“Fourteen years old, you tell me one minute you’re eighteen, then it’s fourteen, then you have a friend who is ‘gay’. You’ve already been with a man, right? You think I believe you aren’t fucking your boyfriend?” He has never been so aroused in his life. How odd that it took so long for him to really want it.
“No, no, Jesse I told you!” she says as he sticks his index finger into her. “Don’t do anything to me again, I’m too sore, it hurts.”
“Sssh, sssh, relax,” he says, putting another finger in her tight bottom. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Please! No, not right now, it’s, like, it’s burnt in there. Get off me you wrinkled-up prune, you’re an old man, what makes you think I would ever want you to touch me!”
Tahnee’s got something in her hand, what the fuck is it? She starts clobbering him over the head with it. “That hurts!” he yelps, though it’s as much the shock as the real pain, being clonked on the head by a big heavy flashlight. Before he even knows it he grabs the weapon away from her and puts his hands around her neck. “You like this? Huh?” He presses and presses for the pure pleasure of watching the panic in her eyes, at least finally those dishwater ignorant marbles have a new look on them. Finally she’s having an emotion! Now, isn’t that nice, she knows what it’s like to feel something other than disdain! Only he doesn’t seem to be able to stop.
She gurgles, and a strange sound comes out of her throat as he releases his grasp. It’s surely not that easy to kill someone and phew, sure enough, after a minute or so she lets out a little gasp. She’s been faking, all right, he knows he went too far but she started it. She was asking for it.
He arranges her beside him and covers her tenderly with the soft chinchilla. Strokes her hair and her tender nipples and together they lie there in the darkened room. Then after a time he says, slightly uneasily, “Are you okay?” But there is no answer. “All right, quit kidding around,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
He turns on the light. In front of him, her face, it is so beautiful and perfect, an angel, really, he has never seen anything so perfect in his entire life. “Quit fooling,” he says, more sharply. He has the skeeves, he can’t stop shaking. “I said I was sorry. If you want I’ll tell them to go get your stupid geisha back.” Something white and tremulous is in the middle of the room, the sound of a sigh or a bell quivers in the air and disappears.
19
Murielle watches out the window. He has called from the airport, saying he will stop in at corporate headquarters and then call her when he’s ready to swing by. Now she wishes she had more time to prepare, nursing Julie and trying to cope with her dad, it’s been too much; she hasn’t had a chance to have her nails done, nor attach new false eyelashes: these things take hours, not including getting rid of crackling black body hair, almost impossible really with her rampant hirsutism. Fortunately the last time she saw him, A. Jesse seemed to love it.
How absurd at her age to be in love. Love at any age really, but at least when you are young you don’t know any better. Just to think how in a brief instant her whole life changed, at a time when she truly felt as if nothing would ever happen to her again!
Two men are in front of her house cutting off the tree branches.
“Hey!” she shouts. That tree is the only one for miles! It’s true, it is kind of dead. She and the kids pasted some artificial leaves and flowers on it, when the girls were little. But who gave permission? “Stop! What are you doing?” By the time they can hear her over the noise of the chainsaw, it’s too late: both branches have been lopped, only the leafless trunk remains. “Who told you you could do that?” But they are gone.
The sun burns down, there is no breeze, the ground is baked; here and there through the cracks protrude cans, hubcaps, the edges of heavy-duty trash bags. Transmission fluid and used oil welter out from the substrata. Pre-Columbian pottery, Tang statuary. The planet’s garbage is on the move.
A man wearing one of those compact helicopter backpacks circles overhead and lands on the drive. The man, prawn-pink and glossy with importance, ducks his head as the blades of the heli-pack putter to a halt; he undoes the straps that harness the equipment to him. Wait a minute! Is it…
“Oh my gosh! Jesse! What are you doing here?” She runs into his arms; not exactly, but she has to be careful not to knock him down. He seems somehow different. My goodness, he has really gained weight! Yet, at the same time looks younger. He’s the same but not the same, it must be she who has gained weight, she can barely get her arms around him.
“Hey, little lady!” he says. “Whoa, there, I guess you really are glad to see me.”
