The Egg Code

by Mike Heppner

  Stage of Development (Sd)

  “Whoop!” said the nurse, wiping the spittle from the sleeve of her gown.

  “Did he get it on you?” the new mother asked, smiling up at the bright ceiling tiles. A cool sponge moved across her forehead.

  “Oh, sure.” The nurse set the naked child back down on his mother’s breast and walked over to the sink. “That’s okay,” she said. “All babies do that.”

  Floe Size (Fa)

  In the dream, everything is bigger. Martin Field associates these dreams with too much drinking. “Too much” means a couple of Scotches at night. Returning the bottle to the cupboard, he creeps down the hall past his son’s room. Stepping out of his slacks, he orients himself in the darkness and feels for the mattress with his knees. He falls asleep within the minute. This amazes him; reason dictates there should be a longer period of transition. Experimenting one night, he dropped the needle down on side one of Sgt. Pepper and then closed his eyes. The next morning, he couldn’t remember the second track, couldn’t remember even the second half of the first track, the song about Billy Shears. Martin finds this vaguely disturbing, this tiny border between dreams and reality.

  In the dream, he sees his wife, which is not so unusual. Martin often dreams of his wife. These dreams are sometimes erotic, sometimes not. The erotic dreams make him feel ashamed, for they seem to cancel out his other feelings for her—the fact that he misses lying next to her at night, misses her help around the house, misses her conversation, her spontaneous lectures on plate tectonics and paleoclimatology, misses the censorious effect of her strong female presence. The thrill of the different. Comb your hair, son. Look sharp for your mother. But bachelors don’t care. Bachelors roam the halls in their Jockey shorts and fart on the cat and pick their teeth at the kitchen table. No one to live for. So: he misses her. Then the erotic dreams come and reduce everything to simple wants. For this reason, he prefers the strange dreams to the erotic dreams. In this dream, he and his wife are stone giants, several thousand kilometers tall. The perspective is that of an eye watching the planet from a great distance away. The earth glows. Martin sees himself striding across the Atlantic. His wife sits with her knees tucked under her chin and her toes curled around the rocky coast of Greenland. Her body covers the entire island like a child perched on a milk-white pillow. Martin crouches next to her. Large rocks fall from his broken joints, crushing entire populations of Inuit and Danes. His footsteps make a booming sound, torturing the ears of the people below. For all but Martin and Celeste, this is a terrible day. The great cataclysm has begun. As he sinks to his knees, the ocean rises to touch his chin. Displaced water overwhelms the North Atlantic coast. Millions of New Yorkers die in the sudden flood. The only man left alive on the island of Manhattan is a window washer polishing the antenna at the top of the World Trade Center. Thousands of miles away, Martin reaches his arm around his wife’s waist. The water recedes considerably but the damage is already done. Bloated stacks of corpses pile up in the streets. Celeste rests her cheek against the side of Martin’s head. Sliding into the water, she wraps her arms around his hips, and together they swim across the equator, barely noticing the change in temperature as they reach the Southern Hemisphere and turn left at the Cape of Good Hope. A wave follows, three miles high. Chaos erupts on the coasts. The Tokyo stock market closes in a panic. The leaders of the European Community swallow suicide tablets and set fire to the state’s currency. Thousands of red-eyed Africans mob the village square, raiding the poultry barns, tearing chickens apart with their brute fists.

  In the morning, he can still taste the Scotch.

  Floe Size (Fb)

  In the morning, she is all packed and ready to go. See you in another nine months, sweetheart. She keeps most of her belongings in a storage vault near the U.S. Navy base at Thule. No point in shuttling it back and forth. Among her personal possessions—tube socks, insulated parkas, woolly mittens, heavy-duty cold medicines—she also has one nice dress for the annual holiday dance in December. Most everyone on the research team is married, and no one takes these dances very seriously. They are harmless get-togethers—forty or so scientists from the United States, Denmark and Great Britain shuffle-stepping to Glenn Miller tunes played on an ancient reel-to-reel.

  “Tell me about Greenland,” Martin says as they sit by the front door, waiting for the cab to come. She smiles and touches his face. They have this same conversation every year. In some ways, it is their only conversation: Greenland and what it means to me.

  “It’s too much to describe,” she says, watching her words; the least little slip could mean nine months’ worth of unmitigated bad feelings.

  “Then tell me just a little part of it.” He nuzzles her lap with his chin, breathing in her perfume. “Describe your lightbulb.”

  “My lightbulb?”

  “Over your bed.”

  Celeste closes her eyes but the image will not come. Inventing a few details, she says, “Well, it’s big. And white.”

  “Frosted.”

  “That’s it. Frosted.”

  “Beautiful. What does it say?”

  “What does it say.” She focuses her mind, trying to build the lightbulb from scratch. Hmmm. A lightbulb in Thule, Greenland. A tiny thing in a distant place. She feels the lightbulb in her hand. Coarse. Chalky. It pulls on her skin. “It says . . . General Electric . . .”

