Jack looks up.
He starts putting the garbage in his pockets.
-------------------------
The horse licks the sides of the pail.
Sura snatches the bucket. Gerty stamps the ground, tossing her head. She wasn’t done licking. Not only that, Sura usually brushes her down while she eats.
Not today.
When Sura got to the plantation earlier that day, Joe wasn’t there. Jonah was fixing a loose hinge on the barn. He stopped turning the wrench and eyed her from across the road.
May didn’t ask her what was wrong. In fact, she packed freshly baked biscuits in a checkered cloth and told Sura to go home. May winked and that little chocolate chip mole danced on her cheek.
Sura rushes to the tack room to clean up. Her round cheeks are flush. Pumpkin face, the kids called her in grade school. Your dad was a pumpkin and your mom was a squash.
Sura washes her hands, rubs her neck, and hopes the soap masks the smell of chores. She stops outside the back door and breathes into her cupped hand. Breath good, not great.
She takes another breath. Then another. And another.
Opens the door.
Her favorite Beetles song is playing. She can’t remember the last time she came home to music. Even before her mom died, Sura was always the one to turn on the radio. Crenshaw parades out of the bedroom, her tail straight up. She rubs against Sura’s leg, purring.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” Bernie answers, ruffling his feathers.
No one answers. Maybe he left. Maybe she weirded him out, and he made his escape while she was feeding Gerty. He’s already texting his friends about pumpkin face and her disgusting farm—
“Hey.” Joe pops his head around the corner. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.”
She takes off her boots. She never takes off her boots. “Just taking off my boots.”
“I was just looking at these.” He points down the hall. “They’re really good.”
It’s strange hearing a deep voice in her home. She can’t remember the last time there was a man in the house, and it seems, like, totally wrong, like she’ll be in trouble if her mom gets home and catches him standing in the hall. So stupid.
Sura peels off her socks when he isn’t looking, doesn’t want him seeing the dirt on her feet. And what if they stink? She quickly goes to her bedroom and slips on a new pair. He’ll never know.
“Did you take these?” He’s still in the hall that leads to the kitchen, staring at a photo.
“Yeah. It’s just a hobby.”
“You’re an artist.”
It’s mostly photos of horses and sunsets. All except the one of the Buddhist temple on top of the mountain, with the inscription Wake Up! Her mom pulled that one from a calendar. Joe casually walks down the hall, stopping at each photo like a critic eyeing an exhibit. He lingers at the last one: the sun rising over the trees, warming her mom’s face.
“You want something to drink?” Sura squeezes past him, trying not to stumble.
“Won’t your aunt be home soon?”
“Not for another hour.” She ducks behind the refrigerator door so he doesn’t see her lie. “She knows you’re here.”
It’s pretty much ketchup and a bag of apples in the fridge, but she wants him to think there’s more. Sura moves the bottle from the top shelf to the middle shelf, slides it around, and puts it back on the top shelf. “We don’t have any Coke, so I hope water’s all right.”
“Where’s your dad?” he asks.
She looks over the door. “What?”
“Your dad. I don’t see him in any of the pictures.”
“I don’t know. He left before I was born.”
“Oh.” He leans against the wall, hands behind his back. “Sorry.”
“No worries.”
She waves him off and takes two glasses of water to the back room, along with May’s biscuits. No one ever asked about her dad—it’s taboo—but he just blurted it out like no big deal, and it somehow erased a line between them. He didn’t seem to have that social barrier that keeps people comfortably distant.
She sort of liked that.
They talk about the plantation and how rich Mr. Frost must be. Sura blushes when she remembers her fantasy and he asks what she’s thinking. They wonder what Templeton does in his spare time, if he has any hobbies besides dusting furniture.
He swoons over May, and Sura wishes the big, doughy cook were in the room at that moment so she could hug her. Joe imitates her laugh, spot on. And then he imitates Jonah’s demanding shouts and Mr. Frost’s raspy tones, insisting they put out more Christmas lights.
“I’m sorry, Jonah,” Joe says, “but a hundred thousand lights just isn’t enough.”
“Joe!” Joe slams the table. “Get the truck!”
“And pick some flowers!” Sura adds with her own Jonah impression.
Joe laughs so hard that his eyes water.
Sura’s stomach hurts from laughing.
Rain spatters the skylights. Joe sits in a folding chair opposite her. The bay window overlooks the back pasture. The pond’s reflection shimmers. It looks cold.
“I used to see your mother at the plantation,” he says. “She worked in the house, mostly. Sometimes, though, I’d see her walking through the garden. She would have her hands folded in front of her stomach, looking at the ground. She wouldn’t even notice me.”
“That was her walking meditation.”
“Figured it was something like that.” There’s a long pause. “She was nice, your mother.”
Words soon evaporate.
There’s nothing but the sound of rain tapping the roof and the Beetles in the next room.
Joe leans back, watching the weather soak the earth. Sura slowly turns her glass on the table, staring at her warped reflection. She slides the glass so she can’t see her extra-wide reflection, drops her hands on her lap, and crosses her legs. She takes a sip.
