The Sky Inside

by Clare B. Dunkle

  “Dad,” he said, “I want to know about babies. Like the year David and I came out. I mean, where did we come from?”

  Dad gazed at the television. “Good question, son,” he said. Then he didn’t say anything else for some time.

  No one but you wants to watch the big game? asked the television. Break out Hey, Where’s My Dip?—the talking chip bowl! Up-to-the-second wireless feed tells your bowl who’s out and who’s down. Simple voice programming sets it to root for your favorite team. Shout along together as you share popcorn or chips. Hey, Where’s My Dip? By the makers of the Drinking Buddy coaster.

  “It happens something like this,” Dad said. “A girl grows up and becomes a woman. She wants to experience the miracle of life. So she finds a man and settles down to get married, because you can’t have a baby unless you’re married. The regulations are very strict about that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Martin said, a little uncomfortable. This didn’t seem to have much to do with commercials.

  “That’s right,” his father said. “So she gets married, and she and her husband save their pennies, and they file the right forms, and when the forms get lost, they file them again. And before you know it, the stork comes along with just the baby they wanted.”

  “Like me.”

  “Not exactly like you,” Dad said. “Your mom was different. For most women, once is enough, and then they swear, never again. But with your mother, she forgot everything the minute she held you. She just had to go through it again. All the other mothers said she was crazy, but she went right ahead and did it anyway.”

  “Hey, I get it,” said Martin. “It’s painful having a baby, right?”

  “Painful? I’ll say! The paperwork is unbelievable! Having one baby takes months of forms. A woman can sit at her television console for an hour every morning. But when you come back and want another one, it’s years of forms this time, everything from your blood type to your shoe size. And if the first baby cost a pretty penny, you’d better sell the family scooter to pay for the second one. We’re still paying on Cassie. I hope they give us a refund. Having children is painful, all right!”

  A refund! Martin felt queasy. “But you wanted her, right? Didn’t the stork bring Cassie? What is a stork, anyway?”

  “That’s a special packet,” Dad said. “Pure white paint, climate-controlled, with a little incubator crib inside. I’ll get a message on the console: ‘Stork under way for Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So,’ and they’ll come down to the bay to meet their newborn. Just as cute as it can be, the stork packet is.” He sighed. “We haven’t seen the stork around here in years.”

  The next morning, Principal Thomasson rang the doorbell, and Martin fell into ranks and trudged off. Mr. Ramsey paced and stared out the window while the students worked. No classroom lecture popped up on his monitor to bring even the imitation of human contact to the schoolroom. The building was as lifeless and silent as a meat locker.

  When Martin got home, Mom was more like her old self, painting a watercolor picture at the kitchen table. Martin glanced at the painting: pink and purple, a face with golden curls.

  “How was school?” Mom asked.

  Martin shook his head. The bare reminder of the day robbed him of speech. He found one of Cassie’s juice boxes in the refrigerator. “I’m glad she’s out of there,” he said, stabbing in the straw.

  “What do you think she’s doing now?” Mom asked.

  Martin heard Chip whining in his bedroom, but he sat down at the kitchen table. “I bet she’s sitting on a rug somewhere, reading a new module,” he said. “I bet she’ll sit there for the next five hours.”

  Mom laughed. “I hope she’s doing . . . math,” she said. “She always did love math.” Then she caught her breath and wiped her eyes.

  Martin jumped up from his chair. “Better go let out the dog.”

  “Sure,” Mom said. “Son, don’t mention this to your dad.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Martin.

  The rest of the week limped by, a dismal round of school and television. Soon Mom was looking brisk again, but Martin couldn’t feel better. Whether he was sitting in the living room or standing on the playground, he couldn’t help noticing how the place had changed. It wasn’t just Cassie; an entire range of small faces and young voices was gone. The suburb felt different and dull, like a soda left out to go flat.

  On the evening of Workday Five, Martin sat in his beanbag chair, wondering what he would do with himself on the weekend. He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere, and he was sick of television. Chip lay beside him on the rug, muzzle on paws. The poor dog wasn’t having a good week either. Martin was so concerned about his modified status showing up during the inspection that he had ordered Chip to spend almost all his time “sleeping.”

