The Caterpillar King

by Noah Pearlstone

  “I’ll always be here for you,” she whispered.

  She kept rocking me, and I closed my eyes again. I fell asleep just like that, safe in her arms.

  July 31, 2084

  With My Family

  23.

  Galla resigned. Not a leave of absence, not a vacation- she simply quit. Claimed she was gravely ill. Told her she might be right, giving up a salary like that. Now my income is our sole income. Meaning we have nothing. We’re hemorrhaging, but hemorrhages only last till the blood runs out. God only knows how long that will be. I’ve grown accustomed to this lifestyle, and I’m not about to toss it away. Said as much to Galla.

  “But your art,” she said. “The show tomorrow will be a success, don’t you think? Some of the pieces are…well, they’re not dreadful.”

  Understated, naturally, but she’s right. Serious boon of productivity from Tate these past two weeks. I’ve begun displaying his pieces around the house, turning our living space into a pseudo-gallery. In the dining room, above the kitchen counter, even in the bathroom- paintings and more paintings. Centerpiece is high above the entryway. His first ever work. Looks lovely up there, it really does.

  Not sure how much he’s got left, though. In an unfortunate twist, Tate has actually taken quite ill. The universe has a wicked sense of humor, don’t doubt it for a second. The boy’s been puking up all week. Seems to be getting progressively worse. Could his recent art binge have pushed him over the edge? Anything’s possible, I suppose. Weak or not, his voice never seems to give out. Can hear him shrieking in the bathroom right now.

  Galla comes to me, concerned.

  “He’s about to get sick again,” she says. “With father coming, no less.”

  Oh yes, forgot to mention. Galla’s deception has had its own unfortunate byproducts. Daddy’s decided to stop by for a visit to check on his little girl. Galla knows how to create a mess. That much is undeniable.

  “Let’s move Tate to the box,” I say. “Don’t need him clogging the drain, after all.”

  The box was a stroke of genius. Got tired of the boy defecating wherever he pleased, but couldn’t just sit him up on the pot. He’d fall right in. Inspiration struck in the form of a cat. One afternoon, saw a little black stray dance across the yard. Treat Tate like an animal. Of course. Never had a pet before, but seem to be quite a few obvious parallels. If cats can be trained to use the litter box, so could Tate. Least that’s how the thinking went. Came up with a basic reward system- i.e., biscuit for a proper poo/piss in the box. Results have been mixed. Rewards lose some of their effectiveness when they’re puked back up.

  Galla brings Tate to the dining room, lays him in the sand pit. Striking how thin they’ve both gotten. Tate’s shrinking, no bigger than the day he was born. Same could be said for Galla. Reckon she hasn’t been this size since primary school. Still looks good…but almost in spite of it all. At a certain point, thinness becomes pitiful. She’s well on her way.

  Rather than continue the expulsions, Tate falls asleep instantly. That’s a new one.

  “Galla,” I say. “Have you considered it? He needs…something. Help.”

  “I take him to a hospital, they’ll take him from me,” she says. “Can’t risk that. Besides, he’s got the flu, that’s all.”

  Trying to be gentle with my opinion, but I’m convinced Galla’s in the wrong.

  “Ever see what happens when an old man gets the flu? He dies. The weak, the infirm…they can’t handle the stress of illness. And whether you want to admit it or not, the boy’s infirm.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Maybe he’s not meant for this world,” I say.

  “Father’ll be here in an hour,” she says. “We’ve got plenty to do.”

  Have to admit, she’s right about that.

  I should be tidying up, Galla should be looking for a place to hide Tate. Instead, we slip into the bedroom. Been doing this fairly often, in spite of any exhaustion. Always waste the most time when you’ve got the least to spare.

  Whole Non-Affair has taken a bizarre turn. Seems to have piqued Galla’s interest in my experience with other women. “This is the best you’ve had, isn’t it?” she’ll say. “Oh, no one else does this for you, do they?” Never directly asked me about my supposed indiscretions, but things are clearly heading that way.

  Today, she strips me down, then out and out says, “Call me Sabonne.”

