The Year of the Gadfly

by Jennifer Miller

  —Marvelous Species: Investigating Earth’s Mysterious Biology

  Lily

  March 2000

  MARCH ARRIVED, SOGGY and slick. At the end of February, the weather shot upward—from the twenties into the high forties—and the natural world, reeling from this abrupt shift, sank into muddy depression. Weeks before, thick, blinding blankets of snow had covered Mariana’s fields. Now this snow melted into fetid bogs. In those early days of March, you couldn’t walk two feet without accruing diarrhetic splatters on the backs of your legs or hearing the sucking, slurping sound of your shoes in the muck.

  These dark stains were far more pronounced on Lily’s snowy skin than on anyone else’s, but she didn’t care. She swung madly between the loss of her grandmother and relief at Justin’s presence. Everywhere she went, he was there to help her skip over a puddle or sidestep a watery rut. Ever since her grandmother’s death, they sat side by side in class, surreptitiously slipping notes between their desks. For the first time in her life, Lily felt exactly as she’d always wanted to feel: included. It wasn’t about being part of any specific clique; it was the simple knowledge that she was living as a normal teenager was supposed to.

  But her parents were concerned. Elliott had instituted a father-daughter bonding regimen, wherein one night a week they did an activity together. It was an obvious ploy to glean information about her life. Her new, normal life. On this night, she and her father played gin on the living room carpet while her mother drank coffee and read the paper on the couch.

  “When it comes to dating,” Elliott was saying, “there’s a lot of pressure.”

  “You sound like a sex-ed pamphlet.” Lily selected a card from the center stack.

  “People like Justin can’t always keep the ups and downs in perspective.”

  “What do you mean, people like him? He’s not retarded.”

  “You haven’t seen Justin’s file. We just want to make sure that if things don’t work out between you, then—”

  “Who said things aren’t going to work out?” Lily looked from parent to parent.

  “Your mother and I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Maureen gasped, as though responding to the mere mention of pain.

  “Maura, what’s wrong?”

  Maureen placed her coffee cup on top of the newspaper. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and forced a smile. “Just a lot of nastiness in the world.”

  A litany of tragedies flashed through Lily’s head: war, terrorism, earthquake, disease. But papers were always filled with these things. “What happened?”

  “People killing each other over in Africa. Same old thing.”

  “Mom, people kill each other over here, too.”

  Elliott glared at his daughter: She’s not trying to be insensitive.

  Lily glared back: Well, she sounds insensitive to me.

  Elliott sighed in a way that indicated a truce.

  “Just forget it.” But then Maureen began to cry. Elliott rose from the carpet and went to his wife. He reached for the newspaper, and in an attempt to stop him Maureen’s hand knocked over the coffee. Dark liquid ran across the coffee table and onto her lap. Cursing, she jumped up as Elliott fished for tissues. Amid the commotion, Lily grabbed the newspaper and scurried into the hall. Her mother had been reading a story about Kenyan albinos, a tiny population ostracized for its freakishness.

  “Lily, put that down!” her mother yelled from the living room. “Lily!”

  But Lily heard her mother’s voice as if through a pane of glass. Africa’s Albinos Decry Ancient Superstition, she mouthed to herself. Mercenaries are kidnapping and killing albinos and selling their skins on the black market. Some people in Africa believe albino skin to be good luck.

  Akeyo Mundi, 15, had been forced to drop out of school because of her albinism. She suffered from nystagmus, an eye condition which prevents the eyes from focusing on faraway objects and causes extreme nearsightedness. Mundi couldn’t see the chalkboard or read books without extra-large print.

  “People say my daughter is lucky, because of her skin,” Makena Mundi, Akeyo’s mother, said. “But the men do not want to marry her. No one will hire her for work.”

  Two weeks ago, the Mundi family was eating dinner when men armed with machetes broke into their house. They grabbed Akeyo from the table.

  “Her father tried to stop them, but they sliced him in the shoulder,” Mrs. Mundi said.

