And now she’d broken that vow, thrown it to the wind, made a mockery of their marriage.
Bobo slid to the floor, put his hands to his face, and wept.
Real wet tears this time, and that astonished him, though not enough—no, not nearly enough—to divert his thoughts from Kiki’s treachery. His gloves grew soggy with weeping. When the flood subsided, he reached down and turned the photo over once more, scrutinizing the face of his wife’s lover. And then the details came together—the ears, the mouth, the chin; oh God no, the hair and the eyes—and he knew Kiki and this bulbous-nosed bastard had been carrying on for a long time, a very long time indeed. Once more he inventoried the photo, frantic with the hope that his fears were playing magic tricks with the truth.
But the bald conclusion held.
At last, mulling things over, growing outwardly calm and composed, Bobo tumbled his eyes down the length of the flamingo-pink carpet, across the spun cotton-candy pattern of the kitchen floor, and up the cabinets to the Jojo-and-Juju-proofed top drawer.
Bobo sat at his wife’s vanity, his face close to the mirror.
Perfume atomizers jutted up like minarets, thin rubber tubing hanging down from them and ending in pretty pink squeezebulbs Bobo did his best to ignore.
He’d strangled the piglets first, squealing the life out of them, his large hands thrust beneath their ruffs. Patty Petunia had pistoned her trotters against his chest more vigorously and for a longer time than had Pepper, to Bobo’s surprise, she’d always seemed so much the frailer of the two. When they lay still, he took up his carving knife and sliced open their bellies, fixed on retrieving the archaic instruments of comedy. Just as his tears had shocked him, so too did the deftness of his hands—guided by instinct he’d long supposed atrophied—as they removed the bladders, cleansed them in the water trough, tied them off, inflated them, secured each one to a long thin bendy dowel. He’d left Kiki’s dead pets sprawled in the muck of their pen, flies growing ever more interested in them.
Sixty-watt lights puffed out around the perimeter of the mirror like yellow honker bulbs. Bobo opened Kiki’s cosmetics box and took out three squat shallow cylinders of color. The paint seemed like miniature seas, choppy and wet, when he unscrewed and removed the lids.
He’d taken a tin of black paint into the boys’ room—that and the carving knife. He sat beside Jojo in a sharp jag of moonlight, listening to the card-in-bike-spoke duet of their snores, watching their fat wide lips flutter like stuck bees.
Bobo dolloped one white finger with darkness, leaning in to X a cross over Jojo’s right eyelid. If only they’d stayed asleep.
But they woke. And Bobo could not help seeing them in new light. They sat up in mock-stun, living outcroppings of Kiki’s cruelty, and Bobo could not stop himself from finger-scooping thick gobs of paint and smearing their faces entirely in black.
But even that was not enough for his distracted mind, which spiraled upward into bloody revenge, even though it meant carving his way through innocence. By the time he plunged the blade into the sapphire silk of his first victim’s suit, jagging open downward a bloody furrow, he no longer knew which child he murdered. The other one led him a merry chase through the house, but Bobo scruffed him under the cellar stairs, his shoes windmilling helplessly as Bobo hoisted him up and sank the knife into him just below the second puffball.
He’d tucked them snug beneath their covers, Kiki’s brood; then he’d tied their rubber chickens together at the neck and nailed them smackdab in the center of the heartshaped headboard.
Bobo dipped a brush into the cobalt blue, outlined a tear under his left eye, filled it in. It wasn’t perfect but it would do.
As horsehair taught paint how to cry, he surveyed in his mind’s eye the lay of the living room. Everything was in readiness: the bucket of crimson confetti poised above the front door; the exploding cigar he would light and jam into the gape of her mouth; the tangerine apron he’d throw in her face, the same apron that hung loose now about his neck, its strings snipped off and spilling out of its big frilly kangaroo pouch; the Deluxe Husband-Tamer Slapstick he’d paddle her bottom with, as they did the traditional high-stepping divorce chase around the house; and the twin bladders to buffet her about the ears with, just to show her how serious things were with him. But he knew, nearly for a certainty, that none of these would stanch his blood lust, that it would grow with each antic act, not assuaged by any of them, not peaking until he plunged his hand into the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand in the hallway and drew forth the carving knife hidden among the parasols—whose handles shot up like cocktail toothpicks out of a ripple of pink chiffon—drew it out and used it to plumb Kiki’s unfathomable depths.
