by Mike Heppner
Fondly,
Your Mother
June 8, 1989
Dear Ben:
Do we have a problem here? I gave you a certified check for forty-eight thousand dollars, and you told me over the phone that you’d have the deeds carried over by the end of the month. It’s a week already, and I’ve got Kay Tree coming into my office every single day, and she’s worried about getting hit with the property taxes come April. I SYMPATHIZE WITH HER ENTIRELY! There’s no reason why this should take so long. We will handle the background check—that’s our job, not yours. That property has been sitting vacant for nearly three years, we’ve got a family all set and ready to go, and I’m starting to get pissed off! There is no zoning issue so far as I can tell. Those are residential homes, and if the people from the Gloria Corporation want to buy up the whole state, then that’s their problem because they can’t do it! They already own the fucking airspace, but that doesn’t mean they can just swoop right in and nullify our contract. So you ignore their memorandum, all right? That’s my advice to you. I want this resolved by the thirteenth. If you need to get in touch with me, go through Kay, who’s still got her place up in Georgetown. Do it. Now.
Mitch.
April 19, 1989
Dear Mitch:
As far as the husband goes, you don’t have to worry about him—he’s an idiot. Lydia is a smart woman, but far too self-absorbed to ask any questions. Besides, she needs a break. She’s been living in that miserable city for too long. Now, with the money situation, we have to do a few things. We already know what’s in our budget—that’s not a problem. But this is a long-term expenditure. We’re not going to be in power for much longer, and we need to make sure that some new broom isn’t going to come in and screw up our accounting system. We’ll have to do a money transfer—it’s very easy, just a matter of punching in a few numbers, but it’ll make a big difference. Gloria will probably pressure the local agent to hold a public hearing, but that’s a lot of hot air and Ben Donaldson should be able to handle them. Ben has set up hundreds of acquisitions through the DCA, and he’s our best contact in the private sector. As far as we’re concerned, this is a standard property purchase, and even if the Gloria Corporation tries to launch their own investigation, they should hit a roadblock fairly early on. It’s important, however, that we keep this space filled, at least until the situation changes. We already know about this Hasse character—what he’s doing out there, I don’t know. It’s a matter of equal representation—they have their man on the case, we have ours. Anyway, let’s keep in touch.
My love,
Kay
March 28, 1989
Kay—
Got it. Okay. Let’s go.
—Mitch
3-26-89
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—END.
XXIV
Back to the Womb
Parthenogenesis
1999
Lydia turned off the TV and lit another cigarette. It was early one April morning and a deer was shitting in the yard; steam rose from the curl of scat. Since the separation, she’d taken to staying up ridiculously late, till four or five a.m. Some nights she didn’t go to bed at all, and this was one of them. At three o’clock, she’d opened a can of beer and left it on the coffee table; it was still there, half full. Taking a sip, she made an ugly face as a timer went off in the kitchen, sending a jet of cold water through the coffee percolator. Bored, she retrieved the TV remote and flashed the screen on and off. The newscaster was still going on about the trial of Olden Field, which had kept the people of Crane City entertained for the past five weeks. Lydia herself had applauded the guilty verdict when it finally came down. Peace and closure, this was all she wanted.
In the pantry, she found a clay mug and rinsed it out in the sink. This was another new habit, one of her post-Steve affectations—letting the dirty dishes accumulate until all of the place settings were used up. This particular mug was a glazed ceramic with a fat gargoyle-handle that made it hard to hold. She turned it over and read an inscription carved with a toothpick:
THE SOUL-SPIRIT ‘CASSIDY’
PROTECTS AGAINST ILLNESS
AND FEAR
HE IS A GOOD SHAMAN
The percolator, still in the midst of its noisy cycle, spat hot coffee onto the counter as she poured herself a cup. Replacing the carafe, she tried lifting the mug but the handle was too awkward and the whole thing fell and cracked against the sink. The gargoyle itself did not break, just stared up at her with a skeletal grin, a puddle of steaming coffee making a devil’s breath around its horny head. Outraged by the arrogance of this ridiculous mug, she seized the gargoyle and hurled it across the room, where it broke into fragments against the kitchen table. Disgusted, she pulled a dirty mug out of the dishwasher and filled it with more coffee from the carafe. It was 6:58 in the morning. She hoped she could make it through the day in one piece.
Finishing her coffee, she threw a robe over her clothes and stepped into her shoes. The robe had been strewn across two chairs like a painter’s tarp, and indeed the whole house looked dusty and disheveled, with dining chairs tipped over in the hallway and half-empty wineglasses sitting on the floor where she’d fallen asleep. This was Lydia’s month off; she deserved a little break, some time away from her adult self. Steve didn’t appreciate the mess, and he’d complained about it when he’d stopped by to reclaim toiletries earlier in the week.
(“You’re not to touch that, Steve.”
“What the heck are you talking about? I’m just trying to find my shaving kit!”
“You’re not to touch the mirror, Steve. That was the choice you made when you—”
“When I what?”
“That was your choice. And now this is my house.”
“Lydia, my shaving kit is inside the medicine cabinet. All I want to do is . . . If it offends you so much . . .”
