The Female of the Species

by Lionel Shriver

  Gray grew smaller and smaller. Errol couldn’t rid himself of the image of an animal gorging itself on the veldt, feeding from the open wound of a formerly fleet and delicate creature. Why did she look so slight? Why did her dress blend so terribly into the folds of his shirt? The picture in front of him began to blotch and purple, as if Errol were rubbing his eyes. The white figures receded into the trees and disappeared. Black flowers bloomed in Errol’s peripheral vision. The scope of his vision itself narrowed and rounded and withdrew like the last blue spot on a picture tube.

  Errol blinked and shook his head. They were back, but separated, holding each other at arm’s length. Letting go reluctantly, Gray turned toward the house. That was when Errol wiped his cheeks quickly and bolted to the other side of the room.

  “What took you so long?” asked Errol as Gray continued straightening the room with little efficiency.

  “We got lost,” said Gray.

  “I guess at 130 miles an hour you got pretty far out of your way. You’re getting old, Gray.”

  “I don’t think that was the problem,” she snapped, with the first irritation she’d shown since she walked in. “Anyway, it was a small detour. I’m back.”

  No. She was not all back. Errol watched her closely. A morsel had been gnawed off, a trickle of liquid sucked away. She stood a degree off the perpendicular. Her body was barely narrower. Her veins ran with several fewer drops.

  Errol was suddenly exhausted and sagged in his chair. He felt his face blanch and his anger rise to his skin in a light sweat and evaporate into the late-night air. “Gray,” he said with effort, “be careful, will you?”

  Gray looked him in the eye. “I’ve been careful all my life.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. The projects in the bush—”

  “That’s not what I mean. That kind of danger is easy.”

  “Yes,” Errol admitted. “It’s just—maybe it’s good, being careful. Maybe that’s the way you need to be.”

  “I’m not sure. I wonder.”

  They continued to look at each other, and with every passing second Errol grew wearier. “Are we going to use names?”

  “Eventually. But not tonight.” Lightly she put her hands on either side of Errol’s face, kissed his forehead, and left for bed. Errol reached up and turned out the light, but remained in the den with the curtain of the front window fluttering in the breeze. The outside lamp was still on, and its rays fell on Errol’s chair in long, pale shafts. The shadows of the trees shifted over the wall behind him, playing over the wildebeest skeleton as the branches whispered outside. Errol warily eyed the bones at his back, waiting for the wind to die and the shadows to settle before he walked heavily up to bed, stair by stair.

  11

  The sounds at breakfast were unusually loud: the gurgle of the coffeemaker, the clump of the refrigerator door, the insistent click of Gray’s heels. No one spoke. The clatter of a spoon in the sink was deafening.

  “Maybe we should talk,” Errol ventured at last.

  “I really don’t need you to lecture me.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You will, too; you’ll lecture me and tell me how old I am and insult him—”

  “It’s nice to know, Gray, that I’m such a constant comfort to you.” Errol gulped his last swallow of orange juice and slid his glass down the counter so that it slipped on the ridge of the sink and rolled around the trap. Disappointed the glass hadn’t broken, Errol strode toward the door.

  “Errol McEchern, come back here this instant.”

  Errol stopped, but kept his back to her. He folded his arms and looked at the ceiling.

  “It’s just—I want to enjoy this.”

  “Lecture!” Errol turned around. “Who do you think I am? Daddy?”

  Gray sat down, spread her fingers on the table, and studied them. “I’m sorry. But sometimes around you I’m afraid I seem pathetic.”

  Errol leaned against the doorway and watched her, her head bowed, the arch of her neck sweeping long and sadly toward the table.

  “You feel pathetic?”

  “No! Errol! I feel—I’m no good at this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “As if I’m in an airplane. One of those narrow military jets, a new design that hasn’t been tested. Something slick and shiny and supersonic. Sh-sh-shsh.” Gray’s hand took off from the table and soared in circles.

