The Breeders
Page 7
While Grace’s bath water was running, Dex ran downstairs and across the street to the kitty-corner Target Express for the strawberries. In all of four and a half minutes, he was back in the bathroom, naked, kneeling next to the bathtub, holding a berry out to the mother of his child.
“This, my friend, is the answer to all your woes.”
He climbed in next to her, and they fed the strawberries to each other. Succulent, perfect, like rain on pain.
They made love. Dex was careful at first, until Grace told him it was okay to go further, that sex used to be encouraged during pregnancy. Around them, the cooling water rose and fell in slight bursts on the side of the bathtub.
“I don’t like what’s happening to the world,” Grace whispered when they finished.
Dex had spooned himself around her. He kissed her head now, then held his lips against her dark, wet hair. Grace used her foot to turn on the faucet, and heat from the new water moved around them. Dex was still aroused, still inside her. As the bath grew warmer, she made no effort to force him out.
Grace put her hand on his and rested them both on her abdomen. “I think . . . I think I want to make it last as long as possible before they take it away from us. Make this last. But like I said, I won’t blame you if you decide to save yourself and run. Just give me the word, and I’ll figure it out myself.”
The faucet dripped in front of them, hitting a small pool between the mess of their feet.
“I had a dream,” Grace continued. “That I was raising a little girl. It’s a girl, I think. She was running through the yard, laughing, turning around to see if I was laughing, too. That was all. Except she had salt and pepper hair, like you, even though she was just a tiny kid.”
Dex burst into laughter, and he felt Grace’s cheeks smile against his arm.
“I’d never been so happy in my entire life. Our daughter was alive, and it was all that mattered.”
Dex’s laughter dwindled, but the exhilaration at the thought of his child running around, being alive, happy, and unharmed, remained. His choice to help it survive would boil down either to bravery or to fear—recklessness or complacence. With either choice, he would forever wonder what the alternative could have brought. But life was life, even sliced small, and this child was innocent in the world’s mess. Therein lay a spark of clarity and courage, the right choice. He just had to grab it, hold it close.
ON THE NINTH OF DECEMBER, Dex joined the Jarvis family for their Sunday dinner at James’s request. The entire night, James spoke to him in his smug, sing-song voice, dripping phony friendliness, keeping his teeth at bay, but only just.
“You must like real sex quite a bit if you thrust hard enough into my daughter’s anus to make her bleed,” he said, grinning over his pinot noir. “Even though experimenting with anal sex won’t make you normal, however much you might wish it.”
Lars was grinning, twirling shredded cucumber salad around his fork. Grace had been right: he was a frightening child, pale, brimming with intelligence, and as of the previous week sporting the rainbow arm band of the Gay Youth, a newly formed and worldwide pre-military group for teenagers of the New Rainbow Order. But Dex noticed the boy’s gaze wandering over his body whenever nobody was looking. Lars was attracted to him, and it was the boy’s only hint of cerebral weakness. He did not say a word to Dex all night.
It was obvious nobody in Grace’s family had yet tipped off the Bio Police to her condition. She was safe for the moment, and dinner passed under a constant but bearable wash of discomfort. Afterward, Stuart beckoned Grace and Dex into the kitchen to do the dishes. They spoke nothing of Grace’s pregnancy, but Dex could tell Stuart was feeling him out with every pleasantry they exchanged; he wanted to know if Dex had what it took to be reliable. When Stuart accidentally set one of the knives too close to the counter’s edge and it flipped off, toward his foot, Dex caught it.
“Good boy,” Stuart whispered. They exchanged their first real smile.
As they cleaned up the kitchen, Lars watched from the living room doorway, standing like a sentry over the older clashing family members populating his world. His dark hair and clothes blended with the charcoal-colored cabinetry behind him, making his face float like a white theatre mask. It was impossible to tell whether the slight twist in his mouth was a frown or a smile.
