by Rena Mason
The Evolutionist
Copyright © 2013 by Rena Mason
This edition of The Evolutionist
Copyright © 2013 by Nightscape Press, LLP
Cover illustration and design by George Cotronis
Interior layout and design by Robert S. Wilson
Edited by Robert S. Wilson
All rights reserved.
First Ebook Edition
Nightscape Press, LLP
http://www.nightscapepress.com
for Rob
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First I’d like to thank my parents for having family weekends of 80’s horror on VHS. A special thanks to my dad, L.J. Esterly Jr. for showing me that science and science-fiction are cool. Big thanks to R.J. Cavender. Also thanks to Lou Sylvre, David-Matthew Barnes, Chris Marrs, Nycole Laff, and JG Faherty. For friends and family who offered their love and support, Mindy Morgan, Stacy Scranton, Edward Ortiz, Gehret and Parker. Jennifer Wilson, Robert S. Wilson, and Mark C. Scioneaux of Nightscape Press for believing.
Rising Star
An Introduction
One way to gauge the strength of any genre is to chart the number of new, really good writers emerging. About eight years ago I noticed a number, perhaps as many as twenty, very good young writers appearing repeatedly in magazines, the small press, and anthologies. Now again, almost a decade later there is again a wave of new writers emerging in dark fiction. Some of the best of this new upsurge of talent will appear in the Double Down series by Journalstone.
Rena Mason is one of the fine new writers invited into this promising program—paired with the renowned Canadian novelist, Gord Rollo, their novellas are expected to appear in June of 2013. Similar to the Ace Doubles, it is expected that the JSDD series will bring to attention these new emerging stars, perhaps some surpassing the distinction of their established colleagues. It happened with the Ace Doubles with several writers— P.K. Dick and Dean Koontz to name two. In fact, I used to turn the books over and repeat the unknown name several times, vowing to watch for the bylines. I was never disappointed.
Rena showcases her talent and writing skills in her first novel, The Evolutionist. My thumbnail description would be that this good novel is a bringing together of the feminist sensibility of Shirley Jackson with the outer space mystique of Arthur Clarke. In her dark fiction, Ms. Jackson often focused on the societal stress/strain on the 50s housewife, which sometimes resulted in subtle mental breakdown. Rena recreates this same sensibility early in her book, detailing the life of a mother with one boy, married to a doctor, and struggling with all the stress and strain of modern society. Clarke, considered one of the Big Three (Clarke, Asimov, and Heinlein) in early hard science fiction, often depicted a kind of supernatural transformation in outer space in his later books. Rena duplicates that mystical sense in some of the intriguing latter scenes in her novel.
Rena is a fine writer technically. Her prose is sharp and precise. I mean by that she picks the correct word, not the first serviceable that comes to mind. Using the precise verb creates a concrete image reducing the need for blurring by extra adverbs and adjectives. Her descriptions are vivid and palpable—we are there in Las Vegas in the narrator’s social environment, feeling it. The plot is compelling—tiptoeing a line between psychological and supernatural explanations for events. Most first novels don’t close, there is no real ending, just a kind of fading out. That is not the case in The Evolutionist—it has closure that satisfies. Often writers are encouraged to study the dialogue of the mystery writer Elmore Leonard—good advice. Perhaps some day the creative writing teachers/critics will be focusing attention on the dialogue of Rena Mason. It is that good, especially the sexual banter/play between relationship partners.
I should mention that Rena has a wide area of expertise and interests, some of that lending to the verisimilitude evident in her writing. All the medical backgrounds and procedures in the book come to mind—she has a nursing background. But I especially enjoyed an interest we share that is reflected in the story, the modern mysteries in cosmology/astrophysics. The awesome surrealistic photos from outer space, the recurring excitement at the Hadron Collider, where the theoretical Higgs Boson particle was recently confirmed—the so called God Particle. And we share a fascination with all the mysterious stuff of the universe. So, of course, I was delighted with Rena’s fascinating speculations on the nature of dark matter and dark energy.
