“So how much is a renewal these days?” Paula Vaughnasked, pulling a wallet out of her bag.
Lisa noticed that Paula’s file was a dual membership with aMr. Arthur Vaughn—presumably her husband—which entitledher to a discount.
“Well, if your husband updates his membership as well, I canrenew yours at thirty percent off.”
Something about the woman’s face changed just then. Aslight twitch at the side of her mouth, the subtlest unlevelling ofher eyelids, the barely noticeable expansion of her neck muscles.
“My husband is, um . . .” She paused to exhale. “He’s ill, at the moment.”
Lisa looked down and shuffled some papers arbitrarily. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. It has just been a really stressful time for me.That’s why I came here, actually. To blow off some steam.” Shereached behind her head, undid her ponytail, and began collecting her hair to tie it up again.
Lisa wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Is he, uh . . .”
“He’s in the hospital with that thing, Buzzard Flu,” Paulablurted. “He runs a store and I think he caught it from one of hiscustomers.” She shook her head and looked up at the ceilinglights. Her eyes were beginning to water. “Sorry.”
“God, don’t be sorry! I’m sorry.” Lisa could feel herselfblushing. “That must be awful.”
Paula took a deep breath, composing herself, and dabbed theside of her eye with her fingertip. “Don’t worry, I don’t have it,”she said, then laughed feebly. “Arthur and I don’t really, uh . . .We don’t spend much time together.” She smiled and shrugged. “You know. Marriage.”
Lisa just nodded.
“But that’s why I feel so bad, you know? We’re like friends. Best friends.”
Lisa clicked a button on her computer screen, renewing PaulaVaughn’s membership free of charge. “My, uh . . . my friend is adoctor. She’s dealing with the epidemic right now. It’s crazy.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mmhmm. They haven’t notified the press yet, but they’vejust diagnosed the first female patient.”
Paula’s eyes widened as she pulled her hair into a new ponytail. “Your friend told you that? How is she involved, exactly?You two must be close for her to share that with you before it’smade public.”
Lisa cleared her throat. “We’re just really good friends,” shesaid, looking down. “She’s a government doctor.”
Paula Vaughn nodded. “Well, good for her. Bless those p eople. They work hard.”
Lisa’s heart was thudding like a bass drum. “Yes they do.”
There was a brief silence, then Paula said, “So how much forthe membership?”
“It’s fine.”
“What? No, I couldn’t let you—”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine. And I owe you a new towel.”
Paula Vaughn sighed and just shook her head, smiling. As shepassed the desk, she placed her hand gently on Lisa’s shoulder.
When Paula was far enough down the hall, Lisa grabbed herphone, went to her contact list, and added Mrs. Vaughn’s number under the codename P.V. (Work).
There were still no texts from Roz.
*
Arthur Vaughn lay in a hospital bed, dreaming that he was asuperhero who wielded a utility belt of power tools, drilling holesinto his enemies’ kneecaps and cracking their skulls with histrusty monkey wrench. But what was this? Who was the flamehaired supervillainess leading his wife over the hill in the distance? And why were they holding hands?
*
Zack Pike burst into his apartment, eager to brag to Claireabout how he’d just saved some sad bitch’s life, but she stillwasn’t back from wherever the fuck she’d gone. The apartment was just as he’d left it: futon sheets in disarray, a pile of roachesin the ashtray, gun on the coffee table, unflushed puke in the toilet, broken mirror shards on the bathroom floor. No Claire,though her hooker perfume lingered in the weed-dank air.
He wanted to get laid. Didn’t he deserve it? If he hadn’t goneto Martha’s apartment at that exact moment to sell her some dope,she’d be dead as a fuckin’ doorknob, or whatever. Blue face, eyeballs popping out, tongue all fat like slab of meat. He was a hero,goddamnit! He even let her keep the weed for free—after seeingthe cat lying dead in that box on her bed, he knew she needed it.
He stomped over to the window and looked out, thinkingClaire might be turning tricks in the parking lot, but no.