LATER, DEX AND GRACE lay in bed in the guest house. It was calming to know this warm, brick bungalow would be surrounded by Stuart’s vivid gardens in the summertime. The very thought of staying here with Grace, of living out this pregnancy in peace and building a future, inspired a bloom of tranquility in his heart so potent that he felt, in those moments, a seemingly mystical closeness to the soul growing inside her, to the life that had bonded them to begin with.
Dex was not religious, but he did believe in a soul. Christianity, the world’s only government-endorsed religion, was a set of superstitions the homosexual majority used to justify their ways of life. With Christmas coming up, it was a constant reminder of their dominance. Since archeologists and biologists discovered through an unearthed blood sample in 2117 that Jesus of Nazareth had been a homosexual (and ancient Aramaic scrolls accompanying the sample claimed he was an active one at that, as had long been postulated), Christmas had become a rainbow-flared celebration, yet another way to suppress heterosexuals. But the idea of God, of a soul, still appealed to Dex. It gave him a sense of hope.
Yet there, as their calm nighttime breathing masked the thunder clouds billowing on their horizon, he asked Grace one last time: “Are you sure about this? Going against the law to keep this baby?”
They were facing each other in the darkness. Visible in the moonlight, Grace’s contemplative expression remained stoic. It was as if she had not heard his question. He was about to ask again when her eyebrows scrunched. “Killing it would be the easy option, wouldn’t it? The sensible one. Risk the complications of an underground abortion, or hell, I’m sure I could find a way to cause a miscarriage. Don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it constantly.” Dex grimaced and nodded. She was right: getting rid of the baby would be easy and sensible. The only option, if they were to preserve what remained of their lives. When she continued, however, there was nothing easy or sensible in her expression. “But then I think about the dream. I think about killing the baby and telling myself it’s to save it from being harmed or murdered or having a horrible life, and I realize I’d be bringing on those very things by snuffing it out myself. That reasoning is completely flawed. I can’t know the future. I can’t know what’s in store for this baby. I’ve devoted my entire life to helping those who don’t have a choice or a chance, because of the suppression the NRO has brought on everything. But this little person is my own flesh and blood. Ours. It’s somebody. What would I be if I just erased that to save myself?”
Dex found himself nodding as Grace finished.
“A coward,” she said.
They were both lying in fetal positions with hands touching lightly near their pillows. Outside was the rest of the world, blissfully unaware of the momentous moral dilemma resolving between them.
“Do you think we could ever love each other, Dex Wheelock?”
Grace’s question sank into him, causing the heat of vulnerability to rise in his chest, then filter out to his limbs. Love? Time had not yet been ample enough for him to feel such a thing for Grace Jarvis. But there she lay with her brown hair falling over her shoulders, her warm feet reaching out to touch his somewhere deep in the sheets.
“I think I love what we created already, as scared as I am,” he answered, knowing it might not be enough to instill nobility in him or crush any potential gutlessness. He was creating an opportunity for abdication, for that future, decisive moment when he would have to make this critical choice. “As for us,” he continued, already feeling guilt swallow him, “I suppose we won’t know until it happens. I think what matters most right now is doing our best. And whatever happens after that . . . just . . . happens.”
A MEMORY (HER)
GRACE IS LYING ON THE GROUND, and her nose is bleeding. Running across the school yard into the golden afternoon sun are Ben Bradley, Shia Madloff, and Kenneth Bon. It was a good day up until ten seconds ago.
They punched her because of Social History. It is the first time she has ever been persecuted for being herself.
Social History is one of Grace’s favorite classes, but Mr. Sobaski sweats in his armpits every day, so it tarnishes the experience somewhat. Today, he gave them an overview of their upcoming two-month unit called Homosexual Progress. For a fifth-grade teacher, he expects a lot from his students. Grace privately knows she is one of the few who actually understands what he is talking about, at least most of the time.
He told them earlier this morning that in 2026, the old United States (which, despite some stains on its reputation due to what Mr. Sobaski called “superfluous wars” and “environmentally unfriendly industrial addictions”) had progressed on the social front and legalized marriage for homosexuals, who as a social group had fought decades for the “legitimacy of their relationships to be recognized in a legal manner.”