Another tear, a twin of the first, he painted under his right eye. He paused to survey his right cheekbone, planning where precisely to paint the third.
Bobo heard, at the front door, the rattle of Kiki’s key in the lock.
Momo watched aghast.
He’d brushed off with a dove-white handkerchief his collapsible stool in the bushes, slumped hopelessly into it, given a mock-sigh, and found the bent slat he needed for a splendid view of the front hallway and much of the living room, given the odd neck swivel. On the off-chance that their spat might end in reconciliation, Momo’d also positioned a tall rickety stepladder beside Bobo’s bedroom window. It was perilous to climb and a balancing act and a half not to fall off of, but a more leisurely glimpse of Kiki’s lovely honker in action was, he decided, well worth the risk.
What he could see of the confrontation pleased him. These were clowns in their prime, and every swoop, every duck, every tumble, tuck, and turn, was carried out with consummate skill. For all the heartache Momo had to deal with, he liked his work. His clients quite often afforded him a front row seat at the grandest entertainments ever staged: spills, chills, and thrills, high passion and low comedy, inflated bozos pin-punctured and deflated ones puffed up with triumph. Momo took deep delight—though his forlorn face cracked nary a smile—in the confetti, the exploding cigar, what he could see and hear of their slapstick chase. Even the bladder-buffeting Bobo visited upon his wife strained upward at the down-droop of Momo’s mouth, he took such fond joy in the old ways, wishing with deep soundless sighs that more clowns these days would re-embrace them.
His first thought when the carving knife flashed in Bobo’s hand was that it was rubber, or retractable. But there was no drawn-out scene played, no mock-death here; the blow came swift, the blood could not be mistaken for ketchup or karo syrup, and Momo learned more about clown anatomy than he cared to know—the gizmos, the coils, the springs that kept them ticking; the organs, more piglike than clownlike, that bled and squirted; the obscure voids glimmering within, filled with giggle power and something deeper. And above it all, Bobo’s plunging arm and Kiki’s crimped eyes and open arch of a mouth, wide with pain and drawn down at the corners by the weight of her dying.
Momo drew back from the window, shaking his head. He vanned the stool, he vanned the ladder. There would be no honker action tonight. None, anyway, he cared to witness. He reached deep into the darkness of the van, losing his balance and bellyflopping so that his legs flew up in the night air and his white shanks were exposed from ankle to knee. Righting himself, he sniffed at the red carnation in his lapel, took the inevitable faceful of water, and shouldered the pushbroom he’d retrieved.
The neighborhood was quiet. Rooftops, curved in high hyperbolas, were silvered in moonlight. So too the paved road and the cobbled walkways that led up to the homes on Bobo’s side of the street. As Momo made his way without hurry to the front door, his shadow eased back and forth, covering and uncovering the brightly lit house as if it were the dark wing of the Death Clown flapping casually, silently, overhead. He hoped Bobo would not yank open the door, knife still dripping, and fix him in the red swirl of his crazed eyes. Yet maybe that would be for the best. It occurred to Momo that a world which contained horrors like these might happily be left behind.
Indeed, from one rare glimpse at rogue-clown behavior in his youth, as well as from gruesome tales mimed by other dicks, Momo thought it likely that Bobo, by now, had had the same idea and had brought his knife-blade home.
This case had turned dark indeed. He’d have lots of shrugging and moping, much groveling and kowtowing to do, before this was over. But that came, Momo knew, with the territory. Leaning his tired bones into the pushbroom, he swept a swatch of moonlight off the front stoop onto the grass.
It was his duty, as a citizen and especially as a practitioner of the law, to call in the Kops. A few more sweeps and the stoop was moonless; the lawn to either side shone with shattered shards of light. He would finish the walkway, then broom away a spill of light from the road in front of Bobo’s house, before firing the obligatory flare into the sky.