“You’re not to touch the mirror, Steve. If you touch it, I will call the police and you will never see your son again.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. Technically, you don’t even belong here. Technically, you shouldn’t even be on the property. You should be hovering an inch off the ground, making no contact with any physical object whatso—”
“Well, how the heck am I supposed to get my shaving kit?”
“Come here. I will get you a pair of tongs.”)
Cold wind filled her robe as she slid open the screen door and went outside. The deer did not run off, just kept nosing around in its own excrement. At the edge of the yard, she turned and faced the house. Simon’s bedroom window was a bright square of sunlight. In recent days, the boy had taken to staying inside all morning. That was okay, she felt; he needed his rest, too. It had not been a good year for either one of them. Over the past month, his behavior had turned increasingly erratic, for no reason she could understand. There was the separation, true—that would upset anyone, especially a child; but it didn’t explain the odd conversations, the empty stares, the daily regressions. Eleven years old, Simon sometimes acted three.
(“Stop looking at the chandelier, darling.”
“It looks like bugs.”
“It does not look like bugs, now finish your food—and don’t turn the plate. I put that plate there for a reason.”
“I hate it.”
“You hate what—the food or the plate?”
“Both.”
“You don’t like Christian Dior?”
“Not a lot.”
Lydia bit into her fish. She chewed with her mouth open. “Well, I’v
e got news for you, kiddo. Those plates—when I’m dead and gone, those plates—when you get married, those plates—”
“This tastes like bricks.”
“It does not, it was very expensive and it took a long time to prepare.”
“I ate a brick once.”
“Somehow I’m not sur—”
“Mommy?”
“Yes? Watch your sleeve.”
“What’s a chair?”
“What’s a chair, what do you mean what’s a chair?”
“Heh-heh. Answer.”
“You’re sitting on one.”
“Chair! Chair! Chair!”)
Peering up at his window, she thought about the next few years. Simon was nearly a teenager now; calmly, she wondered if the boy jerked off. Brass trophies stood on the window-ledge: #1 SON, WORLD’S GREATEST KID—die-cast figurines of Grecian athletes dressed in loin-cloths, $4.99 a pop. Simon vaguely resembled the figures on the top of each pedestal, just a little less developed in the chest and abs. Give him some time. And then what? Another child, perhaps. Simon was a good kid—handsome, with nice teeth and photogenic eyebrows—but Steve was his father, half of his life-blood, and she longed to go inside and remove all of the bad bits, the black and ugly remnants. She cherished the Lydia part of her boy, only that.
(“Here, baby, I saved you the soap.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Brand-new.”
“It’s heavy.”
“I just took it out of the package.”
“Smells!”
“Good, hunh?”
“Like magic creatures.”
“That’s ’cause it’s extra special.”
“Heck yeah.”
“Have a nice bath.”
“Thanks!”
“Don’t walk on the carpet.”)
Near the driveway, she loosened her robe and undid the top few buttons of her blouse. Her breasts surprised her; they looked super-huge, pornographic. She’d never breast-fed her child; the thought of it made her feel like a beast of burden, all rough teats and nipples. In recent years, she’d regarded her breasts as little more than a minor annoyance. Even so, it felt good standing in the backyard with the wind flapping against her skin, and she found herself undoing another button, then another, all the way down to the bottom. The linen tips swung apart and her stomach instinctively tightened as the cool air swept across her chest. A strange desire to make love turned in midair like a fancy bird, then flew away. Outside, her body felt different, and she wanted to take everything off, her suit, her skirt and shoes. Half-naked, she wondered what she looked like from a distance.
Simon screamed.
Closing her blouse, she ran inside and hurried up the steps. Simon was convulsing in bed, the sheets cast aside, a splatch of foamy blood covering his upper lip as his legs slapped against the mattress. His eyes were wide open, and his little bald penis was hard and red; a stream of marbled fluid shot from the tip, some striking his stomach but most of it landing on the sheets between his legs. The room lurched as she picked up the phone, remembered the number and dialed.
“EMS.”
“Yes, there’s something wrong with my son. He’s bleeding. Was bleeding. He’s not bleeding now.”
“This is a medical emergency?”
“Yes, I—I can’t talk. I can’t—”
Distracted, she stared at the puddle in the middle of the bed, thick and cloudy with sperm. Leaning closer, she touched it, dragging a bead, the stain forming little wrinkles that trailed like a mass of parentheses, then stretched and snapped. She flinched, drawing away as the dispatcher repeated her last question. Breathless, she hung up the phone and waited for the medics to arrive. The nearest hospital was three miles south on the expressway. She and Steve had driven there once when he’d insisted that he was having a heart attack, but when they arrived, a dubious nurse told them to wait in the lobby, and so he picked up a copy of Hi-Tech Fisherman and began leafing through the pages, glancing occasionally at a caption or a sidebar, and Lydia snapped, If you’re having a heart attack, why are you reading the magazine? and Steve said, Fine, I won’t read it then! and angrily tossed it back onto the table, his face screwed up in a childish pout. Remembering Steve’s face, she looked at her son; it sickened her, the idea that she’d once made love to his father, that together they’d produced this compromise, this disappointment. Shamed, she brought her hand to her chin. Simon lay still, breathing softly, thorns of dark blood clustering around his nose and mouth. His lips moved in a way that suggested a limited degree of awareness.
