by Mark Souza
The image of the room jerked. “Who the hell is this?” a man barked.
“Moyer Winfield. You gave me your card outside Hogan-Perko.”
“I did what?”
“Is this the albino giant?” Moyer wished he could see his host.
“He’s not here,” the voice said.
“When can I speak with him?”
“Who knows?”
“I need to get in touch with him. Can you pass along a message?”
“I’m not a messenger.”
“Please, it’s important.”
“Call back later and close this connection pronto.”
Moyer’s consciousness drifted back into his bathroom. In the mirror, his reflection bore a stunned expression. A knock at the door sent a jolt through him. “Are you alright?” Robyn called.
“I’ll be right out.”
Chapter 10
Monday, 12 November
Robyn waited in line with the other mothers-to-be with Moyer behind her for the start of state mandated parenting class. On the walls of the church classroom, catechism students had hung hand painted signs of Bible verses. Robyn stood next to a poster reading, Productivity is next to Godliness.
Mrs. Wagstaff, their instructor, called roll and issued a doll to each couple. She was an elderly woman, tall, with the figure of an avocado pit, her mouth tight and thin lipped, turned down in a perpetual frown. The broad field of flowers on her dress appeared to sway in a breeze of her own making as she walked.
“What are they doing here?” Robyn whispered.
Moyer glanced to the side without turning his head. At the end of the line huddled a weary couple, the woman still in her factory uniform, her husband in dusty jeans and a dirty tee shirt. They had raised their hands earlier when Mrs. Wagstaff, called out 'Perez'.
“They’re laborers,” he said.
“I know that, idiot. What are they doing here? Why don’t they take classes in their own neighborhood, where they belong?”
Moyer’s mouth dropped open though he didn't answer.
When Mrs. Wagstaff reached the end of the line, she passed Robyn a doll brown as coffee, well used with scuff marks across the face and chest. “Maybe they will trade with us,” Robyn said, glancing down the line at the Perezes and their white doll.
“Don’t you dare!” Moyer warned.
“But look at our child, Moyer. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Moyer examined their replica and tried to lighten the mood. “Yeah, my mother was a catcher’s mitt.”
Robyn laughed. Mrs. Wagstaff turned and glared. Her close-set eyes peered menacingly over her narrow, hooked nose. Evidently she had very keen ears and little appreciation of humor. The other mothers seemed displeased as well.
“Knock it off, Moyer,” Robyn whispered. “You got me in trouble. I don't think she likes me.”
The doll convulsed in Robyn’s arms and she nearly dropped it. She cradled it against her chest the same as the other women, so its blank glass eyes gazed at the ceiling. It twitched again. “Mine moves,” she said, a nervous grin trapped on her face. The doll’s plastic skin lost color and began to take on a purplish cast. “Something’s wrong with mine,” she said. “It’s changing color.”
Mrs. Wagstaff smiled smugly. “Your baby is choking. What are you going to do?”
Robyn felt animosity in Mrs. Wagstaff’s tone, and wondered if she had orchestrated this to get even for earlier. What had she done to offend the woman? She examined the doll and turned it over searching for a reset button.
Mrs. Wagstaff said, “You have less than three minutes before she dies. Chop-chop.”
The class surrounded Robyn for a view. A hot flush of blood pushed up her neck and pressed a fine layer of perspiration onto her skin. She hated being scrutinized and judged. She held the doll away from her and shook it. Nothing happened. The doll’s skin was now grape colored. She pivoted toward Moyer and shoved the doll into his arms. Let it die on his watch.
Moyer looked at it quizzically, then at Robyn. For a moment she dreaded he’d hand it back in some perverse game of hot potato, but he didn’t. Instead, he stuck a finger in the doll’s mouth. A marble fell and clattered across the floor. The doll’s plastic skin returned to a deep chestnut brown. A smattering of polite applause arose from the surrounding parents. Moyer nodded his head in a diminutive bow.
“You’ve had training?” Mrs. Wagstaff asked.