  One of the men held Akeyo by the arms as the other sawed off her legs. The men collected the stumps and ran away. Akeyo died.

  Lily’s parents were still calling to her, but what were they saying? She looked at her pale palm with its violet veins, and imagined a knife slipping beneath the tip of her middle finger and slicing a thin line toward her wrist. She imagined the skin peeling away, like chicken fat. She saw her parents’ bodies beside her, watched them gesticulate, but their actual words made no sense. Suddenly she vomited onto the floor.

  “Here, honey.” For a moment, Lily thought it was her grandmother rubbing her back, but it was her mother holding her. “I’m so sorry, Lily. I didn’t want you to see that.”

  Lily broke from her mother and rushed to the bathroom. She swooshed water around her mouth, washed her hands, and dried them on her mother’s plush hand towels. She looked at herself in the mirror. Why was she crying? She didn’t live in Africa. That article had nothing to do with her life.

  “Lily, are you all right?”

  Lily stared at the mirror. But wasn’t it possible that she felt sick in a different way from how most people would?

  “Lily, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to see that. But I’m here for you.”

  “I’m here too, Lily!” her father echoed. Then both her parents were talking at once, assuring and reassuring her. We won’t ever leave you. We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere. But as they pleaded and comforted, an idea swept through Lily with great force: her parents feared that she was going to leave them. How naïve they were, Lily thought. How much like frightened children. She opened the bathroom door and let her mother and father embrace her.

  Whereas the Morgans were concerned about Lily’s relationship with Justin, Mrs. Kaplan was elated. The next evening, she intercepted them as they were coming down from Justin’s room. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, and Lily had the uncomfortable feeling she’d been waiting there for hours.

  Mrs. Kaplan clasped her hands to her chest. “I’ve just ordered a pizza, Lily. Would your parents mind?”

  Lily and Justin glanced at each other, silently assessing the potential damage this offer could do. Before either one could answer, however, Mrs. Kaplan put her arm around Lily’s shoulder. It felt strange to have someone else’s mother touching her, but she let Justin’s mom lead her into the kitchen.

  “Justin thinks we’re embarrassing,” Mrs. Kaplan said, opening the refrigerator door. “But we’re not that bad. Honey, do you have any idea how old these Cokes are?” Justin rolled his eyes. “Well, if this soda is flat or tastes funky, let me know.” She handed Lily a Coke can. The aluminum was sticky.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan.”

  “Oh, no. It’s Helen.”

  Lily opened the Coke. A sharp pop echoed in the silence.

  “Justin, will you get your father?” Justin didn’t move. “Justin!” Justin slunk out of the room. Mrs. Kaplan began setting the table with paper plates and napkins. When Lily’s parents ordered pizza, a rare occurrence, her mother still used china. “Jeffrey loves pepperoni,” Mrs. Kaplan said, “but we don’t officially allow pork in the house, hence the paper. We’re horrible Jews.”

  Lily leaned against the wall, trying to understand this confusing statement.

  “So.” Mrs. Kaplan smiled at Lily as though waiting for her to say something. But Lily was only sixteen and Mrs. Kaplan was an adult; wasn’t it her responsibility to keep the conversation going?

  Mrs. Kaplan stood by the table, her hand
s knotted together. “I’m just so happy that you and Justin have been spending time together. These last few weeks, he’s been a different person.” Mrs. Kaplan sat down at the kitchen table and began folding a paper napkin in front of her. Her hands were chapped, her nails short and unglossed. “He’s always been so hard on himself . . . I don’t know why.”

  Lily did not move from her spot against the wall. She watched Mrs. Kaplan’s fingers smooth out the napkin.

  “After he broke his foot in the fall, we worried that—” She paused, looking intently at the napkin. “Well, I was beginning to think this would never happen for him.” Mrs. Kaplan nodded to herself. “But everything’s all right now.” She kept nodding. “Finally, he’s happy and—”

  Lily spotted a box of tissues and brought them to the table.

