The following morning Norma had forgotten about her science project. Fixing herself a pot of coffee, she saw the red dish. It wasn’t where she’d left it on the sill. It was underneath their kitchen table. Someone had taken the top off and broken a bit of plastic off the side. Someone had ruined the whole damn thing. It must be the cat, Norma thought. I mean, if I had a cat.
Norma knows where Dirty Norma came from. She still has the package at home. The box is yellow and orange with a white starburst like a box of Tide. She hadn’t gotten it at Walmart. “You’re not much like me.”
“I’m exactly like you. Maybe you just don’t like who you are.” She rubs her back against the wall, an animal scratching. “Let’s go look at the notebook. I’m worried about Mrs. Eddell.”
Norma hadn’t realized that Norma knew about Mrs. Eddell. “Whose notebook is that anyway?” Norma asks.
Dirty Norma turns once, flirting badly, a prostitute, paid to be there. She gives Norma a coy look. Norma follows her down the hall.
Norma was fired from her job at the Third United City Bank because she told a customer she’d be better off keeping her money at home in a coffee can hidden beneath her porch or bed, because sometimes the bank made “mistakes” and the mistakes were always in the bank’s favor. She’d used air quotes. “Keep it at home,” Norma whispered. “I do.”
Norma’s confidante was an older woman. That was why Norma had decided to reveal such a secret. She felt sorry for the older woman, wanted to help her. The woman turned out to somehow be related to the bank president, so Norma was let go, fired. She didn’t make a scene as she had dreamed of doing. She didn’t grab all the hundred-dollar bills from her drawer and spray them in a wild frenzy through the crowded lobby. Norma went quietly. She’d behaved like a sane person. Where had that gotten her?
Recently unemployed, Norma’s still adjusting to the new schedule. She takes midafternoon naps. She’s sleepy all the time. Even now, here at the Institute with Dirty Norma. She lies back on the horribly stained bed, thinking, Just a short nap, but Dirty Norma won’t have it.
“Come on. Let’s read the notebook.”
“You go ahead. I’m really sleepy all of a sudden.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No. Come on. We have to read it together.” She tugs at Norma’s arm, lifting her up into a seated position.
The suitcase is a small one, an older model, a hard-shell brown Samsonite with a leather edge, probably from the 1930s or 1940s. Just below the handle on the case is a simple golden latch and a monogram that is all but rubbed off. Thumbing the square of brass, Norma slides the catch to the left and pops the suitcase’s lock. The inside is lined with forgotten pink taffeta.
She picks up the book and both Normas start to read from the stenographer’s pad.
In a coffee shop off Dead Elm Street, Norma scrapes up the last bits of her tapioca pudding, certain that Damica won’t try to stick Norma, unemployed Norma, with the bill for their lunch if she only eats dessert.
“If it’s all the same to you I’ll—”
“Haven’t you noticed, Damica, that it’s never all the same? It changes a little tiny bit each time!” Norma screeches.
The Baby sits up quickly and draws its eyes wide open, staring across the table at Norma, as if pixies had just whispered some surprising secret about her into The Baby’s ear. The Baby stares and Norma stares back. “God, it’s so creepy the way he just stares at me.”
Damica says nothing.
Norma takes today’s paper from her purse and opens it up to block out The Baby’s stares. Bypassing the front page’s headlines, Norma flips to page eleven, where her favorite column regularly appears.
EDDELL’S SAD END
Drake and Kanakas Back in Court
The body of Marguerite Eddell was found last night, the victim of an apparent suicide. A note with the body claimed she couldn’t bear “new developments,” perhaps referring to a backroom deal that allowed Mr. Drake to purchase the House of Mufflers from the Third United City Bank for a price considered far below market value. “It was all I had left of my husband and now that it is gone, so am I,” the note read.
Mr. Drake now owns six local businesses.
Kanakas and Drake found themselves back in court yesterday beginning proceedings against Tom Best Cadillacs for use of the word “best” in his advertising. Mr. Best claims, “It’s not copyright infringement, it’s my last name.” To which Ms. Kanakas responded, “Too bad his parents didn’t purchase the trademark.”
