The Other Kind (The Progeny of Evolution Series)

by Arsuaga, Mike

  “It might be best if you meet with them.” Sam said. “With the new identity Milton helped you make, it shouldn’t be hard to convince them you are not their daughter.”

  “You should not have used Cynthia as your model name,” I added.

  Sam frowned at me through the doorway. “That’s neither here nor there. It’s done and we need to deal with it. If you don’t settle it, they won’t stop trying. They may pop in unexpectedly and catch you off guard. It is better you meet with them in a setting where you are in control. Jim, Oscar, and I will be with you.”

  Cynthia paused. “I don’t know.”

  “Listen to me. Sam is right. Meeting with your family will eliminate you from consideration and get them out of the picture for good. Isn’t that what you want?”

  After another pause she said, “Okay, I’ll do it. But promise me, Doctor Jim, you and Oscar will be there.” She stopped with the slow rasp of an emery board for background noise. “I’ll have my assistant book a flight for Wednesday. We’ll meet in my room at the Weston.”

  * * * *

  All of us wanted Sam to stay home. She refused. While we drove to the hotel, Oscar picked Cynthia up at the airport.

  In the hotel room, I opened the sliding glass door to let fresh air in. The suite occupied a corner of the sixth floor. In the distance, the angle of a tile roof poked through a cluster of live oaks. Holding up the tile roof was the building where I worked. In the distance the wind played with the trees in a glen, moving the leaves in unison first one way then another. The reflected sunlight rapidly alternated their color between a flat and a silvery green.

  “This business with Cynthia’s family made me think,” Sam said from inside the room. “After the babies come and I’m back on my feet could we visit our family’s graves?”

  “In France?”

  “Yes and yours in Georgia. We should introduce the children to their grandparents.”

  I remained faced away, smiling. “Of course we can.”

  She joined me at the sliding door and snuggled close, gripping my upper arm with both hands. From the corner of my eye I saw the contented upturn of her mouth.

  Patting her hands, I turned and gazed down at her. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  Cynthia and Oscar strolled in. She breezed by and went fishing in the refrigerator of the mini-bar for a bite to eat. The room had two fridges. She dove into the padlocked one, containing cuisine tailored to lycan tastes. “I’m always famished after a flight,” she explained. “Airline food is rough on my stomach.”

  After raiding the fridge, she shed the mink and popped her snack into the microwave without pausing. Only after the microwave began doing its thing did she notice Sam. “Girl, what are you doing here? You should be home in bed,” she chided mildly.

  Sam sighed tiredly, surrounded by the luxurious padding of the large and expensive recliner that dominated the conversation area of the room. “I wanted to be here for you,” she said quietly. Lately, the effort to speak much louder than a good whisper proved hard for her.

  The microwave signaled with a soft beep. A smell of slightly seared meat filled the room, probably too faint for Oscar to notice. “I’m sorry,” Cynthia said. “Does anyone want something?” Hearing no takers, she slid the meal onto a plate and sat at the table.

  She dug in, cutting the petite steak into small bits, frequently commenting how tasty the salt and pepper and Worcestershire sauce made it.

  Sam watched her eat for a few minutes. “Are you ready for this, dear?”

  Cynthia dabbed a dribble from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m scared to death. I brought the documents for my new ID like you suggested. A thousand times I have gone over what I need to say, but I’m still scared. You guys remember what I told you about living in that house.”

  I did. Cynthia grew up as the reviled retard, abused by a dysfunctional father and perverse brother. At our meeting Junior told me with a straight face he loved and missed his dear sister and added with a sly expression, the meaning of which went over his parent’s heads, how he wanted to get to know the new her. I came close to morphing and ripping his throat out. Then I relaxed, picturing the terror on his face when he tried and realized the terrible mistake he made. This time he’d come out of it with a lot more than a broken shoulder.

  “You’ll be fine,” Sam said. “We’re here for you.”

  Finished eating, Cynthia glanced at the face of her cellphone and popped to her feet. “Look at the time,” she gasped. “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. I need to get ready.”