Where’s that social barrier now?
Joe’s chair creaks as he sighs, cradling the glass of water. A slight smile appears fixed in place. He rests in the moment as if he’s the richest man in the world. Sura picks her fingernails and then her face itches. She clamps her hands on her lap again and forces them to stay. Her body is rigid. She doesn’t want to feel this way.
She lets her hands off her lap, reaches for the glass and exhales. She’s never been around a boy that wants to just be with her. He wants to be here.
She thinks of things to say, but they sound stupid in her head, probably worse if they came out. She wants to be funny, but she doesn’t have to be anything.
She just has to be herself.
“When I was little,” she starts, her words trembling a little, “my mom would saddle up the horses in the morning and I would pack lunch. We’d ride the trails all day, stopping to take pictures or eat. Wouldn’t come back until dinner.”
Slowly, she turns the glass.
“Sometimes I’d go to bed without showering so I could smell the day on me. I didn’t want it to end, you know.” She chuckles. “That’s gross, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer, but with that slight smile, he shakes his head.
Sura recalls her mom coming into her room at night, brushing the hair from her face. Sura would pretend to sleep. Her mom would sit there, staring at her. She could see her through eyelid slits. Her mom smelled like the saddle, too. Smelled like sunrise.
Joe watches her remember.
“I never told anyone that,” she says. “How’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me tell you?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
His smile grows and the room warms like the sun just broke the horizon. Now she wants to tell him everything, that very second. Tell him that she lives in this house alone, that she doesn’t have an aunt… that she just tells people she does so that the social worker that keeps calling won’t take her away since she’s only sixteen and the state won�
��t let a minor live alone. She wants to tell him that she’s scared at night, that there’s never been a man in the house, and she misses that because it seems like there should’ve been, at least once, and that all this is unfair.
A drop of water splashes on the table. Another droplet swells on the ceiling tile that’s stained.
“It’s raining inside your house.”
Sura laughs. “We have some leaks.”
“Maybe your aunt needs to hire a repairman.”
“You know one?” Sura says. “A good one?”
“Maybe.”
A long glance. Sura feels a sudden surge of emotion. Her face is hot and her eyes water. A tear rests on the rim of her eyelid, but she doesn’t rush to wipe it away or turn to hide her flushing cheeks.
She can just be who she is.
And that’s all right.
“I should go,” he says. “Before your aunt gets home.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He raises his glass. “But not before a toast.”
“A toast?”
“Your father left when you were little. So did my mother.”
“Your mother left?”
“Before I was born,” he says.
It takes a moment to catch on. “Good one.”
“She did leave,” he says. “I was too little to remember her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to save it for tomorrow. I have something to show you at the plantation.”
“What is it?”
“A secret.” He lifts his glass higher. “Here’s to secrets and missing parents. Their loss.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Clink.
It was just so easy. Like they were made for each other.
-------------------------
Large hooded lamps keep the incubator lab well lit. The humidity clings to the gray walls and the concrete ceiling is stained where fissures randomly creep. It smells of wet skin.
Two stainless steel workbenches are fastened to the back wall with a door that leads to an empty room. There are fume hoods and culture ovens, tools and equipment for slicing and poking.
The long rows of glass tanks are fogged with condensation. Respiration is working. Occasionally the moisture streaks, and if Mr. Frost puts his eye to the track, he can see the contents. There are many more tanks on the walls, these much shorter and just as foggy, but there’s a special set of miniature tanks above the workbenches.
Very special.
Mr. Frost briefly pauses at each tank, admiring the gray haze of moisture, the glimpse of a darkened form. He angles his feet like an expert skier to stop at the tank nearest the workbench, where a patch of glass, untouched with vapor, is clearing. Mr. Frost cups his hands around it.
A soft face with a crop of greenish fuzz, lower lip puckered, is looking back.
I expect he will be ready for withdrawal in ten days.
Sir… Freeda drawls, I strongly encourage activating one of the other lines that are truer to form.
Nonsense. We’ve failed time and time again with Jack’s true form. The chlorophyll gene splice has given it stability, Freeda. Once he’s stable, he’ll be true to form.
It’s an abomination, sir.
It’s an evolutionary step.
You have created a freak, sir, which is not according to his plan. If the body lacks sunlight, his inner core temperature plummets. How will he survive at night?
If he doesn’t escape, he says, he’ll get all the light he needs in the lab before reverting to a mammalian function—why am I arguing with you? Mr. Frost slaps the thick glass tank with an open palm. We’ve had success with the botanical inclusion, achieved wakefulness and locomotion… we can reset his memories once he’s fully awake, and then let him revert to original form once he’s stable. You’ve done the analysis; you know it will work because if it won’t work, you would have the authority to overrule me.
I don’t think he’ll like it.
Mr. Frost tours the room, slowing at each tank. He stops at the workbench, checks the monitors, and inspects a rack of petri dishes. He asks questions about progress and analysis, and Freeda answers with one-word statements, no elaboration. No speculation or conversation.
I’ll make you a deal. Mr. Frost slides to the exit. If this next body doesn’t work out, we’ll animate one true to form, just like you’re talking about. No botanical inclusion whatsoever.
