Reproduction

by Ian Williams

He found Felicia standing on the hood of his Passat, which was still dripping from the airport, about to plant a shovel into his windshield. He tackled her by the thighs. She scrambled inside the house and tried to lock him out but he shouldered the door open. She stumbled back. Her heel caught the edge of his suitcase and she fell.

  He wanted to pick her up and strike her. He wanted to strike her across the face with all of his strength with the back of his hand, bending it so that the middle knuckle would connect just under her cheek and her head would rotate in slow motion, groan out a deep word in slow sound, flecks of spit in slow motion in the light, until she fell unconscious to the floor.

  Instead he knelt and straddled her hips and pinned her shoulders to the runner.

  You think I playing with you, she was saying. You think my life is some kind of joke. I bring something to your attention and you not even man enough to act like a man.

  If she wanted to be pregnant, he could make her pregnant right now. He tried to undo his belt but he couldn’t spare the hand. She was a single muscle, slippery fish. He couldn’t get hard either. But he had to do something.

  So he opened his mouth and let one string of spit fall slowly from his lips toward her mouth.

  * * *

  +

  When Edgar got off of Felicia, when the spit had run down the side of her cheek and settled in a white gob in her hair, he stood with his legs over her face for a moment.

  He said, You got yourself into a fine mess with your lipstick and your—he drew a deep neckline along his chest. Then he wiped his wet bangs from his forehead and went to make himself a drink. He said, Nogebligr baby.

  What did you say? Felicia lifted her skirt to wipe her jaw and hair. You should have thought about that when you was rubbing up my forehead.

  I don’t want no baby, he said loudly.

  No, say exactly what you said. (For she thought he said nigger baby in disgust while shuffling off her.)

  Edgar said he didn’t say anything. Then he didn’t say anything when Felicia continued demanding exact words.

  I thought it was the seventies, she mocked. That I had to get with the times. She paused. I’ll tell you what you need to do.

  He rubbed his eyes and drank. What do I need to do?

  You need to do the right thing.

  That he would do. He would do the gold-star, best thing.

  I’ll take care of it, Edgar said.

  You better.

  But here again was evidence for Edgar of the stupidity of the girl. She heard take care wrong.

  And soon, she said, putting down her ammunition. She went into the parlour, retrieved her pillow and started up the stairs.

  I’ll have Polly set an appointment for you, Edgar said.

  Felicia stopped. I talking about nuptials. You promise me that. That is the condition on which I come back here.

  I didn’t promise.

  You promise.

  I alluded. I did not promise.

  You is a real dog, Edgar Gross. You the biggest dog I meet in my time.

  I’ll have Polly—

  Polly is not setting no appointment for me.

  What difference does it make?

  She don’t have no business in this.

  Fine, an appointment shall be made for you.

  I not having no appointment. You deaf?

  No one in his life spoke to him like this. Did she know who he was? Did she know what restraint he was exercising not to open his mouth and consume her like a dragon? Edgar had not slapped her (but she had not stabbed him). He had not destroyed her property (but she had not implanted a foreign being into his body). He had not brought her anything from Calgary (but she did not walk down the hallway to help him remove his coat after a flight across the country).

  He spoke slowly in his boardroom voice. Listen to me, Felicia. You will have an appointment and you will go.

  (But the chandelier lit her shoulder blade as she walked up the stairs.)

  Are we okay? Armistice? Edgar said. I’ll drive you there myself.

  * * *

  +

  The next morning, he found the knife. In his tire.

  XX

  19.

  During March, appointment after appointment was set for her, in that voice and tense, the details of which were presented on the back of Edgar’s business cards. The first three were ignored. On the fourth attempt, she was practically lifted into Edgar’s dented Passat to see a doctor, who confirmed that she was indeed pregnant. Eight weeks.

  A final appointment followed. Felicia was told by Edgar that he would drive her to the clinic himself, as per their original understanding, but that he would not come in with her this time. This time? He would be waiting for her in the car when she was done. It would take half a day, tops, she was told, but he would be back early.

  You’re not even going to stay?

  He would be there when she was done. Not to worry.

  You’re not even—?

  He would dart to the office and dart back. Not to worry.

  If I have to do this by myself, then I go do the whole thing by myself.

  She was told not to be impossible.

  Impossible? I’ll be impossible if I want to be impossible.

  * * *

  +

  The morning of die Endlösung, money for a cab was left in their money spot under the centrepiece of artificial flowers. Edgar called her from work. She was told to be on her way, not to worry, but Felicia insisted on waiting for the day nurse to arrive. A girl, really, no older than twenty-one, with feathered Farrah Fawcett hair, blown back from her face. Her dress was observed as too short and impractical for nursing care.

  Felicia left early enough to be early enough to finish early enough to leave early.

  * * *

  +

  When she returned, with her large handbag of unnecessary items, Felicia was met at the door by Feather. Mr. Gross said he would call you at 12:30.

  The statement was ignored. An inquiry was made about Mutter’s meals.

  She wasn’t hungry, was said by Feather. Mr. Gross said to tell you that you should—

  Of course she not hungry. How you expect her to be hungry in this condition? The air smelled brown.

