“It's only a temporary leave!” Of course that's what I told them, but I know we aren't coming back. Great big house in a good school district. Perfect for the family. I tell her, “Nelda, we're a family."
Her eyes are like gun slits. Inside, she is taking aim. “Does everybody agree with you?"
I slap a twenty on the table. “Go buy yourself a box of Munchkins. You need to sweeten up."
I am doing wardrobe for this trip. In love as in business, presentation is key. Dress in my best color. High end shoes. Camping outfits for the trip. Residential RV was a must. I needed to make certain preparations. A fallback plan in case this didn't play out the way I thought. Always have a fallback plan. First rule of corporate life.
I found a land yacht. Dromedary, top of the line. Kitchen. Little sofas that turn into beds. Nice bathroom, where I can shower and get fixed up before I go to the front door and ring the bell. I dropped a few thousand more customizing the interior, don't ask. Look, this is the chance of a lifetime and the sky's the limit here. Besides, I made a tidy profit when my broker cashed out my portfolio.
These are not decisions you make until you know.
Don't worry, Nelda, I don't move without thinking first. I have made certain preparations. Besides, we're perfect for each other. I have proof ! His e-mails. Certain things he's said. And the kids ... How could he not be ravished by his beautiful, wonderful twins? His get and image. His exact genetic set.
Well, the best of both of ours. I am no rock star, but I have my fans and Stan himself has told me he loves the way my hair looks, like plumes curling around my throat.
I am a romantic, but I have a good business head. I don't sell everything I have and drive a new RV across the country on spec.
We're in love.
* * * *
Freddy
She says don't worry, we're going to love him, but I don't. I don't even know him. I don't like him either, and we haven't rightly met.
She says isn't this fun, but it isn't. We've been trapped like sardines in this humongous trailer thing for days.
She says don't worry, he loves us, he just has to get to know us.
Yeah, right. On the road she wouldn't even talk to us. She said not now, go play. Have you tried to play in a trailer? It's like playing in the small end of a gerbil run. She said go read, she was too busy talk to us, but we ran out of books. Suzie and I were bored of it after the first week, and Mom? She was way too happy, going along. She just hummed and talked into her cell phone as we rode out of Death Valley and into California. She was bent on this trip and she wouldn't stop for anything. After all, we had food and flush toilets, everything a person needed, right here.
Besides, she was in a hurry to get to him.
“California. The Inland empire.” She waved at desert on either side of the freeway and she said, “Isn't this beautiful?"
Not so much.
She said, “Just wait till we get to the house!"
It took forever to get there and once we got to these Pacific Palisades and found the place she didn't stop, she kept riding around the block.
“Don't worry,” she said when we mentioned this. “This time next week you'll be living in that beautiful house, and kids, it has a pool!"
Yeah, right.
No way was it like she promised when we got to the house and she finally stopped. She wasn't exactly talking, it was more like singing or whispering, which was bad, because you couldn't tell which. “This is it, kids. We're home."
Then why did she spend such a long time getting ready in the back? She looked great when she finally got out and went up to the door. She had on high heels like hardly ever, and her new red dress.
This guy came to the door, looked nice enough, from here. What he really looked was, he looked surprised. Suzie went, “Oh-oh."
We don't exactly have a secret language but I know what she meant. I was like, “Yeah."
Suzie said, “This is nothing like I thought."
“What did you think, Suze. What did you think would happen, really?"
My twin sister blushed all over and wouldn't look at me. “I guess I was thinking what Mom thought."
I said, “That's because you're a damn girl,” and she started to cry.
Meanwhile they were talking up there, out on the front steps to his house. How come they weren't going in? At first he was grinning. She opened up her arms. After a while they hugged. Then they talked some and that seemed to be going OK, Mom smiled the way she does when she thinks things are going well. Then she took his hand. She put on her business meeting face to let him know this next part was serious. The one she puts on when she lays things out for people, you know. One. Two. Three. We saw her waving back at us hanging out of the Dromedary. We saw him jerk around and stare. We couldn't hear what she was saying because this thing is airtight, but you didn't have to be standing right there with them to get the idea.
We started to get out. We both had showers and we had on flashing Adidas and matching T-shirts. And great big smiles. We were all set to run up on the porch shouting, “Daddy,” like she told us, but she scowled and waved us back.
Weird, though. Probably he wasn't too excited to have two nice new children, but if they're as much in love as Mom says they are, you've gotta wonder why he didn't invite us in.
When she came back to the Dromedary she was crying. It's been like that ever since.
Now that we're parked in Santa Monica, she just sits in the front seat and cries. And Suzie and me? We can't get near the ocean, and it's right there in front of us. She won't let us go. We have to read and play games and hush because she says we have to be ready to roll as soon as she sorts this out.
I thought this thing was cool when we first got it, with the built-in flush toilet and the fold-out table and retractable bunk beds and the secret place in the back but now, if you want to know the truth? It's a great big frickin’ rolling jail. We are stopped cold this close to the ocean, for whatever that's worth. Not much, since she won't let us get out. I don't care what she calls it, this isn't a yacht, it's more like a tin can. When she gets out and slams the doors on us our ears pop. What it is, is, it's a trap.