Rena Mason is a fine writer. Write her name down, underline it, stick it on the fridge with the other reminders. Then, buy everything she writes. You will not be disappointed, because she is indeed a: Rising Star.
—Gene O’Neill,
THE BURDEN OF INDIGO
FROZEN SHADOWS
CHAPTER ONE
My book club is killing me. The demands my friends make of me feel like stabbing daggers, leaving open wounds from which my life continuously seeps. The frame of mind I have to be in when I’m around them stretches the thinning boundaries of my will. Between the oppressive heat of Las Vegas, and the endless nightmares I’ve suffered through, these last few weeks of summer have been especially hard to endure. Every day I have to draw deeper inside myself to find that happy place and smile.
The ladies at the book club—my friends—would never understand that my life has been in a downward spiral in ways I couldn’t control with shopping, cocktail parties, prescription medications, or a spa getaway.
I’ve known little to no violence my entire life, yet I’m almost certain I can dismember a body in less than an hour. No. There isn’t any way I could possibly explain to them what I’ve experienced. I can’t get a grip on it myself, yet I feel it slipping away.
Driving past the Catholic school, along the main road from our neighborhood fills me with bloodguilt now. It’s a trip I make four to five times a day to take my son to his classes, home again, then soccer and errands, and there is no alternate route. The setting sun’s orange glow creates a halo behind the large cross in front of the high school. Remorse sinks into my gut and churns up acid. Lost in thought, I drive over a jagged stone. A loud crunch comes from under one of the tires sending an icy jolt up my spine. In the rearview mirror, I see the broken pieces quaking. This never would have bothered me before. I shouldn’t know what the cracking and splintering of bones sounds like, or the dull popping feeling they make when they break underneath the thick flesh of the people I know—by my own hands.
Yet I do.
I pull up and around Cally’s circular driveway and park next to Gail’s car. Gail likes to get a head start with the wine at these little get-togethers ever since her husband filed for a divorce. I’m barely in the doorway when Cally shoves a book into my abdomen. “Here,” she says. “Open it.”
Cally holds a fierce gaze over me, and I’m forced to use my one and only poker face. She stands over me at 5’9, giving her an unfair advantage she plays well and far too often. Nervous perspiration makes my palms stick to the slick book jacket.
Damn it—Cally wins again.
Only in Vegas can a harmless book club turn into a cutthroat competition. I’m not sure when they got so brutal. Maybe the time Jordan hired a private chef to come and cook for us. We had finished reading a cookbook with short stories about travels at the time, so it didn’t seem that outrageous. However, Tara—Jordan’s best friend—would not be outdone. The one she hosted had aestheticians who gave us all facials and makeovers—supposedly keeping with the theme of the Lipstick book. It doesn’t really matter how it began; I just know the absurdity is out of control. Their intimidating tactics of outdoing one another only reinforces why I don’t volunteer to host any book club parties. The rest of them all seem to be clamoring for it lately anyhow.
I cow to Cally and read the descript
ion on the back of the book. It could be an advertisement for rehab. Words like epic, journey, and triumph are highlighted to trick the wide-eyed into paying for a new life—or in this instance—a book about someone else’s new life.
“Sounds great, doesn’t it?” Cally says.
“But the last book was a memoir. You promised we’d read something new this month.”
“Oh, you’ll love it. Go get a glass of wine,” she leans in close then whispers, “before Gail drinks it all.” Cally grabs my arm and tugs me toward the foyer. “Don’t look over there. She’ll know we’re talking.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Not so good. He wants everything. Go over there and see if you can get any more info out of her. Oh! And I’ve got some great news. But it’s a surprise. You’ll have to wait. Now go on.” She turns me back around and nudges me forward.