  “Ever talk to one of those test pilots? It’s a dangerous job. Sometimes there’s something wrong with those planes. Sometimes they get up speed and start cracking apart. Pieces fall off. Engines cut out.” Errol whistled and sent his own hand into a dive.

  “Stop it. I find my metaphor and you wreck it. Literally. It’s malicious.”

  Errol looked at her eyes, contracted now, with the pupils so drawn into their blue-gray fields that the aperture looked as if it might disappear completely. They asked: Will he call today? It was pathetic.

  Through the morning, Errol read, as usual, about matriarchies. In preparation for the Lone-luk project, they were going through the literature on similar societies. Or at least Errol was. Gray’s progress through the stack of books on her desk had not been impressive. She spent most of her time editing the Corgie documentary—splicing footage and ticking through reel after reel of Raphael. All morning he listened to the click of the projector from behind her closed door.

  That afternoon Gray had a meeting with the Ford Fellowship Board. Arabella was at the library, so Errol answered the phone.

  “Gray Kaiser, please.”

  The dryness of this request was of a rare and particular brand. “Sorry, she’s out.”

  “No doubt this is Dr. McEchern.”

  “No doubt. Ralph, isn’t it?”

  A pause, a tiny, audible grimace. “Tell your master I called, would you?”

  Errol clenched his jaw. “Why, sho, boss, I’ll tell massa straight off.”

  “—You will tell her I called, will you not?”

  “Of course. Is that all?”

  Errol could hear Raphael smiling on the other end. “You are too much, McEchern, you know that? I can’t believe you.” Gently the phone clicked in Errol’s ear.

  “Ralph called,” Errol informed Gray on her return. “He was rude.”

  “To you, Errol? I’m sorry.”

  She was not sorry. She had just taken off in her supersonic transport again, with the top down. Her eyes glazed from the wind; her hair streaked backward; her cheeks shone from the slap of the upper stratosphere. She began breathing more deeply, as if the air were thin up there. “I’ll return his call, then.” Her eyes flamed as she walked past Errol, reflecting the twin jets of her plane as she veered toward the phone.

  “We’re to expect a delivery,” she said when she returned.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Errol. “A bouquet of poison ivy. A corsage of thistles for your hair.”

  But Ralph sent worse. Errol was appalled. A UPS truck arrived. The box it delivered was large and full of holes. When Gray pulled out the cage inside, a little ratlike creature bit at her finger.

  “What a beastly animal,” said Errol.

  Gray stared at the long brown body as it darted from wall to wall, jabbing at the bars with tiny gleaming teeth. “A ferret,” she determined.

  “They used them for hunting in the Middle Ages, didn’t they? If I remember right, these little bastards are lethal.”

  Gray didn’t take her eyes off the new pet. “There’s one of these stuffed in the Museum of Natural History. It has a mouse in its mouth. Have you seen it?”

  “I don’t like them,” said Errol point-blank. “I don’t spend a lot of time in the rat section because I don’t like them.”

  “It’s so sleek. And conniving.”

  “Quite.”

  “And better without glass eyes. Look at them.” She stooped and stared into the cage. The ferret glared back at her, clutching the bars with sharp, hooked paws. “So bright. As if he knows something.”


  “What does he know, Gray?”

  “Too much for his own good.”

  “Or too much for yours.”

  “Look. So lithe. So charged. And the way it moves. Quick but graceful. I wonder if you can touch it.”

  “I wouldn’t risk it.”

  Just then Bwana ticked into the foyer behind Errol and stopped dead, ten feet from his new companion. He let off a throaty growl, but when the ferret scrabbled toward the dog, the growl turned to a whine. Bwana stepped backward and barked once. The ferret hissed, and reached a claw through an interstice. Bwana stood stiffly in the doorway, sleek and striking as ever, but his pink-gray eyes were stricken. Braced away from the ferret, the dog began to bark uncontrollably, a rasping, panicky sound that filled all three floors of that tall Victorian house.

