Darwin's Bastards

by Zsuzsi Gartner

  “It’s just—”

  Sonya stopped. With a roar a cherry-red sports car came barrelling down the highway, speeding past in a great plume of exhaust. It screeched to a halt about fifty yards along, then came whining back in high-speed reverse. While Sonya and Mrs. Mendelbaum and Esme stood gaping, their breath forming clouds in the frosty air, the driver eyed them through the open window.

  “More friends!” shrieked Mrs. Mendelbaum.“Hello! Snickers!”

  A figure in a cream-coloured cocktail dress stepped out of the car—very tall, very elegant—wrapped herself with a fur stole pulled from the back seat, and carefully tottered toward them in high heels. But before the ceremonial Snickers could be shared, the newcomer, billowing syrupy gusts of perfume, produced a deodorant-sized metal canister and menaced it at them, eyes narrowed behind lashes tarred with mascara.

  “Is that,” began Mrs. Mendelbaum.

  “A grenade yes and I’ll fucking use it asshole,” screamed the woman, shaking the cylinder at them. “You think you’re on your way to see him?”

  “Ew,” sneered Sonya—but here was Esme, clutching her arm with one hand, stashing the little packet in the front pocket of her sweatshirt with the other.

  “On your knees bitches! Hands on your heads!”

  Mrs. Mendelbaum wavered. “Will you blow us up?”

  “Shut up. Debbie’s in charge now. Got that? Debbie. On your knees!”

  “Sure thing, Debbie,” Sonya said as she knelt, squeezing Esme’s shoulder before she laced her fingers together over her scalp. As the snow stung through her jeans she realized that her headache was completely gone.

  With the three women genuflecting before her, Debbie seemed unsure what came next. And before she could figure it out, a gravelly, dyspeptic rumbling interrupted from above— not thunder; this was longer, more sustained. Everyone looked up. The sky had gone a deeper grey as night descended, and from the cloud cover nosed a 767 or some such thing, maybe a mile away and a few hundred feet above the snowy farms and fields, wingtips blinking.

  Mrs. Mendelbaum jumped to her feet. “We must be near the airport!” When she wasn’t blown up—Debbie was staring slack-jawed at the plane—Esme and Sonya rose as well.

  “Let’s go,” said Debbie, making for the Corvette—and then paused: it was a two-seater. With a sigh, she gestured at the Audi, then Sonya. “We’ll take that thing, I guess. You drive.”

  With Mrs. Mendelbaum riding shotgun and Esme cowering in the back seat, Sonya followed Debbie’s orders: “Left! Right! Straight! Now turn here!” And by the time the Audi peeled onto an off-ramp that ran parallel to the end of the runway, only a few dozen feet above them the plane—roaring, landing gear lowered— was angling at the earth.

  “Stop here, everyone out,” said Debbie, so everyone filed across the highway where they stood in a line at the fence separating the road from the airport.

  The plane’s front wheels nuzzled the tarmac, bounced slightly, then nestled again and began to roll. Brakes screeching, the 767 tumbled down the runway toward the terminal, slowed gradually, then stopped.

  “Excellent landing,” noted Mrs. Mendelbaum.

  As the engines died down, the doors swung open and out flopped inflatable slides. One after the other, women appeared— one in a burka, another in a sari, and two slender figures in shimmering salwar kameez; here were the pastels of business casual, the great canvas frock of Bavarian peasant stock, a head-wrap and dashiki, a young girl in a parka, a pasty, mincing lady in a Union Jack tracksuit—they all slid one by one to the tarmac until two dozen women clustered shivering together on the runway.

  “People,” said Sonya.

  “People,” agreed Mrs. Mendelbaum.

  “Would you all please just shut up,” hissed Debbie.

  Then at the open hatch of the plane appeared a final woman, waving, in an official-looking uniform and matching hat. She bowed. The crowd applauded.

  “The pilot,” whispered Mrs. Mendelbaum to no one in particular.

  This woman swan-dived down the slide and did a tricky flip to land on her feet, much to the delight of the other passengers. Debbie shook her head; beneath the stole her cocktail dress clung like a wet Kleenex to her body. She threaded her fingers, nail polish flaking, through the links in the fence; the other dangled at her side holding the grenade. Meanwhile, the pilot had stepped forward to address the group.

