The Egg Code

by Mike Heppner

  The Plot Reaches New Levels of Thickness

  1998

  Steve waited outside the store as the meeting continued without him. He frowned to see an empty condom wrapper lying on the front curb. The opening crew must have ignored it during their morning maintenance sweep. Sorry, Mr. Mould, ain’t nowhere it says I gotta pick up that nasty thing . A sudden revulsion overtook him, and he felt the need to rip off his Living Arrangements polo shirt and run across the parking lot, stripped to the waist, smashing the showcase windows of the neighboring stores. Scanning the lot, he noticed a woman shuffle out of the bakery two doors down, carrying a long baguette, her legs wrapped below the knees with flesh-colored bandages. Using the baguette as a cane, she made a sharp turn and headed for the furniture store. Steve stood frozen, intensely aware of his own shadow on the pavement.

  The woman pivoted in her orthopedic shoes and glared at him through a pair of blue sunglasses. “Hey, you work here?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t.” He spoke in a careful voice, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

  The woman pointed with her chin. “You got the shirt on.”

  He looked down at his chest, then up again. “You’re right, ma’am. I’ve got the shirt on. You got me.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip, making a bunch, one ugly shape, then another. “You don’t work here, how come they let you wear the shirt?”

  Steve’s mind buzzed with alibis, half-baked excuses. There was a free giveaway. Free shirts for opening a charge account. Free shirts whenever you register a complaint. Complain, open, open, complain. Madness! Clenching his fists, he charged the woman, shrieking as he swung his hands. She backed away in a panic, finding her car, tearing out of the parking lot as he followed her down the driveway. Hands on his knees, he stood under a NO PARKING sign and caught his breath. The ground flashed a series of psychedelic colors—all red, all purple. When he looked up, he saw Gray Hollows coming out of the store, a stack of corporate literature under one arm. Steve hurried back to the entrance, intercepting the other man halfway to his car.

  “Hi, I’m Steve Mould, I’m the manager of . . .” He waved at the store’s awning. “Well, you know all that.” His chest swelled as he leaned against one of the two limos from the home office. “Look, I don’t mean to be pushy or anything. I know that you’ve probably got a lot left to do this afternoon.”

  “Not really.” Gray pulled a Dum Dum from his pocket and picked off the wrapper. “Actually I’m just going home to masturbate to my collection of antique geisha lithographs.”

  Steve looked at the man and nodded intently. “Oh. Well, I don’t want to waste any of your time. I just wanted to say, I don’t know what you might have in mind for this thing you’re cooking up, but my son, um, is an actor, and uh . . .” One side of his brain suddenly felt heavier than the other. “Wants to be an actor, I mean. Would like to be. His mother tells me he’s very good.”

  Gray placed the Dum Dum inside his mouth and bit down on the stem. “Does he do nude scenes?”

  Again, Steve stared. The words seemed remote—the talk, all theoretical. “Well, you’d have to talk to her about—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It probably won’t come up.”

  “It’s just that he’s kind of looking to get his big break and—”

  “And you thought, Hey, being the concerned parent that I am, why not use my influence as head manager of . . .” Gray frowned at the building. “What the hell’s the name of this place again?”

  “Living Arrangements—it’s, uh, right there on the sign.”

  “Living Arrangements . . . oh yes, that’s right. Very clever.”

  Steve coughed, then said: “It’s, uh, it’s really my wife who’s asking.”

  The other man nodded; his voice, soft now, came from far away. “Something about nepotism . . . it’s so touching. In fact, hey, I’ve been a beneficiary my whole life.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Oh, sure!” He took the candy from his mouth. “My God, if it weren’t for the golden words of a certain crazed engineer from Battle Creek, I’d still be walking the streets of Crane City, peddling pages of pretentious prose to . . . portly producers from Pennsylvania.”

  “Neat.”

  “HA HA! Peddling pages of . . . Look, has this kid of yours ever worked in front of a camera before?”

  Steve started to reply, then realized he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know these basic things about his son. “Um, my wife would have all of that information—”

  “Your wife, of course. La Grande Duchesse. Knows all. Smells all.”