  “Dad’s home,” Mom called.

  And that meant dinner, Martin thought. At least eating was something to do.

  “I wish you’d come home on time,” Mom was telling Dad as Martin walked into the living room. “You almost missed the speech about tomorrow’s vote. You know I hate having to explain them to you.”

  “Tris!” Dad said. “I never miss the President’s speeches!” His glance flickered over to the listening walls.

  “What? Oh! Right. Sorry, dear, just a little joke. Of course you’re always home by six o’clock.”

  They stood in a hungry and impatient little knot, waiting for their leader to speak. Patriotic music and a waving flag replaced a toothpaste commercial: The glitter in our toothpaste puts the sparkle in your smile! Then the President faced them across his large uncluttered desk.

  “Fellow citizens,” he said, looking sadly at them out of the television screen, “today I entrust to you a problem that wrings my very heart. Unscrupulous product developers have unleashed upon us a model of child incompatible with our way of life. The so-called Wonder Babies, marketed to unsuspecting parents as ‘new and improved’ infants, have developed a disturbing liability record. They cannot be taught, and they cannot be led. They will tear apart the fabric of our culture.”

  Mom took two steps backward and sat down on the couch. The color drained out of her face.

  “What I must propose will sadden you, as it saddens me,” the President continued. “But I know my people: you will act bravely and wisely. Vote tomorrow morning against preserving this unsafe product line, so that I may know I have your support when I initiate, as I must, an orderly removal and replacement process.”

  His sober face gave way to a body-painting commercial, and the three of them turned and made their way into the kitchen. There they sat like so much extra furniture while the minutes ticked by.

  It was Dad who recovered first. He fetched the ravioli from the cooker and spooned it onto their plates. Out of habit, Martin started to eat. Dad was eating too. Mom hadn’t moved.

  “I don’t get it,” Martin said, spearing a plump piece of pasta and wiping it against his plate to get rid of the sauce.

  Dad flashed him a warning look and nodded toward Mom. “Let’s not discuss it, son. It’s upsetting.”

  Mom didn’t seem to grasp the fact that they were talking about her. The pain and bewilderment in her eyes alarmed Martin. Dad leaned toward her and gave her a little shake. “Tris, how about some dinner?”

  Mom pushed her chair back and left the kitchen, walking as if she were asleep. They heard her footsteps dragging down the hall. Then they heard her bedroom door shut.

  Dad sighed and drummed his fingers for a few awkward seconds. Then he spooned another helping of ravioli. “Eat up, son,” he said. “No sense letting good food go to waste.”

  When the national anthem blared from the speakers the next morning, Martin was already awake. He had eaten two bowls of chocolate cereal to pass the time. Dad had taken a brisk walk in the bright spring morning. Mom hadn’t yet left her room. Dad sent Martin to knock on the door.

  “Time to vote,” he called.

  Mom stumbled out, wearing a pale blue bathrobe, her long hair
looped about untidily. A pattern of bedsheet wrinkles had embossed red lines into her puffy face. Martin hadn’t known his mother could look so old.

  They waited in silence through the solemn parade of patriotic footage for the television screen to turn to input mode. Martin found himself hoping that maybe today it wouldn’t happen. But at precisely seven twenty, the screen blinked its readiness for their votes, just as it did every day.

  REMOVE WONDER BABY PRODUCT LINE FROM SUBURBS, read the vote screen. YES OR NO.

  Dad stepped forward, grim and resolute. YES, he voted. Mom stumbled forward, so pale that her face was tinged yellow. Her vote was also YES. Martin barged between them to stare at the screen. It couldn’t be true.

  “What is going on here?” he cried.

  “Martin!” said his father sternly, hustling him over to the couch. “Martin, we are not going to discuss this.”

  Now a wave of heat was pouring through Martin, sweeping him along on its tide. “Not discuss?” he demanded from his seat on the couch. “You just voted to get rid of Cassie! And now you’re—what?—gonna walk in and sit down to breakfast? Just like everything’s fine? Are you nuts?!”