  Mr. Gross told me to tell you that—

  Thank you. The door was closed by Felicia.

  Felicia’s clothes were changed then Mutter was changed. Her stool was dark, deep purple-red, like beetroot, but Felicia hadn’t cooked any. Maybe it was Mutter’s last egg, decades late, the miraculous one released by God as an affront to Felicia.

  The phone rang at 12:30 and was ignored by Felicia. A tomato was being sliced very thinly. It rang again at 12:35 and was ignored by Felicia, who was slicing another tomato very thinly. It rang again at 1:00, 1:10, and 1:15 when Felicia was feeding Mutter mashed sweet potatoes.

  It rang from 1:25 to 1:28 continuously while Felicia was upstairs.

  Then it rang continually at half-hour periods until the home was come by Edgar.

  XY

  19.

  Edgar cut his work day short and went home.

  Why aren’t you answering the phone? he called out from the back entrance.

  No answer. Felicia’s coat was in the closet so she must have been home.

  He strode through the house without removing his shoes, calling for her. She was not in the kitchen, not with Mutter in the parlour, not in the powder room, not anywhere on the first floor. The day nurse agency must have screwed up. Had they insinuated something to her? He was hoping only for the barest hint delivered.

  Edgar found Felicia in the guest room, her room, lying on the bed with her hands over her stomach looking up at the ceiling. When he entered, she turned on her side, toward the window, away from him.

  See, it wasn’t so bad. He sat near her head. It’s just a quick whoosh and everything’s better. It’s behind you now. He should have said us. A woman would expect him to say us in a moment like this. It’s over.

  He
placed his hand on her head. She didn’t flinch or stir or shrug it off. It was as if she didn’t feel his hand, as if he were dead to her. We already have a Ghost.

  See, he said again.

  He gripped his forearms.

  He tried to make casual talk about an upcoming board meeting. No bite. He said Feather always shows up dressed like a vamp. These young girls, he said. Did she upset you? Sometimes you call them in for a job and they get ideas. I bought sandwiches.

  He looked down at Felicia. Her eyes were open, unblinking, watering, staring at the window.

  Are you happy here, with me, still? He paused. If two people travelling in a straight line meet in a hospital room, is that a vertex or an intersection? I can’t tell. I don’t know. When you were in hospital I thought that I could maybe be of help. I’m worried that you— You’re a good girl. You know what I like best about you?

  No response.

  You’re not the kind of girl, of woman, who faints over spiders or insects. Or blood or vomit. At St. Xavier—you may not remember this but I do—you took Great Expectations and crushed some kind of earwig then went back to reading as if—

  In the middle of his sentence, Felicia sat up. The bed groaned.

  Take off your shoes in the house, she told him and left the room.

  XX

  20.

  Since her appointment weeks ago, Felicia had only gone into Edgar’s room to sweep the floor and dust the dresser. She had stopped making Edgar’s bed. That Thursday, she gathered the sheet from his bed to wash, else it would stay there forever, when she heard Edgar enter through the front door—unusual—talking to someone—ditto. Female voice. As she was descending the stairs, Felicia could hear them in the dining room. Edgar was introducing Mutter to Feather as if they had never met. She comes highly recommended, he was saying.

  Felicia nodded when she entered. Edgar didn’t face her. She held on to the spires atop one of the dining chairs, waiting to be acknowledged. Feather was also waiting for them to be formally introduced, but Edgar continued talking to her about Mutter. His voice fizzed.

  I’m Feathery, the girl finally said, extending her hand to

  Felicia. From last time. Felicia shook it. She thought, What kind of name was Feathery for a grown woman?

  Pardon my manners, Edgar said. Felicia here has been taking care of Mutter for— He rolled his eyes.

  Six months, Felicia said. She double checked in her head. November, December, January, February, March, April.

  Six months, Edgar repeated. Oh, Felicia, this might be a bad time, but while you’re here—

  Felicia wanted to slap that gassy voice out of his mouth.

  He reached into his wallet. Here’s your cheque.

  Felicia took it, frowning. Why the witness? Why the envelope? Edgar always gave her a cheque directly from his cheque book around the first of the month (or the time he jabbed the head of the pen against his chest). There was an extra zero.

  There’s some severance in there for you.

  She didn’t understand. Was she, was he, was she being fired?

  Severance? she asked.

  Thank you for your service. Feathery comes highly recommended.

  Rip it up, Felicia. Throw the snow in his face. [Pretty lady, tuck that cheque into your bra and bounce. Swing your moneymaker out that house.]

  Feather looked embarrassed for Felicia. In a second, Felicia thought of her suitcase, the one she had laid on the bed in the small unrecognized island for a night flight, the one she laid on her mother’s side of the bed when she decided to move here. She took her hand off the dining chair as if the furniture had become hot. Before she left, she would ransack the house, wreck it until the basement split and hellfire came up. This was very different from the first time, when she found out he was married—married, Felicia, girl, what wrong with you? Or she would white-collar him in her retribution, hurt him where it hurt, at work, call his secretary and tell everything, seduce, deceive, spit, vasectomy, adulterer. You’re doing this to me again, she thought. I let you do this to me again. Again. She nodded at the thought and not to Edgar or to Feather, as they each might have thought.