  “I can give her a call.” He started back toward the entrance. “Wouldn’t take a sec.”

  “No, no, that’s not necessary. I like the element of surprise. The unknown quantity.” Gray folded his arms and stared across the highway to the stores on the other side. “Theoretically, I should be able to construct a vi-a-ble campaign around your son no matter how untalented he is.”

  “He’s really a terrific kid.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet he is. Probably played Huck Finn in the school play, right?” He tapped his chin, mulling it over. “What the hell,” he said, thinking, T. Kenneth’s gonna kill me. “Might as well keep it in the family. I love working with children. They’re such prima donnas.”

  Steve held a breath, then let it go. “Well, super-doop!” Laughing, he wiped his face with a handkerchief. “This was easier than I thought.”

  Gray’s face darkened; his eyes dimmed behind his thick and ugly glasses. The moment passed, and he clapped his hands. “Well, this should be interesting. My suggestion, sir: Protect your investment, rub his feet with smooth stones and honey butter, and I’ll see you downtown at the EI headquarters ten a.m. Monday morning. But don’t keep me waiting! Much penalty for tardiness.” Amusing himself, he slipped into a German accent. “Paddle applied to buttocks. Angry salamander attached to anal sphincter.”

  The two men split up, and Steve went back in the store. A few stragglers were still coming out of his office, Jim Carroll among them, Cam Pee too, a couple of worried accountants on hand to represent the views of the budget director. His room, normally a tidy little place, was a mess, with Styrofoam coffee cups scattered across the desk, the air rancid with cigarette smoke. As the room emptied, Steve smiled, nodded, looked each man in the eye. A punk from communications handed him a paper flower, then left, giggling. Jim Carroll, last to go, leaned against the sideboard. Tired, he belched and blew a fart.

  “You got this mess under control or do you need one of us to stick around?” He shook his arms out at his sides, fixing the cuffs.

  “No, you go on ahead, Jim. You’ve got more important things to do.” Steve brushed a few empty sugar packets from the seat of his chair, then grabbed the phone and dialed a preset. “I’ll take care of it later. I just have to call my wife.”

  “Oh. Well, if you have to talk to your wife, I can at least gather my charts.”

  Waiting for Lydia to pick up, Steve watched the other man slide each of his charts into a giant leather portfolio. Little creep, he thought, turning away. Back to HQ. Leave the dirty work to someone else. He hoped Lydia would appreciate the effort. For years, her family had treated him like a hick, like a dumb Midwesterner. Not no more! A little reward was in order. Maybe a bottle of wine, some late-night TV . . . without the kid. He closed his eyes, picturing the two of them dancing barefoot on the brick patio, the breeze off the lake cool on their backs, a Glenn Miller CD playing softly with the speakers angled through the sliding screen. Without her heels, Lydia and Steve were both the same height. He always wondered how other couples managed to “do it”—a tall man and a short woman, or even the other way around. With him and Lydia, it wasn’t a problem. Still, eighteen years’ worth of his backaches and her ever-ascending hairdos had pushed the differential toward the extremes. Not so easy anymore. Next year, even worse. The incredible shrinking man. This was what they meant by growing apart.

  The phone rang insid
e Lydia’s purse; checking her Caller ID, she put the receiver away and let her voicemail answer it. She and Donna were sitting at the head of the Skyes’ circular driveway, the engine still running. Neither wanted their extended luncheon to come to an end, each fearing the solitude of the late afternoon, the soporific cocktails, the wasting of the sun. Across the lawn, a neighbor’s dog prodded at the ground with its snout, its black, mucous-wet nostrils breaking the cap of a dead, dry mushroom. Lydia reached into her friend’s lap and took her hand. “Do it,” she said.

  Donna’s knees were trembling. The seat belt made an awkward skew across her neck. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t lose.”

  “I can lose.”

  “How? You’ve already lost your husband. You have—”

  “Nothing left, I know. Thank you, darling.”

  Lydia took her hand back and rattled her keys, the chain hanging from the ignition. “I’m just being honest, Donna. I envy your position— no obligations, nothing to hold you back.”

  “I want to take a bath,” Donna said. Determined, she hummed a few notes to herself. She was being silly and she knew it.