  “It’s the best of a bad situation, son,” his father said, bending over him, that earnest, comfortable face peering into his. “It’s not a question of how we feel. This is a public record. There’s nothing we can do about your sister.”

  “Nothing you can do?” Martin repeated. “Vote no! That’s what you can do!”

  His mother’s face, swollen and tear-streaked, appeared over his father’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Martin,” she said sadly. “Do you think they’re going to give her back?”

  Martin’s eyes stung now, and his parents’ faces wavered like toys under the bathwater. “It does matter!” he wailed. “You sent her away—my little sister! And I didn’t want her to go, and I told you, I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen to me. And you both voted—you both voted . . . You’ve never both voted the same way in your life!”

  This struck him as hilarious, and he couldn’t stop laughing while the faces of his mother and father flickered to and fro. Then a new face appeared, a black muzzle and worried brown eyes, and a heavy, furry weight crawled onto his lap.

  “They got rid of her, Chip,” he whispered, holding the dog tightly. He hid his wet face in Chip’s tickly ruff. “They got rid of my little sister, if you can believe it. They just—poof!—just gave her away.”

  “Martin, think,” Dad said. “The President’s right. She wasn’t happy. Now she’s in a special school made just for them, where they can all be together.”

  It was Mom’s turn to laugh. “Oh, the special school!” she said, and her voice was soft and bitter. “‘Just think how happy they’ll be in their nice special school.’ It was brilliant, wasn’t it? Suckered me right in. Do me a favor, Walt. Give it a rest.”

  At seven thirty, the President’s face filled the screen. He looked as somber as he had the night before. “Good morning, my friends, my citizens,” he intoned. “We meet on an historic occasion. Once again, you lift from me the unbearable burden of statecraft and give me the benefit of your heroic resolve. The people have spoken. You want the Wonder Babies removed.”

  “My poor daughter,” whispered Mom, staggering to the couch and dropping down beside Martin.

  “To those of you who have suffered the most from these fraudulent claims, I pledge that all of those responsible will pay. You dissatisfied parents will have the opportunity to test out a new product that will restore to you the joy of parenthood. It will guarantee that no one loses out during this transitional phase as regulators work to bring the stork program back into compliance.”

  The screen faded to black and came back up in soft hues of pastel. Little children ran and played at a park, their exquisite faces relayed in gentle close-ups.

  Childhood, said a quiet voice. Because you want to be needed. You deserve to be loved. Childhood. Have the child you’ve always wanted. Each Childhood model is as special as you are, as unique as your hopes and dreams. Choose from options like clever or lively, shy or bold , to create a Childhood model just for you.

  “It’s a toy!” cried Martin.

  Images of infants in pale pink and powder blue were floating across the screen.

  Cherish your very own Childhood baby. Nurture her as she grows. Will he be an early walker or a late bloomer? It’s up to you to decide. Do you have a favorite age? Your Childhood model will always be that age. Childhood. For the parent in all of us.

  “That’s sick,” declared Martin, getting up from the couch. “Replacing Cassie with some stupid toy!”

  “I think it’s a wonderful invention,” said Dad, settling down in his recliner. “It gives people the experience for a fraction of the cost and brings parenthood within everyone’s grasp.”

  “It’s sick!” repeated Martin. “Mom?” But Mom had shuffled back to her room. Martin threw himself down on the floor and started putting on his sneakers. “I’m going over to David’s,” he announced.

  “Not today, you’re not,” Dad said, changing the channel. “You’re not going outside unless you’ve been invited to play in Mr. Ramsey’s tournament. You’ll sit right down on this couch and enjoy your television.”

  Martin hurled his sneakers across the living room floor. They hit Mom’s craft cabinet with a bang. “Oh, great, Dad, because I just looove television! I just can’t get enough! That’s what we kids love more than anything. We want to buy every little thing we see!”

  Dad glared at him and snapped the recliner upright. “This is not the time for foolishness!”

  “No, no, no, I mean it!” Martin hopped up and danced over to the wall. “Orange drinks and monogrammed handbags, rainbow gumdrops, personalized pencil launchers!” He located a sequin and talked into it as if it were a microphone. “Rings to match my eyes! Eyes to match my rings! I—want—it—A-L-L!”