Moyer shook his head. “It was the only thing I could think to do.”
Mrs. Wagstaff smiled. “Your instincts are good.” She shifted her gaze to Robyn. “Perhaps, Mrs. Winfield, if your husband stayed home, your baby might live to adulthood.”
Robyn wanted to slap the old woman and vomit at the same time. She did neither, and instead began to harbor an irrational grudge toward Moyer.
“In this class you will learn how to care for your baby, and how to cope with a wide variety of hazards threatening your child. As you know, you will not be permitted to take your babies home without successful completion of this class.”
Robyn knew this wasn’t true. She had heard of couples who purchased completion certificates on the black market, but the price was very high. With their savings stripped away, it would mean an attachment on Moyer’s future earnings. Failure was something they couldn’t afford. Her stomach churned hot and uneasy. For now she let Moyer keep the doll, let him bear its weight.
Mrs. Wagstaff pointed out to the class that left unfed; a baby will die within a week. Left without air, and it will die in three minutes. She then demonstrated how to perform infant CPR. The couples practiced on their dolls taking turns. When Robyn attempted it, the doll emitted a loud pop.
“You mustn’t blow so hard,” Mrs. Wagstaff scolded. “You have exploded your baby’s lungs.”
“Its chest didn’t rise like the others. I thought I wasn’t blowing hard enough.”
Mrs. Wagstaff took the doll from Robyn, peeled back the plastic chest sheathing, and resealed the blue lung sacks inside. “Babies are delicate,” she reminded the class. “You can’t be rough with them.” When she finished restoring the doll, Mrs. Wagstaff pushed it into Robyn’s arms. “I can see I have my work cut out with you.”
Chapter 11
Monday, 12 December
Before lunch break, a massive form crept into Moyer’s peripheral vision unexpectedly. He jerked with fear and pressed a hand to his chest as if he’d been shot. Louis Berman hovered at the entrance of his cubical, his face stern. Moyer had a right to be afraid. Berman made a come-hither motion with his index finger and led the way upstairs to his office. Programmers who stole glances as Moyer passed wore expressions of worry and sympathy as if they were witnessing a prisoner being led to the executioner.
Berman closed the door and ordered Moyer to sit. Berman pulled a chair up next to Moyer’s and slapped a folder down on the table. He opened it and turned it so Moyer could read it. “What is this, Winfield?”
Moyer studied the page. He had a copy of the same document taped above his desk. “It’s the project schedule, sir.”
Berman nodded. “And when is the deadline?”
The deadline had been engrained in Moyer from the day he joined the project. He didn’t need to consult the schedule. “July 31st.”
“Does that seem a long way off to you?”
“No sir.”
“Then why are we falling behind schedule?”
“I don’t know s-s-s-sir.”
Moyer’s stammer prompted a grin from Berman. He laid a heavy arm across Moyer’s shoulders and squeezed. To Moyer, it didn’t feel friendly. The implication seemed to be I could crush you like a paper cup. Moyer’s hands quaked under the table. He clasped them together to make them stop.
“Let’s look a little closer to see if we can figure this out,” Berman said. He flipped the page. “Here are the time sheets for the last two months. Martinez is putting in seventy hours a week. Flynn, the same.” He ran his finger down the list. “Win
field, fifty hours a week. There is the problem right there. Do you remember when you came into my office and begged for the lead programmer position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I told you then that it would require extreme dedication and long hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you said you were up to it. Does this smell of dedication to you?”
Berman lowered his nose to the time sheet and sniffed. “It smells like shit to me. I’ve noticed you slip out of the office early on Mondays. What’s going on? Do you have a little honey on the side?”
“N-n-no sir. I have a personal commitment on Mondays – classes.”
“I’d suggest you drop them.”
Moyer tried to imagine breaking that news to Robyn. “I c-can’t.”
Berman turned his eyes on Moyer and glared.
“I can make up the time on weekends,” Moyer offered.