“When did you get here? Why didn’t you call? How’s Tahnee? I’m not quite finished packing.”
“Now, uh, Murielle, it seems like there’s been some changes. You see, in addition to my job as President and CEO of Bermese Pythion, I recently agreed to aid the Department of Homeland Environmental Security Issues and Regulations, and I am in charge of the Annual Survey – apparently this area is having a SloMoFly infestation, this could be a really bad situation.”
“What? Darling, what are you talking about! What’s wrong with you?”
“Just stopped by to check up on you and see how you are doing, special lady!” he says. “How’s your…” He seems to be glancing at something in his hand. Notes? “How’s your daddy, I know you’ve been concerned about him.”
“Jesse, why are you acting so formal? Is everything okay? Have you met someone else?”
“Not exactly.” Jesse struggles with his words. “Murielle, do you mind if we talk somewhere private?”
“Let’s go inside, do you want some ice tea, or something stronger?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
She has never known A. Jesse to have anything alcoholic before. So this is it then, the breakup. Never again to lie in a steamy room, consumed with passion, the animal frenzy of sticky bliss. All that, for her, over. Finished. Never again to stumble into a room, a fan thumping softly overhead, desperate, wanting, pulling at clothes, a couple of frantic kids. And after, lying entwined, exhausted. Who else is there going to be for her? The whole thing has to be about something else, she has been conned, but why?
She whips up a couple of fiery Bloody Marys, trying to make some pleasant chitchat as she does so; maybe he will relax after a drink. “So, um, how’s Tahnee doing?”
“That hot little chick? As far as I now, she’s doing okay. My dad really seems to have taken to her.”
“What?” She pours in half the bottle of Just-Like-Tabasco; she can’t seem to stop shaking the canister of artificial red pepper juice. “I thought you told me your parents were dead?”
“Oh right. My, um, my step-dad.”
“Murielle, is that you?” Her father is calling from upstairs. He wanders out to the top of the stairs, naked except for a plastic rabbit mask over his face and his glasses over that, only upside down. “Look what I found from Halloween –” He doesn’t even see she has a visitor.
“Dad, what are you doing? Put some clothes on, you’re stark naked! Where’s Cliffort, anyway, isn’t he supposed to be looking after you?” Dad doesn’t move. Murielle rushes to get him back to his room. This is so embarrassing.
“I only came out to tell you goodbye. I met someone on the hologramovision. A lonely lady in van Hoek. I’m going to meet her – the Lady Juan Aishat – and we’re going to help those poor, sad children who are enrolled at her day care center. They speak Dutch.”
“Of course, Dad.” She pushes him through the door “You can take the bunny mask with you.” Jesse is fiddling with the drinks. “Sorry about that. My dad is –”
“I understand,” Jesse says as he hands her a Bloody Mary drink. “Ah, Murielle, things have changed.” He hoists the drink. “Here’s to what once was.”
She is horrified with herself but tears slide from her eyes. Hot crystal beads, she really should be saving them in a vial, there are all kinds of tests they can do based on te
ars arising from a traumatic event such as this, which it is, apparently; he is either out of his mind or just plain having a hard time breaking up with her.
She sits heavily and pours more vodka into her drink. How could she have been so stupid? She had been so happy, how could she have pinned her hopes on something she had only imagined, she had been tricked! Or, rather, she had tricked herself, once again.
“No, no no,” says Jesse, sounding even more nervous. He sips the Bloody Mary and his nose begins to turn red. “You see, I wanted,” he glances down at the papers in his hand. “I use paper and pencil rather than a Burberry-pod, because you know, anything you jot down onto one of those remains in cyberspace, somewhere, forever. At least with paper, you can shred it! Anyway, as I was saying what I am about to tell you you, must swear to me not to repeat to nobody. Alright?”
She nods. “Who would I tell, anyway, Jesse? It’s not like I have any friends!”