At this, Grace actually laughed aloud, to her own embarrassment. Heterosexuals—breeders—being in charge of the world and not allowing homosexuals to marry is the exact opposite of her world. The thing she found funny was that homosexuals today say the type of restraint they suffered back then was unacceptable and inhuman, even though they now treat heteros that way all the time. Her chuckle at this incongruity had been loud and out of place in class, and everyone—most of whom were normal homosexual boys—stared.
Despite what she found funny, the things Mr. Sobaski told them next about the droughts, mass famines, overpopulation, and the Sterilize Yourself! liberal movement in the late 2060s were fascinating to Grace. In fact, she was the only student in the room to ask questions, even though she knew people were rolling their eyes at her. Did those first heterosteriles of the sterilization movement know that what they were doing would inspire fear in old-fashioned thinkers? That it would cause them to form the rebel group God’s Army and start the twelve-year reign of biological and chemical terror the world now remembered as the Bio Wars? And when did homosexuality finally become more normal than heterosexuality?
“You’ll find out all in due time, Miss Jarvis,” Mr. Sobaski said. He looked at her in a curious way, as if suspecting she was indeed a heterosterile. She would have confirmed it had he asked.
Now, Grace realizes that being open about who she is might not be so smart. She is lying on the ground, mortified, knowing that blood is running right down the side of her face.
They snuck up behind her, spun her around by her backpack, and each hit her in the nose once. Ben, Shia, and Kenneth.
She has no idea why they did it, and all she can think is that it was because she laughed out loud in class and made it obvious she had understood something funny that they had not.
CHAPTER 15 (HER)
IT WAS A BRIGHT AND SUNNY FRIDAY. The first snow of the year had fallen the previous night, and rooftops and trees lining I-94 between Minneapolis and St. Paul reflected white against the ravishing blue sky.
It’s beautiful, still, the world, Grace thought. If anything, there’s that.
She was on her way to Kincaid’s Revival, a classic American restaurant in St. Paul, where her dad and the straight rights activist Aiden Parsons had reserved a curtained nook for what Stuart hoped would appear to be a private business meeting. “Best to make the meeting look unremarkable,” her dad had told her that morning. “If anybody recognizes us, we can say we’re catching up with an old family friend.”
The melted snow reflecting the sun on the freeway was blinding, and Grace had to shield her eyes to see the road ahead. She had driven today because of an afternoon meeting with Linda Glass, whom she had been avoiding ever since their last coffee date. Her avoidance was now bordering on suspicious, as her friend had pointed out on a com message the day before.
“Grace, it’s me,” Linda said. “I saw your father at the store, and he told me you’re out of a job, which means you’re helping me with Rita’s school decorations tomorrow. No questions! I’ll call you.”
Rita was Linda and her wife Celine’s seven-year-old daughter, who was a first grader at Deephaven Elementary. Abraham also lived in Deephaven, which meant there was a chance she might run across Lars, who was a sixth grader at the school.
The less he sees of me the better, Grace thought, exiting off I-94 and making her way toward Kincaid’s Revival. Either way, it’s going to be an interesting day.
“I’m meeting Stuart Jarvis for his party of three,” she told the host after stepping inside. The black-haired fag gave her an approving once over, then led her to a secluded corner of the restaurant. The warm, meaty smells clashed with the cologne wafting off his thin body and bouncing walk. The fag held back the red curtain of one of the four nooks. Inside it were her dad and a hawk-faced man with slicked-back, graying hair. Aiden Parsons, surely—the failsafe who could and did, until the Bio Police had brought him down.
“Well hello, my dear,” Stuart said, playing up the casualness in his tone, making it clear he had not yet mentioned anything of the pregnancy to Parsons. They had a plan: Stuart would lead the conversation, feel Parsons out, and if it seemed wise, reveal the necessary information about the pregnancy.
