Reproduction

by Ian Williams

  Oliver

  Explanation

  What was going on? Oliver started to see black women everywhere. He saw dozens of them, pushing carts at the Asian supermarket, ahead of him in the bank line, holding tissue to their kids’ noses, taking Legos out of their hands, managing strollers, looking into newspaper boxes, framed by the bus window as he waited on the traffic light to change, cashing out his food, paying cable bills on Rutherford Road, modelling bras in the weekend catalogues, on Dolph Lundgren in an old Playboy, just everywhere, like an unearthed Chinese army, only black and female and often quite animated or exhausted. Even a cousin was dating a black woman from Cape Verde. Where did they come from all of a sudden with their shake-shake, racks, skirt-and-sneaker combinations, morning skin, lips, lips, lips, short hair, long hair, braids—he didn’t understand how the hair was so lustrous or crackly, who could he ask about weaves? Army? He’d think Oliver was interested in Felicia and that was not the case. Heather? The women held their shape better than—just better, though he didn’t much like their faces—the clownish look of makeup on some of them—but their bodies, well.

  Felicia, of course, he saw her in some form every day. She smelled like cocoa butter and something else. He tested some on his hand in Zellers. Strange smell. Not unpleasant. Smelled like it should be associated with a memory of a grandmother or a house or a summer.

  And, of course, he saw black women at The Mansion.

  * * *

  +

  When he came back from The Mansion, one night, Hendrix walked into the house bloody.

  Naturally, Oliver required a series of explanations.

  Oliver and Hendrix were waiting for Felicia in the driveway. If she thought she could brush him off, she would— she better— Oliver was a little drunk.

  First the record-breaking bike nonsense, now this.

  Soon as Felicia shut her car door, Oliver said, I want an explanation as to why whenever I leave my son in your son’s charge, he comes back covered in blood from head to toe.

  Felicia looked at both of them in turn.

  Show her, Oliver said.

  Hendrix twisted his forearm toward Felicia’s face. There was a large raspberry on his elbow and grated skin along the inside of his wrists but no blood.

  I’m going to have to take him to the hospital, Oliver said.

  Felicia inspected Hendrix’s elbow. Army did this?

  We were doing double cartwheels, Hendrix began, but I fell when it was his turn to go up. He’s so heavy.

  This was after you grounded him, Oliver pointed out.

  What more do you want, Oliver? I just don’t get it. He was grounded, Felicia said. He’s not anymore.

  That was for something else. And frankly, Felicia, what you do with your child is your business. When it comes to my children, I deserve an explanation.

  From me? Felicia asked.

  From you.

  I wasn’t there.

  I can tell you what that boy needs.

  What?

  Oliver relented.

  No, Oliver, go ahead, tell me what my son needs.

  He hesitated but in front of Hendrix the ex-wife had said that he’d never be a man. He said, A whoopin’.

  What he really wanted to say was a good whoopin’ from a real man. But he didn’t want Felicia to think that he was accusing her of being a single mother or that he was interested in parenting the boy. But, for the record, if he were that boy’s father, he’d give him a whoopin’. Not true. He wouldn’t hit a fourteen-year-old boy. If he were that boy’s father, that boy would never have gotten to this point. He would not need a whoopin’.

  Felicia privately addressed Hendrix. Let me see it again. She touched around the wound. You just need a little ointment, she said. Come.

  Felicia took his son away and closed the door on Oliver.

  Oliver went upstairs. Heather was on the phone. He took the remote from her and switched the channel. What more do you want? He wanted— He wanted to call someone, a brother-in-law. No, he didn’t. What he wanted was— He wanted explanations. The black door was locked when Oliver checked it last night and in the morning it was unlocked. He wanted someone to explain to him how Felicia could leave her son home unsupervised all day. Explain to him why he was sending money to his ex-wife in the summer when she had no kids to care for. She should be paying him. Explain why Felicia thought she was superior to him when he was the one renting his place to her. Why women everywhere thought they could get away with clawing out the eyes of men who spent their whole lives doing nothing but good for them and the children.