“I can’t bring you back with me just yet, Murielle, because the two of us have some work to do here. The government – my old friend from college, the President, has recruited me to become further involved in Environmental Security because apparently there’s been a lot of ‘leakage’ from my laboratories. I can’t figure out how this has happened honestly – I have top security men over there, former FBI agents and trained storm troopers; Wesley was ready to shut me down entirely, but I assured him it would be my responsibility to track down all the genetic material.” Jesse sighs. “I really can’t go into detail at this time… If this is inconvenient for you, though, would you mind just telling me… have you noticed any odd swellings on your person lately?”
“Odd what?” Murielle says listlessly. “Oh, Jesse, what happened to us? Just be honest.”
“Oh, darling, how can you expect me to be honest? I’m one-fourth Scottish, one-fourth French, one-fourth German and a quarter Native American. My God, you have the most luscious, full lips! Talk about inviting!”
She blushes but she is also irritated. “I’m not doing so well here, Jesse. You’ve been so cold on the phone; now you’ve come back. To paraphrase Roald Hoffman, Nobel Prize winner of the last century, who provided today’s calendar quote, ‘You’re the same but not the same’.”
It doesn’t really matter, however, when he stares at her so stupidly.
On the other side of the lawn the two men have returned with a large metal case and seem to be removing various electronic devices and surgical-looking implements from the ground.
Nervously Jesse (B.!) glances at his notes. “We spoke on the phone the other day? Ah, I’m sorry about all this, but it had to happen. I don’t know how much you people were told, following the plane crash, but at this point it’s become pretty much containment and health-related safety issues. Again I am not supposed to talk about it, but it’s related to the Partnership of Reference Policies.”
“Terrorism? Health-related? Should I be alarmed?” Murielle can’t control herself any longer, she bursts into tears.
“There there, don’t cry, my special lady, I tell you what, let’s keep in touch.” He’s strapping his heli-backpack on and twitching, no wonder, looks like he’s over the weight limit as he starts up the motor; the blades can barely lift him off the ground. Appears he’s about to hit the roof of the house, the heli-pack blades dip, hesitate, but finally with a mechanical stutter shift into gear. He is barely above the rooftops, his legs smash here and there, but slowly the damn thing lifts him and he disappears from view.
At least it is Sunday, her day off, she doesn’t have to go to work. What is happening with Tahnee, anyway; she wishes she had asked him that! Julie’s sitting at the kitchen table. “Oh Julie, I hate men,” Murielle says. “Never have anything to do with them!” She opens the door to the refrigerator, there must be something; rummaging, she finds cold old Tripac EZ Mac, okay, maybe a little green at one side, just chuck that part.
Julie’s vision goes in and out. Awake, briefly, she stumbles into the kitchen and watches in horror as her mother plops the coils of macaroni into her mouth leaving next to nothing for anyone else, not that anyone would want it, that stuff is gross! It’s that darned Sue Ellen, Julie thinks before her sight fades once more.
“My head! My head!” Murielle suddenly screams.
“What?”
“My head! Get it off me! It’s stuck.”
“Oh, Ma it’s supposed to be there. You’re just like Miss Fletsum, she was always thinking somebody else took her stupid head. I kinda miss her, actually. Am I ever going to be well enough to go back to school?” Disgruntled, Julie wanders back to her room. Can’t her mother ever think of someone beside herself?
Her head, Murielle thinks, what is it doing perched up there? She goes off to her room, maybe she can nap. The whole thing is too much, Jesse’s weird behavior, so disappointing to say the least; fooled again, fooled again, you’d think by now she would have learned something, at her age it is worse. But what happens is never the same thing, exactly.
She will try to sleep. If she is going to have insomnia, why does she have to have it at night? Why can’t she at least have it during the day, when she is so tired and always falling asleep on her feet?
So it’s to be like this then, her life coming to an end with nothing to show for it but musically inclined glow-in-the-dark cockroaches and the shocking glimpse in the mirror. She looks down at herself in the bed and sees a floating belly, bloated like a cadaver, how the hell did that get there? Whose is it? Once, time had been slow, her childhood had lasted forever and she felt no identification with the old people – old, to her, might have been twenty-one! It seemed a country which she would never even visit. Now all of a sudden she is in the middle of it, transported, only she doesn’t feel any different except when she sees her deterioration. Now when she talks to kids she thinks of herself as their age and keeps forgetting that when they look at her it is with that same sense of distance – distance and horror – that she had once had when she looked at adults.