The medics let themselves in through the front door and tramped upstairs, carrying a stretcher and a fire-retardant blanket. There were three of them, two men and a woman. The woman was black and rotund, with dark whippy hair that seemed drawn on, like a cartoon character’s. Her partners both were strong and tall, a good-looking pair. The woman examined the naked boy as the men hefted him onto a stretcher and moved down the hall. Lydia followed, stopping at the top of the stairs. One of the men called up to her: “Would you like a brochure?”
“Brochure?”
“About your son’s illness.”
She looked down at Simon, who was now mashing his tongue against his upper lip, tasting the blood. “What’s wrong with him?”
Bracing the stretcher, the medic reached inside his jumper and pulled out a shiny leaflet. “It’s just a general brochure.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s not about any one—”
“I get it.” She took the brochure and thanked him. “I’ll be right there. Just let me grab my cell phone.”
The medics proceeded downstairs; the sound of unfamiliar activity filled the house, dimming as the front door opened and closed. Fetching her purse, Lydia started to follow, but a new thought occurred to her, and she turned and went back to her son’s room. The splotch of semen had not yet dried, and it trembled when she sat at the foot of the bed. Cautiously at first, she held her hand over the stain, not touching it, feeling only the vague warmth of thermal energy, ions fading in the air. Great possibilities revolved in her brain, and she saw a purer version of herself—not perfect, no, but close, a three-quarter clone. Curious, she cupped her fingers around the thick, viscous fluid and imagined busy sperm-heads butting up against her skin, insane with a need to break through. A soft whisper grew inside her head. From afar, a new market beckoned. Beauty pageants were never an option for the boy—but for a Lydia Junior, perhaps!
Raising her dress, she pulled her underpants aside and held her labia apart with her middle and index fingers. Gently, she guided her wet hand between her legs. The walls of her vagina stretched as hot liquid formed a pool near the base of her cervix. A weird shudder ran through her body. Electric! Gooey inside, she sat up straight and crossed her legs. With this seed, she would start again.
Rights My Ass
It was noon by the time Gray arrived at the prison, having stopped in Vega to pick up a tasteless little present—Derek Skye’s new book, Life Is Fair. He’d never been inside a prison before. The low, brick-brown building looked neither menacing nor sternly reassuring. It looked like a wall, solid all the way through.
The guard near the visitors’ entrance was eating his lunch, a garden salad in a plastic tray. Gray passed his book through the security clearance, then followed an escort into a room divided by a wall of Plexiglas. The escort was a short guard named Dale. As they waited for the prisoner to arrive, he offered Gray a stick of bubble gum. The gum was stale and had the medicinal taste of non-minty mouthwash.
After a while, Dale cleared his throat and said, “Normally, while we’re waiting, I like to talk about racecars.”
Gray feigned interest. “You . . . you do?”
Dale sniffed. Jaw set, he seemed to suppress an awful responsibility. “Yep. When people come in here? I sure do.”
Crossing his legs, Gray focused on the other half of the room, where an open door marked DO NOT CROSS RED LINE led into a corridor of yellow tile
. Looking back at the guard, he said, “You like the racecars, huh?”
Dale took off his sheriff’s hat and held it in his lap. “Yes, sir, I really do. I think they’re just super.”
A few minutes passed before Olden was escorted into the room by a guard with a leathery brown head. His wrists were not bound, and his uniform was a loose jumpsuit of parti-colored scraps, harlequin bright.
“I’ve been trying to get a new lightbulb for over my bed,” he said, leaning over a microphone bolted to the counter. Dale tapped Gray on the shoulder and handed him a bulky pair of headphones. Olden waited for Gray to put them on, then repeated himself, adding, “They make you sign a bunch of forms, and I guess I filled out the wrong one.”
“When did it burn out?”
“Two days ago. Two fuckin’ days.”
Gray reached into his jacket and pulled out the Derek Skye book he’d purchased earlier that morning. He squinted at the Plexiglas wall, searching for a slot, some place to slide the package through. “I brought you this book.”
“What is it?”
“Something stupid. Here . . . where do I—”
“Oh, you have to give it to the guard on the way out. Dale’ll take care of it. He’s cool.”
Gray raised one side of his headphones and relayed the compliment to the guard, who shrugged and said Who gives a shit?
“I don’t think he appreciates it.”
“Has he talked about the racecars yet?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“He does that with everyone. That’s his little thing.”
Gray laughed; it made him feel ashamed of himself, but he didn’t know what else to do.
Olden continued: “They don’t normally have him working out where you are. Most of the time, he’s in here with the other guards. That guy knows everything there is to know about the Baltimore Orioles.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, he does. Dale’s got it down. Ask him something.”
Gray looked over at Dale and said So, he says you know a lot about the Baltimore Orioles, to which the guard replied I know a little bit, sure, and Gray thought for a moment, then asked Who’s their best player? but Dale only shook his head and said There’s just no way to answer that question, sir.
