Breed

by Chase Novak

  “Rodolfo! Please. You’ve got to help. He’s going to kill him!”

  Rodolfo heaves a sigh and lifts a wait-a-second finger. “The kitchen’s at the way end of the hall,” he says to Alice. “When food…” He shakes his head. “I mean, there’s food in it.”

  He saunters casually into the depths of the apartment with the boy, and Alice makes her way down the dim hall, past a series of closed doors, some with the paint peeling, others with deep gouges in the wood. She figures that behind one of these doors is a bathroom, but she is afraid to open one and see something unforgettable.

  This is the first morning in years in which she has awakened and has not had to wait for her father or mother to unlock her bedroom door.

  She knocks lightly on a door chosen at random. “Hello?” she says, and waits. “Hello?”

  She hears what sounds like someone clearing his throat, followed by words rapidly whispered back.

  “Come in!” It’s a woman’s voice, cheerful and inviting, like a lady in a bakery or a nice teacher.

  “Sorry,” Alice says. “I’m looking for the bathroom?”

  “There’s one in here, sweetheart,” the woman says. “You can use it.”

  “Come on in,” a man’s voice joins in. The voice is not so friendly—it sounds tired, unhappy.

  Now she has no choice but to open the door. The room is dark. Blankets have been hung over the windows. The only illumination comes from a single Little Mermaid night-light, but even in the heavy shadows of this room—bereft of furniture, freezing cold, and with the overwhelming, disorienting stench of burned hair, rotted food, feces, and urine—Alice can make out two figures, grown-ups, sitting on the floor side by side with their knees drawn up and their eyes blazing.

  “Hello there, little girl,” the woman says. And now Alice can tell that the lady’s voice is not really sweet but meant to sound that way.

  “Hello,” Alice says. Her eyes are becoming used to the sludgy gray gloom of this room and she is starting to make out more clearly the two adults on the floor. They both have long graying hair and neither of them wears anything on top; on the bottom they both wear satin running pants—the man has hiked up one of the legs on his and he is scratching and scratching at something that seems to be bothering him on his shin. There is a bowl next to them and another one that has been tipped over.

  “I don’t recognize you,” the woman says. “I’m Peter’s mother. Are you a friend of our son?”

  “I guess.

  “How old are you, sweetheart?” the mother asks.

  “Ten and a half.”

  “Oh! What a nice age!”

  The father picks up the metal bowl that’s been tipped over and skitters it across the floor toward Alice’s feet, where it rattles and echoes. “You’re looking for a bathroom, right? It’s right over there.” He points to a door behind him. “And while you’re in there, I wonder if you could fill this up with water. Cold water. Let it run for a while before you fill the bowl. There’s sediment in the pipes in this old building.”

  The urgency to reach the bathroom is irresistible. She picks up the bowl and walks into the small bathroom at the back of the parents’ room, wondering why they can’t get their own water, why they are crouched on the floor, why they are wearing practically no clothes in this chilly room, why the room is so dark, why it smells so horrible. But the behavior of adults is often inexplicable, upsetting, and bizarre, and she is so accustomed to cutting slack for those who are honor bound to cherish and protect her that she is now in the habit of judging no one.

  The bathroom is small and cold and smells of ammonia. The floor is covered in layer upon layer of newspaper, some of it damp, some of it torn. There is only a small sink for washing; the turner for the hot water has been removed, exposing a long rusted bolt. The toilet is a catastrophe, and Alice hovers above it as she relieves herself. At least there’s toilet paper, but with stupid jokes printed on every square, and some of them show drawings of girls with big boobs, their elbows resting on the rims of gigantic martini glasses.

  The medicine cabinet that must have once been above the sink is gone, and Alice looks at the blank, torn-up wall as the cold water thunders into the bowl. She carries it to the huddled parents. “Where should I put it?” she asks.

  “Oh, thanks so much,” the mother says. “So nice of you.”

  “Put it right over here,” the father says, patting the space between him and the mother.

  Moving slowly, carefully, lest she spill a drop of the water, Alice approaches them. She can feel her heart squirming like one of those squirrels the nasty boys captured in the park.

  “Right here,” the man says, patting the floor again, his voice sort of slurry this time.

  “Graceful you,” the woman says in a cooing voice. Her nostrils open wide and then close tightly and open wide again.

  Alice puts the bowl between them and in an instant the man lunges at her and grabs her wrist. His mouth is open wide, and a sharp, foul smell pours out of him. Alice is almost blind with fear. She twists her arm, trying to get free, but now she has more to contend with: the woman has grabbed her ankle.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” Alice says, but the feel of her, her delectable young flesh, and the sound of her pleading only make them more avid to—to what? Hurt her? Mangle her? Eat her? She doesn’t know. Suddenly summoning more strength than she knew she possessed, she yanks herself away from both of them, freeing first her leg and then her arm.