“I have to go,” Damica says. “Will you hold The Baby for a second?”
Norma looks over the edge of the paper. Norma folds the paper and slides out of their booth without saying anything.
The stalls of the ladies’ room are made of cool aluminum. Norma dials frantically in the locked stall.
“Hello. You’ve reached 1-800-DUBL-INC. Doubles Incorporated, providing goods and services for the Procreation by Division Industries. How may I direct your call?”
“Customer service.”
“One moment please.”
“Hello. Customer service. How may I help you?”
“Umm. I think it happened.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“I bought your Procreation by Division for Morons and I, um, I think it happened.”
“Mazel tov! Mazel tov!”
“Thank you?”
“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“Yes. I think something is wrong. I mean, I think something horrible is happening.”
“What’s that?”
“It seems like the world is splitting in two, or three. My husband is cheating on me.”
“Yes?”
Norma fumbles a moment. “I thought procreation by division would be a good idea, but I changed my mind. Mrs. Eddell is dead, and with Mr. Drake owning everything, the more we get the less we have somehow. I mean, I wanted something, but then when I got it, it wasn’t at all what I had wanted.” She exhales, exasperated, into the receiver. “I mean, it’s like when you eat too much of that kind of bread that expands like fog in your stomach?” Her voice is gaining speed. “I mean, how can there become more of something but it feels like it’s less and less? I mean—” Norma takes a deep breath. “I mean—”
“You’re not making any sense. Could be the Genomic Discordance.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s kind of like what happens to purebreds. You know, how their eyelashes start growing on the inside of their eyes or their hips get hobbled and then they can no longer walk. Thoroughbreds and corporate offices. Stuff like that.”
“Is there any way to stop it?”
“Yes, but it’s a bit complicated.”
“Tell me!” Norma yells.
“Remember in the movie Superman when Christopher Reeve flies backward around the earth so quickly that he forces the rotation of the planet to move in the opposite direction, backward in time?”
“I remember,” Norma says, then thinks, Isn’t Christopher Reeve dead?
“That might work,” the operator tells her.
“I’m scared,” Norma says. “I never realized she’d have a mind of her own. She scares me,” Norma says.
“Hmm.”
“What? What hmm? What do you mean by hmm?”
“Well, it’s just … Well, that’s funny is all because, well, she said the same thing about you.”
Just then the ladies’ room door swings open. Norma quickly hangs up the phone. She flushes the empty toilet and opens the stall door.
It’s Norma.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“I thought I’d save you the trip out Larre Road.”
“But I like Larre Road. I like the quiet.”
“It’s just such a hassle, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Boy, I thought you’d be grateful. I went through all th
is trouble to save you time.”
“Umm, thanks. I guess.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So what’s going to happen now? The story is just going to get smaller and smaller until all that’s left is a U or a C and even that starts to get cut up into nonsense, into tiny little unrecognizable bits?”
“It’s more convenient that way. Efficient, you know.”
“That’s too bad. I really used to love walking out Larre Road. How I could stand where it changed from meadow to pine forest, where the air turned damp and the sidewalk got darker with that moss that grows in from the sides. Or how the sky would get blocked out by the pine boughs so none of my best thoughts could ever escape up into the atmosphere. Something like that.”
“I have the stenographer’s pad right here.”
“Don’t you want to just stop for a moment? Be slow?”
“No.” Dirty Norma shakes her head.
Norma’s cell phone starts to ring. She digs down into the bottom of her purse to pull the phone out. It’s Ted. “One second,” she tells Dirty Norma, answering her phone.
“Norma,” Ted says. “Norma, we have to talk.”
“I’m kind of busy.”
“Norma, you have to help me. Norma, I, I don’t have th—AHHG! I mean, I don’t have words to, oh, Norma. I made a mistake. Norma, you’re my wife. You are a part o—AHHG!—me.”
