The Egg Code

by Mike Heppner

  Headlights skimmed across the driveway as Lydia dropped the frozen steak into a bowl of hot water. She leaned over the sink and saw, through the window, Steve’s car parked next to hers. He climbed out and stood between the cars for a moment, his breath white and heavy in the cold air. Glancing up at the house, he gulped and slipped his keys into his pants pocket. Lydia ran out to meet him at the door. He looked horrible.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “You’ve been gone all afternoon!”

  He slouched across the foyer, staring vaguely at the bare dining-room table. His eyes were red and his coat was wet with slush. “Lydia, I’d like a moment to take off my jacket.”

  “Don’t be relaxed!”

  “Just a little time would be ever so nice.”

  “It’s already—what time is it?”

  “I don’t know, Lydia. It’s a long drive, you know? You’ve done it before. You gotta go all the way down and then all the way back. It takes some time. So here I am.”

  Closing the door, she herded him into the next room. “So now what am I supposed to do?”

  “Let’s all do nothing. For a treat.” He sighed as he took off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. A wedge of perspiration made a dark trail along the back of his shirt.

  Lydia stood directly under the blurred light of the chandelier. “I called. Some girl picked up. ‘Oh, I don’t know where he is!’ That was helpful.”

  “Great, you got ’em all worked up. Let’s blow up the whole world while we’re at it.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. And don’t put your coat there.”

  Halting in mid-reach, Steve laughed and slung the jacket over his left arm. “Lydia . . .”

  “Don’t put your coat there!”

  “Pffehhh. I’m gonna put it on the chair.”

  “Don’t put it there either!”

  “Where do you want me to put it?”

  “That chair was my mother’s and it’s worth eighty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Okay! I won’t put it there!”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “About what—the chair?”

  “The chair, for one thing, it’s a beautiful piece of furniture.”

  “It’s a great chair. I’m not saying anything about the chair.”

  “Don’t you dare insinuate anything about that chair or my mother, because this house belongs to me!”

  Steve’s fist tightened around the jacket. “I am well aware of that, Lydia, and I’m not going to get into a big fight about it. We all know—I know. I’m a worthless, horrible, miserable person. That’s fine! We’re in total agreement about that.”

  “I’m not saying you’re a miserable person, Steve. I’m saying if you touch that chair, I’m going to rip your fucking head off.”

  “Jesus!”

  “What?”

  “If you’re serious about that. I need to get away from you.”

  “Oh, stop.” She went into the kitchen and turned on the lights, but they were already on, and now they were off and so she turned them back on again. “Hang up your jacket and sit down. We’re having steak for dinner.”

  “I don’t want any steak.”

  “You’ll eat it. It’s expensive.”

  “I’m not hungry. I had lunch with Cam and Jim today.”

  “That’s what you did with your day.”

  “That’s what I did with my day. We had a nice long lunch—on the house!—and I drank a beer.”

  “Reckless.”

  “Darn right! I had a Michelob Light and a plate of nachos, and then a scoop of ice cream for dessert, and then I got FUCKING FIRED!”

  Breathless, she dashed out of the kitchen. The two rooms seemed to crash together. “Oh, my God. Why on earth?”

  “Listen. Let me tell you—”

  “Jesus Christ, Steve!”

  “Let me tell you—”

  “Now we’re broke!”

  “Oh, we’re not broke. That’s an absurd thing to say. I’ve got severance pay, they’re giving me . . . for six months.”

  Lydia shook her head and sat down. “What about the house?”

  “The house, as far as I know . . . I don’t know about the house.”

  “The whole point of you working, Steve, was so I wouldn’t have to use my savings to pay this property tax.”

  “How much savings do you have?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Steve stood in inept silence for a moment, then slid a chair out from under the dining table. “Well, this is a good time to start using it.”

  “That’s not what my savings is for, Steve. My savings is my money which my mother gave to me.”

  “As—I thought!—a wedding present.”

  “No, that’s selective memory on your part. The wedding present was a ceramic mixing bowl which we don’t even have anymore because you broke it in the microwave.”

  “That was the wedding present?”

  “Yes, Steve, it was.”

  “That was not the wedding present. That was part of the wedding present. She gave us the bowl because she needed something to wrap up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t wrap up a check. That’s why the bowl. So we could have something to open. She meant it as a joke.”

  “That bowl cost over nine hundred dollars.”

  “I stand cor—”

  “Don’t you even remember what it looked like?”

  “I have a vague recollection of there being a bowl.”

  “It was signed by the potist.”

  “The potist?”

  “It was made by a very famous potist. Who’s dead now.”

  “Lydia, listen. I sincerely doubt that Kay meant—”

  “You don’t know anything about my mother! You’re being very presumptuous and offensive right now, Steve. My family’s estate is not your gold mine.”

  “And I never said it was! My God, Lydia. You have absolutely no respect for me, do you?”

