by Leyna Krow
You decide on a compromise. What you’ll do is you’ll let Walter off his leash and he can walk around on his own for a bit while you watch. You’ve never done this before—set him loose in the neighborhood. But you can’t see the harm, calm and well-mannered as he is.
“Okay, Walt,” you say. “Just a few more minutes, then we head back.”
It’s only when you bend to release the leash clasp from Walter’s collar that you see the true object of his attention. A woman standing at the end of a driveway, holding a cat. This sight stays your hand a moment. Perhaps you should not unclip the leash after all.
You’re a half a block away. The woman wears high heels, slacks, a freshly ironed sweater. In the hand not holding the cat is a stack of mail. She’s paused in her route from mailbox to house to examine the letter on the top of the stack. You wonder, briefly, if she carried the cat out of the house for the purpose of having company while she checked the mail, or if she simply scooped it up along the way. Regardless, the pair has caught Walter’s interest.
If you set him free, that’s where he’ll go. You’re certain of it now, this thing you’ve wondered about Walter for some time. Though he does not growl or lunge or bare his teeth, you can see the desire in his eyes, and in the way his stubby ears tip forward ever so slightly. That’s where he’ll go. Then everyone in the neighborhood’s suspicions about the two of you will be confirmed. Whatever those suspicions are. You have your suspicions about their suspicions.
This particular woman is familiar to you. She might be the one who came to your house to tell you about the disappearing cats. (And here she has since found her cat. How nice for her!) Or she might be one of the women from your dream. She might even be someone you used to work with a long time ago. She doesn’t see you though, and even if she did she probably wouldn’t say a damn thing to you.
As the clasp clicks open in your hand, and the leash falls to your side, you tell yourself you don’t know why you’ve done such an impulsive, foolish thing. You tell yourself you don’t know what outcome you could possibly hope to see.
But you do know. You and Walter both know.
July 15, 2090, Bainbridge Island, Washington
Caroline Olstead
On my way out for lunch, I stop by Angie’s toll booth to see if she wants me to bring her a sandwich. She says yes, but only if it’s egg salad or PB&J because she’s decided she’s a vegetarian again. Angie does this every couple of years. I tease her and ask if she’s been talking animal rights with Spud when I’m not around. I promise egg salad and remember that I’ll have to stop at the store myself since Spud never bothers to listen to messages and then I remind myself to chastise Spud for this when I get home.
I try to take a firm hand with him, like my mom did with Parker and me. It’s hard to know the right way to be with Spud, though. It’s a lot of pressure. Parker turned out to be a genius. An astronaut and a scientist. Spud’s got the same genes, so he’s got the same potential. There are so many ways Spud is already just like Parker. But I didn’t raise Parker. I wasn’t the one to make the hard decisions. So, when I’m stuck in any given situation, I think about what Mom would have done. I know sometimes I’ve got to step up and be the bad guy. In the situation of not returning a phone call and not going to the store, for example, Mom would have shouted loud enough to rattle Parker from whatever daydream he was in. You can be certain of that. So I’ll take the hard line with Spud, too. Even on his birthday.
This isn’t to say I want Spud to turn out to be exactly the same person as Parker. Everyone, even a clone, has the right to be whoever he wishes to be—to make his own life. It’s up to Spud if he wants to be a scientist or not, an astronaut or not. That’s part of the reason I try not to linger on the subject when Spud asks about his daddy. I don’t want him to feel too influenced one way or the other. Like he’s got to carry on in the path of some dead man he’s never met.
All I mean about nurturing Spud is that Parker was so smart, and, at his core, so very kind. He really wanted to make the world a better place. Sure, we had our own challenges. When Mom was still alive, he was the good son, coming home for all the holidays. After she passed though, there was this sort of silence that cropped up between me and Parker. Not that we were mad at each other or didn’t get along. We just didn’t know how to be together. Like Mom had been the one thing we had in common and without her, we were strangers. He still came to visit, but less frequently, and I could tell it was mostly out of a sense of obligation, like he felt someone had to check in on lonely Caroline from time to time.