  Sam understood the stakes for Cynthia far better than me. She followed her to the bathroom. Oscar shrugged and pulled a beer from the unlocked refrigerator that held victuals and refreshments for human tastes.

  Ten minutes later they emerged. Cynthia applied fresh makeup. She buried little Cynthia Meadows as deeply as possible beneath the persona of raven haired Maria Baraga from the town of Pas du Lac in Quebec. When Cynthia crossed the room using her best fashion runway prance, Oscar went crazy with desire. She sat on the divan and crossed her legs with a swish of expensive hose rubbing together. Proudly offering the angular face for all of us to appreciate in a pose similar to the one on a recent cover of Vogue, she cracked a smile and, ever the kid, said in a melodramatic throaty voice, “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille.”

  The Meadows family arrived on time. I brought them in. For a moment Cynthia and her family silently faced one another. Then, her resolve, supported by carefully rehearsed preparations, collapsed. At the sight of her mother, her eyes filled with tears. “Mama,” she said in a small little girl’s voice.

  “Cynthia. Oh, Cynthia!” cried the older woman as she broke from her husband and son throwing herself into her daughter’s embrace.

  “No shit,” Junior muttered under his breath. “It’s really you. Wow!” He remained silent with his mouth open, frozen in disbelief, scratching his head beside the swastika tattoos.

  “Well young lady,” said Dan Meadows, in an imperious tone. “You sure as hell caused this family a lot of grief. I think it is time we took you home.”

  “Please, Cynthia,” Karla Meadows added as she continued to embrace her. “Nothing has been right since you left. We need to be a family again.”

  Cynthia pulled away from her. “Why should I?” she lashed out. “I only asked for your love, but you—even you Mom—gave it all to Junior.”

  Karla Meadows suddenly turned to confront her husband and son and, in a desperate flurry, said, “It will be different now. Won’t it, Dan? Tell her it will be different.”

  For several seconds, Dan Meadows pondered the floor with a heavy-lidded evasive expression. Finally he mumbled a vague commitment things would be different.

  “Well,” retorted Cynthia, her voice rising to a level of agitation I didn’t think was possible, “what about him trying to beat on me after I caught him stealing?”

  “You told me it was because she tried to be lewd with you,” Karla Meadows said to her son.

  The boy mimicked his father’s heavy-lidded expression and conducted his own investigation of the floor’s topography while organizing an answer. After a minute he said, “She hurt me, Ma. She went crazy on me. She broke my shoulder. Now I can’t play football. No scholarship, nothing. Hell, I can’t even raise this arm over my head.”

  “Enough,” shouted the father. “You’re coming home with us right now young lady. We ain’t spending another minute with these people.” He pointed at me. “That one looks to me like a Raghead or a Jew.” He grabbed Cynthia’s arm and started to head her out the door. She followed slowly. The habit of bending to his will for almost twenty years still held her in its grip.

  Oscar, silent up to this time, now spoke. “My name is Oscar Young. I’m Cynthia’s attorney. She is of legal age. I would like to remind you that you have no parental rights in this situation.” He stepped toward the Meadows clan.

  Dan Meadows, without loosening the grip on Cynthia�
��s arm, leaned forward, getting in Oscar’s face and, mimicking him, said “I would like to remind you that…” His face flushed with fury and he resumed in his normal voice. “What kind of Jew lawyer talk is that? How are you going to stop us?” As if on cue, Junior took a position to cover his father’s back, confident they had more muscle in the room than we did.

  Sam and I exchanged brief confident glances. A physical confrontation had only one way to end. Oscar seemed to understand, too, but I think he sought to resolve the matter without bloodshed if possible.

  “Dan, don’t make a scene,” Karla Meadows pleaded.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he shot back. “No middle east half breeds are stopping us.”

  Oscar stood maybe five foot seven when he wore shoe lifts. Dan Meadows reached my height and Junior stood several inches taller. Each outweighed me by at least fifty pounds making them giagantic compared to Oscar, but the little lawyer eyed them with an unyielding stare and didn’t back down. “I know how all of you treated her,” he addressed them, “and you’ll have to go through me before it will ever happen again.”