  “Sh-sh, Bwana, Bwana,” Gray crooned, but the dog was not getting any calmer. Nor did Bwana’s fit soothe the ferret, which was now throwing itself against the side of the cage with its long, thin claws extended and its brilliant teeth bared.

  Gray left the new pet to take Bwana’s head between her hands and smooth the short gray hair. “Sh-sh, Bwana, he’s not going to hurt you. So sweet, isn’t he, Bwana, so pretty, Bwana, with pretty little teeth. With those long claws, I know, Bwana, he’s scary, but he’s our friend, Bwana. Our friends don’t hurt us, now, do they? No, no, no. They don’t, Bwana. No, they don’t.”

  Bwana didn’t believe her.

  “Sh-sh…” She stroked the animal as it trembled under her hand. Gently she led the dog away.

  “I think we should get rid of it,” said Errol when she came back.

  “No.”

  “Another pet? With travel—”

  “There’s Bwana, anyway—”

  “This is a nasty, dangerous creature.”

  To bring the argument to a close, Gray took the ferret and locked it in the den away from the dog. Errol didn’t pursue it. Clearly this strange, hostile animal had already been insinuated into the household for the duration.

  They were practically out the door the next morning before Gray informed Errol that they were not driving to New York, just the two of them. Raphael was going, too; in fact, he was driving. She liked his car.

  So Errol found himself in the cramped back seat of the white Porsche. Gray’s door shut with a clump like the refrigerator, airtight. Errol had to yawn to correct the pressure in his ears.

  “Nice machine, Sarasola,” said Errol gruffly. “Cost something, didn’t it?”

  “It cost someone something, yes.” As Raphael pulled away from the house, he spun the wheel with three fingers. Errol’s back pressed into the black leather as the car accelerated, to stop just in time at the next corner.

  “I suppose Gray told you she received the token of your esteem.”

  “I thought it looked like an interesting animal. Unpredictable.”

  “I can predict it. Given the opportunity, it will do something unpleasant.”

  “I haven’t named it yet,” said Gray.

  “How about a practical name?” said Errol helpfully. “Fur Collar. Coat Trimming. Muff Lining—”

  “The ferret’s name is Solo,” said Raphael. The discussion was over.

  Raphael slipped his arm over the back of Gray’s seat and ran a fingernail lightly up and down her neck. Behind her, Errol could see the hairs rise at his touch. Errol felt embarrassed and forced himself to look out the side window, past which the scenery was whisking with appalling rapidity.

  “We don’t have to be at the museum by any particular time, do we?” asked Errol.

  “No,” said Gray.

  They were on a secondary road that wouldn’t reach the interstate for some miles. The road was hilly and full of blind turns. The speed limit was forty, yet Errol couldn’t imagine they were moving that slowly. He edged toward the middle of the back seat to eye the speedometer. Raphael was holding the wheel with his three fingers, leaning languorously back in his seat. The wind from the corner window blew the driver’s hair back and his collar open—why, you would never guess from this carefree figure that the car was doing sixty-five.

  “We certainly are going to make good time, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Raphael.

  “But I don’t suppose we’re really in a hurry, are we, Gray?”

  “It never hurts to make the trip expeditiously,” said Gray.

  “It doesn’t usually…” said Errol.

  “But sometimes it hurts…” said Errol.

  “Sometimes it hurts a whole lot…” said Errol.

  He could as well have been shouting into the wind of the open window. Neither Gray nor Raphael looked around. Errol leaned forward and found that the speedometer now read seventy. On the next turn Errol was thrown to the side of the car. The road wasn’t graded for this speed. Still, Raphael leaned back. Still, he kept one hand on Gray’s neck. Still, he swept the steering wheel with three fingers. The air through Raphael’s window began to roar.

  “Don’t you think we’re moving a little rapidly?” said Errol.

  Raphael rolled up the window at his side. Once the car was quiet, he replied in a level voice, “Excuse me, Dr. McEchern, I didn’t make out what you said.”

  “Don’t you think we’re moving a little fast for this road?”