  “Okay,” said Debbie, “we’re going in.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Mendelbaum.

  “Climb the fence, Grandma.”

  And so they did: Esme dropped easily to the other side, and then Mrs. Mendelbaum, snowpants and all, was hoisted up and over, tumbling into Esme’s arms; next was Sonya, and lastly Debbie, who threw her stilettos to Mrs. Mendelbaum, tucked the grenade into her brassiere and climbed, barefoot and muttering—and then snagged her pantyhose at the top of the fence. The passengers noticed Debbie, like some stranded Yeti up there in her furs, and began waving and cheering encouragement.

  Dropping to the airport side, Debbie collected her shoes and announced, “Okay, you’re my hostages. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Stupid how?” asked Sonya.

  “Just stupid. You run, everyone dies.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Women of the world, I’m sittin’ here still waitin’ 4 U 2 cum. I just wanna—ladies, I can’t wait 2 B with U. But the bubble bath is goin’ cold and I’m wonderin’ where U R. If we R gonna make a life 2gether we gotta start it soon. It all depends on us. It’s time. Cum 2 me. Please. I’m just feelin’ so alone.”

  “My name is Debbie. I’ve been an Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Prince fan since I was twelve years old. I’ve watched Purple Rain over a hundred times. I own every album on vinyl and CD and I have concert videos none of you have probably even heard of. So if there’s anyone here who thinks they’re a better person than me to go to Paisley Park then you better stand up and say something now.”

  No one moved; the grenade complicated things. All the women sat unspeaking in the orange vinyl chairs of the airport lounge. Debbie stood wide-legged by the Help Desk, the run in her stocking a thin pink fissure from ankle to inner thigh. At her feet, on their knees once again, were Esme, Sonya, and Mrs. Mendelbaum.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so. So what’s going to happen is that I’m going to take these three with me. And if I get a whiff that any of you are trying to follow us I will blow everyone up.” She juggled the grenade from one hand to the other. “The old lady first.”

  Mrs. Mendelbaum’s eyes widened. Sonya patted her arm.

  “You got that?”

  After a few whispered translations, nods rippled around the room.

  “Good then. Glad we’re understood. Let’s go, ladies.”

  But as Debbie was kicking her hostages to their feet, a voice called out: “Wait.”

  Debbie whipped around. “Who said that?”

  The pilot stepped forward, wings on her lapel tilted at a haphazard angle—the plane crash-landing. In her eyes was worry; in her accent, Germany. “There are others. Guardians of the city.”

  “Who?”

  “They are known as Diamond and Pearl.”

  “His old dancers?”

  The pilot shrugged. “They are blocking Paisley Park. They do not believe in his mission. Did you not receive their facsimile communication?”

  “They’re sending faxes?” said Sonya.

  Debbie glared at her.

  The pilot reached into her carry-on luggage, a blue leather satchel bearing an airline’s insignia, and produced a folded piece of paper.

  Debbie took it and read, tapping the grenade against her leg. Sonya watched uneasily, afraid one vigorous strike might set the thing off. At last, Debbie lowered the page and licked her lips. “Well, we’ll see about this,” she snarled. And then, turning to Sonya, Mrs. Mendelbaum, and Esme: “Let’s ride, ladies.”

  Minneapolis was burning in the starless, moonless night. The streetlights stood dead
and unlit, office towers and homes sat in blackness, smoke billowed from buildings, and gunfire rattled in the snowy streets. “Drive!” screamed Debbie. “Drive!”

  And so Sonya tore through the outlying suburbs, Mrs. Mendelbaum huddled with her head between her knees moaning, “No, no, no,” and Esme stared straight ahead, her face a starched sheet of terror, arms elbow-deep in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

  “It’s D&P!” screamed Debbie. “Those whores trying to stop us getting to him!”

  As they advanced toward downtown, a vicious pop sounded by the gas tank. “We’ve been hit,” wailed Mrs. Mendelbaum.

  “Nope,” said Sonya, slowing the car down, “just blew a tire.”

  “What are you doing?” screamed Debbie, mascara streaking her face like war paint. “Are you crazy? Don’t stop!”

  But there was no choice. Sonya got out of the car. The back left wheel was already withering into a black rubbery goop. In the distance something like a bomb went off and a flash of light doused the neighbourhood; a few shots followed, then silence. Sonya’s breath puffed from her face in clouds; she shivered and clutched her elbows.