“See that you do. Are you going to step up to the plate for me, Moyer, and turn this around?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I would hate to be in your shoes if this project doesn’t come in on time.” Berman slapped Moyer on the back and stood. “I’m so glad we had this little chat, aren’t you?”
Moyer nodded.
Berman held the door open for him. The meeting was over. “Enjoy your lunch,” Berman said.
Harsh, amaranthine light flooded the church classroom. Women sat wedged in miniature desks normally occupied by children attending Sunday school.
“Diapers should be changed five or six times a day,” Mrs. Wagstaff said as her beady eyes swept the class.
A hand shot up. Mrs. Perez asked, “How will we know when it’s time?”
The instructor smiled. “Smell your replicas. By now they should be fully functional.”
Robyn sniffed her doll and was immediately repelled by the odor. After another try she thrust the doll into Moyer’s arms. “Oh my God! Is this how they really smell?” she asked.
“I’ve heard it’s very accurate,” Mrs. Wagstaff replied. “Except in most cases, the smell from real babies is more intense.”
“How can that even be possible?” Robyn asked. “What happens if the babies aren’t changed?”
“They develop a rash that may require medical care,” Mrs. Wagstaff said. “And as you all should know, three trips to the doctor for diaper rash and your child will be reassigned. Thousands of eager couples are desperate for a child and very willing to treat them well.”
The doughy woman standing next to Robyn whispered, “Seems a little reactionary and excessive if you ask me.” It was as if she’d read Robyn’s mind. “Eve Ganz,” the woman said.
Robyn smiled, “Robyn Winfield. I don’t remember seeing you in the first class.”
“That’s because I wasn’t here. I’m retaking. I received notice that I flunked my first attempt too late to make the first class of this session.”
“You can retake the class?” Robyn asked astonished.
Eve smiled warmly. “Of course you can. As many times as you need until you pass. Well, up until your baby is born. I missed passing by two lousy points. Can you believe it?”
“How many months do you have left?”
“I’m down to four. I have to get it right this time. How much time left for you?”
“Seven months.”
Eve slapped her on the shoulder, “You have plenty of time to screw up. You’re golden. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have notes from the first class would you?”
“Sure.”
“Ladies,” Mrs. Wagstaff barked, “I’m so sorry our class is interrupting your get-together.” Wagstaff’s normally placid eyes flashed with anger. The other mothers-to-be pursed their lips or snickered. “Now why don’t you show the class how to change a baby? It’s a pity you chatted through the demonstration.”
Mrs. Wagstaff tossed a pair of disposable diapers at them and waited with hands on hips while they removed the dirty ones from their dolls. Robyn’s was filled with a gooey, greenish-brown paste. The smell hit her in the face like a toilet brush. She spotted a box of baby wipes on a round table and fetched them along with a small trash can. At first she carefully dabbed at the mess, gagging and trying not to dirty her fingers.
Eve kept her doll at arms length, her nose high in the air, frowning in disgust. Robyn laughed when she saw Eve’s feeble attempt and instantly regretted it. The stench of artificial feces rushed up her sinuses. Enough was enough. Robyn changed tactics. Taking the doll by a leg, she moved hastily to wipe up the mess as quickly as possible. Soiled wipe after soiled wipe went into the waste bin. The stink seemed to diminish, though she wasn’t sure if it wasn’t her nose adapting to the smell much the same as cat owners who can’t smell the stench of the litter box.
When her doll’s bottom was clean, she unfolded the fresh diaper and laid it out on the floor. She folded it around the doll in a fashion similar to what she remembered from the dirty one she had removed. When she finished, she held her doll up with pride.
“Done,” she said.
Eve struggled but soon she too had managed to get a diaper on her doll. She stood and held the doll up.
“What did they forget, class?”
In unison the women replied “Global Brands Drying Ointment with corn starch.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Wagstaff said. “Drying ointment keeps babies dry and helps prevent diaper rash. Maybe if you had listened, you would know that. Please join the line and keep quiet, ladies.”
Moyer patted Robyn’s shoulder as she took her spot in front of him.