He stepped back and almost fell over, having to grab the ledgeto keep his balance. Looking down had made him dizzy. Suddenlyhe felt like barfing again. He stumbled to the bathroom, mirrorshards cracking under his basketball shoes, and opened the medicinecabinet. The shelves were mostly filled with paraphernalia for illegaldrugs. Zack grabbed the first bottle of pills he saw, popped the cap,stuffed a handful into his mouth, and chucked the bottle into thebathtub. Whatever pills he’d just eaten were dry and chalky, andtasted like poison. His mouth started to foam up. He swallowed,gagged, and spewed the bubbly white remains into the sink.
“Fffrrrucck!” he growled, attempting to will the contents ofhis stomach down by sheer force of anger. He slouched back intothe living room and sat down on the couch, breathing hard.After a few minutes, the nausea faded. Either the pills hadworked, or he’d shown that motherfucking puke who was boss.
He was still horny. When Claire was back he’d demandsomething twisted, like ass to mouth, but he had to do somethingin the meantime.
He glanced over at his piece-of-shit computer. Porn wouldhave to do for now. He flicked the mouse and his sleeping desktopbeeped awake. He opened a browser and started typing the addressfor Pornhub, thought better of it, and logged into Facebookinstead. There was one new message in his inbox. His cock beganto swell at the thought that the pale-ass chick from four-oh-fourhad responded, but when he opened the message, it was just his buddy Pac Man asking for a re-up. He ignored it and checked tosee if Samantha Riske—hot name—had at least seen his message.
She had.
The thought of her reading it gave him a gigantic boner. Heput his hand down his pants, clicked on her profile, and enlargedthe selfie in which she seemed to be topless.
“Mmm, shit.”
He stood up and pulled down his pants, his erection throbbingin his hand. He stared at her picture and imagined her on her knees,giving him a sloppy blowjob. He almost blew his load then andthere, so he slowed his stroking and glanced around the room,breathing like a bull. His gaze landed on Ugbo’s gun: the blunt handle, the slick black barrel, the huge silencer like a metal condom.
He leaned over and picked it up. So heavy and hard. He stuckhis arm out and pointed the gun at the computer screen, right atthe girl’s face. His dick was so engorged it felt on the verge ofexplosion. There was a chill up his spine and a volcano in hisloins. He came instantly, then the nausea returned like aboomerang. He bent over his computer chair and barfed, dropping the weapon to the floor. He retched again and again untilthere was nothing left in his stomach but what felt like batteryacid, then collapsed to the floor and rolled onto his back, panting.
The last thing he saw, before his vision blurred and he passedout, was the gun on the floor beside him, the barrel aimed rightat his balls.
*
Samantha ran her fingertip along the scissor’s blade and staredat herself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror.
The shower had relaxed her, but her hair was pissing her off.It was too heavy, too much to deal with. An octopus on herhead. It had to go.
Holding her breath, she grabbed a clump of hair hangingover her right shoulder and snipped it off. Wet, wavy locks fellto the floor and into the sink. It occurred to her that this couldget messy, so she lined the sink with paper towel and spread some at her feet as well. When all surfaces were sufficiently covered,she reached for more hair and just started cutting, indiscriminately this time, with jagged and uneven snips. S
he was going to haveto shower again when she was done.
Her head began to feel like a balloon. She felt thinner andairy, like she might turn to vapour and float away through theceiling vent. She dared to smile at her unfamiliar reflection, andthe face in the mirror grinned devilishly back.
When she was finished, she gathered all the paper towels fullof hair, stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag, tied it up, put thatbag in a larger black garbage bag, and put that bag in the garbagebin in the kitchen. She’d just finished her post-cut shower whenthe apartment buzzer sounded.
She skipped over to the intercom. “Only those bearingchicken balls may enter.”
Luca’s voice was crackly. “Then I guess it’s my lucky day.”
She had time to check herself out in the mirror once morebefore he made it up to her apartment. She’d butchered her hairinto a bob-gone-wrong, and she liked it. She felt like an alienversion of herself.
Luca almost dropped the bags of takeout when she opened the door.