Time enough then to endure the noises that would tear open the night, the clamorous bell of the mismatch-wheeled pony-drawn firetruck, the screaming whistles in the bright red mouths of the Kops clinging to the Kop Kar as it raced into the neighborhood, hands to their domed blue hats, the bass drums booming as Bobo’s friends and neighbors marched out of their houses, spouses and kids, poodles and ponies and piglets highstepping in perfect columns behind.
For now, it was enough to sweep moonlight from Bobo’s cobbled walkway, to darken the wayward clown’s doorway, to take in the scent of a fall evening and gaze up wistfully at the aching gaping moon.
LI’L MISS ULTRASOUND
June 30, 2004
Mummy dearest,
It’s great to hear from you, though I’m magnitudinously distraught that you can’t be here for the contest. Still, I’m not complaining. It’s extremely better that you show up for the birth—three weeks after my little munchkin’s copped her crown!—and help out afterwards. The contest is a hoot and I want to do you proud, I will do you proud, but that can be done from a distance too, don’t you think? What with the national coverage and the mega-sponsorship, you’ll get to VCR me and the kid many times over. And of course I’ll save all the local clippings for you like you asked.
It made my throat hurt, the baby even kicked, when you mentioned Willie in your last letter. It’s tough to lose such a wonderful man. Still, he died calmly. I read that gruesome thing a few years ago, that How We Die book? It gave me the chills, Mom, how some people thrash and moan, how they don’t make a pretty picture at all, many of them. Willie was one of the quiet ones though, thank the Lord. Nary a bark nor whimper out of him, he just drifted off like a thief in the night.
Which was funny, because he was so, I don’t know, noisy isn’t the right word, I guess expressive maybe, his entire life.
Oh, before I close, I gotta tell you about Kip. Kip’s my ultrasound man. I’m in love, I think. Kind face on him. Nice compact little bod. Cute butt too, the kind of buns you can wrap your hands halfway around, no flabby sags to spoil your view or the feel of the thing. Anyway, Kip’s been on the periphery of the contest for a few years and likes tinkering with the machinery. He’s confided in me. Says he can—and will!—go beyond the superimposition of costumes that’s been all the rage in recent years to some other stuff I haven’t seen yet and he won’t spell out. He worked some for those Light and Magic folks in California, and he claims he’s somehow brought all that stuff into the ultrasound arena. Kip’s sworn me to secrecy. He tells me we’ll win easy. But I’m my momma’s daughter. I don’t put any stock in eggs that haven’t been hatched, and Kip isn’t fanatical about it, so it’s okay. Also, Mother, he kissed me. Yep! As sweet and tasty as all get-out.
I’ll reveal more, next missive. Meantime, you can just keep guessing about what we’re up to, since you refuse to grace us with your presence at the contest.
Just teasing, Mummy dear. Me and my fetal muffin will make you so proud, your chest will puff out like a Looney Tunes hen! Your staying put—for legit reasons, like you said—is a-okay with me, though I do wish you were here to hug, and chat up, and share the joy.
Love, love, love, mumsy mine,
Wendy
Kip brightened when Wendy came in from the waiting room, radiant with smiles.
Today was magic day. The next few sessions would acquaint Wendy with his enhancements to the ultrasound process. He wanted her confident, composed, and fully informed onstage.
“Wendy, hello. Come in.” They traded hugs and he hung her jacket on a clothes rack.
“You can kiss me, you know,” she teased.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right in the office. Well, okay, a little one. Mmmm. Wendy, hon, you’re a keeper! Now hoist yourself up and let’s put these pillows behind your back.
That’s the way. Comfy? Can you see the monitor?”
“Yes.” Eagerly, she bunched her maternity dress up over her belly. Beautiful blue and red streaks, blood lightning, englobed it. A perfect seven-months’ pooch. Her flowered briefs were as strained and displaced as a fat man’s belt.
“Okay, now,” said Kip. “Get ready for a surprise. This’ll be cold.” He smeared thick gel on her belly and moved the hand-held transducer to bring up baby’s image. “There’s our little darling.”
“Mmmmm, I like that ‘our’!”