  “You sure you don’t-” I say.

  “Call me Sabonne,” she repeats. No mercy in her voice. None at all.

  “Does she do this for you?” says Galla. “What about this?”

  Wouldn’t be with you if she did, I want to say.

  Galla pauses the action, speaks. “We had a meeting a few days back. Remind me what happened.”

  “It went well,” I say. “Really fantastic.”

  She leans down and hisses in my ear. “Details.”

  So I go into the whole story: the dirty hotel sheets, the mop, the razor. Must admit, it got a bit strange towards the end. Went on like this for far too long. But to be frank, I wasn’t really keen on pretending at all. Was much more in the mood for something…real.

  Afterwards, lie in bed with the name Sabonne buzzing in my ear like a mosquito. Want to swat it away, but can’t. Galla won’t allow it, either.

  “The gallery show-” she starts.

  Feed her a line about preparations I’ve been making. Best part is, it’s actually true. My art is going quite well. Been totally wrapped up in the portrait of the girl. Days have become triangular: Galla-Tate-Art. No time for food or sleep now. Well into my final canvas. Hidden it in this very room, in the closet. Can nearly feel its presence through the doors. It’s on the smaller side- maybe half a meter wide and a bit shorter than that. Too often vastness overshadows technique. Leo had it right with La Joconde. Starting to see my portrait in similar terms. The feminine mystery, the barren landscape haunting the background. Doubt Da Vinci used a toothbrush to create the effect, but that’s another matter entirely. Feel like my heart’s with Galla, but my soul’s with the portrait.

  Can’t stay in bed any longer. Art will have to wait, because father surely won’t. Throw the covers off, then rerobe. The house’ll be a wreck, that much is settled.

  “Where do we put him?” I say.

  “He’s exhausted,” says Galla. “Move the box in here. He’ll sleep right through it.”

  “You’re sure?” I say.

  “Not at all,” she says.

  “And you can’t just have a nice lunch out of the house?”

  “I’m ill, remember?” she says. “Gravely ill.” She gives a weak cough. “Can’t go out in this state.”

  Glimmer of a smile on her lips. Starting to think she wants to be found out. Stand at the edge of a cliff, and you’ll feel the urge to jump. There’s a word for it in German, I’m sure. Perhaps she doesn’t have the strength to turn Tate into the hospital herself. But if the old man reports us, well, there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?

  Galla takes Tate into the bedroom, and shuts him in there. Not a second too soon, either. Knock at the door, followed by a ring. One or the other’s plenty, for God’s sake. At least give us a moment to respond before composing a symphony. Galla’s still in the bedroom, so the duty falls on me. Our visitor is now resting a hand on the bell. Get to the door, open it. He holds the bell for an extra beat. Haven’t seen the man in a decade, already feel the urge to slaughter him.

  “Oh good. Was worried when no one answered,” he says. “Thought Galla might’ve…well, you know.”

  “Don’t despair,” I say. “It won’t be long now.”

  Meant it as sarcasm, but it sails right over the old bird’s head.

  “Right you are,” he says. Claps me on the shoulder, too. What a fool.

  First impression: he’s let himself go. Used to at least appear healthy, vibrant, and so on, but now he’s lost weight. Too much weight. The wrinkles show more clearly, assorted body part
s have started to droop. Wonder if he was Galla’s inspiration or vice versa. Neither looks well.

  Get to the dining room table, where Galla’s waiting with a pen and paper. Odd, but I ignore it. All are seated. Galla and father have a bit of a staredown, and I notice that Daddy’s got in earplugs. Suppose the old bird’s completely lost it. Conversation should be near impossible. His hearing wasn’t all that good to begin with.

  Father starts up first. “House looks lovely,” he says.

  Galla nods. Haven’t seen her this quiet in ages.

  “Things weren’t so bad…were they?” says Daddy. “You made a brilliant employee. Valuable, really.”

  Galla takes the pen and paper, scribbles something down. I get on the edge of my seat and peer over. It reads, Sorry, but I’m really very sick. She passes it to father, who inspects it.