  Debbie came and stood beside Sonya, eyeing the flat. Mrs. Mendelbaum rolled down her window and stuck her head out to evaluate the damage. “Tire’s flat,” she said, nodding sagely.

  Esme hadn’t moved since they’d entered Minneapolis, and still sat petrified in the back seat, eyes tracking at once over everything and nothing, hands still hidden inside the pocket of her hoodie.

  “If you want to keep going,” Sonya told Debbie, “we’ll have to walk.”

  Debbie’s mouth opened, but no sound came out—her jaw just hung there slackly, her expression that of a stunned child watching a prized balloon lift into the heavens. The night was silent for a moment; everyone waited. Slowly into Debbie’s eyes seeped that old look, a hungry, focused sort of lunacy, and her mouth snapped closed with a clack of teeth. She looked from Sonya, to Mrs. Mendelbaum, to Esme—but they were passing glances, because now she was off, shrieking, the grenade raised over her head, high heels ticking on the asphalt as she vanished into the night.

  “Goodbye, Debbie,” called Mrs. Mendelbaum from the back seat.

  Sonya got back into the car and sat there, staring out the windshield: the darkness was broken by sporadic pockets of light from the flames of burning buildings. Things felt still again for a moment—but once again that was short-lived, as a fireball, like an orange fist thrust righteously into the sky, rose up from the Home Depot at the end of the block. The air was thick with smoke and ash, and debris rained down and went scuttling along the street.

  Coughing, Sonya pulled her shirt over her face. “Anyone have any ideas?”

  Esme leaned into the front seat and turned on the radio.

  “People,” came ’s voice, meek and exhausted, “U have gotta listen 2 me. This ain’t no time 4 hate. I’m—I’m here. I’m waitin’. I don’t wanna die 2nite.” There was a pause, then, and Sonya was sure he heard a sniffle—was he crying? “This is a song I wrote,” he finally spoke, “and it’s called ‘Just as Long as We’re 2gether.’ I hope U listen to it and I hope it means somethin’ 2 U.”

  The music began and everything slowed down. Outside things seemed to settle; the flames leaping from the Home Depot dwindled. The only sound was ’s voice over the shudder of instruments, the patter of drums. It was a sweet song. Everyone listened.

  By the chorus all three of them had joined in: “Just as long as we’re 2gether / Everything’s alright (everything’s alright) / Everything’s alright (everything’s alright).” While Mrs. Mendelbaum provided subtle harmonies, it was Esme’s voice that moved Sonya the most: beautiful but fragile, at once knowing and innocent.

  Then the song was over. They waited for to speak, but only a light hiss of static played from the radio. Everyone in the car waited for another blast from outside, or rekindled gun battles, but none came. And there was something about this silence that didn’t feel like an interlude—whatever battle had been raging seemed to be over.

  Esme touched Sonya on the arm. She was pointing out the window at an alleyway off the main street. “Can you—”

  “Do you have to pee, dear?” asked Mrs. Mendelbaum, with a look of empathy that spoke of her own ongoing urinary dramas. From within her snowsuit she produced a squashed roll of toilet paper, and with it a similarly flattened pack of Dentyne. “Gum?”

  Once everyone was chewing she told Sonya, “Pop the trunk, I’ll change the flat.”

  Out on the street, the three women stood together and scanned the shadows for threats—holding their breath, listening. Nothing: no explosions or gunfire or sounds of any kind. The city was still and cold. “Go pee,” whispered Mrs. Mendelbaum, blowing into her hands. While she dug out the jack and spare and got down to business, Sonya and Esme walked arm in arm into the shadows, huddling together for heat.

  Before she squatted, Esme reached into her sweatshirt pocket and pulled out the cardboard box she’d stolen from the rest stop. Sonya’s guts did a little tumble at the sight of it.

  Esme’s voice trembled out of the shadows: “Do you know how these things work?”