“She’s a beauty without any enhancement, isn’t she? Now we add the dress.” Reaching over, he flipped a switch on his enhancer. Costumes had come in three years before, thanks to the doctor Kip had studied under. They were now expected fare. “Here’s the one I showed you last time,” he said, pink taffeta with hints of chiffon at the bodice. There slept baby in her party dress, her tiny fists up to her chest.
“It’s beautiful,” enthused Wendy. “You can almost hear it rustle.” What a joy Wendy was, thought Kip. A compact little woman who no doubt would slim down quickly after giving birth.“Okay. Here goes. Get a load of this.” He toggled the first switch. Overlaying the soft fabric, there now sparkled sequins, sharp gleams of red, silver, gold. They winked at random, cutting and captivating—spliced in, by digital magic, from a captured glisten of gems.
“Oh, Kip. It’s breathtaking.”
It was indeed. Kip laughed at himself for being so proud.
But adding sparkle was child’s play, and he fully expected other ultrasounders to have come up with it this year. It wouldn’t win the contest. It would merely keep them in the running. He told Wendy so.
“Ah but this,” he said, “this will put us over the top.” He flipped the second switch, keeping his eyes not on the monitor but on his lover, knowing that the proof of his invention would be found in the wideness of her eyes.
Eudora glared at the monitor.
She had won the Li’l Miss Ultrasound contest two years running—the purses her first two brats brought in had done plenty to offset the bother of raising them—and she was determined to make it three.
Then she could retire in triumph.
She had Moe Bannerman, the best ultrasound man money could buy. He gestured to the monitor’s image. “She’s a beaut.
Do you have a name yet?”
“Can the chatter, Moe. I’ll worry about that after she wins.
Listen, I’m dying for a smoke. Let’s cut to the chase.”
Moe’s face fell.
Big friggin’ deal, she thought. Let him cry to his fat wife, then dry his tears on the megabucks Eudora was paying him.
“Here she is, ready for a night on the town.” He flipped a switch and her kid was swaddled in a svelte evening gown, a black number with matching accessories (gloves and a clutch-purse) floating beside her in the amniotic sac.
Eudora was impressed. “Clear image.”
“Sharpest yet. I pride myself on that. It’s the latest in digital radiography, straight from Switzerland. We use intensity isocontours to—”
“It looks good. That’s what counts. We win this round.
Good. Now what about the swimsuit?”
“Ah. A nice touch. Take a look.” Again his hands worked their magic. “See here. A red bikini with white polka dots.
”
“The sunglasses look ordinary, Moe. Give her better frames, a little glitz, something that catches the eye.”
“I’ll have some choices for you next time.”
She shot a fingertip at him. “To hell with choices. You get the right ones first time, or I’ll go to someone else.” She’d heard rumor of a new ultrasound man on the horizon, Kip Johnson. He deserved a visit, just to check out the terrain.
Handsome fuck, scuttlebutt said.
“Yes, ma’am. But take a look at this. It’ll win us this round too. We show them the bikini, a nice tight fit that accentuates your baby girl’s charms. I’ve even lent a hint of hardness to her nipples, which will most likely net you a contract with one of the baby-formula companies. But watch. We flip a switch and…”
Eudora had her eyes on the screen, her nicotine need making more vivid the image she saw. It was as if the kid had been suddenly splashed with a bucket of water. No twitch of course. It was all image. But the swimsuit’s fabric lost its opacity. See-through. Gleams of moisture on her midriff.
Her nipple nubs grew even harder, and her pudendal slit was clearly outlined and highlighted. Moe, you’re a genius, she thought.
“Cute,” she said. “What else you got?”
Thus she strung the poor dolt along, though his work delighted her. Dissatisfaction, she found, tended to spur people to their best. It wouldn’t do to have Moe resting on his laurels. People got trounced by surprise that way. Eudora was determined not to be one of them.
When they were done, she left in a hurry, had a quick smoke, and hit the road. The Judge was due for a visit. There were other judges, of course, all of whom she did her best to cultivate. But somehow Benjamin—perversely he preferred the ugly cognomen “Benj”—was The Judge, a man born to the role.
Weaving through traffic, she imagined the slither of his hand across her belly.
Benj walks into the house without knocking.
Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit Page 4
