiracy to Commit Murder in acceding to terminate the pregnancy of Sarah Dolores Fivey.”

  How much time could she get? The wife can’t recall anything about sentence lengths.

  She can recall reading aloud “manslaughter” as “man’s laughter,” and Edward being the only person in class to agree it was funny.

  Unable to see Mr. Fivey’s face, she pictures its mortification. Everyone knows his business now. The principal’s wife and her backwoods abortion. No matter how this case turns out, the Fiveys will leave tarnished.

  From the prosecution table rises a slender red-haired attorney in a pin-striped suit. She takes her time strolling to the jury box, palms together at her throat as though in prayer. She looks younger than the wife.

  “Fellow Oregonians, you’ve heard the charges against Gin Percival. Your job is simple: to decide whether there is sufficient evidence to convict Ms. Percival of these crimes. During the course of this trial, you’ll be shown a vast array of facts that establish her guilt on both counts. Listen to the facts. Base your verdict on the facts. I know that the facts will lead you to conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that Gin Percival is guilty of the crimes she’s been charged with.”

  “Vast array”—lazy phrase. Repetition of “crimes,” “charge,” “guilt,” and “facts”—predictable move. Edward can take her.

  He clears his throat. “Thank you, Judge Stoughton, and thank you, members of the jury—you’re performing an important civic duty.” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck, under the collar. “Mmh. My counterpart has told you that your job is simple, and I would agree. But I beg to differ with her assertion that the evidence will clearly show you much of anything. Because there is virtually no evidence. You will be presented with hearsay, speculation, and circumstantial evidence, but no direct evidence. And your job, which is, indeed, simple, is to see that there is not enough evidence to convict my client beyond a reasonable doubt of these spurious charges.”

  His sentences are too long. He should have said “bogus” instead of “spurious.” This is rural Oregon.

  “Thank you, and I look forward to working with you over the coming days.” He sits, wipes his face with a handkerchief.

  Gin Percival keeps staring at the wall. Will Edward dare to put her on the stand? By all accounts—and from what the wife has smelled at the library—she’s a bit unhinged.

  Has the wife become a person who believes all accounts?

  Sort of, yes, she has.

  She has been too tired to care.

  The Personhood Amendment, the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the calls for abortion providers to face the death penalty—the person she planned to be would care about this mess, would bother to be furious.

  Too tired to be furious.

  The past future Susan MacInnes could have been a battling litigator who brought milestone cases to the higher courts. Edward is battling; he has marched into the mess. The wife can hardly bring herself to read about the case.

  Bring yourself.

  At the library, Gin Percival’s hair sometimes had twigs in it, and she gave off an oniony scent. The wife felt repelled by her animal dishevelment; yet she is coming to see the value in being repellent.

  Bryan was a pitiful diversion, an excuse. This is an inside job.

  Whatever frees Gin Percival to leave her hair twiggy and wear shapeless sack dresses and smell unwashed—the wife wants that.

  Two days, two nights every week to herself.

  Tell Didier you are leaving.

  Before having kids, she envisioned motherhood as a jubilant merging. She never thought she would long to spend time away from them. It is hideous to admit she can’t bear the merging 24-7. Same guilt that’s kept her from putting John in daycare: she doesn’t want it to be true that she wants to be apart.

  The judge says, “Prosecution may call its first witness.”

  Mrs. Costello, never one to put much faith in science, believes Gin Percival cursed the waters, charmed the tides, and brought the seaweed back. Half of these jurors may think the same. And if a witch can charm the tides, what else is she capable of?

  The pin-striped suit stands up. “Your Honor, we call Dolores Fivey.”

  In law school, the wife excelled at trial performance. She used to get rounds of applause. But here in the gallery, watching the judicial choreography, she feels no desire to go back to law school. If she puts John in daycare it will be for other reasons, as yet unknown.

  What is the flavor of human meat? The men in Franklin’s expedition, lost in the Canadian Arctic, turned to cannibalism, according to Inuit reports.

  THE MENDER

  Lola’s tits aren’t so fat anymore, they look drained, cells collapsing like houses of butter. She’s wearing them thrust up hell-for-leather, but they are ghosts of their former selves. Butter ghosts. She sits in the box in her push-up bra and a blue suit with long sleeves to hide the scar—less of a scar (thanks to the mender) than it would have been.

  “Mrs. Fivey,” says the prosecutor, “please tell us how you came to be acquainted with the accused.”

  The lawyer leaps up. “Objection. Your Honor
, I ask that the prosecution refer to Ms. Percival using the less inflammatory term ‘defendant.’”

  Drowning in his robes, the walnut-faced judge says, “Sustained.”

  “How did you meet the defendant?”

  Lola won’t stop staring at her hands. The mender loves those hands, small and graceful, the nails filed square. They held the mender’s ass timidly at first; then not timidly. They found their way into her wet scabbard.

  “Mrs. Fivey?”

  In a frightened voice: “I went to her for medical treatment.”

  “Even though the acc—sorry, defendant is not a medical doctor? Or any kind of doctor, in fact? Even though she does not even have a high school diploma?”

  “Objection,” says the lawyer. “The prosecution is testifying.”

  “Withdrawn. Why did you seek medical treatment from the, ah, defendant?”

  “I needed,” says Lola, then stops.

  “Mrs. Fivey?” says the prosecutor. “What did you need?”

  “Medical treatment.”

  “Yes, that’s been established. What specific treatment was it?”

  Lola shrugs. Twists her hands on the rail of the witness box.

  “Mrs. Fivey?”

  “You will answer the question, Mrs. Fivey,” says the judge.

  “A termination.”

  “A termination of what?”

  “Of…”

  “Please speak up, Mrs. Fivey.”

  “Of a pregnancy? I thought I was pregnant but I wasn’t.”

  In exchange for testifying, the lawyer explained, Lola gets immunity. Won’t be charged with conspiring to murder.

  “And did Ms. Percival agree to provide an abortion?”

  She looks at the prosecutor with her beautiful, painted-on eyes. Then back down at her hands. “Yeah, she did.”

  Lola has reason to lie. She’s a cornered animal. The life she saves will be her own.

  There is nobody to contradict her but the mender herself, who is a forest weirdo, a seaweed-hexing kook.