  “Thank you, honey.” Mrs. Kaplan wiped her eyes and went to the sink. The doorbell rang, and Justin entered with the pizza box.

  “I’m sorry that took so long. My dad stumbled into some insane tirade about string theory.” He leaned toward her ear and said, “Is my mother crazy?”

  Lily glanced at Mrs. Kaplan’s back. “She’s fine.”

  Just as Lily and Justin sat down, Mr. Kaplan walked into the kitchen. He stood a solid five foot ten and bore a strong resemblance to Jonah—or how Jonah might look as a man: narrow, angled face, small, quick eyes. He wore a T-shirt and khaki pants with a braided leather belt. Red hair grew in abundance on his face and arms and, like Jonah, from his head. His eyebrows resembled furry crimson caterpillars. His feet were bare and his toes sprouted long red hairs. Jeffrey Kaplan was not a boy like Justin, or a dad like her father, but a man. Justin touched her arm and she flinched.

  “Good to see you, Lily,” Mr. Kaplan said, and scratched his beard. His fingers sounded like sandpaper against the scruff. Lily began to stand. “No, don’t get up.” He waved her back. “You ordered pepperoni?” Mrs. Kaplan winked at Lily, no sign of tears. “Where is my prodigal son?” he said, licking pizza grease off his fingers. On cue, Jonah walked in, grabbed a slice of pizza, and without a word walked back out.

  Lily, Justin, and the Kaplans ate in silence, their mouths masticating bread and cheese.

  “So, Lily.” Mr. Kaplan folded his hands on the table. “How do you like Mariana? Do you see your father often at school?”

  “This isn’t an interview, Dad.”

  Mr. Kaplan coughed. “Take Your Daughter to Work Day must be pretty boring,” he said, smiling. “Or does your dad let you play disciplinarian?”

  “Jeff!”

  Justin looked desperate. “Lily, don’t you need me to take you home?”

  “I need to grab my bag upstairs.” She smiled apologetically at Justin’s father. He turned up the corners of his mouth and nodded.

  “Oh, Lily,” Mrs. Kaplan said, eyeing her husband and son. “I’m so sorry to hear about your grandmother. Justin told me how close you were.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and hurried from the kitchen.

  The upstairs hallway was cast in early-evening gloom. She walked a straight line toward Justin’s room, trying to ignore the insects. She felt like Aladdin, warned by the genie that to touch the treasure chamber walls meant sudden death. Justin’s room was just a few steps away.

  Only then Jonah appeared before her, animus radiating from his diminutive body.

  “You scared me,” Lily said.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting my bag.”

  “No—with my brother.” Jonah shifted his weight and ran a hand through his hair. “Why did you decide, after all this time, that you were interested in him?” As he spoke, a tight feeling built in Lily’s chest. “Because I think you’re only using him to climb your way out of your pathetic existence. You only care about Veronica. And Alexi.”

  “I’m allowed to have different friends.” She wanted to back away, but she felt an irrational fear of accidentally touching the insect frames. As though they’d curse her forever.

  “You feel guilty, though.” Jonah smiled. “About something.”

  “You’re jealous. Your brother has a girlfriend and you don’t. He’s doing things you’ve never done.” Jonah opened his mouth, but Lily kept going, fueled by a peculiar energy she’d never felt before. “Have you kissed a girl, Jonah? Have you touched a girl’s breasts? Have you stroked a girl’s hair? Has any girl ever pressed her mouth to your ear?” She couldn’t believe she was saying these things. “You wish you were your brother. And you’re a hypocrite, pretending to care how other people treat Justin when you treat him like shit.”

  Lily marched past Jonah and stood heaving in Justin’s room. When she heard Jonah’s door slam, she grabbed her bag and hurried downstairs. In the foyer, she heard voices.

  “God, Mom!” Justin was saying, “You’re even worse than Dad. She’s already self-conscious about her appearance and all you did was stare at her like she was some freak.”

  “Oh, honey, I’d never—I was trying to be friendly. And I know how important she is to you. I’ve seen how you’ve changed.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Honey, don’t be embarrassed.”