  Lydia made an ugly face. “What’s with these baths you take, four, five times a day? You’re clean already!”

  “This is my life, Lydia. My teeny-weeny pleasures.”

  Lydia pressed a switch and all four door locks popped up with a unison clack. “Fine. Take your bath. But don’t give up on me, kiddo. If nothing else, do it for me.”

  Donna sighed and pushed the car door open with her leg. Stepping out, she hesitated up the chipped and broken path. Derek had once mentioned getting an estimate for a new walk, but that was just weeks before the split, and since then the house and the surrounding land had continued its slow decay. She supposed that she could always round up the workers herself—no more complicated than cracking open a Yellow Pages, really—but that would mean having to negotiate over the phone with those mean old men, men who loved to browbeat women with their garbled talk of list prices and projected costs. That’s why Lydia’s plan was so ludicrous—the men, their stupid egos. The men would not cooperate, Reggie Bergman and his sort. They would squash the project somehow. Typical male insecurity. If anything, they feared a fair fight. His book, her book. No, the best thing for her to do was to stay put, to gladly pocket Derek’s generous settlement and to stare out at the calm, never-changing lake, gin in hand, while her home and everything else she possessed gradually turned to dust.

  A small black box was sitting on the porch step, blocking the door. Donna waited for Lydia’s car to move down the street, then picked up the box and turned it around, looking for a return address. Breaking the seal, she reached under the flap and squished what felt like thick putty between her fingers. Over the course of the day, the contents had hardened into a gritty paste, shit-brown and ghastly. The smell was more than just repulsive; it was an insult. His shit on her hands. Blind with tears, she burst through the house and crossed the yard to the lake, sobbing as she heaved the package into the water. The box wobbled once on a wave, then tipped out of sight. Kneeling on the beach, she rinsed the clumpy residue from her fingers. Her arms trembled, and she could feel a dirty layer under her skin—something awful, cored away. This was Derek’s gift to her. Standing up, she ran back inside, her mind racing as well, its ecstatic transactions quickly cataloging the contents of every closet, every out-of-the-way cupboard and storage shelf, neurons stretching desperately toward that remote spot, the typewriter on the third floor.

  IX

  Two Excerpts from Many Voices, One Vision by Madonna Hasse Skye

  The Tale of Tsin-gah and the Secret Star

  Compiler’s note: This story is a variation on a tale told by thousands of Native Americans along the Pacific coast. Favorable conditions, unique to the region, have allowed the Nootka tribe of British Columbia to develop an unusually stable economy. Lavish banquets, called “potlatches,” provide an opportunity for competitors to shame their opponents with wasteful gifts of goods and cash. Young girls attend the tournaments, eager to marry a champion. In this story, a girl named Tsin-gah dreams of seducing an old sun, the star god Sirius. This tale would naturally appeal to Nootka women, for whom such earthbound alliances rarely result in much happiness. (M.H.S.)

  The festivities, having entered their third day, had reached a final stage. The room was hot, the deadly air relieved only by the listless wave of a wooden fan. Two men stood before the group. Their feet were bare, and they wore only denim pants, dingy blues and grays. Confident of his advantage, Bha (Number 308) turned away from his challenger and addressed the crowd. Among other things, the pot-latch was a chance for the town’s unmarried females to examine the year’s latest offerings. For some girls, this question was a matter of simple arithmetic, nothing more. A woman in the 800s who married a man in the 400s could expect—pending the approval of the chief— to wind up somewhere in the 600 range or better. At age thirteen, Tsin-gah (Number 1,305) had already passed beyond the tastes of the village elite. Eyes down, she ignored the match, expecting nothing.

  “People,” Bha proclaimed. His dark gaze swept over the crowd. “All evening, this dolt has assaulted me with tales of his tremendous wealth. But my estate is not so easily won. Take as an example . . .” From a leather satchel, he removed a sheet of rolled parchment and undid the clasp. Written in gold pen, twenty-six bright letters flashed upon the page. “Do not shield your eyes. These shapes are good spirits. Working toward a unified language, the great Sequoya has provided us with the tools we need to match the challenge of the white invaders. For his sake, we should be grateful, and we should honor relics such as these.”