  She staggers back and they lunge for her, their fingers bent, the nails like claws, their eyes ablaze with appetite. Yet just when it seems as if they are going to pounce on her, she sees something that, even as it saves her life, strikes her as the most terrible sight of all: they are both brought up short, yanked back in midair. Both of them are manacled, bound to the radiator and the heat pipes with heavy lengths of chain that are attached to them at their waists and their calves in a kind of pitiless bondage straight out of the Middle Ages, when the mentally ill were brutally restrained and forgotten in asylums with nothing to warm them but their own madness.

  But are they mad? They seem so to Alice as they continue to hurl themselves at her, as if one more thrust might break the heavy iron links that confine them. Alice has lost her footing and she is sprawled on the cold floor, half shielding her eyes from the piteous sight of these two people growling and howling and doing everything in their power to get their hands on her, and half transfixed, fascinated, mesmerized by what she sees, and then she scuttles away from them on her backside, propelled by her heels and her hands.

  The door to the room flies open. It is Rodolfo, in the company of a boy wearing tight black jeans and a hoodie.

  “Mom! Dad!” the boy in black jeans shouts. “What the fuck?”

  Alice scrambles to her feet and runs to Rodolfo’s side. He puts his arm protectively over her shoulders. He is slightly smiling.

  “Peter,” the woman says. “Unlock us.” She is on her hands and knees.

  “Cover yourself, Mom,” Peter says. “In front of my friends? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Be a good boy, Peter,” the father says. “Do what I ask.”

  “Stop asking.”

  “Be a good boy,” the father says. His voice drips honey. “Come on.”

  “I want to go out,” Peter’s mother wails. “I want to breathe fresh air. I want to see the sky.”

  “Do what’s right, Peter,” the father says.

  “Why would I ever do anything for either of you?”

  “We gave you life, Peter,” his father says.

  “Yeah. And then what?”

  “We better bounce,” Rodolfo says to Alice.

  “No,” Alice says, shaking herself free of the arm he has draped over her. Her eyes are wide, and her heart is pounding; her mouth feels full of the sweet and bitter taste of knowledge.

  “Please, son.”

  “We always loved you,” the mother says. “Always. No matter what. No matter how it sl
eeve.”

  “Sleeve?” Peter says, his voice curdled with contempt. “You can’t even talk anymore.”

  “Do what I ask,” the father says.

  “I meant seemed,” the mother says. “No matter how it seemed, we always loved you.”

  “You can’t keep us like this,” the father says.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Peter asks. He has gotten closer and closer to them, but if they were to make a run at him, the chains would stop them in their tracks a few inches from the spot where Peter stands. Even as he extends his hands pleadingly toward them, he keeps his elbows tucked to his sides so his fingers aren’t in any danger.

  “I must pee,” the mother suddenly cries out. “Go away!”

  The father nods sagely and, with a magisterial wave of the hand, gestures for Peter to leave.

  Alice sees that Peter’s shoulders are shaking. She realizes he is crying. Alice doesn’t know why, but the sight of Peter’s heaving shoulders makes her think of Adam. Peter turns away from his parents and walks toward Alice and Rodolfo, making no attempt to hide his tears, which stream down his face.

  “I’m not like them,” he mutters to himself. “I’m nothing like them.”

  When he closes the door, Alice asks him, “May I use your phone? I have to call my brother.”

  Michael sits in his apartment, watching the light move across the floor as the morning sun slowly makes its stiff journey across the city. He has been waiting and waiting and waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for some news of Xavier. He has dozed off a couple of times; he has made himself tea; he has gone quickly to the bathroom, taking the wireless phone with him.

  The only person to ring the apartment has been Xavier’s sister. Where Michael is sad and feels defeated and alone, Rosalie is defiant, furious, angry at the police for not finding her brother and for barely looking for him, angry at Xavier for going missing and, Michael senses, angry at Michael too—for unspecified reasons, but probably revolving around her essential disapproval of two men living together as lovers, especially when one of them is her little brother.

  Michael takes a deep breath, covers his eyes, massages his temples. How is life going to proceed?

  The phone rings, startling him. He is sure it’s the police. “Yes?” he says, barely audible, even to himself.

  “Michael? It’s Davis Fleming.”

  “Hello,” Michael manages to say. He looks at his watch. School began an hour ago. Well, fuck them, fuck everybody, everything. Even fuck should get fucked. “I’m calling to thank you for not coming in today,” Fleming says. “I thank you, and Berryman Prep thanks you too.”

  “What?”

  “It was very sensitive of you and I want you to know it’s very much appreciated. Best to keep a low profile while we figure out how to deal with all this stuff.”

  It has taken Michael a moment to understand the purpose of Fleming’s call, and now that it’s clear that Fleming doesn’t know that Michael is dealing with something far graver than Fleming’s petty institutional concerns and homophobic bullshit, he grips the phone with savage fury. He wants to scream at Fleming—but words fail him. A sound, however, comes up from his depths and pours out of his open mouth and he just lets it come, louder and louder, as his face fills with fiery blood and the tendons at the side of his neck turn to steel.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  “I was so scared.”

  “Like me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Phone.”

  “Yeah, fucking phone.”

  “Really bad.”

  “Really.”

  “Those guys.”

  “I know. They’re weird.”

  “But they helped.”

  “I guess.”