  “What in God’s name is going on?” I whisper to Galla.

  “Father’s got his earplugs in. Pretends he can’t hear anyone.” She rolls her eyes. “Says he’s “living proof” of the product’s effectiveness. He won’t respond unless he’s got a written statement. Of course, he can hear all this, but he’ll act as if he can’t. He’ll even repeat things we’ve already said, just to show how little he’s heard. He’s mad.”

  Daddy suddenly looks up at me. “You’re wondering why a man like me would wear these interminably, aren’t you?” he says. “It’s very simple. These earplugs are the single-most effective product on the earth. I’m living proof. Benefits me two-fold, though. When people have to write out everything they want to say, they’re much more selective. Cuts out all the nonsense. Gets right to the heart of the matter.

  “Not a bad idea,” I say.

  “Not a bad idea, eh?” he says. Gives me a cheeky grin. Growing tired of this game rather quickly. I tempt fate, make a few vulgar comments about his daughter. The old bird doesn’t even acknowledge me. Impressive.

  “What we do, it’s not for the money,” he says to Galla. “I could’ve happily quit years ago. But I wanted to do the absolute best I could with these earplugs. It may not amount to much, but it’s mine. I focused on one thing, and this only. Dug to the very core of myself. Put in the hard work. I’ve carved out this space. All you have to do is follow.”

  Galla shakes her head no, a moment of silence follows. Pangs of recognition stab at my chest. Realize I might have a bit more in with the old man than I’d believed. His obsession, while admittedly absurd, perhaps isn’t so very different from my own. Is this what I’ll become in thirty years? A clown? A madman?

  “I’ve always felt fortunate to work with my daughter, but if your mind’s made…”

  And then there’s a noise that even the old man can’t ignore: a horrific banshee-like screech. It’s a sound I’ve come to know very well these past few weeks. It’s the sound of Tate waking up.

  The old man’s attention is drawn to the bedroom for a half-second, but then he’s back with us. I’m completely frozen. Can’t really see how Galla’s taking this.

  “Should I do something?” I whisper.

  “Ignore it,” she says. “And hope father does the same.”

  Baby shrieks again, father winces.

  “How can he possibly pretend not to hear that?” I say.

  “Please,” he says. “If you’ve got something to say, write it down.”

  Another cacophonous shriek from the bedroom. Have to consider the possibility that the child is in fact being murdered as we sit here.

  The old bird smiles, gestures to me. “Please.” I ward him off with graceful deference. Swear he looks disappointed that I didn’t use the pen. Bet it’s a nice ego boost for him.

  “You know,” he says. “It’s a funny thing about children.”

  Glance at Galla, assume the worst. He’s going to out the both of us. Sorry Tate. Was bound to happen sooner or later.

  “Kids used to return,” he says. “They’d go about their apprenticeship or what have you, but then they’d come back, work with their family. But times have changed so much. They always do, don’t they?” Pauses for effect, as if he’s said something truly profound. Sadly, not long before he starts up again.

  “Yes, I remember the ‘30s vividly. Now those were dark times. That mysterious illness…and the children, all sick, dying…and then almost magically, this wondrous alternative materializes from thin air. The clinics sprung up overnight, and it was so much safer, so much better. Only reason you two are here today. But nobody remembers the past anymore. I imagine it’s considered grotesque.” The old bird grins and scratches the top of his balding dome. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  “Course not,” I say.

  He nods thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s all academic, now. The real question—the vital question—is much simpler: How many of your children have come back?”

  Blood-curdling scream from Tate.

  “Exactly,” says father. “None. And why is that? It’s because they’re all in caves somewhere, searching for bugs! Suicide missions, the lot of them. For every thousand we send out, one comes back successful. The rest disappear, can’t find their way back. But if one gets one of those little buggers, it’s all worth it. We’re driving them to extinction, you know. Why do we do it? Because our species is dying. Can’t survive without them. That’s the truth.”