  Lydia smiled and stood up, heading for the kitchen. “This is where it gets to be my fault.”

  “No, wait, listen to me—Lydia?” He rose and followed her into the other room. “Look, I’m gonna get another job. That’s not an issue. I’ve got a lot of connections in the sales industry.”

  “You and the rest of the bag boys.”

  “The rest of the bag boys?”

  “Yeah. The Kmart bag boys. You and the rest of the Kmart bag boys.”

  “Okay, I don’t even remotely understand that, but fine.”

  “You’re a joke, Steve. That job of yours. A joke.”

  He took one step closer to his wife. Under the fluorescent lights, he looked blue and menacing. “I was district manager for the entire northern half of the state. That’s no joke, Lydia. That’s serious business. And I would’ve been zone veep by the end of the year if it wasn’t for this Simon thing.”

  “What does Simon—”

  “You know what I’m talking about. The ad campaign. Remember? That was your idea. Begged me to do it, and I did it because I wanted you to be happy. Then it turns out Simon’s running around on the Internet with a bunch of freaky terrorists, people are asking me questions like what do I know about the Egg Code, and I’m about ready to lose my mind.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have listened to me, then.”

  “Ha! Isn’t that the way?”

  Steve laughed and Lydia’s eyes narrowed. She tilted her head and looked at him sideways. “The way of what?”

  “That’s a woman talking right there.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Pleading now, he moved toward the sink. “Six months, hon. After six months of looking, I’ll have an even better job.”

  “Doing what? Earning what?”

  “In sales! That’s what I do!”

  “You want to sell cars, Steve?”

  “No, I don’t want to sell cars—that’s not the point.”

  “I can get you a job. Selling car
s.”

  “I can get my own job. I am a store manager. And I’m a darn good one too, and if it wasn’t for all this political nonsense going on downtown, I would’ve had Jim Carroll’s job like that!”

  “But that’s not what happened, Steve. What happened was, you lost your job, you got your free lunch, your free pat on the back, and now here we are.”

  Steve hefted his pants, raising them up an inch and then down again. “I know that, honey. What I’m saying is, I can get a better job someplace else. Forget Jim Carroll! All those dinners with that thankless jerk. Oh ho, Jim, you’re really funny. Drinking my liquor until two a.m. Give me a break. Forget Cam Pee! I can take this and make something happen.”

  “No you can’t, Steve. I have zero faith in you.”

  He gathered himself. “Look, Lydia. People have been watching me.”

  “Ah-ha! I see.”

  “Oh, yes. People have been watching me. You ever hear of Bargain Binz U.S.A.?”

  “No, Steve, I haven’t.”

  “Bargain Binz . . . it’s only the biggest . . . place they got out at . . . wherever that mall is. The one downtown. It’s right there on the sign. You can see it from the freeway. They just opened three branches on the east side. One in Hedgemont, one in—”

  “I don’t care where they are, Steve.”

  “And the other two, I don’t know exactly where they are. Anyway, that guy, hon, the head of all Bargain Binz U.S.A., calls me up must be once a week. Be my district manager. Run my sooper stores. I’m on register, this guy’s talking numbers!”

  “I’m tired of this, Steve. The mediocrity.” She pushed him aside, then crossed and spoke to the window. “I want you to not be a part of my life anymore. I’m willing to be civil. I’m willing to work something out with Simon. I know that you love your son. I’m not going to get in the way of that. But I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  He closed his eyes, rotating his neck in a slow, painful circle. “Wait, now. Okay. That can’t happen.”

  “It can happen, Steve. It just happened. I am not going to support you for one more day.”

  “Support me? I’m supporting you!”

  “In every meaningful way, I have supported you. How many managers of Living Arrangements U.S.A. can—”

  “It’s just Living Arrangements.”

  “How many managers can afford to live in Big Dipper Township, in a house like this? None, Steve. If it was just you, we’d be living in a little shack in Skylor, no yard, no place for Simon to go to school.”

  “But I worked. I worked hard, so you could stay at home and screw around with our son. That’s why I worked.”

  “No, the reason why you worked, Steve, was so you could feel in control. The big breadwinner!”

  “Okay, so now I’ll stay home.”

  “Not here you won’t. I’ll let you come back in the morning for your clothes. The rest is mine.”

  “But I haven’t even had my dinner yet!”

  “You said you weren’t hungry.”

  “I’m not, but—”

  “Then go.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Shaking his head, Steve walked toward his wife, but she kept him back, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  “Look, Lydia. It’s cold outside, I’m tired, I’ve been driving for an hour. I’ll nod off at the wheel!”

  “You’re not going to nod off at the wheel.”

  “One night, and we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  “Let me just take a nap. For a couple hours. Really, Lydia, I’m not faking. I’m exhausted. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  “You’re not putting your feet on that sofa.”