“Ted. You’re not making any sense.”
“Oh, Norma!”
“Ted, is Linda there?”
“Linda?”
“Yes, Linda.”
“Yes.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Oh, Norma,” he says, and exhales loudly. “I wish I could tell you. You were th—AHHG!—bes—AHHG!” Like he’s being electrocuted or something. He gives up. He passes the phone to Linda.
“What do you want?” comes a voice Norma hasn’t heard since tenth grade.
There’s got to be a way to stop it. It’s complicated, but Norma can handle complicated. “Meet me after school. By the jungle gym. Don’t be late.” Norma is trembling. She has never spoken to an upperclassman like that before. She hangs up the phone, and as she is returning it to her purse she feels a sharp stab. Something sharp in her purse. “Ow!” Norma says.
“What?” Dirty Norma asks.
“Nothing.” But Norma knows exactly what pricked her. It’s the bowie knife that she uses for puncturing tires. She slips her hand back into her purse and grabs hold of its handle.
“Here,” Norma says, shoving the notebook in front of Norma. They sit down on a lowered toilet seat together. Both Normas start to read from the stenographer’s pad.
In a coffee shop off Dead Elm Street Norma realizes once again that she is not pregnant. She hangs her head in her hands for a bit, crying alone in the stall. “Next month,” she tells herself. “Maybe next month.”
She turns left onto Larre Road. Pronounced “Larry.” Larre Road reminds her of how she used to feel upon returning to class in junior high after lunch to find that the afternoon activity included a filmstrip viewing. Back when slow still existed.
“Psst. Come on! This way!” And into the tunnel she goes.
She returns to her homeroom. Her stomach is full of lunch. She is trembling. She has never spoken to an upperclassman like that before. After school she is supposed to meet Linda Kanakas. There is going to be a fight. Norma trembles. Norma touches the knife in her purse.
Norma’s teacher, Miss Novak, says, “Take a seat, children. This afternoon we are going to watch a filmstrip.”
Miss Leonard, the librarian, enters the classroom pushing a film projector on a wheeled cart that rattles across the linoleum floor. Miss Leonard tells Miss Novak, “Please be kind. Please rewind.”
“All right, children. Let’s have a seat.” Miss Novak smiles, and as Norma sits down, Miss Novak shuts out the lights and pulls the blinds. The room is dark. Miss Novak presses play on the tape recorder. The first DING signals her to advance the filmstrip. “The Wonderful World of Mammals.”
“See the gorillas at play,” says the tape-recorded voice. Norma already feels drowsy. She settles into her daydreams, visions of the world to come, a future bright and gleaming she’s read so much about, a marriage, someday children. “Gorillas, just like humans, have hair.” DING. “Gorillas nurse their young just like humans.”
The room is warm and dark. Norma’s so drowsy. Time can move so slowly when packaged into the squares of an afternoon filmstrip. Time can even go backward in a filmstrip. The radiator hisses with its steam heat. Norma is so sleepy.
DING. “When challenged, gorillas will defend their territory. Gorillas will attack.” Through closing lids Norma sees two gorillas fighting. One gorilla runs up a banana tree to escape. The other gorilla rips the banana tree from its roots, kills the other gorilla, kills the banana tree.
DING. “The strongest gorilla becomes the leader of the pack and gets to choose his mates. He chooses the most attractive mates.” DING.
The filmstrip shows two gorillas named Ted and Linda mating.
Norma’s head falls off to one side. DING.
“Don’t let her get away!” Linda yells to her posse of sub-bullies. They are dressed just like Linda, a gang of lawyers in navy-blue suits, brown leather shoes. Norma gives chase. She leads the gang away from the jungle gym, out of the school, and down Dead Elm Street. Or at least it looks like Dead Elm Street. Towns can look so similar these days.
Norma takes a right onto Larre Road. The swarm of bullies follows, frothing like a pack of wild dogs. No time to go slowly. They are a mob, an anonymous mob. Norma barely recognizes them. Norma is beginning to sweat. Norma surges ahead.