  “Martin, that’s enough!” shouted his father, jumping up. “Go to your room this minute!”

  “Okaaay,” yodeled Martin. “I’ve got cool stuff there, too. No television, but I’ve got all fourteen game cartridges from the Make-a-Mutant Battle Machines House-to-House Hunt-Down series. Only $17.95,” he called to the sequin as his father marched him off down the hall. “Don’t forget—kids love ’em!”

  Martin stewed in his room for a couple of hours, alternately fuming and playing his game cartridges. Then he went into Cassie’s bedroom. Everything there was still exactly as it had been when they had left to meet the red packet. Her bed was unmade, with dolls scattered about in various stages of undress, and her big bunny smiled at him from the corner. He picked it up and went looking for Mom.

  Mom wasn’t in her bedroom. Martin found her in the living room. She was sitting on the sofa in her blue bathrobe, watching the game shows. Martin glanced away quickly from the contestant on the screen.

  “Hey,” he said, “that Motley guy didn’t have us pack any clothes for Cassie. Isn’t that weird? You’d think she’d need a toothbrush.”

  Mom didn’t answer. She just stared at the screen. You’ve chosen Column Four, Dissimilar Metals, the television told her seriously.

  “And she left her bunny behind,” Martin went on. “You know she can’t sleep without her bunny. Do you think there’s some way we could send it to her?”

  Mom still didn’t answer, but after a few seconds, her jaw began to quiver. Then spasms shook her shoulders, and she snatched a sofa pillow to hide her face. Sobs wracked her frame—long agonized rattles and wheezes of air. They seemed about to shake her apart.

  Martin watched her in stunned horror. Then he raced to the door and bolted from the house.

  No one was outside today, washing a scooter or playing tag. They were all inside watching television. Martin crossed the street and made his way into the deserted park. Shoeless, he ran across its green gravel, looking for a place of peace and safety.

  The play structures drew him like a magnet. So oft
en he’d taken Cassie here while Mom finished an art project or went to a class. Just two weeks ago, he had joined Cassie on the swings.

  It was ironic that the part of the suburb devoted to its youngest members should have the greatest feeling of age. Nothing new had been added here in decades. The structures had faded from once-bright primary colors to more mellow shades. What had been yellow was now soft maize, and what had been blue had lightened to the color of a well-washed pair of jeans. There was a comfortable shabbiness to the play structures, a kind of genteel and venerable poverty. Perhaps that was why Martin loved them. He rambled among the swings, slides, logrollers, chain walls, teeter-totters, and twisted tubes of tunnels. They were abandoned now, strangely still and motionless, missing the little children as much as he did.

  Chip trotted up, carrying Cassie’s stuffed bunny, and deposited it at Martin’s feet. Martin picked up the toy and patted its stuffing into place. A wave of weariness broke over him, and he realized that he was trembling. He didn’t know what to do or where to go.

  The tallest tube slide loomed above him. “She always made me follow her up,” he murmured to Chip. “She was always afraid she was gonna fall.” He reached for the handholds and footholds carved into the ladder panel and clambered up to the crow’s nest at the top. He sat down in a corner of the cherry-colored shelter, away from the partial walls of slide and ladder. No one could see him from the ground, and all he could see, high overhead, was the powder blue ceiling and yellow skylights of the steel dome.

  After a minute, Chip’s pricked ears and black-and-tan face appeared at the ladder opening. He scrambled in to join Martin. “That was a pretty good trick,” Martin said. “I wish I’d been on the ground to see it.” The shepherd lay down beside him, and Martin curled up, resting his head on thick fur. He hugged Cassie’s bunny to his chest.

  “They’re never gonna talk about her again, Chip,” he said. “I could put money on that. One day I’ll come home, and her room will be something else, like a craft room or a place to put Dad’s bowling trophies. Everything that belonged there will be gone, just like my best pair of jeans and my favorite jacket. It’ll be just like they threw her away.” His chest began to ache with misery.