  “I’m the same person.”

  “But honey, you’re not.”

  The voices stopped. Chairs scraped. Justin stormed into the hallway but stopped short when he saw Lily standing there.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and walked past her out the door.

  Iris

  November 2012

  I STOOD ALONE in the Trench. The four eyes bugged out at me, their red veins like trickles of blood. “What are you?” I shouted, but the craggy mouth only smiled, sinister and calm. A rush of air gathered in the darkness behind me. Those eyes had seen things and that mouth held vital information. Something was approaching, and those eyes could see it. They were watching, waiting for it to happen. And just as I felt the black sack thrown over my head and the cold fingers on my neck, I woke up.

  My sheets were tangled and soaked with sweat. I switched on the light and flipped through my collection of Murrow’s broadcasts until I came to “A Report on Senator Joseph R. McCarthy,” from March 9, 1954.

  We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men—not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate and to defend causes that were, for the moment, unpopular.

  I read the words again and again, like my own Lord’s Prayer. My history was the legacy of Charles Prisom. And Prisom stood for courage and truth. But nobody was being truthful. I was hiding the truth from Mr. Kaplan, and I feared that Prisom’s Party was hiding it from me.

  And what about Mr. Kaplan? What was he hiding?

  Only in the classroom was he confident and self-assured. In fact, it amazed me how the class dynamic had begun to change. We were learning a lot, but it didn’t feel forced. One day we’d be out in the snow, searching the fields of goldenrod behind the school for the gallflies that withstood extreme cold. The next day we’d be reading the memoirs of men who’d climbed Mount Everest and plunged their high-tech subs to the ocean floor, after which we’d discuss survival techniques from both human and microbial perspectives. In teams, we searched through scientific journals and magazines to learn about the latest practical applications for extremophile research. We started writing our own homework assignments and test questions, and we led part of the class discussion almost every day. Of course, now that we’d been exposed to all this cool, creative stuff, nobody wanted to hunker down and memorize the basic biology come exam time. But it felt like we were a team and Mr. Kaplan was our coach.

  But out of class, Mr. Kaplan flip-flopped more wildly than a presidential candidate. How could he be one person in the room and another person outside of it? Which Mr. Kaplan was real? Could these two identities coexist, or was one just masking the other? I worried about this. I worried a lot.

  As a case
in point, I’d recently collided with him at the entrance to the Trench. I was coming back from the Oracle archives and he was heading down.

  “I have a terrific interview subject for you at Academic League practice,” he said, but when I asked who, he seemed not to hear. “You do understand what I explained to you the other day?” He was patronizing me, which wasn’t like him. “Because it’s not appropriate to get involved in a teacher’s personal life. I know you have good intentions, but—” Mr. Kaplan ran his hand through his hair. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” Then he unlocked the Trench door and disappeared.

  I continued up the stairs.

  “Hey!” Murrow shouted in my ear. “Don’t you want to know what he’s doing down there? If he’s really looking for Prisom’s Party, maybe he’ll inadvertently lead you to their lair.”

  “I’m going to be late for class. Some of us don’t have the luxury of being paid to do what we love.”

  “Suit yourself,” Murrow said, and snapped his suspenders.

  I walked up a few more stairs, paused, groaned, and retraced my steps. I let myself into the black door with Katie Milford’s key and slunk quietly along the wall. I couldn’t see Mr. Kaplan, but I could see light emanating from the Oracle archives at the end of the hall. After a short time Mr. Kaplan stepped into view. He put his satchel on the floor and stood for a moment looking at the back wall. Then he unstacked the chairs until the demon became visible. How long, I wondered, had Mr. Kaplan been sneaking down here to look at that thing? Weeks? Months? And then I thought: Why not just ask him? Why not pop out right now and say you’ve forgotten something and then ask him what that creature is? But just as I started to announce myself, Mr. Kaplan picked up his satchel and hurled it at the wall. “Bastard!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway. “Bastard!”