  Pleased to see you again, Felicia said to Feather.

  Likewise.

  She started up the stairs, trying to remain composed, and accelerated until she was running up the last few. She brushed at her eyes near the top.

  When do you start? Edgar said to Feather, intending surely for Felicia to overhear.

  Monday, I thought we agreed on, she replied.

  Monday, he said. That’s right. As I was saying, I’ll be away but I’ll leave a key in the mailbox.

  XY

  20.

  After Feather left, Edgar stood in the doorway of Felicia’s room. She had emptied the drawers into a pile on the bed and was now shaking out her clothes with a snap and folding them anew into her suitcase, briskly, like it was an Olympic event. Her back was to him. Her shoulders were high, her head bent so low, it seemed to be cut off. All her clothes seemed thin on her. She never wore pants. Always dresses or skirts.

  He decided to leave her alone. He walked toward his bedroom. He had to let her go. He had woken up last night when he heard a noise, startled, it was so unlike him, thinking that she would stab him in the thigh. She stabbed his tire. He had to have a cigarette. But he turned back and pushed open her door.

  You don’t have to leave now, he said.

  Tell the jagabat she don’t have to wait till Monday.

  Felicia. Edgar walked around the bed to face her. Felicia, he said again.

  She turned her face from him. But he could see that her sockets were rimmed with water. He held his wrists. He had to restrain himself from reaching to graze her temples with the back of his fingers.

  I don’t want to do this, he said.

  She didn’t say anything.

  I never should have put this kind of responsibility on you. You’re nineteen. You should have been grieving. He didn’t want to sound like he was patronizing her but he wasn’t used to—did this qualify as an apology?—justifying himself

  She tucked a full slip under her chin to fold it.

  to subordinates. Subordinate? He was treating her with such respect and care, it was almost embarrassing.

  And, think, he said, now you’ll be able to go back to school and finish and become a—he had to pause because he could not recall what Felicia’s ambitions were apart from being someone’s wife and baking cakes on Sundays—become whatever you want.

  She huffed handfuls of her toiletries, perfumes, broaches, barrettes, and dropped them into a plastic bag lined with another. She said nothing.

  I’m trying to be reasonable, he said. Stay the weekend. Nobody’s throwing you out. He reached into the suitcase to unpack for her but she knocked his hand out of the way and his finger got hooked in one of her bras. She snatched it from him.

  I know what you’re thinking, he said. This has nothing to do with you getting yourself pregnant.

  She fixed him with her eyes. Her nostrils flared.

  So he left her room. He hesitated at the door because he was going to ask if she had noticed Mutter was leaning to the side lately. But he went into his room and smoked three cigarettes instead.

  He heard her voice rolling quietly and seriously to Mutter downstairs, then he heard the door close. From an upstairs bedroom, he saw her put the key in his mailbox and haul her suitcase, her handbag, and a plastic bag of her cosmetics toward the bus stop.

  On her dresser, she left the ring he gave her, left the ring and kept the watch.

  XX

  21.

  For four months, Felicia sliced a tomato and waited for her mother to come home.

  Nobody told her in advance that she was leaving. Nobody told Felicia she was. Once more. Nobody told Felicia in advance that her mother was leaving. The morning of her flight, her mother kissed all the children and held their faces in the gallery then Felicia’s father lifted her suitcase down the hill to the village
car. Felicia was young, still in infant school, but she knew something significant was happening because her mother was wearing her black dress suit and heels and because Miss Jazz came over to watch them just before her parents drove away. Your mother watching you from where she is, Jazz said to get them to behave. Her father came back in the afternoon, alone, with a stale newspaper. He spoke quietly for a long time with Jazz on the verandah, so familiarly that Felicia wondered if Jazz was going to be her new mother. Then he made the children say goodbye to Miss Jazz and she too went down the hill.

  What had changed between then and now? Her mother was still in a distant country. She was as she always was. Elsewhere. Returning any minute. Which meant that Felicia was as she always was. Expecting.

  XY

  21.

  For four months, Edgar smoked a cigarette and eyed the watch on his mother’s wrist. Time passes backward too.

  When he was a boy, Vater whipped him in the bedroom he had to share with his brother so he, Vater, could have an office, whipped him across the calves with a violin bow exactly ten times while his brother and mother stood witness. He and his brother had been playing a version of hide and seek where Edgar lay on his cot with a black handkerchief over his face and his brother was supposed to find him. Edgar played the part so well—it was as if he were dead, he may have approached sleep on that occasion—that he didn’t hear the front or bedroom doors open, only Vater’s voice above his veiled face, What do you suppose you’re doing? After the whipping, when young Edgar threw himself on his narrow cot (despite their wealth, despite the cloud his parents slept on, which he was not allowed to touch) and Mutter sat next to him and placed her hand on his forehead and he felt the weight of his brother on the other side of him, the voice of his father blasted through them all, Leave him. Then louder, Leave him. And both his mother and brother got up dutifully and went to the voice while his calves stung.