* * * *
Suzie
I am worried about Mom. It's been days now, and we haven't been outside. We haven't seen our father, either, in spite of what she thought. OK, I thought so too until we got right up there to the house and she pointed to us and he wasn't glad, like she promised. Like, she couldn't see it? He didn't want us there.
Since then, I guess she has been thinking.
They've talked, I think. She goes outside to take her calls. I guess this morning's one went well. New outfit on Mom today. Her lettuce dress and nice shoes. She left us in this thing and took off in a rented car.
“I'm going to visit your father,” she said in that tone that screams, don't mess with me. Weird, she had a whole bunch of our report cards in a folder, along with our baby books. Bookends—our bronzed baby shoes! My merit badge sash from the Brownies. Freddy's ribbon from the Science Fair. “Oh, your dad will be so proud of you. I'll be bringing him back today, so keep the place nice."
“What if he doesn't want to come?"
“Oh, I've taken care of that.” She had this smile. “Stay put."
We kind of have to, since she security-locked us in. Not every RV has one-way locks. She paid extra to get it done. She paid for that and for the special compartment she won't let us into, you know, in the back. I don't know what she's got in there but she goes in there at night when she thinks we're asleep. We can hear her clinking glass. Moving stuff around. Fixing it up. Testing the door after she comes back out and seals it up.
Out on the grass between us and the road leading down to the ocean and, oh, wow, the pier, other kids are skateboarding and playing ball. We could wave and yell and all, but they won't hear us. They won't even see us through the tinted glass. This thing is built like a refrigerator, really. Air tight. It's cool, all right, because the A.C. i
s going, but we are breathing air that's been in here with us all week. Freddy's trying to carve his initials in the glass with his jackknife but it isn't working, and I've been trying to get into the secret compartment but it's sealed tighter than Scrooge's pocketbook, and you want to know what? This sucks. It really sucks.
* * * *
Stan
What did she think, looking me up after all these years, that I would be thrilled to see her? Interested, yes. But, women. Did she think she was the only woman in my life?
When I distributed the sperm, it wasn't to a single, very select recipient. My children will spread wide, and take big steps in the world. I am seeing to that.
Interesting, how naïve women are. Did she really think I didn't know who she was from the get-go, or that I didn't keep track of every one of them?
About a dozen, thank you, and my children are doing fine.
You probably wonder what takes a man like me to a high-end sperm bank. Well, exclusivity. Women who are smart enough to afford it have the hard-driving qualities that make for success. And the need to make a mark. Like me.
That, I will do, as will my children, through all the generations. As soon as they grow up. Believe me, I take care of my children, and believe me, I keep track. I have a very special way of keeping track.
And the desire to have other women bear my children?
The wife was barren. I decided the day she confessed. How lucky I am. Joanna's barren but I have a dozen now.
Unfortunately, she found out. I loved her and I miss her. Never mind, it opened the door to Phase Two. A good father follows up. Amazing how women come flocking once they find out you're divorced.
Unfortunately, they haven't all worked out, so with this one, I'm taking my time. Playing it cool. I have two beautiful what?
Sent her away. Make it too easy and she'll think you have ulterior motives. Can't afford to let her think that. Keep them at a distance until the closing. Move slowly. This one may turn out to be Mrs. Right.
For a week I limit her to long phone conversations, I tell her I need time. We are feeling each other out. Let her into my life in phases, one step at a time. When I think she's ready I say, Sure, but one thing, if you want to make a go of this. Leave the children behind.
Oh, she says, I never leave my children. I say, OK then. Two days of this and finally she agrees. She comes to my front door smiling and dressed for a party. I let her in. She admires the place. My decor. I don't tell her that after Joanna left I rebuilt according to my own specifications. I say let's have a drink. When we get to know each other better, I'll show her the rest of the house. After an hour of this we are locked together on the sofa.
“Oh,” she says into my ear after we finish, “you're wonderful."
I am somewhat more cautious in my assessment. “So are you."
The father of twelve has to be cautious. I have my responsibilities. I have my dreams. I say, “Would you like to see the rest of the house?"
“Oh look, there's a pool out back.” She's beaming. It's somewhat disconcerting.
“A wonderful place for children, don't you think?"
Her face gets even brighter. Her answer is even more disconcerting. Like a bride, she says, “I do."
I look at her carefully. Of all the mothers, I think, she just may be the right one. I show her the yard. “As you can see, plenty of room for monkey bars and a jungle gym."
She says, “The twins aren't very athletic."
We are moving fast. “Every child needs to be fit. I want my kids to have quick reflexes. Large motor skills."
“If you think so, Stan,” she says like a sweet little wife.
This is going very well.
I show her the playroom, which is fitted with chessboards and Monopoly sets and, in the corner, a PlayStation.
“Oh,” she says. “The kids will love this."
I slip, but only a little bit. “They do."
If she hears, she does not record it. She says, “It's as if you really want children."
I say, “I have children.” I do not say, a dozen. She isn't ready yet.