  Squeezing past the door, Steve ran toward the staircase and grabbed on to the banister. “Well, then, I’m gonna say goodbye to Simon. He needs to hear this from a man.”

  Lydia followed—fast steps in the hallway. “Simon is sick. He’s sleeping.”

  “He wasn’t sick this morning.”

  “He’s sick, you idiot! Why won’t you listen? You stupid, stupid—”

  “All right, don’t yell.”

  “Get out of this house!”

  “Don’t push at me.”

  Lydia punched at his chest with both hands, pushing him toward the front door. “Look at you, pathetic shit. Someone should break your skull with a hammer.”

  “Let go of my shirt.”

  “You fuck.”

  “I’ll hit you, and then it’s gonna hurt.”

  “Get out!”

  Dragging Lydia across the foyer, Steve used the rest of his energy to pry himself loose, grinding his elbow into her palm until she finally let go. “All right, bye! I’m driving far away!”

  He strained and reached for the door. Lydia pushed again; the door gave and he stumbled onto the porch step. Shivering, he held up both hands, a conciliatory gesture, but the door was already closing and Lydia was now just a pair of angry clenched jaws snarling between a six-inch gap of light.

  “Stop. Staaaahp.”

  “Shuuhhtt—”

  “I wanna get my nice shoes.”

  “Oh DIE!”

  The light in the foyer cut off with a snap. Steve leaned against the window and looked inside, but could see no movement, no sign of Lydia. Giving up, he turned and walked back to his car. Just past the yard, the frozen lake reached out to him like a white spill about to dribble over the side of a table. Realizing his new situation, he climbed into his car and started the engine, then pulled onto the main road. He drove slowly, for the road was icy and the curves were sharp. He’d come this way thousands of times before; the long commute sometimes rankled, but overall he’d loved living in Big Dipper Township. And now it was gone. Please note the changes in your course calendar. To see his own child—this was a privilege. Something given and later taken away. New rules, weekly visits. Everything subject to litigation. Have him back by six. The Friday-night anticipation. Trying not to drink, not to stay up too late. Must get up early, must leave enough time to shave in the morning. Make the ol’ man look presentable. For Dad now leads a strange existence. Cold motels, rented by the week. Bad, cheap food. Grilled sandwiches. Lukewarm flirtations with the waitress down the road. So, you a dee-vor-say? Ordering dinner by the number. The four. The number eight. Gimme the seventeen, no onions. Wearing sunglasses while eating dinner in a narrow cafeteria. The old lady in the opposite booth. A quad cane. Brown stockings rolled down to the ankles. The glass of bubbled plastic. Red tint. The faint taste of detergent. Slinking off into the night. The gum machines in the foyer. All proceeds donated to the Kiwanis Club of Crane City. The stacks of free literature. Apartments. Property in Florida. Jacking off to the realtor’s head shot. Getting it all over her fancy blazer. The awful room. The kitchenette. The clean ashtrays. The place in the mattress where it always dips. The pay-per-view flicks. $6.46 an hour. Soft-core pornography. Hot Satin Nites. Our featured selection—a Mel Gibson movie! The same clip of Mel Gibson running away from an oncoming torrent of fire shown over and over and over again. “Get down!” he’s shouting. “Get down!”

  Olden watched from the side of the road as Steve’s car slowed around a curve and passed out of view. He’d been waiting outside for several hours, and now it was night and soon he would have to go home. The men from the Gloria Corporation were still here; he could hear their feet scurrying through the underbrush. Near. Not so near. He walked deeper into the woods, trying not to lose sight of the road, for that would mean staying out here until dawn. He could do that. After four years in the country, he was used to roughing it a little. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway, not until he knew what had happened to Mr. Tall and Mr. Short. There was a whole team of them lurking about, not just a few individuals. The entire organization had been dispatched to this place, making its nest amid the fruitcakes of Big Dipper Township. But why here? Why not New York City?

  Reaching a break in the trees, he st
ared into a long column of mist. A man was standing at the far end of the column, his arms hanging at his sides, gunfighter-style. With a deft motion, Olden skipped back into the woods. He didn’t hurry ahead, simply walked to where the man had been standing and looked in all directions. A small clearing opened off to the right, where he saw a gigantic tree, its roots feeding into a platch of frozen floodwater. Coming closer, he noticed that the bark was unusually smooth, like parchment. Reaching along the base, he felt a strange protuberance, about the size of his fist. At first he thought it was an old knot where a branch had snapped off some years ago. But no, it was too smooth, too properly manufactured. Manufactured, that was it. It was a doorknob—locked, no less. Taking a step back, he looked up to survey the full extent of the tree. High above, the moon glowed through snags of complicated bramble. Four thick trunks angled toward the same fat ball of roots. Each limb grew away from the center—a wooden cage, forty feet tall and nearly half as wide. Its overall shape recalled that of an onion, and indeed it seemed like something that belonged underground rather than out in the open.