  “Yes.” He parts her blouse between two buttons and kisses the space.

  “General Electric . . . sixty watts . . .”

  “That’s perfect.”

  The cab appears at the corner, and the Fields leave the house and walk down the front path. “Kiss Olden for me,” she says as he wraps his arms around her body, feeling her ribs and the soft spaces in between, thinking all the while, I can’t kiss him, darling, you’ll have to kiss him when you get back.

  Floe Size (Fc)

  For his sixth birthday, Olden’s parents give him a giant model of the Eiffel Tower. The model is eight feet tall, and it takes Martin and Celeste over three hours to put the damn thing together. Olden stands in the corner of the room, sucking his thumb as his parents scramble about on their hands and knees, cursing occasionally, sharing an experience that he only partially understands. The purpose of the tower eludes him— not its function, for he knows what a tower is, but rather its relationship to him as a human being. He has never shown an interest in towers before. This is all his parents’ doing. They have identified him with the object. Oh, Olden would like this. But why would he like it? What do they know? What are they not telling him about himself?

  XII

  The Passion of Martin Field

  Listings for the First Week of September, 1995

  This fine apartment in South Crane City comes complete with a wealth of amenities. Nice location. Blocks away from Midwestern University main campus.

  “I’m out of breath.”

  “Mr. Hasse, let me get you a chair.”

  Fully functional service elevator makes this a must for seniors!

  “Your elevator—”

  “I know. It hasn’t worked since—”

  “I walked five flights.”

  Upper level reduces street noise and enhances privacy.

  “Here, sit. I’ll sit over here.”

  Vintage furniture in all studio models.

  “This chair is about to snap in half.”

  “I know, it’s a piece of junk. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Just some soda water.”

  Refrigerator. Needs work.

  “It may be a little warm.”

  “Thank you, Olden.”

  “How did you get down here?”

  Reserved parking. Twenty-four-hour attendant.

  “My driver’s circling the block. I’d forgotten about the city. It’s so crowded!”

  “I never go out.”

  “Not if you’re like your father. That’s the wonder of technology. We can all be hermits now.”

  Sm
all. Tidy. Great for students and working singles!

  “Sounds good to me. I like being alone. I’m not even online anymore.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Not really. My father’s the same way. Computers per se aren’t very important to us. We’re more interested in the philosophies, the underlying abstractions.”

  “Philosophies?”

  At Open House Realty, we believe that a happy customer is an informed customer.

  “Network theory. Topology. That’s what TCP/IP is all about. The nature of systems. Take any group of individuals. Within a brief period of time, a dictator will emerge. It’s inevitable. Equality is an unstable element. The people demand a leader. Look at machines, and you’ll see the same pattern.”

  Laundry room comes equipped with an array of modern appliances.

  “Your father . . . was very close.”

  “He was close to something.”

  Nearby churches, theaters, and ethnic restaurants.

  “And you? You’re working?”

  “I’ve been freelancing. Web design, that sort of thing. It’s good money.”

  “But you don’t like it.”

  Make us an offer! We want your business!

  “I don’t like working for morons. These MBA types understand the market, but the technology itself eludes them. They’re like schoolchildren—even worse. At least kids know what ‘http’ stands for.”

  South Crane City School District, twice voted Best in State.

  “It sounds like you need a change, Olden. Why don’t you get out of the city?”

  “I might. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Can’t decide? Talk to our trained representatives. We’ll find the apartment best suited to your needs!

  “Olden, listen. I’ve got a place . . .”

  The Seven Bridges of Königsberg

  1992

  I think I’d like to go home now.” Martin Field rolled out of bed, found his boxers in a pile of clothes, stepped through the leg holes, then felt something heavy in both knees and sat down. His chair butted against a table, empty except for an ashtray, a set of keys, a checklist for room service and other amenities. The woman lay naked under the sheets, her feet sticking out, cloth pooling around the ankles. He spotted a small pink mole on her right leg—never noticed it before.

  Donna Skye sat up in bed and pulled the sheets over her breasts. Her hair was stiff with spray, and it crushed and fanned in irregular shapes against the headboard. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, squinting at the alarm clock. “It’s two in the morning.”

  Martin looked at the ashtray. He could read the checklist through the thick glass, a semi-transparent logo blocking a few of the words. “You’ve got a long drive back?”

  “A long drive here, a long drive back.” She turned on her side, considering the distance across town. “I could go home to my father. But not now.”

  No, not now, she thought, because regardless of the hour, Bartholomew Hasse would be at the door, pressing for details. In recent months, Hasse’s disdain for technocrats such as Martin Field had turned into an obsession. It was impossible for him not to take these things personally. Hasse Publishing was a personal venture, born out of blood and sacrifice, and he’d smuggled it like a terrified mother from country to country and eventually over to the States, where he’d worked for decades, carrying on the tradition of Johann Gutenberg in the New World. An important tradition, reasoned the old man, because the printed word— the physical, tangible thing itself—was something that other Germans had died for. And now the last direct descendant of Johann Gutenberg was on the verge of selling the press. Something had to be done, and that something—for reasons Donna willed herself not to understand— involved screwing Martin Field. Taking the man’s cock into her body, she imagined the condom as something great and impenetrable, several feet thick with nothing inside. This is what I deserve, she thought, faking a noisy orgasm. This is the kind of woman I am.