Her smile is embarrassing. Gratified. Smug. That breathy voice: “You do!"
I show her the bedrooms, finished but not furnished. “They get to pick out their own furniture."
“The twins are going to love this."
“When they're ready,” I say. I do not remind her that the twins are not the only ones. “Now let me show you the best part."
I am watching her carefully. Good looking woman, overdressed for this visit but intelligent. Collected. The way she went about the search and the way she proceeded once I let her find me prove that she has good judgment and superb managerial skills.
“It's a beautiful house,” she says, to keep the conversation going. Good. Sharp social skills. She just may be the right one, I think. Time to test the waters.
I say, “Happy children need a woman's touch."
Her head comes up. Does she see where we are going with this? Not a bit of it. She is smiling. I see a pink glow begin at the cleavage and creep up her neck. “I know."
“I can't wait to show you the rest.” First I show her the room I have specially fitted out for home schooling. Flat screen TV for educational DVDs. Walk-in cooler for fresh fruit and nutritious drinks. Apricot leather, as a special treat. Appropriately cooled, to keep my children attentive. Lots of light and sunshine, to keep them content.
“Stan.” She sounds dubious. She is not as delighted as I'd hoped. “This is perfectly wonderful. But don't you think they're going to miss the kids at school?"
“Don't worry. They'll have plenty of company.” I am studying her intently now. “With the right woman in charge..."
She looks up into my eyes. We are negotiating. “And you think I may be the right...."
“Mother."
“For the twins? God, Stan. I hope so! Haven't I borne them for you and brought them up?"
I murmur, you aren't the only one, but she doesn't want to hear. She is looking at her watch. “Good grief, they've been cooped up for too long. I have to go get them now."
“One more thing,” I say. We are approaching the moment of decision.
“I'd love to bring them up here for a swim."
“Not yet,” I say.
She blushes. “I'm sorry if I'm going too fast. I thought you were ... I thought we were..."
“We are.” We aren't. Not yet. But we are close.
“Then can't I just..."
“Not yet,” I say. “There's one more thing."
We are going through the back yard, past the pool and to the base of the mountain that rises right behind the house. I need for her to understand what I am doing, and to pledge to keep what we do here secret. Assuming that there is going to be a we.
I push aside the bushes. I tell her why I had them but not how I collected them. Now it's time to show her how I keep them in place. I open the door. I lead her in and show her what's below. Ten others. Adorable, really, but not ready to learn everything I have to teach. “As you might guess,” I tell her, “This took a long time to prepare.” I say in a loud voice, “Hello, children.” On good days, they answer back.
At my back she is craning, trying to see what I have done here and how.
None will answer. They have stopped answering. A couple are moaning. Too bad.
Her voice goes up. “What are you doing here?"
“Taking care of my children!"
“Oh,” she cries. “This is awful."
“No it's not. I'm their natural father."
“There's nothing natural about this.” She is pulling out her cellphone. “I'm calling the police!"
And all the time I thought she might be the one. Too bad. Now I tell her what I have to. “Be careful what you say, lady."
“Lady!"
I jog her hand and the phone sails like a flying cockroach. “Nobody comes between me and my kids."
I do what I have to and put her down the cistern with
the others. I go through her purse before I dump it and take out the keys.
Now I'm going to get them. Suzanna. Frederick. My last two.
Copyright © 2006 Kit Reed
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* * *
PREPONDERANCE OF THE SMALL
by Rebecca Marjesdatter
* * * *
Perhaps
the carp,
transformed into a dragon,
—
sits upon his jeweled lotus throne
in his undersea palace,
surrounded by brocaded courtiers
and moon-faced dragon maidens,
drinking wine from jade cups
and eating with ivory sticks
—
and thinks forlornly
of frog's eggs in the reeds
and moonlight broken
on small, still waters.
—Rebecca Marjesdatter
Copyright © 2006 Rebecca Marjesdatter
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* * *
DAWN, AND SUNSET, AND THE COLOURS OF THE EARTH
by Michael F. Flynn
A native and resident of Easton, Pennsylvania, and the grandfather of “three incredibly cute and talented children,” Michael Flynn makes his living as a management consultant in statistical methods and quality management. He is the author of the Firestar series and, most recently, the critically well-received novel, The Wreck of the River of Stars. His short fiction has appeared in Analog, Asimov's SF, F&SF, and elsewhere. Mike has been a Hugo nominee four times and won the Sturgeon prize for his Asimov's story, “House of Dreams” (October/ November 1997). His next novel, Eifelheim, will be released from Tor in October. In his first story for us in nine years, Mike masterfully explores the after effects of a disaster that seems to swallow up the...
At six-thirty of an early fall morning, when the sun was just lighting the evergreens and new snow glistened atop Ranier, Motor Vessel Hyak left Pier 52 in Seattle, bound for Bremerton. A Washington State Ferry of the Super Class, longer than a football field, she grossed 2700 tons dead weight and drew eighteen and a half feet. She cast off with nearly a thousand souls aboard and motored into a fog in the center of Elliott Bay.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2006 Page 11