  Cynthia still showed the resigned expression of a doe caught in a bear trap. Oscar turned his attention to her. “Cynthia,” he said, “it doesn’t have to be like this. They have no power over you anymore.”

  Meanwhile Sam lifted the phone receiver on the stand beside her chair, quietly placing a call to Hotel Security.

  “Stop. Everybody stop!” Cynthia shouted.

  “You’re coming with me.” Dan Meadows repeated, resuming his advance toward the door. “This family has been through enough crap.” Junior roughly shouldered Oscar aside.

  Cynthia’s head snapped back and forth wordlessly between Oscar and Sam. I prepared to end the foolishness by morphing, but Sam shook her head.

  “It must be your choice, dear,” Sam said. “I ask you to think carefully before you make it. Remember who stood by you when it counted and who loved you without reservation. Most important, remember the nature of your kind.”

  Sam’s statement appeared to break her trance because suddenly Cynthia stopped. Her dead weight resisted the elder Dan’s grip. He turned to face her. Her expression brightened as she made up her mind while his became confused. She reached for the hand connecting them, and disengaged each finger one at a time.

  “Oscar is right,” she said. “I am free of you.”

  Dan Meadows dropped all pretense of trying to heal the family. “You owe us.” He screamed in desperation. “You owe for your brother’s arm and all the bullshit you put this family through. I ain’t leaving here without you.”

  The yelling froze to silence at the sound of a loud and rapid knock at the door. “Security here,” a concerned voice said from the other side. “Are you all right, Ms. Cynthia?”

  “Come in,” Cynthia replied.

  They used a pass key and the door flung inward. Two strapping guards dressed in the Weston’s trademark pale blue uniform filled the hallway. After a quick survey established no one died or needed medical attention, the heavyset black one asked Cynthia what help she needed.

  “Please escort these people out of here,” Cynthia said, gracefully sweeping a long arm in the general direction of Dan, Karla, and Junior.

  “C’mon buddy,” the large black man said amiably as he showed Dan the door.

  “Keep your hands off me.” growled the elder Dan, adding a racial epitaph. His jowls reddened and tightened. A deep frown furrowed his face. Fury pooled in his eyes. At moments like this, according to Cynthia, he typically lost control. Fortunately for him, he didn’t and the black guard let the insult pass.

  “This ain’t over,” he mumbled.

  “Yes it is, Dad,” Cynthia replied with finality in her voice, like the slamming of a door.

  The two Dan’s moved toward the door. Karla Meadows drearily followed.

  “No,” Cynthia said. “Mom, you stay.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Dan Meadows demanded.

  “Mom stays. I’ll take care of her. You two go,” Cynthia said. “It’s over.”

  “Are you crazy? She’ll never go for that. Tell her, Karla,” shouted the older Meadows.

  Cynthia’s eyes flared to the infinite depth of black they got when she was about to morph, but she didn’t. “All my life the only one who mattered to you was Dorkus Maximus over there. He was going to get the scholarship, go pro, and be your meal ticket. I was the little burden of a retard. Not that you, dear Dad, ever interrupted your drinking beer in front of the TV to spend time with me. You left it all up to Mom. I could have killed myself for all you cared. I thought of doing it many times. If it hadn’t been for Mom, I might have. Now my brother is a washout while the retard made it big and you want her to make your lives all right.”

  Cynthia stopped. She stood next to Sam who remained rooted to the chair. Sam took her hand.

  Cynthia coldly surveyed her father and brother. “I am done with you.” She focused on her mother. “For all of your life you lived with abuse. Here is your chance to break away. I want you to stay with me.”

  In three purposeful long strides, Cynthia crossed the room and gently but firmly separated Karla Meadows from her father and brother. “You may go,” she said to the men.

  “What about us? What will we do?” Junior pleaded. His voice verged on downright panic as the meal ticket, once so tantalizingly close, slipped through his fingers.

  Without a word Cynthia stepped to the secretary desk and found her checkbook. After a few pen scribbles she tore the check with a snap of wrist, making a small ripping sound that was palpable in the silent room.