Both men’s chairs squeaked outward as they stood up to greet her. Stuart kissed his daughter on the cheek, and Parsons reached across the table and shook her hand, looking her straight in the eyes, unflinching. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. The man looked and acted like a classic successful failsafe: well-dressed enough to fit in with the homosexual majority, but also self-conscious in a heightened sort of way, as if he were scrutinizing his every action for mannerisms that might draw attention. Parsons stared at Grace as she sat down, holding a toothpick between his grinding teeth. He was on edge; that was clear.
Or maybe he just finds you attractive. He’s a failsafe, after all.
“So, I’ve just been talking with Mr. Parsons about the closure of his organization,” Stuart told Grace in the overly polite, small-talky tone he might use with one of his patients.
“Failsafe Rise, right?” Grace asked, keeping her voice purposely low.
Parsons sat with perfect, businesslike posture and rested his folded hands on the tabletop. “Unfortunately, not anymore. The NRO found my organization in conflict with Article 7 of Mandate 43. Were it to remain in operation, it would be considered a terrorist organization.”
Stuart shook his head. “Ridiculous.”
“I’ve spent the past fifteen years trying to use my clout with the local governmental establishments to promote compromise between the homosexuals and heterosexuals, and until very recently I was successful. But Mandate 43 is a setback. Possibly a permanent road block.”
“What do you think is the future of straight rights action, then?” Stuart asked.
“I think advocacy is going to fall away more than we’ve ever seen before.” Parsons shook his head, and for the first time, his wary self-assuredness wavered. He took a long time to take a single sip of water, and Grace could tell he was scrutinizing them. When the man seemed convinced they were on his side, he continued. His voice was low, almost dire. “May I step onto a soap box for a moment?”
Stuart gestured with his hand. “Be our guest.”
Parsons sighed, then spoke. “What we have here is a classic dictatorship, disguising itself as a necessary one-world government and forcing its ideals by creating scapegoats for all the world’s problems. It’s the Second World War all over again, but on a grand scale, with a bit of genetic relevance thrown in for good measure. Yes, the world is right to be taking a new approach to the threat of over-population, but t
hat threat is all but gone now. Snuffed out by genetic engineering. So, one has to ask: what is the difference between a homosexual marriage and a marriage between a failsafe and heterosterile? The answer is nothing at all.”
“Meaning…?” Stuart was not seeing Parsons’s unfolding point.
But Grace understood. Genetic engineering could produce sterile heterosexuals just as easily as homosexuals, and if all humanity could agree on a form of population control, what made homosexuals better rulers? Nothing at all.
“It’s the homosexual agenda that found its footing back when the old USA’s President Gold came out of the gay closet in 2041. There are many out there who believe it was a planned political move, seeing as there were already a number of gay politicians in high levels of their old government. Along with them, other governments around the world continued to plant the gay seed early, even before the problem of population control took Earth by force. After the droughts in the 2050s, though, it became glaringly obvious that societies would soon have trouble sustaining their skyrocketing numbers. It jump-started a new wave of thinking in heterosexuals.”
“‘Sterilize Yourself!’,” Grace said, remembering clearly the day in school she had first learned about that era, the day those three boys had beat her up.
“Exactly,” Parsons said. “At the time, it was considered a liberal movement. Normal heterosexuals sterilizing themselves in an effort to save the world. Only they were forwarding the gay agenda all along. And do you know who introduced that movement? The first president those old Americans actually elected, knowing full well he was gay.”
“Lindon Trendy,” Stuart chimed in.
“Lindon Trendy. He pushed sterility and shunned anyone, particularly those in religious groups, who disagreed with it. Liberals, whether now or then, have often used one thing above all others to forward their opinions, no matter how irrational or unrealistic they are: anger. They get mad about an issue and refuse to hear any arguments against it, and the logistics necessary to make the called-for reform successful take a back seat. Vote now, think later. That’s what happened with sterilization, and the problem is that it simply continued so strongly that nobody thought twice about it until God’s Army finally decided to start an uprising. Then, after the Bio Wars almost destroyed us completely, people just forgot what the world used to be like. Homosexuals usurped political power when it was, pardon the pun, “trendy” not to procreate, and they’ve let the very nature of humanity die in the shadow of terror.”