But the one thing he could get excited to talk about during those visits—if he did happen to be in a talking mood—was whatever research he was doing. He’d tell me about how marvelous the sea creatures he worked with were, and how studying them could tell humans all sorts of things about our own lives on Earth, both our past and our futures. He said knowing things like that could help us live better. I can’t pretend I understood all of it. But I believe he really was doing something important. Other people thought so, too. After he died, the government sent me all kinds of awards and commendations in honor of him.
And so I’m certain Spud could turn out like that, too. If only I knew how to encourage him in the right way, and to love him in the right way, I think he could grow up to use all his brains and his sensitivities and his intuitions for good. I wish I could ask Mom, of course. But I also wish I could ask Parker. To see what he would have to say about what exactly it is Spud needs.
I do my shopping quick, and in sort of a daze, thinking about all these things. I’ve got a lot on my mind today. But as soon as I come up the driveway to the house, I forget all of it, scolding Spud and making cake and egg salad included. Something’s wrong. First off, the stray pit bull that follows Spud around isn’t sitting on the steps. Second, the front door’s wide open. Of course I assume the worst.
I drop my groceries and charge in through the open door like a momma bear, hoping to startle whatever meth-head burglar’s in my house. But the only person there is Spud. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, hugging a bleeding arm to his chest. It looks like he’s been that way for a while.
“The dog bit me,” he says when he sees me.
“I can see that,” I say. I’ll be honest; I’m relieved. This is a Spud problem I know how to handle all on my own.
I bundle Spud’s arm up in a towel and call a cab to take us to the clinic, hoping they can patch him up well enough there and we won’t have to go across to the hospital in Seattle. The bridge is already absolutely miserable this time of day.
Spud bites his lip through the pain. I think of how Parker used to scream his head off every time he so much as scraped his knee. Then I think again about how there really are so many types of people Spud could turn out to be, regardless of his genes. There’s no predicting the ways any given situation will shape a kid and leave a mark on him, make him different from how he could have been otherwise. It’s scary, but it’s kind of a big fuck-you to those scientists at the University of Michigan and all the great plans they must have had for the clones. I can’t help but smile a little at the thought of it.
Tonight, I’ll tell Spud how much braver he is than his daddy was at his age. How much stronger. There are other little things like that, too. I should tell him more often, whenever I notice. The scar on Spud’s arm from the dog bite—that will be another thing. It’ll help remind him he’s his own man, even though he doesn’t know enough to think otherwise.
Disruption
Each morning, a man in Detroit, Michigan pushes a button and everything falls out of my kitchen shelves and onto my kitchen floor. It is unclear to me if this is the primary function of the button or if it’s simply an unintended consequence. Regardless, I find it to be an inconvenience.
This hasn’t always happened. It’s a fairly recent development.
I suspect the button used to do something else. It used to start an assembly line conveyor belt or open the bay doors of a
warehouse. I’m certain everything would not fall out of my kitchen shelves each morning were it not for the tragic decline of the American auto industry. There are too many buttons out there no longer doing what they were designed to do.
I don’t live in Detroit, Michigan. I live in Tulare, California.
Every morning, I wake up to the sound of everything on my kitchen shelves falling onto my kitchen floor. It happens at six o’clock. This is earlier than I prefer to get up. The first thing I do is I put on my slippers and robe and then I pick everything up and put it back where it belongs. Then I go online to look up phone numbers for Detroit. I am trying to find the man who pushes the button.
Each Thursday, not only does everything fall out of my kitchen shelves and onto my kitchen floor, but everything also falls out of my freezer. I am unsure if this is the result of the same button, or a separate one entirely. Since this only happens once a week, it is not an unbearable hardship. I just have to be diligent about getting out of bed quickly and returning everything to the freezer so it doesn’t spoil.