  “They did.”

  “Whatever. I just think from now on we better not split up.”

  “Definitely.”

  “I mean, let’s really twin out.”

  “What?”

  “Just stay together. Okay?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Ick. I can’t even think about food. Feel my hands.”

  “Why?”

  “Just feel them”

  “They’re cold.”

  “Freezing cold.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Am I human?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Of course you are. And so am I.”

  “Will we always be?”

  Silence.

  “Will we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It is an unexpectedly beautiful day in Slovenia, and Dr. Kis sits at his desk with sunlight streaming in through the window behind him. He is dressed in a fine new blue suit. He is freshly shaved and barbered. He looks relaxed, almost happy.

  Standing before him is his friend with the movie camera. “Okay,” the friend says. “Why don’t you tell us what you have come up with.”

  “English?”

  “Yes. Then we will do a couple of other languages. But let’s start with the English.”

  Kis clears his throat. “Now?”

  “Anytime you’re ready, Doctor.”

  “Hello, this is Dr. Slobodan Kis speaking to you from the free and independent country of Slovenia.” Kis clears his throat again, this time more forcefully.

  “As some of you know, I have been offering fertility treatments for nearly fifteen years. People, many hundreds of them, have come to me, so many without hope. I have not been able to give each and every client a child, but my success rate is unprecedented in modern fertility medicine. There have been articles in Paris Match in France, Der Spiegel in Germany, OK! in Russia, Town & Country in the United States, and of course numerous medical journals. There is no question, no question whatsoever, so make no mistake, my friends, I am, in all due modestment, the leading fertility physician in Europe, and the world.

  “Have there been errors? Of course there have. Have some been… unfortunate? Yes, without question. But two things we must put first.

  “One. Do my clients complain that my treatment is ineffective and does not work? Well, the answer to this is a resounding no.”

  Suddenly, Kis falls silent. He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “You okay?” the man with the camera asks.

  “I just need to rest.”

  “It’s going very well, Dr. Kis. It truly is. Just pick up from where you left off.”

  “The second question,” Kis continues, “is of course all-important and that is what about the health, short-term and long-term health, of my clients? Well, I can state with complete certainty that here the record is perfect and spotless. Especially if you compare the Kis method with artificial insemination, in vitro fertilization, fertility drugs—well, then the picture is rosy indeed. My clients suffer no infections, no urinary difficulties, no loss of energy, nothing but vigor and the joys of parenthood.”

  Kis juts his chin forward, and his eyes are suddenly fiercely cold, an eagle guarding its nest. His lips turn stubbornly downward and he folds his arms over his chest, the very portrait of a man who answers to no one.

  “Um… Dr. Kis? I think the reason we’re making this?”

  “Foolishness,” Kis says.

  “Is that there have been… problems? Problems that must be addressed? People who should be reassured? Given hope?”

  “Ach,” Kis says, with a wave. “Okay. Is this what you need to hear? In some very rare cases—perhaps, at the most, two out of every ten—the mixture given to our clients has been more powerful than… Well, no, that’s not what I am going to say. What I will say is this. You leave that other part out, okay?”

  “Just continue, Dr. Kis.”

  “For the very few clients who may wish to have some of the side effects of the treatment taken away, completely erased, poof, gone, then I want to tell you that I have studied this problem and now there
is a simple solution, and so if you wish to see me, you are of course welcome, with nominal costs. I am not here to get rich. I am already very rich—too rich! And if you worry that when your children make the hormonal change, perhaps they will begin showing excesses of energy, sexuality, whatever the problem… Most of these fears are baseless, by the way. These children are fine, and so are you. Much ado about nothing, as the Bard of Avon put it. But if you want to deal with whatever side effects there are, then you are most welcome to it. It’s all very simple.”

  “Do you want to give a little bit of detail about what some of the side effects have been, Dr. Kis?”

  Kis smiles. “I’ll leave that to others,” he says.

  “Don’t do that, please don’t do that,” Leslie says to Alex as he walks past her to check the temperature of the water in the bath they plan to share.

  “Don’t do what?” Alex asks.

  “I don’t like to be sniffed. Especially no from behind. Not.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You were, and please don’t.”

  “Sorry.”

  Leslie wraps a towel around her lower half, which makes Alex feel twice as naked.

  As Alex leans over the tub and tests the water with his fingertips, Leslie has an impulse to push him down and hold his head under. Yet following in the wake of that murderous urge is a feeling of love for him so powerful and so incoherent in its devotion that her legs go weak.

  “Do you remember our life before we became parents?” she asks him.

  “Of course I do. How could I not?”

  “I mean, really member it.” She shakes her head, as if to erase her little mistake. “I mean, remember.”

  “We were so rich,” Alex says.

  “I never cared about that,” says Leslie. “I loved you so much. And I still do.”

  “Everything top of the line. Now… now I’m glad we have hot water.”

  “People said I was your…” Again, the word eludes Leslie, and since this comes so close on the heels of her saying member instead of remember, her spirits plummet, and she feels a cold wave of discouragement break over her.

  “It doesn’t matter what they said.”