“What the—what did you do?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Did you really just chop all your hair off?” He kicked offhis shoes. “Why?”
“Who cares?” She turned and made for the kitchen. “I hopeyou got red sauce.” She wanted to pig out then have sex. Shewanted to pretend she was someone else, someone glamourousand unafraid. She would let Luca do anything he wanted to her.She’d close her eyes and pretend he was a stranger, someone dangerous. Someone giving her a disease.
“I don’t get it,” Luca said, following her to the kitchen. “Iliked your hair.”
“It was bothering me.” She took two plates out of the dishwasher and placed them on the table. When she looked up atLuca’s face she saw he was giving her the stink-eye. “What?”
“Nothing, it’s just . . .” He sat down. “It actually kind ofsuits you. Makes your eyes pop. If you tidied it up a little—”
“Shut up and pass the food.”
They ate in silence, palate smacks and cutlery clinks notwith standing.
“I hope this chicken’s okay,” Luca said, halfway throughtheir meal, rubbing his stomach in circles. “I don’t feel so hot.”
A prickle flared to life at the base of Samantha’s spine andscurried all the way up into her scalp. “Really?” She lookeddown at her chow mein. Suddenly her bean sprouts looked likeminiature eels, lying dead in a puddle of bile.
Luca wiped his forehead with his already-used napkin. “Ithink I have to lie down. Mind if I use your bed?”
She shook her head. She was too busy suppressing her gagreflex to speak.
While Luca disappeared into the bedroom, Samantha scrapedthe food off their plates into the garbage taking deep, slowbreaths. Then she helped herself to a pint of reverse-osmosiswater and gulped down two liquid-gel capsules of Gravol.
“You okay . . . ?” she called from the bathroom, stoppingherself before adding “Aaron” to the end of her question.
Luca answered with a grunt.
She needed to know if he was actually sick, or if it really wasthe food. She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out theglass thermometer, then thought better of it. She’d sterilized it,obviously, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to take Luca’s temperature with an instrument that had been inside Aaron’s rectumjust a few days ago. She’d better use the digital one, though shestill had doubts about its accuracy.
Luca looked like a decapitated corpse on her bed, with hishead stuffed under a pillow. He was still fully dressed, dirtying upher sheets with his jeans and filthy sweater, but at least he’d hadthe courtesy to take off his shoes. Samantha stepped inside theroom, caught a whiff of his feet, and nearly gagged again. Theysmelled god-awful, like a blend of cheese and seafood. Sheopened the top drawer of Aaron’s dresser, took out an aerosol canof odour neutralizer, and sprayed it directly onto Luca’s socks.
“Hey,” he said, wiggling his toes.
“Come on.” She sat down on the bed beside him. “I needto take your temperature. We need to know if you have foodpoisoning or Buzzard Flu.”
He tossed the pillow off his face. His complexion was thecolour of chicken broth. “What the heck is Buzzard Flu?”
Samantha’s jaw made a noise as it fell open. “Are you kidding? Don’t you watch the news?”
With his eyes closed and his hand on his sweaty forehead, hesaid, “Not really. I only watch movies and sports. What is it, likea stomach flu?”
She stared at him for a moment, letting her frustration percolate, then said, “No, you idiot. It’s a full-on epidemic, likeSARS or swine flu. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people across thecity have been quarantined. Do you live in a fucking bubble?”
He coughed. “I thought you did.”
She chose to ignore the dig. “All right, open up.”
He rolled over onto his side, into a half-foetal position, andopened his mouth. She shoved the thermometer under histongue with slightly more force than was required. He flinchedbut kept his mouth shut.
As they waited for a reading, Samantha noticed a cluster oftiny, pox-like dots lining Luca’s collar bone. Just moments ago,the dots hadn’t been there. It was as though they’d formed beforeher very eyes, but without her noticing.
Suddenly Luca spat out the thermometer. “Get a bucket.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to wait for—”
A deep gurgle from his stomach echoed through the room.“Get me a bucket!”
Samantha sprang off the bed. She heard the thermometerbeep as she dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the first bucketlike object she could find—a large stainless steel salad bowl. Shereturned to the bedroom and handed it to Luca just in time forhim to empty the contents of his stomach with the sound andfury of a broken water dam.