  “Here,” she said, shoving the check at her father, “Take it. This is all you’re ever going to get from me. I’m done with you.”

  He took the robin’s egg blue slip of paper and examined it, raising an eyebrow at the amount. “Now get out.” She said. “I want to spend time with my mother.”

  After the two Dans left, Cynthia sat Karla down. “Mom,” she said with a fragile pre-emergent voice, “it will be all right now, but there is something you need to know about me…”

  * * * *

  On the ride home Sam said, “Wasn’t Oscar brave tonight?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. The way he stood up for Cynthia. It was brave and romantic. I ask just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Please tell me what we saw won’t be us when the kids are grown.”

  I nodded agreement and kept driving. Humans had this precious gift of propagation they took for granted. Instead of cherishing children and treating them as the crown jewels of their short and mean lives, they often squandered the opportunity. I hoped The Others never became inured and indifferent to this wondrous miracle so recently given to us.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Hungry Girl and the Man Who Found a Calling

  “Jim,” Sam called to me in the middle of the night. Her voice, made hoarse by discomfort and sleeplessness, grated in the silent room. “Jim, I’m hungry.”

  Her due date was less than two weeks away.

  Over the last trimester she became almost ravenous, not to mention the bizarre cravings. “What dear?” I sighed. I had been through the routine before. There would be no more sleep for Dr. Jim until he satisfied the craving du jour which might be anything from goat’s tongue to eye of newt.

  “Do we have any liver left?” She didn’t mean calf liver.

  I searched my sleep fogged memory. “No, hon,” I replied. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, I want some so bad,” she sighed. “Do you think…”

  I splashed water on my face and dressed.

  For obvious reasons Cynthia bagged short notice kills easier than I, but the day before she flew to New York for a week long photo shoot and I forgot to have her lay in a fresh kill. Still drowsy, I went to the desk where I retrieved the list of potential prey. I hadn’t looked at it since Cynthia arrived bac
k in January and kept us flush. I previously lined out the second and third name. Laura Teague remained at the top. I tried not to disturb Bertie whose light snoring drifted to my end of the living room through the half open door of the spare room.

  Since meeting Sam, Laura stayed far from my thoughts. As an exotic dancer she married Elton Teague, fifty years her senior. He owned the largest law firm in the city whose commercials frequented local TV, exhorting the citizenry to exercise its legal rights in a large and diverse number of areas—with their assistance, of course. Laura met me because, while married to Elton, she took a fancy to one of my sophomores. The boy’s parents complained. In the process of sorting things out, she dropped the sophomore and we started seeing each other. Shortly afterward, I screened her.

  Once, when Elton flew out to the West Coast on business, she invited me to their house. In her bedroom—she and Elton maintained separate rooms—a metal pole rose from floor to ceiling, the kind dancers use at strip clubs. Dressed in a thong, she gave me a sample of the talent that earned her a thousand a night on the books and who knows how much off of them. I have clear memories of her twirling around the pole, opening her dancer’s pelvis to its maximum and of me with an erection in full flourish, gawking at the cotton panel high between her legs bulging with moist, wanton young flesh. Her skin glowed with a deep tan except for white thong marks across the waist and between her buttocks. In front it tapered to the juncture of her thighs in a narrow ‘V.’ Until meeting Sam those images set me on fire whenever I conjured them up.

  Elton died, so the story goes, of a heart attack while engaged in sexual congress with his young bride. Within days of the funeral she called a press conference where, among tearful declarations of how much she loved him, she produced a new will. It superseded the equitable division of the estate among children and former wife, leaving almost all of it, including Elton’s share of the law firm, to her. Elton, Jr., a senior partner at the law firm, contested it on behalf of his mother and sister who, along with him, received comparatively little—if five million apiece could be called little. A civil suit ensued. As the case progressed, the complicated and odiferous details periodically made the local evening news. The first Mrs. Teague and her family lost. A few months later Laura teamed with the two remaining founding partners of the firm to force Elton, Jr. out.