Wednesday, 14 December
The call had come from Fredrick Duncan that he had finalized what was termed a gallery — a limited selection of the possible combinations of their DNA, hopefully the best possibilities. Moyer sensed anticipation dammed up in Robyn at breakfast. It would do nothing but grow as she tried to pass the time until the appointment at Hogan-Perko later that night.
Robyn pushed her cereal away unfinished and readied herself for work. The fact that she couldn’t get the day off from her job and had to wait gnawed at her. As Robyn quietly closed the door behind her and headed for the tube, Moyer knew it would be a very long day for her.
Big Mona decreed it was time again to dust the bookshelves and books in the Judge’s apartment. “No one goes home till they’re all done.” And the chore fell to Robyn and Serafina, the little dark-haired girl whose name meant angel.
Dozens of floor to ceiling shelves, and thousands of books filled a pair of cavernous rooms within the massive apartment occupying the top floor of the Capital Arms. Or perhaps it was tens of thousands. It was a dauntingly hopeless task. Robyn tried not to dwell on it and started in. Sooner started, sooner done. She stripped the books from the first shelving unit and set them on a long oak reading table. She and Serafina fell into their work without discussion. Robyn was a head taller and assumed the job of climbing the library ladder to retrieve the books beyond Serafina’s reach, and dusted the shelves while Serafina started in dusting the books. When the shelves were dusted, Robyn helped Serafina with the remaining books and began the chore of loading them back on the shelves. Then it was on to the next.
They were primarily books of law, each volume weighing perhaps a kilo, and an armful perhaps ten. Robyn cracked one open and read a single paragraph. How could anyone read volume after volume of something so joyless? To be a judge, the apartment owner must have read every one of them. What a waste of life.
By afternoon, Robyn’s back and arms throbbed. The sunlight filtering in through the windows faltered as the shadowy fingers of the CapitalCity skyline stretched long across Freedom Circle. Robyn found herself watching the clock.
She and Serafina were barely half done when Robyn realized she wouldn’t make the appointment at Hogan-Perko. She tried to tough it out, telling herself it wasn’t that important and she could reschedule. An ache bloomed under Robyn’s eyes and she swore she wouldn’t cry. Tears brimmed against her lower lash
es and threatened to cascade onto her cheeks while she loaded books into yet another shelving unit.
Her arms were too sore to hoist more than three at a time. It wasn’t until Robyn snuffled to keep her nose from running that Serafina looked up from the books stacked on the table. Her face went slack as she took in Robyn. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“Nothing, I’m okay.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying. It’s nothing.”
“Please don’t shut me out. Something’s wrong. Tell me what it is.”
Robyn pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose. Serafina watched, her own eyes welling with tears, her tiny mouth made smaller by her puckered frown. “I have a baby underway at Hogan-Perko,” Robyn said. “I’m supposed to pick out my daughter tonight from something they call a gallery. It doesn’t look as if I’ll make the appointment. It’s not the end of the world. I can reschedule, I suppose.”
Robyn carted a handful of books up the ladder and set them back on the shelf. Serafina scampered for the door calling for Mona. “Please don’t,” Robyn said. “She hates me enough as it is.”
It was too late. Big Mona sauntered through the door, hands on hips, cheeks blotchy red and dewy, mouth set in a scowl, eyes flitting around the room warily taking in the situation. “What seems to be the problem?” Carla and Linda drifted into the room curious over what was behind the commotion.
Serafina approached Big Mona, her forehead creased with concern. “Robyn has a problem.”
“I should have guessed,” Mona moaned. “It’s always about the princess, isn’t it? What is it this time?”
“I’m fine,” Robyn said. “Serafina’s overreacting.”
“No,” Serafina said. “She has an appointment at Hogan-Perko tonight. She’s supposed to pick out her baby girl.”
Carla and Linda glanced at one another, surprised.
“She’s going nowhere until these shelves are done, am I clear?” Big Mona said. “They won’t do themselves.”