“Ugh,” he sputtered between retches, infused with little moans.
Samantha picked up the thermometer: 101°F.
As she placed the instrument on the bedside table, she suddenly saw Luca in a different light. Up till now he’d been a brutaland savage mystery; a rugged fantasy. But as he lay on her bed,puking his guts out, she saw something else: a feeble and unsophisticated bachelor who, by some genetic fortuity, happened topossess a decent amount of facial hair. The mystique that hadonce steamed up her vision evaporated instantly. She no longerwanted to fuck him. She didn’t really want to take care of himeither, but the poor bastard was sick. She’d played nurse manytimes before with Aaron. She supposed she could do it again withthis guy . . . at least until her boyfriend came home.
*
Aaron crawled onto the lumpy futon and sniffed the fadedpink sheets. They didn’t smell like they’d been washed. They’dprobably been sitting in the back of his sister’s closet for over adecade. They didn’t seem dirty per se, but they certainly weren’tclean. They had no scent at all. Perhaps he’d lost his sense ofsmell, which could mean sinusitis, or worse, an impending brainaneurysm. Then he caught a whiff of the waffles Dawn was making downstairs, and breathed a sigh of the closest thing he couldcome to what normal people referred to as “relief”.
He sat on the bed and unloaded the contents of his backpack:Band-Aids, Altoids, Alka-Seltzer, jeans. A frickin’ teapot. Hiswallet, which he immediately checked to see if his Health cardwas inside. It was. He’d probably need to show it at the dermatologist’s office. At the bottom of his bag he found a crushed butstill full box of Kleenex, an empty prescription vial, a halfsqueezed tube of Polysporin, and a photo of Samantha he’d takenyears ago after she’d accidentally squirted lemon juice in her owneye. By fluke, he’d managed to capture the eerie calmness in herexpression, her left eye only slightly pinched, as if challengingherself to keep a straight face despite the sting. He’d forgottenabout this picture. How had it ended up in his bag? He gulpeddown a sob and zipped it away into one of the side pouches.
He managed not to cry in the shower. Dawn and Martin’sbathroom was a li
ttle untidy—cobwebs in the corners, grime inthe tile grout, toothpaste flecks on the vanity mirror—but theheat and power of the shower stream more than made up for it.At home (if he could still call his apartment “home”), he’d hadto install a specialty showerhead to increase water-pressure, otherwise he and Samantha felt like they were being tinkled on by adog with prostate issues. This, however . . . this was impressive.
The bus ride had been a nightmare. No matter how manytimes he changed seats, he couldn’t escape the obnoxious filth ofother people: the sneezing and snoring, the nail biting and nosepicking, the B.O., flatulence, and halitosis. He could only imagine the invisible cocktail of microbes and fecal matter that covered the fabric of every seat, the smudges of deadly bacteria onevery windowpane. The scummy film he imagined he’d accumulated on his journey came peeling off his body like snakeskinunder the shower’s scalding blast. Before he got out he peeledback his foreskin, hoping by some miracle the cancer spot wouldbe gone, but there it was, dark and crooked, like a boomerang.
Once he was dried off and re-dressed, he slunk downstairs tothe kitchen, wondering if the hunger pains in his stomach wereactually some kind of peptic ulcer.
Martin was in the living room, yelling at the soccer match.
Dawn spun the waffle iron and reached into the fridge forsome butter. “You don’t have to wear those gloves, you know,”she said. “I cleaned the house before you got here.”
“Okay,” Aaron said, but didn’t take them off.
Dawn pulled a stepping stool out from the corner and usedit to reach a squeezable bottle of maple syrup on top of the fridge.She was wearing a pair of raggedy sweatpants that were stretchedout at the knees, a green handkerchief on her head, and a clingylong-sleeve shirt, dusty-blue, that emphasized the unnatural flatness of her chest. She looked to Aaron like a low-wage cleaninglady, someone who worked long hours and starved herself to feedher eleven kids.
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