  “Not really.” They struck a straightaway and Raphael hit the accelerator.

  “As one of your passengers, Sarasola, I’d like to request you stop speeding.”

  “When you’re driving, McEchern, you can putter along however you like. Today I’m driving.”

  “I’m painfully aware of that.”

  The Porsche did hug the road admirably on the next turn, but Errol could feel that the vehicle was right at the point just before it would flip up on two wheels. Errol was gripping the rim of the seat so hard that the leather piping was tearing loose. Still, Raphael’s three fingers draped languidly over the wheel.

  “Sarasola,” said Errol through his teeth, “of course I’m concerned for myself, like any other normal human being in extreme danger. But I realize putting the life of Errol McEchern in peril isn’t likely to send you into throes. It’s clear you have leanings toward self-destruction, so I won’t appeal to you on the grounds of your own preservation. But if you have any feelings for the woman next to you, please slow this car down to a tenable speed.”

  “Gray K.,” said Raphael, “do you want me to slow down?”

  Errol turned to find Gray with her head back, her hands resting one on the other in her lap, her ankles crossed, and her expression impassive. “Drive as you wish,” she said quietly.

  “Gray, please!”

  “Raphael is a good driver. I’d think you could see that.”

  “Good drivers don’t do eighty-five in a forty-mile-an-hour zone.”

  “Good drivers have control, Errol. At any speed.”

  They took another turn, and Errol could feel the wheels on the inside begin to lift and the back end of the car begin to shift—until they were around, and the car leveled and centered and surged off again. It took a moment, though, for the adrenaline to pump into Errol’s system, so he felt his heart accelerate and his face drain only as they straightened out.

  “Goddamn it,” said Errol. “I was a teenager already, and once was enough. I’m grown-up now. Please let me out of this car.”

  Raphael lifted his foot from the gas. “You mean that?”

  “I do.”

  “Fine,” said Raphael, pulling up short and over to the side of the road. He got out and pulled the front seat forward.

  As Errol stepped out of the car, he found his legs would barely support his weight. “It’s obvious,” said Errol, relieved to be able to look Raphael in the face when he spoke to him, “that you don’t give a damn about Gray Kaiser or you wouldn’t put her in this position for the sake of juvenile bravado. But the rest of the world does, understand? Me, I’ll get a little write-up; you’ll be two lines on the obituary page, in tiny print. But Gray is front-page mat
erial. Anything happens to her, you’re going to remember, and so is everyone else.”

  “Are you through? We’re going to New York.”

  “No, I’d like to consult my colleague, please. Take down any last requests. Check if I’m in the will. That sort of thing.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Errol went over to Gray and opened her door. “I imagine you can handle the exhibit on your own. I’ll get back to Boston somehow.”

  “Errol, do you have to do this?” Gray looked pained and tired.

  “Do you have to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Come with me. He’s irresponsible. I like you. Don’t kill yourself as a favor to me.”

  “You’re making far too much of this.”

  “Too much! Jesus, why am I wasting my time? Look at the two of you. Cooler than thou. Who can be more imperturbable, what a contest. Cool at eighty, cooler at ninety, coolest at a hundred, until, cool as you’ve ever been in your lives, you go plowing through a guardrail and plant yourselves, Porsche and all, so far into the embankment that no one needs to bury you. Even Ralph is too old for this. But you, Gray, you—” Errol was so angry that he was on the verge of incoherence. “You who make fun of machismo—”

  “You’re the one who makes fun of machismo. I have a great deal of respect for it.”

  “Right,” said Errol, slamming the door. He couldn’t think of a parting line; he’d said all he had to say, so Errol stalked off down the road, hoping, in one terrible little flash, that they would redeem his gesture by having an accident. It was at that moment that Errol resented Raphael more than he ever had, not for speeding, for risking his life or Gray’s, not even for forcing Errol to hitchhike back to Boston, but for making Errol so conscious of style and of power that he would take leave of the woman he cared for more than anyone else in the world and actually wish her ill for his own pride.

  12