  The whole thing’s absurd, and easily dismissed…at first. But the longer we sit there, the more it rattles around in my thoughts. Knew I’d been sending my kids off to apprenticeships, but never really bothered to find out where. Always figured they’d found work or love wherever they were and had no need for us. But maybe, just maybe…Mind flickers back to an earlier painting, that haunting underground scene at the clinic. Is that where my children are? In some awful cave? It couldn’t be…

  Tate gives yet another shriek. The old bird stands. Figure this is the one that’ll cause him to drop the charade and take the last of my offspring.

  “Been nice seeing you, but I’ve got to get going,” he says. “Lovely house, delicious tea. Cheers.”

  The fool makes his way to the door, leaves.

  “But we didn’t even serve tea,” I say.

  Galla sits beside me, silent.

  “Galla?” I say.

  “Let’s have a talk,” she says.

  Galla stands, leads me to the bedroom. Inside, find Tate curled into a slobbering blue ball. He looks frail, so frail. Galla lifts him, pets him. The screaming doesn’t stop. Snot pours from his nose, eyes bulge from his head. Sand is everywhere. Looks like his skin is cracking and falling through Galla’s fingers.

  Very calmly, Galla says: “What do you see?”

  “A voice like that? Must be his mother’s son.”

  She forces a smile. “Arboss,” she says. “I need you to call Sabonne.”

  “What?” I say. Wonder if this is about my gallery show. Supposed to be tomorrow, and haven’t thought of a way out of it yet. Can feel the walls closing in. She’s found out. She knows.

  “Will you do that for me?” asks Galla.

  “She’s a very busy lady,” I say. “So many artists to represent. In fact…”

  “Arboss,” she says. “I’ve made a decision. Not an easy one, either.”

  Look in her eyes. Brace for impact.

  “I’m rehanging Tate.”

  “Oh,” I say. That’s what this is all about. Half sigh of relief, just from the unexpected reprieve. Not sure I’m in favor of it, though. Perhaps it’s for the best…but I would miss the boy. I really would.

  “I think…well, let’s think about it.”

  “But there’s one other thing,” she says.

  Nod for her to go on.

  “Tate won’t be alone,” she says. “I want to be rehung, too.”

  24.

  In the backyard with Galla, looking up at the tree. Sun’s already down and Tate’s passed out in his litter box. Hasn’t stopped Galla, though. She’s still going on about the logistics of a rehangi
ng, the physics of getting the two of them up there together.

  “Set a table right underneath that branch, it’d all be very simple,” she says. “We get in the bag, you cinch it, fling the tail around the tree. Once it’s settled, pull the table out from under us. Would take a bit of strength, but I’m sure you can manage.”

  Naturally, she’s ignoring the most important part: the why. Been trying to turn the subject, but to no avail. Instead, taken to poking holes in her argument.

  “Who’s to say the bag won’t rip again?” I ask. “It fell apart with a newborn, adding a fully-grown adult certainly won’t help. Of course, this is all strictly hypothetical, because we don’t even have a bag.”

  “Actually,” she says. “We do.”

  Pulls a piece of white cloth out of thin air. Must’ve been a magician in another life. Recognize the fabric in an instant. That dandy of a nurse, the haunting underground scene…yes, I remember it all. The day of Tate’s birth, I’d gone back to the clinic. I’d gotten her the bag. She’d probably been hiding it in our bedroom, perhaps under a pile of refuse. Until now.

  “Good for up to 400 pounds,” she says. “At least according to Sabonne.”

  “Wait…” I say. “You’ve been planning this? For weeks? Months?” Feel like a chess player who’s three moves behind his opponent. Only now see the inevitable checkmate, far too late.

  “She said it’d be fine,” says Galla.

  “You talked to Sabonne?!” I say.

  “You left her card on the table. Tate got sick and…figured I might as well phone her.”

  Manage just an, “Oh.” Starting to become clear that she knows quite a bit more than she let on. Has she unraveled my non-affair? Probably. The non-gallery, too? Almost certainly. My insides are screaming, Confess! Confess! And perhaps it would all be salvaged if I did. But no, I won’t. Much easier to attack than to reveal one’s weakness.