Cally’s kitchen is an Italian Renaissance masterpiece complete with hand-tooled cabinetry imported from Sorrento. When she decided to renovate, she didn’t ask me to design it for her de gratia, which I was thankful for, but she did ask for my opinions at least two or three times a day for about a year. My friends know I handed my clients over to my business partner when I retired from interior design, but it never stops them. Cally and her husband Bill remodeled their entire house after an Italian palazzo owned by her family in Florence. It’s been in several home improvement and luxury sales magazines. One of the perks Bill gets for being the producer of a local news channel.
Gail has her bony hip pinned against the center buffet island. There’s a full glass of red wine in one hand and a piece of pita bread in the other. She smiles sweetly when she sees me. I step in to give her a hug, and like a true socialite she keeps both arms up to avoid my silk blouse. In return, I don’t get close enough to mess up her hair or makeup. Something Cally taught me.
“It’s good to see you,” I say behind her ear.
“You too,” she says. “I like your shoes. Louboutin?”
“No, Laurent.” I step back to look at hers. No doubt they are Louboutins.
“So…how’s the wine?”
“Ah, it’s good.” She brings the glass to her lips and downs a hearty swallow. “I was sure you were going to ask me how I was.” She smiles a more genuine smile. “I can’t tell you how sick I am of hearing that question.” She swirls the little bit of wine left around in her glass and stares down into the vortex of Cabernet.
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“Sorry. I should’ve known better. I forgot you’re not like us. I mean you didn’t grow up here,” she quickly adds. “Which is why you’re nicer.” She looks up at me and winks.
“No, but I’m your friend too. We all just want to be sure you’re all right.”
“Well, I’m fine. And when they ask you what I’ve said, that’s what you can tell them.”
“You know me well enough to realize I don’t play those games.”
“You’re right. I guess I’m just…in a mood.”
“That’s understandable.” I pour myself a glass of white, take a sip, then turn to face her again. “You look really good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Maybe I am, a little. Not in a bad way, though. I mean…you doing something new?”
“No. Nothing.” She looks away. “So, what’s the next book about? You didn’t seem too enthused when you stepped in here.”
“It’s another memoir.”
“Oh God, help us. That explains the incense and Turkish throw pillows on the floor.”
“She’ll never outdo the monogrammed sailor hats. Remember those?”
We erupt with giggles, careful to keep our glasses steady. A mix of wine and spittle leaks down from the seam of her lips. “Stop,” she grabs a napkin from the counter, then dabs her chin. “Maybe we’ll get saris this time.”
“Jon would just love that, but he thought the sailor hat was kind of cute, too.”
Gail’s demeanor goes flat. “Oh,” she says. “How’s that gorgeous husband of yours doing? And Patrick…how’s he? Seems strange I see him at soccer practice but don’t really know how he is actually doing. You probably feel the same way about Justin, though. Some days I can’t believe how fast our boys are growing.”
“He’s good. They’re both good. How is Justin, by the way? How’s he handling everything that’s going on with you and Steven?” Suddenly, I hear a high-pitched drone. “What is that? An alarm? Does Cally have something in the oven?” I glance around the kitchen and all the ovens are off, including the microwave.
“What’s what?”
“That noise. Don’t you hear it? The TV…”
We simultaneously turn and look into the family room. The massive, blank, flat screen on the wall is impossible to miss. Gail’s eyes move back to me. “What’s it sound like?”
“Like an alarm, I guess, only not as loud.”
“Strange, I don’t hear anything.” She raises her glass and takes another sip but keeps a keen eye on me. She lowers her glass. “Are you all right? You do look a little tired.”
“I’m fine, really. Busy with soccer, holiday plans—the usual stuff.” “Maybe it’s the lighting in here that’s making you peaked. These cabinets are so dark and gloomy.” A look of disgust supplants her prying stare. “There could be a bulb that’s about to go out. Sometimes they make a weird noise, you know, like a buzz. Could that be what you’re hearing?” Gail looks up and eyes the kitchen. The lights are all fine.