I’ve got quite a lot of meat in my freezer. Definitely more than is necessary for one person.
I have decided it would actually be better to talk to the man who pushes the button’s boss. The man who pushes the button is probably just doing his button pushing because he is paid to. I doubt he has the jurisdiction to decide whether or not the button should be pushed each morning. I wonder if he gets good health insurance and a living wage for pushing the button. I worry he may be a member of some sort of button pusher’s union. If this is the case, it could be very difficult to get him to stop his work.
The man who pushes the button isn’t Barrett. I could see how you might think he would be Barrett, but he isn’t.
I do not ever go online and look up Barrett’s phone number. I am not trying to find him.
The reason I know Barrett is not the man who pushes the button is because Barrett once said Tulare is the worst place on Earth with the exception of Detroit, Michigan and certain parts of Mexico City.
So I also know Barrett is not in certain parts of Mexico City.
I disagreed with Barrett about Tulare. In Tulare, we have a weekly farmers’ market and a very nice public library. We have small town charm with big city amenities. We have beautiful natural settings within driving distance. There’s even a song about Tulare, which children learn in grade school. It goes: Tulare, Tulare/Your hills and mountains cry/It’s either do or die/For Tulare, Tulare/The county where the mountains meet the sky. When I told Barrett this, he said, “See, this place is so crummy even the mountains and the hills are crying.”
There are a lot of songs about Detroit, including “Detroit Rock City,” “Don’t Stop Believing,” “Motor City Madness,” and “8 Mile.” Sometimes I hum these songs in the morning while I clean everything off my kitchen floor and put it back on my shelves.
The number I call most often in Detroit is Directory Assistance. When the operator answers, I say, “Hello, I’m trying to find the man who pushes the button that makes everything fall out of my kitchen shelves and onto my kitchen floor.” Then the operator says, “Is this a joke.” I say, “No, this isn’t a joke. I would also like to talk to this man’s boss, if possible.” Then she says, “I don’t have times for jokes,” and hangs up.
The number I call second most often in Detroit is the headquarters for a union that represents auto factory workers (because it turns out button pushers don’t have their own union after all). When the operator answers, I say, “Hello, I’m trying to find the man who pushes the button that makes everything fall out of my kitchen shelves and onto my kitchen floor.” Then the operator says, “Hi, Irene, how are you today?” I always tell her, aside from having to clean everything up off my kitchen floor, I’m all right. I say this because she sounds like a nice person and I don’t want to worry her.
On Tuesdays, women from the church come over. They bring lunch and good tidings. Once, one of them told me a story about a cousin of hers whose husband disappeared and six months later the authorities called and told her he had died in Florida. She never found out the cause of death because they said she had to pay for a coroner’s report and she didn’t want to do that. The woman from the church told me this like she meant it to sound hopeful.
On other days, Detective Wallitsch comes over. He says, “Have you heard from him?” I tell him the truth, which is that I have not. He says, “You’ll call me right away if you do.” I lie and say of course I will.
Detective Wallitsch never calls before he comes over. I think this is rude. Sometimes I don’t mind his stopping by. He’s always very pleasant to me and does not stay long. But other times I’m busy and would prefer not to be interrupted.
For example, the first time Detective Wallitsch came over was also the first morning everything fell out of my kitchen shelves, and also out of my freezer, and onto my kitchen floor. The sound was so sudden, but also so automatic, I knew right away it was the result of someone in Detroit pushing a button. Still, I was surprised when I saw the state of the kitchen. Barrett had been gone for two days and even though I didn’t know why yet, I already wasn’t looking for him. There was broken glass everywhere. Now all my dinnerware is plastic. I know it isn’t very classy, but it’s durable. That first morning though, the mess was so bad I swapped my slippers for a pair of Barrett’s boots so I wouldn’t cut up my feet while I cleaned. Needless to say, that was not a convenient time for Detective Wallitsch to visit. When I answered the door, he showed me his badge and said he’d like to ask me a few questions about my husband if I didn’t mind. He must have thought I was some sort of madwoman, stomping around in a robe and men’s boots with my arms full of thawing meat.