  “Is that all you have?” questioned the other man, arms folded, his chest swelling with pride. “You should take care to harness your boasts, 308.” Raising his right hand, he clasped a pine amulet, the hallowed wood of his tribe. The amulet depicted the man’s name in a totem of elaborate carvings. Sequoya’s ready-made Twenty-Six would have reduced such filigree to a few simple scratches—the letters, Lan-Sum. Lan-Sum was dark and tall, and his hair came to a silver point in the middle. Approaching his enemy on quiet feet, he moved across the circle until his shadow touched the border. The whole village listened. “Come with me,” he said, turning. “From here, we will travel to the Raven’s Shoulders. There, I will claim your title.”

  The Raven’s Shoulders was a hilly formation just above the village, rounded to the east and jagged to the west. From a distance, the land itself seemed to be a great black bird skimming the turbulent sea. The villagers followed Lan-Sum up the grade of the mountain. The night was bright with stars. The ocean magnified the moonglow, giving it back to the town as a blanket of lively milk. At the summit, a telescope straddled the space between two boulders. Bha, sensing his defeat, hid behind a curtain of long, black hair. Lan-Sum caressed the telescope, the copper band around the lens.

  “As a people, we have always looked to the sky for guidance.” As he spoke, his hands fine-tuned a solid gold focus wheel. “The stars are our masters, and Sirius is their King.” Hearing their keeper’s name, the people looked to the ground and moaned in reverence. Lan-Sum stood apart, proud of himself. “My people, come see what I have found. See our god—not as the lone warrior of ages past, but as a pair of points, a light and a dark. Fellows of the Raven, I give you Sirius— the double star!”

  The people formed a haphazard line; eagerly, they cramped the space around the telescope. Standing behind a group of maidens, Tsin-gah held her breath, too scared to speak. When she reached the head of the line, she squinted into the eyepiece and gripped the ground with her toes. Filtered through the curved glass, the star Sirius was a bright point, its white the white of anger, unspeakably hot. Its black bride was a shadow against a canvas of even blacker shadows—sensed but not seen. Rejoining the rest of the group, Tsin-gah held her hand against her cheek, blocking out the right side of her face. For an instant, she was certain that if she dared to look, the m
ighty Sirius would reclaim her sight, pulling her up into the inverted peaks of his dark world.

  “Tsin-gah, did you see?” cried a young girl, wild and foolish. “Lan-Sum can make the stars shine in the sky!”

  Ignoring the girl, Tsin-gah continued on down the peak’s northern slope and walked along a narrow strip of pines. Dense trees filled the valley below. It always puzzled her—this stone formation, the headless Raven. This thought, she supposed, was blasphemous, but she did not yet understand the nature of divine punishment, whether by her actions alone she would be judged, or whether her thoughts mattered as well. Stepping into the pines, she considered the possibility that this—her protracted maidenhood—was her real punishment, meted out before the body had the chance to turn fallow. It was not her fault that she was so particular, so judgmental of those occasional few who happened to seek her hand. Today, Lan-Sum would realize his dream. He would overtake his fellow, claim the title of Number 308 for himself, then set his gaze upon the next landmark, the next man to defeat. Was he now any more worthy of Tsin-gah’s favor? At what point would the numbers reach the magic limit, the irreducible sum, the final proof of his honor? Never, she supposed. This system was man-made, utilizing criteria which the boundless world outside of the tribe would never respect. This was not the way of the Raven.

  Reaching the far peak, she found her path suddenly give way to a sparser array of pines. Past the trees, the star god Sirius throbbed in its black cradle, sending its light down from the heavens. Unaided by the telescope’s lens, she could see the star as it had always appeared to her, as a single point of light. Sirius was a bachelor, or so she liked to believe, despite the presence of the dark star, the lurking bride. If only Tsin-gah, through some miracle of transformation, could be that woman! Never far from her spouse, she and Sirius would dwell together in their own private patch of sky. How the girls of the village would swoon when they gazed into Lan-Sum’s telescope and saw this new constellation—Tsin-gah the meek, star-bound, joined to her King.