  Martin toyed with his watch, then fixed the cold clasp around his wrist. “Maybe in a few days . . .”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “We could meet for a drink or two.”

  She stared at him; her eyes were hard and precise, like smashed blue porcelain. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  The drapes blew over a crack in the sliding glass door. Outside, the sign above a service station slowly turned, flashing light across the highway. Martin scrunched in his seat, back flush up against the cushion. “This was a bad way to start,” he said, the words uncertain. “For me, I feel, I would like to . . . interact with you, on occasion. But not like this.”

  Donna gazed at the ceiling. “It’s good, though, since we’re both married. And neither one of us is happy.”

  “I’m happy. But my wife . . . this is a hard way to live. And what does she do nine months out of the year?”

  She looked at him, annoyed. “You think she’s sleeping around.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “So you’re doing it, she’s not. That’s your problem. Don’t say it’s her—”

  “I’m not.”

  “—just because it’s easier that way.”

  “You’re right.” Martin crossed his legs; his fly gaped, and he covered it with his hand. “I liked it, though. Meeting you. And I mean that sincerely. The rest of it . . . I’m a little nervous.”

  She grabbed the alarm clock and fiddled with the buttons. The hour flickered, then changed to twelve midnight. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “Well, something in between . . .”

  “No, please, just forget it. For all I know, you do this all the time.”

  “That’s not the case.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” Distracted, she reset the time, trying to catch up before the minute skipped ahead. “This whole world is so weird. And the men are everywhere.”

  “I can’t do anything about that.”

  She laughed and returned the clock to the nightstand. “We’re not exactly the type, right?”

  “I know I’m not.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Well, I’m not either! I never go to bars. But my husband goes on these trips that last forever, and sometimes you just want to be with another person because it’s nicer that way.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I’m sure you’re a great guy, but if you’re uneasy about it—”

  “I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Then let’s just stay here for a few more hours, it’ll be light out, then we’ll go home.”

  Neither spoke for a moment. Martin felt something tenuous about where they’d left the conversation. Clearing his throat, he said, “Or we’ll get breakfast, then we’ll go.”

  “Breakfast. I can’t even think about that.”

  He smiled and made a vague gesture, a loose spiral with one hand. “And that way you can tell me about your . . . what was it?”

  “You don’t want to know about me.” She leaned against the headboard, letting her tits hang. “It’s fine, it’s no big deal, but . . . I’ve got a lot of problems, so, please, just do me a favor and . . . leave it alone.”

  “Okay.” The drapes moved as cold air squeezed through the crack. Martin pressed against the textured wallpaper—coarse and splintered, like reeds chained together. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Oh, goddamnit, don’t apologize. I went up to you, remember? Women do things, sometimes.”

  “I know that. I’m not trying to be a jerk.”

  “Maybe your wife does sleep around.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe she does, and you know what? You deserve it.”

  “I’m sure I do.” He slumped in his chair. The vinyl upholstery stuck to his skin, peeling away an inch at a time.

  “You’ve never cheated before,” she said.

  “Please.” He held his stomach. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  “Okay. I’m
sorry.” She reached over her head and fingered the wallpaper. The cheap lithograph above the bed lifted and fell, slamming face-first into the mattress. Both she and Martin jumped, but slipped quickly back into a late-night fog. Nothing seemed to matter, not even this. “It’s all right,” she continued. “People go through things. And being married . . . it’s hard. With Derek—oh, shit. Well, that’s my husband.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t hear it.”

  She smiled humorlessly. “You didn’t? That’s good, because it’s all boring anyway.” She turned the picture over and studied the design, a cold abstraction, silver and copper lines. “You’re boring, I’m boring.”

  “I am boring,” he nodded. His watch felt heavy on his wrist. Reconsidering, he shook his head. “No I’m not.”

  “You like your work.”

  “I do.”

  The quick burst of conversation left them both exhausted, slightly confused. She snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor. Embarrassed, he fetched her brassiere from a pile of clothes. “I could never do that,” she said, taking it from him. The fallen lithograph made a wet reflection above her head. “Mathematics. Numbers, problems. I’m better at human relations.”

  Martin’s lips formed around a word. He sat there, frozen, unable to say it. She kicked the sheets away and walked across the room. Leaving the door open, she pissed in the john, then dabbed herself with a fat wad of Kleenex; he watched her in the full-length mirror inside the door. Flushing the toilet, she came back out and put on her panties. “How many sperm cells, in the average male?” she asked.

  “Why? I don’t know. A few million.”

  “Good God.” She laughed, rolling her eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Since we’re talking about numbers.” She shrugged and sat down on the bed. “Are you one of those guys, with the toothpicks, and they can tell without looking—”