“Get her!” Linda yells.
They pass through the place on Larre Road where the forest grows thick. Norma is running so fast that the grove of trees appears as only a blur. She takes a right up the driveway of the home for troubled people.
“Faster!” Linda is screaming, and the pack of wild girls renew their purpose at the sound of their leader’s voice. They are gaining on Norma.
She takes the stone steps in one flying bound and grasps the door latch. It is locked. The Institute closed only a few months earlier.
“Psst! C’mon! This way! Quickly!” It is Dirty Norma. She’s standing off to the left, at the corner of the Institute. She is looking down behind the building, into the backyard, as if she were standing at the entrance to some secret tunnel. She is pointing Norma toward the pool. Norma takes off running in that direction. She flies down the stone staircase and down the side of the building, rounding the corner where Dirty Norma is standing; she can feel the hot breath of the bullies behind her. Norma heads straight for the swimming pool, circling her legs so fast they resemble the propeller of a small airplane. At the very edge of the pool Norma launches herself across the gaping concrete hole. She is suspended in time for just a moment. Norma stretches even farther, growing taller as she does. With one arm she catches the far edge of the pool. She pulls herself up to solid ground and turns to watch the pack of cruel girls approach. They will surely all break their necks. They will tumble into the empty concrete pool. They will puncture holes in their lungs or jugulars and die. They will scream for dear life, falling like buffaloes off the cliff edge, down into the abyss below.
Norma dusts herself off. She turns around quickly. She can’t let that happen.
“Stop! Wait! Linda! Stop! Linda! Look out! There’s a pool! STOP!”
There is a way to stop this.
But Linda Kanakas, blind with anger, rushes at the hole and throws herself across it, screaming, a war cry. The mob of lawyers/girls stops quickly behind her, halting their run just before the pool. They watch Linda fly across the abyss. They watch as Linda, with one arm, grabs the edge. Norma hears Linda’s body crash into the side below. She can see Linda’s hand grabbing at the side, holding on, trying to dig her fingers into the concrete and dirt. The hand writhes with all the life it holds. Norma’s knife
dangles by her side. With one deft hack, Norma could easily cut the hand from off its person and Linda Kanakas’s body would crash down into the bottomless pit of Grady’s old swimming pool.
Norma drops the knife. There’s a way to stop this. Norma grabs hold of the hand and pulls Linda Kanakas to safety.
Both girls lie back, panting for breath.
The mob of girls, disappointed by the lack of violence and bloodshed, disperses.
“Why didn’t you kill her?” It’s Dirty Norma. She’s standing above Norma, looking down. “She was going to kill you,” Dirty Norma says.
“I know. It’s just, I’m tired. This has gone on too long. I’m really, really tired,” Norma says.
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
Norma doesn’t even bother to answer this time. Linda lies still. Norma thinks she can hear her silently sobbing. Norma has a seat beside Norma.
“Let’s finish up, then. There’s only a few pages left and I really want to know whether or not you kill Linda, because there’s always the chance that at the last minute she might just spring to action. She might grab your knife and plunge it into your heart, or maybe she’ll just strangle you. Maybe she’ll just sleep with your husband, give you chlamydia, and ruin your chances for ever having your own babies.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think so,” Norma says. “If I kill Linda Kanakas once, I’ll just have to keep on killing Linda Kanakas over and over and over again into infinity. I don’t want to do that. I’m too tired.”
Dirty Norma says nothing. She looks annoyed by such a simple answer. She looks like she’s got something else in mind. She draws the stenographer’s pad from her back pocket.
The Normas lean against each other. Dangling their legs over the edge of the pool, the pool that could have been filled with dead girls but, because of Norma, isn’t. They are both about to start reading from the stenographer’s pad when Norma grabs the notebook from Dirty Norma’s hand and dangles it over the hole. “Let’s not do this,” she says. “I don’t want to know how it ends.”
“You don’t? But we’ve come so far. It seems like we have to go through with it.”
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