Long pause. I’m agreeable.
It’s better when she’s not angry. Besides, he’s certain there won’t be a next one. And he’s not convinced that the last body is really dead. He hopes not.
J A C K
December 12
Friday
Jack’s the last one out of the dormitory, his feet dragging across the linoleum. He leans against the doorjamb and inspects the sole of his right foot. There’s a blue patch near the heel that’s cold to touch. It doesn’t hurt, though.
Walking sucks.
His eyelids are barely open. The cafeteria is half full, most of the eighty residents already done with breakfast, out having a butt, probably flipping them on the curb for Jack to pick up.
He gets a plate and drags himself to the nearest table. The men get up and leave. Jack contemplates the steamy pile of yellow mush next to the white slop. He reaches for the hot cup of coffee. It tastes like battery acid.
“Hey, boy,” Sheldon mumbles, “I need my shoes shined. Maybe Santa brings you a shine box, huh?”
Laughter.
“I got something you can shine,” Pickett adds.
Jack couldn’t care less; he just wants to sleep. Maybe he can start picking up butts by the interstate, curl up under the overpass for a few winks.
“You know who he is?” Pickett says, dampening the laughter. “He that puppet in the trashcan, the green one, you know. The one with garbage. He’s Oscar.”
Oh, the howling. The hysterics.
Perhaps Jack will get points with Claus for bringing them joy, making them laugh. Giving them entertainment.
Pickett shovels more yellow mush onto Jack’s tray. “Here you go, Oscar, more garbage.” He pours milk over the yellow mound. “Don’t want it going to waste.”
Milk cascades over the food in little white streams and pools into the pockets. Pickett crushes the box and drops it. White specks of milk spatter Jack’s forearm, beading on the green fuzz.
Jack eyes it lazily.
The laughter fades into an undercurrent of chuckling, waiting to see what happens next. Pickett stands too close and bumps his chair. Jack doesn’t care about the food. As long as he’s under the lights, he’s not cold or hungry. Besides, warmblood food tastes like an old kitchen sponge.
Pickett mutters a cuss word and bumps him again.
Jack turns his size twenty out. He catches Pickett’s ankle with his big toe. Pickett stutter-steps, swings his arms, and goes down, kissing the shiny floor.
Chairs scuff away from tables, making space. Pickett is up and Jack is sitting there, contemplating the gross chunks of artificial egg swimming in a pool of milk, a slick of grease floating on the surface.
Jack looks up at the buzzing light, ready for what comes next, wondering if he’ll get bonus points with Claus if he sits there and takes a beating. Wondering if he’ll go on the naughty list if he fights back.
“Hey!” Willie shouts. “Hey, get this locked up, Pickett, or you will see the street.”
“You better get your boy under control.” Pickett’s breathing labors. “You don’t and—”
“Don’t say anything you’re going to regret.”
Jack imagines that Willie’s pointing at him right about now. That’s what he does when he takes that tone. Jack turns. He’s right, Willie’s pointing at Pickett. And Pickett’s face is darker than usual, his eyes bugging out, lips glossy with saliva. His nostrils flare.
Jack blinks heavily. Still tired.
“Everyone!” Willie shouts, “Get picked up and cleaned out. It’s almost ei
ght o’clock, time to make your appointments.”
The cafeteria breaks down in quiet chaos. Willie stands with his hand on Jack’s table until most of the room is in order, standing guard over Jack’s hunched figure.
“First of all,” Willie says when the room is clear, “you ain’t staying here if one more thing happens. We have a zero-tolerance policy and right now you’re leaning in the wrong direction. You understand?”
Jack slides the tray toward him. “Want a bite?”
Willie shoves it away. “And second, you need a shower, my man. You look nasty and smell worse. Now hit the head and get some water on your body. And use soap. I like you, Jack, but rules are rules. You understand?”
Jack gets the “Willie Stare.” The tough-loving supervisor will look at him in silence until he gets the right answer. Even after he gets it, the “Willie Stare” lingers for several seconds so it sinks in nice and deep.
“Okay.” Jack throws up his hands.
Willie slowly gets up while he finishes off the stare and starts stacking chairs. “A law student is coming in an hour to help with your ID. She’s working for free, so mind your manners.”
Jack pokes the food. “Willie?”
“Yeah?”
“You got any sardines?”
“No, man. I ain’t got sardines. All I got is that food and it’s free, so eat up.”
Jack thinks maybe he’ll go stand in the sun for a while.
The lawyer lady is late.
Jack sits in the courtyard where the sun is brightest. He rubs a smooth patch of skin on the inside of his arm where the green fuzz has rubbed off. He thought the soap did it, but none of the other hair fell out.
The skin is pale blue and cold like the small spot on his foot.
“He’s over there.” Willie opens the door.
The lady lawyer looks like a kid. She’s pale but turns a shade chalky when she sees Jack. She stops and stares like they all do when they see Oscar the Grouch. Willie gives her a moment to decide whether she’s going to do this or run away.
Claus: The Trilogy Page 33