“It’s gone now. Probably a side effect from listening to my iPod too loud.”
“Yeah well, no doubt you’ve heard what Tara’s up to? She’s a real piece of work.”
“Who? Tara?”
“No. Cally.”
“Okay. I’m confused.” Now it’s my turn to gulp the wine. I empty the glass before Gail continues with what I’m sure is the latest bit of hot gossip.
“You know Cally has never really liked Tara, but now she’s waiting for her at the door like a puppy.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Maybe she hasn’t told you yet. She’ll probably wait until I leave.”
“Oh no, here we go,” I mumble.
With the sloppiness that accompanies haste, I pour myself a refill while Gail huddles against me and whispers. “You know Tara’s husband, Paul, has good friends in Hollywood. Well, they’re thinking about starting one of those Housewives shows here. They’ve asked Tara to help choose the other women. Need I say more?” She looks at me with a raised brow.
“Oh God, you don’t think Cally wants me to…” There’s no need to finish the sentence. Cally always includes me in her cockamamie schemes, this book club for one. “I couldn’t.”
“I don’t think you have a choice. You know how pushy she is. I’m sure she wants in, and I’m sure she wants you in. And I know because of the divorce, I’m out.”
“I can guarantee you there’s no way in hell I’m doing it.” My heart races at the mere thought. “I’ve got to talk to her about this, now.”
Gail holds me back. “No. Don’t let her know I told you, she’ll be pissed. Just wait till I go. Please.”
“Don’t worry.” After a deep breath, I back down and then empty my glass with one tilt.
Tara and Jordan finally arrive. Jordan’s booming voice and Southern accent fills the entire house. After several minutes in the foyer, they join us in the kitchen. “Stacy. You look fabulous,” Tara says.
“And so do you,” I tell her. I learned a long time ago she greets everyone this way in order to get a reciprocal response. Even with long amber hair, green eyes and the body of a supermodel, she’s insecure. I will never understand it.
“You look good too, Gail,” Jordan says, like an afterthought. It’s her way of being nice, but it never comes out right. She is older than the rest of us, by how many years she will not divulge. Her hair is jet black, short, and she gels it into little spikes. I think her hairdresser encouraged the edgier look, but it suits her rough, d
ominant personality.
Gail raises her glass as if to toast, then takes a sip without uttering a sound. Cally nudges Tara with her elbow; she could not have been any more obvious. Poor Gail, a divorce could’ve happened to any one of us. Already a marked woman and because of something she has no control over. No way will they ever find out what is happening to me.
The tension is grating my last nerve. “Excellent,” I blurt out, “everybody looks great. Now let’s fill our glasses and get this bitch started. Some of us would like to get home tonight.”
They all look at me with surprise. It’s not often that I speak up, but I can’t stand to feel what everyone’s thinking but nobody’s saying, anymore. It’s all over me, digging in, and I want nothing more than to shake it all off.
“Honey, speak for yourself,” Jordan says with a loud Texan twang, “Samuel’s gone for the next four days, and I plan on spoiling myself rotten.”
She just saved me from pulling my hair out in front of them all.
“And that’s different from when he’s here?” Tara says.
“Oh, aren’t you just the comedienne,” Jordan says. “Stacy’s right. Let’s pour up, then plop ourselves down on those pillows. Gad. That looks uncomfortable over there. Really Cally, what were you thinking?”
“Get over it Jordan. The cultural ambience will get you in the mood.”
“Hell, in the mood for what? Is it a Kama Sutra story we’re going to be reading next? Now that’d be something, wouldn’t it girls? I could scare the hell out of Sam when he gets back and work the moves on him.” She shimmies her hips and bellows rowdy laughter that resounds, and we all laugh together.
The moment ends almost abruptly with gentle coughs and then an awkward silence. A palpable uneasiness clings to every molecule in the air, making it heavy around us. It’s the weight of a storm that will never come. These women have been insincere friends for far too long to change things now.