Barrett and I never went to church together. If he were here, he’d say the women who come on Tuesdays are taking advantage of me. I’d ask how someone can be taking advantage if they’re the ones bringing lunch. He’d say, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
Calling the autoworkers’ union has yet to lead me to the man who pushes the button. But I keep trying because I think progress is being made. The operator’s name at the union is Liz and she is very helpful. The first time I called, she didn’t say, “Is this a joke?” She said, “What’s your name, hon?”
Liz says she doesn’t think anyone affiliated with her union pushes a button that would make everything fall off the shelves and onto the floor in some lady’s kitchen in Tulare, California, as that isn’t exactly a productive function for autoworkers. She says it would be a waste of resources on the part of that particular plant. However, she assures me if the man who pushes the button is in fact a union member, he would be entitled to a minimum of eighteen dollars and seventy-eight per hour and if he worked more than twenty hours a week, he would have medical and dental insurance with a twenty-five dollar co-pay, a retirement plan, and an optional life insurance policy.
I tell Liz that sounds like a good job. If Barrett had a good job in Detroit pushing a button for a living wage and insurance benefits, maybe people wouldn’t think he’s such a bad guy.
When we’d fight, Barrett would say if he only had enough money, he’d leave and never come back. I didn’t ever think he meant it though—about leaving. But then I guess there are a lot of things I didn’t ever think Barrett would do.
Detective Wallitsch thinks Barrett’s coming back. That’s why he visits unannounced.
I don’t care if Barrett comes back. But I have a fantasy where Barrett finds out about the man who pushes the button. If Barrett knew about the man who causes me such anxiety and inconvenience, maybe, just maybe, he’d drive to Detroit even though it’s worse than Tulare and some parts of Mexico City and find the man himself. Maybe he’d tie the man up and also tie up the man’s family. Maybe he’d hurt the man until he agreed to stop pushing the button. Maybe he’d demand the combination to the man’s safe. Maybe he’d take everything of value the man had. Maybe he’d kill the man just because he felt like it. Then he�
�d do the same thing to the man’s neighbors. This time it’d be all right because he’d have done it for me.
The reason Barrett would think the women from the church are taking advantage of me is he doesn’t believe anyone ever does anything nice if it doesn’t benefit them personally. That’s the long version of “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Like, even if someone is helping you and it makes them feel good, that’s them taking advantage. They’re using you to make themselves happy. That’s why, according to Barrett, selfish people are more trustworthy—at least their motives are clear.
No one has ever accused Barrett of not having a clear motive.
Liz and I don’t always only talk about the man who pushes the button. Sometimes we talk about sports. Liz is a big fan of the Detroit Tigers. Sometimes we take turns listing songs about Detroit. Liz has never been to California and sometimes she asks what Tulare is like. The first time she asked, I told her Tulare County is home to Mount Whitney, which is the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States. Then I sang the song for her and said that’s what they meant about the mountains reaching the sky. Unfortunately, it’s the only song there is about Tulare. Liz said she thought it was nice anyway and she didn’t even make a joke about the part where the hills and mountains are crying.
Tulare is also home to numerous cattle ranches and the farmers’ market boasts many options for lovers of beef. Liz says she doesn’t much care for beef and I agree with her. “Especially not when I have to clean it up off my kitchen floor every Thursday morning,” I say. “Oh, hon,” Liz says.
I suppose I don’t need to keep food in the freezer at all. That would make Thursdays easier. But that’s one of the things Barrett and I used to fight about. He was upset when there wasn’t enough food in the house, when there wasn’t enough red meat in the freezer. He accused me, from time to time, of vegetarianism, which he considered a crime. So now I try to keep plenty of things like skirt steaks and veal cutlets around, even though I don’t eat that much of them myself.