  Who are you talking to? Oliver asked Heather.

  Nobody.

  Give me the phone.

  Heather got up and went to her room. He wanted an explanation as to what happened to his clarinet-practicing Heather.

  Nobody better have long hair and wear a dress, Oliver called after her. He started thumbing through the channels.

  * * *

  +

  By the time Hendrix returned, Oliver was listlessly channel-surfing and recalling the ex’s gift for disaster preparedness. She made him keep a medical kit in his truck. Hendrix’s arm was wrapped in a bandage from his upper bicep to his mid forearm.

  I sat on their toilet, Hendrix said.

  Oliver didn’t stop his clicking. It’s my toilet, he said to himself. Technically.

  There are a whole bunch of Band-Aids under the bandage. She told me I can’t shower for three days.

  You can shower, Oliver said. Now his son was lying to him. Just don’t get it wet.

  No, she said I was allowed not to shower. Army’s towel is green. Do we have green towels?

  Enough, Oliver said. Why his son idolized a thug instead of his father, he didn’t know. Go eat something. Heather! he called. Make your brother something to eat.

  She let me have a granola bar, Hendrix said. He sat on the coffee table keeping up with the flickering channels.

  Heather trudged back downstairs, still on the phone. Put it on thirty-six, she said.

  It’s time to eat something. It was the something that made him feel sorry for himself, trying to keep his children alive, these organisms he had brought into the world.

  Heather took the remote from him. To the phone, she said: No, my dad was watching. Then to Oliver, Army says hi.

  Oliver sighed.

  Nothing. He didn’t say anything. I don’t know why he didn’t say hi back. He’s watching TV. To Oliver, Army says he’s sorry about Hendrix. He’ll make it up to you. He has a special membership deal for people over forty.

  Great, Oliver said.

  Senior’s hour. Private gym time around your schedule.

  Not a chance in hell, Oliver said.

  He said not a chance in hell. I don’t know. Talk to him tomorrow. To Oliver, He wants to know what would make gym membership attractive to you or Tio Ricky?

  I’m not paying to use my own garage. Get off the phone, Heather.

  You heard that? Army says, A service, not a location. Yeah, I get it. Totally. He’s just being curmudgeonly. Look it up. Crabby. What time?

  Heather, Oliver said.

  If she thought she was going somewhere with Army, she better think again. She was spending too much time with that boy when she already had a brother. (The voice of reason: They live in the same house, Oliver. What do you expect?) When they weren’t in the garage together or wandering the mall among droves of teenagers, they were on the phone with each other. Too much. Too much. And Oliver knew the boy was behind all this symbiosis. He was always calling.

  Hi, Mr. O. Is Heather there?

  You just talked to her.

  I forgot to tell her something.

  Hi, Mr. O. Is Heather home?

  You saw her open the door and come inside.

  I know. I’m just being polite.

  Hi Mr. O. Is Heather? Is Heather? Is Heather?

  Oliver used to answer the phone. He would try to listen on after Heather took the extension but she scr
eamed at him. Once he picked up while she and Army were talking to hear what they were talking about and Heather, sensitive to every abnormal click, screamed at him about privacy and her rights and compared him to the ex, which hurt. And now he didn’t answer his own phone anymore. Didn’t or couldn’t. She banned him.

  Right. Heather banned him after the time she was ignoring his demands and he banged on the door between the two households and shouted at Army to get off the phone. He assumed that Heather was speaking to Army. But it so happened that Felicia was on the phone.

  He heard her talking to Army, probably covering the mouthpiece. He crazy or what? she said. Who he think he talking to? He don’t know I paying rent?

  Army’s voice: He wasn’t talking to you.

  Who he talking to then?

  Heather.

  But soon enough his phone would go back to being his. His sisters would make each other call him when they thought he was having a daily pang of loneliness.