  Daylight was just breaking as the Audi crossed over the Canadian border, spare tire struggling alongside the three chrome-capped wheels. On both sides of the highway were great walls of trees, pine and birch, larch and poplars and cedar, everything heavy with snow. Esme had fallen asleep, draped across the back seat. Ms. Jorgenssen (she’d reverted, in a blaze of self-satisfaction, to her maiden name) was a jumble of half-removed snowsuit, head lolling against the window, drooling steadily. The radio was off. The only sound was the gentle purr of the engine, and the forest was pierced here and there with spears of light from the rising sun.

  Where were they going? What were they looking for? Sonya wasn’t sure. She was just happy to be driving, out in the world, alive. There was no one else on the highway. She was confident they wouldn’t see anyone. It was just the three of them. And maybe that was enough.

  Looking once again at the blue dot on the testing stick that Esme had stuck to the dashboard with gum, Sonya recalled, how, only hours ago, her heart had fluttered at the sight of it. There had been something so proud and brave and terrified about the way Esme had fixed it there, and afterward Mrs. Mendelbaum had hauled them both into her arms for a mildly suffocating group hug—and then, releasing them, been reborn as Jorgenssen.

  In the rearview mirror Sonya could see Esme sleeping in the back seat. The girl lay there, curled up, with the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over her head. From it a wisp of hair had tumbled out along her nose, hanging by her mouth, and this wavered as she breathed: with each inhalation it clung to her face, was released as she exhaled, trembled for a moment, and then was sucked back in.

  The car moved steadily over the road, through the forest, the snow glittering in the rising sun. And here on the dash was hope—that little blue dot. Sonya thought again of the log cabin she’d long dreamt about. It could be tucked away anywhere along here, behind and among the trees, out of sight and secret. It would be a quiet, simple little shack, and warm once they got a good fire going that lit the room golden, smoke curling up from the chimney.

  They’d find a supermarket or convenience store along the way and load up on groceries. Later that day when they reached this place, down some dirt track to a clearing in the trees, inside the three of them would cuddle under woolly blankets while their dinner heated on the fire. They’d spoon steaming Chef Boyardee Ravioli and Chunky Soup straight from the can, pass everything around so everyone got a taste. The food would be good and real in the way that bad and fake things are often so good and so real, in the way that when people come together sometimes that sort of thing is just what you need.

  NEIL SMITH

  ATHEISTS WERE ALMOST

  RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING

  THE OTHER DAY, Bobby Henzel and Nanami Kazikuyo drew up a list of things that Heaven doesn’t have. Lung cancer, dollar bills, hair
dye, winter parkas, compact discs, marijuana, pork chops, contact lenses, condoms, tooth decay, email, governors, houseflies, cow’s milk, photocopiers, handguns—all these disparate things and many more found their way onto their list. The last item the two teenagers added to this inventory was god.

  Heaven has no god.

  But one thing the great beyond still has is anger. As a result, an anger management class is held weekly in Heaven at the Ben Franklin Center for Continuing Education. The Ben Franklin looks creepily like the high school outside Chicago where Bobby got gunned down last month by a skinny blond kid he’d never seen before in his life. That school was also long and squat with three stories, a flat roof, a mix of red and yellow bricks, and a mural on one wall.

  The mural here at the Ben Franklin is an expressionist explosion. Paint splatters, splashes, drippings. The artist had a hissy fit and flung paint at the wall. That’s what Nanami says as she eyes the mural early on a Monday morning. A sure sign of anger. “And why an anger management class?” she wants to know. “Why not an anger flinging class?”

  Bobby and Nanami climb the stone steps of the Ben Franklin, enter the building, and wander down its hallways. The halls are empty save for a few stragglers because it’s already 9:20 and the workshops started at nine o’clock. Soon Bobby is sweating. His armpits are growing dank because he has a queasy déjà vu feeling. Any second he might turn a corner and bump into a blond stranger brandishing a pistol.

  Nanami slaps closed any lockers left open as she walks past. Bobby concentrates on the slates hung on the wall outside each classroom. Written in coloured chalk on each slate is the title of the group session held inside. The slate he’s just passed reads: “Why We Can’t Milk Goats: Theories on Sterilization in the Afterlife.” He’s looking for “Coping with Anger: Untwisting Your Knickers.” The anger management group had better be in a classroom nearby. He doesn’t think he can walk down another hallway. Already this one seems to be contracting and expanding. One second it looks as narrow as a bowling alley; the next it balloons to the size of a basketball court. Somebody hand him a paper bag because he might start hyperventilating.