The next day she is so miserable over Jesse she leaves work early. There, in front of her house, a line has formed; she can’t understand what is going on. Some kind of yard sale nearby? An open house? Now she sees it is her house they are waiting to go into! Is Julie up to no good? “What the hell?” she says, and makes a dash up the front steps.
“Oh, um, Miz Antrobus –” It’s some Indian guy.
“What’s going on here? Who the hell are you?”
“Um, just a minute, I can explain –” He shouts out to the line. “People! That’s all for today. Keep your number.” He looks at Murielle and seems to give up, his voice weakens. “If you get here by seven in the morning you can keep your number and position in line, otherwise you have to start over! Coffee and donuts available until we run out. Allow me to introduce myself, madam, I am Khem Singh, a friend of the Patel family.”
The crowd, disgruntled, shuffles off. “You tell the Boiling Girl I love her!” shouts one gimpy woman twisted with arthritis. “I brought her a teddy bear! You tell her!”
A man comes to the steps. “Hey listen, bud – how about five hundred bucks to get my wife in tonight? She’s real sick – I’ll pay the girl extra, too.”
Khem Singh looks reluctant – he glances down guiltily, then quickly at Murielle… “Um… I don’t know what you are talking about; in any event, Boiling Girl is very tired…”
“What is going on here? Who is ‘the Boiling Girl’?” Murielle yelps.
“That’s, ah, you know, that’s what Julie Fockinoff’s known as. Sorry, the Patels didn’t think you would mind. We always ask the clients to park down the block and most of them arrive on foot, so I do not think it is going to cause trouble.”
“But… what are they doing here?”
“Oh. They’ve come to see Julie, she is known as a diagnostician and perhaps more importantly, she can cure people by a simple laying on of hands to the person’s aura…”
“Julie? But why?”
“Um, allow me
to explain.”
She doesn’t wait for an explanation but bolts in. “Julie? Julie?”
“The Boiling Girl is busy right now,” says a nurse in the hall.
“I don’t care, that’s my daughter!” She pushes past the nurse and shoves open the door. “Julie?” The room is dark. There is a man sitting in the armchair. The room smells stale and dusty.
“You have Derwent Chuff’s Syndrome, Stage 1,” Julie is saying from bed. Her eyes are bandaged and a strange buzzing, not audible, but something different, like electricity, emanates from the bed. “Ma, oh, Ma, what took you so long! Mama, I can’t see, I mean, without the bandages, hardly at all, and it’s getting worse.”
“But tell me about me,” the man says. “You can speak to your mother in a moment, what am I supposed to do? Is there any cure you can give me? You know, I have been to a dozen doctors.”
“What are you doing here?” says Murielle to the man. “Who are you?”
“Don’t worry, madam. I will make sure your daughter is well looked after. See those flowers?” He points to a lavish display on the windowsill; they must have cost a fortune. Beside it are boxes of chocolates from the most expensive confectioner’s, pink, tied with gold bows; bottles of perfume, stacks of music disks – where could it all have come from? “Now will you please leave us alone for a minute; I can see she’s distracted by your presence and it took me forever to get this appointment…”
Puzzled, Murielle goes out to wait in the hall.
Outside, one of the Patel boys is shouting through a megaphone, “There are inexpensive rooms available at the Patel Vastly Superior Inn, turn right on Kobe Bryant Drive, you must take the back roads, the highway is blocked.” Another son is handing out maps. “If you want to be here first thing in the morning, Patel’s is your best bet.”
She spots Rima Patel. “Rima, what is going on here?”
To her surprise Rima does not immediately start screaming about dog shit, or Tahnee. Instead, she sounds utterly nice. “Murielle – you don’t mind if I call you Murielle, do you, such a lovely name. Wouldn’t you like to stay and have an onion bhaji? For you, no charge.” Rima holds her by the wrist.
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