  I already told you that I only brought one pair of heels and I’m not wearing them, Heather was saying. I’m not wearing a dress either.

  Off the phone now, Heather, Oliver said. I need to call your tia.

  For what?

  I don’t answer to you.

  I gotta go, Heather said. That’s a Nirvana song. Being an ogre.

  You’re not going anywhere with that boy, Oliver said after she hung up. But he knew where she was going and could not morally object.

  You don’t want me going to church?

  To pre-empt an unwinnable argument with his teenage daughter

  (We have Vovó’s memorial at Tia Maria’s house.

  That’s in the evening.

  You’re not going anywhere with that boy.

  Dad, he’s fourteen.

  If you want to go to church, I’ll take you to Vovó’s old church.

  But I don’t want to go there.

  Since when are you religious?

  Since when do you care?)

  Oliver turned up the volume.

  Felicia

  Extortion

  Three Fridays ago, a cheque arrived in a Paperplane envelope for $1,500. The sticky note read, A hundred dollars for each birthday. EG.

  The cheque was easy. She would not deposit it. The note, however, occupied Felicia while she was idling in traffic or soaping her legs or disposing of breadends. There was no verb in the sentence. There was no sentence, technically. It was a crumb of a sentence, the tiniest pubic-hairy soapcake of his wealth (whatever activity she was engaged in at the moment determined the appropriate metaphor), an indication of his late glacial benevolence. Not even a full sheet of paper. He couldn’t take two seconds to write her name? Or Army’s. Dear Felicia. She deserved that much. I am enclosing a hundred dollars for each of Armistice’s birthdays that I missed. Yes, man, bear responsibility for missing them. I recognize that this humble token can never be adequate compensation Yes, offer a scrap of humility for the years of your life that you devoted to raising our child, the countless unnoticed sacrifices you have made, while I was gallivanting from bazaar to bazaar and chit-chatting all over the planet without a thought as to where his next meal was coming from or money for his field trip to the Royal Winter Fair was coming from because I’m a slimy, selfish, good-for-nothing abomination who will have to answer to the Creator come Judgment Day. Ahem. With regrets, EG. The G on his initial was poorly constructed. Revealing. It was more like an overgrown child’s g. She could have crafted a better cursive G when she was in Standard 2, despite the rejection of her certificate from a small unrecognized island. EG. What was he an example of? Was the money supposed to be an example of a pulsing conscience? And furthermore, Army’s birthday was not until September 14. Did he even know when his child was born? Not his. Her child. Her or their but certainly not his alone.

  Two Fridays ago, that is, a week after the first insult, as if Edgar’s canine ears had pricked forward and picked up her thoughts, another cheque arrived. This time for $15,000. And in a one-word bark on another yellow sticky note Edgar managed to respond to all of Felicia’s ultrasonic whistling: Better? EG.

  Uh no. Nonono. He could add zeros until his pen ran out but it—what was it? It was it, damn it—would never be better.

  And days ago, yet another cheque arrived. The handwriting suggested that he must have been drinking. Tremulous, furry, like a mint coated in fuzz. The cheque was for $150,000. The note said, Words are not enough. EG.

  * * *

  +

  The day after the Civic Holiday, Felicia skipped her Tuesday class yet again to drive to Edgar’s house. Her class had become an automatic alibi in case Army got suspicious about her whereabouts. She was going to leave the three cheques in Edgar’s mailbox. She walked up the path, dropped the envelope in, walked down the path. What if he didn’t see it? She walked up the path, pulled a corner of the envelope out, lowered the flap of the mailbox on it, walked down the path, started her car. What if he thought it was junk mail? She walked up the path, took out the envelope, slid it partly under the door, walked down the path. But what if he didn’t enter through the front door for weeks? She walked up the path and rapped the edge of the envelope against her palm, deciding, deciding. She would have to do what she wanted to avoid. She knocked. During the daytime, there was never any evidence of occupation from the front of the house. No newspapers. The garage was at the back. Felicia waited. She repositioned the envelope in the mailbox. She walked down the path.

  She heard the door open behind her.

  No way, Edgar said. I was just thinking about you.

  She was determined not to fall into his pick-up-where-we-left-off-a-decade-and-a-half-ago familiarities. Felicia retrieved the envelope and served him. But the transaction happened too quickly to make an impact. Edgar held the envelope without any emotion while gazing into her eyes without any emotion. She should have thrust the envelope at his face while making her point (which was? which was? which was leave me alone), then ripped up the cheques one by one, sprinkled the flakes in his face, and wagged her hips down the path.

  She peered into the house. Nothing had changed. Not even the floor mat. Fifteen years and he hadn’t bought a new mat. The house smelled more thickly of itself.

  Step in, Edgar said.

  Violins whispered near the bridge. Don’t go into the house.

  Felicia found herself on his couch in the parlour, same couch, sitting with an arrow up her back, her knees together, her handbag on her lap.

  I have someone come in to clean twice a week. Edgar moved an ashtray from the spot beside her. What hospitality. Then he wandered around looking for his cigarettes which were in plain view on the dining table. How is work? How is Armistice? You know, not a day goes by that I—

  Why you sending me money all of a sudden?

  He shook a few cigarettes out of the pack and extended it to her.

  You mad? She had never smoked in all her days with him.

  Might relax you.

  Edgar sat next to her. It wasn’t a controlled sit. It was like he released himself and fell beside her, so close their hips touched.

  I’ve never seen anyone refuse free money.

  Well, you seeing it now.

  As I was saying, he blew smoke away from her, this girl comes in and cleans. Nothing like how you used to have the place, mind you.

  Felicia was tempted to have him go on. But resist the devil and he will flee from you. I not here to talk about your domestic.

  The cheques, he said. And she’s not a domestic.

  Edgar, stop provoking me.

  I’m getting our process started.

  We don’t have any agreement.

  Our understanding, then. He took the cheques out of the envelope, read the amounts, and dropped them into the slot between Felicia’s handbag and her stomach. Think of them as expressions of my sincerity.

  Metaphors from the last three weeks came to mind and with them came the various little unaccounted moments of Felicia’s life where
she felt herself to be most ontologically herself, outside of relation to anyone, just her lone single continuous self.

  Am I the only one? Felicia asked.

  You’re the only one I would approach, Felicia.

  But she meant more than that. How many children you have?

  You mean apart from—

  I talking German? She spoke slowly. How many other children you have?

  None.

  Not a single one? She didn’t believe him.

  I mean, I don’t know. None that I know about. He positioned the ashtray on his lap. That’s the truth.

  Could a man really not know how many children he had the same way he didn’t know how many quarters he had in his pocket?

  I am trying to be honest with you, he said. I know you like that.

  Sentences like these caused Felicia to flip out. As if she were some simpleminded anomaly. As if honesty was a preference like green or black olives.

  Felicia retained her composure a second longer. No more cheques. Do you understand me?

  Felicia, cut the high-and-mighty business.

  I’ll cut the high-and-mighty when you cut the—the charade. She raised her voice. You not interested in me or your own flesh and blood.

  There’s where you’re wrong. I am interested.

  Oh, he was infuriating. You wasn’t interested for fifteen years

  People change.

  and all of a sudden when women say you rape them left, right and centre, you interested in we?

  Edgar leaned over her to place the ashtray on a side table. Then he stood. For a moment, Felicia thought that she had crossed a line.

  Have you eaten? he asked, unruffled.

  Felicia tracked him as he walked toward the kitchen, past the spot where Mutter’s bed used to be. There was nothing there now. Felicia could almost see the woman, eyeing her wrists, tilting her head to feel weight in her earlobes. She, Felicia, used to keep a package of diapers on a dining room chair, tucked in, where no one could see it and so she wouldn’t have to go up and down the stairs when she needed to change her.