Feral Boy Meets Girl

by William Jablonsky

  He points at the first one he sees.

  “Really?”

  He shrugs.

  “No,” she says. “Do you know me at all? I can’t stand all that frilly shit.” She points to an ivory gown with a shimmery spider-web design embroidered down the sides. “This one.”

  “It’s nice,” he says.

  She raises an eyebrow. “You could show some enthusiasm.”

  He leans over and kisses her. “Sorry, baby. I’ll be more enthusiastic when I’m awake.”

  She interrupts. “Before I forget...” she draws a manila envelope and a pen from her purse. “That performing arts academy still needs you to fill out an application. Just to make it official.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, that.”

  She goes silent for a minute. “You’re okay with this, right?”

  He nods. “I am.”

  She reaches up, strokes his stubbly face. “You won’t have to give up everything to do this, I promise. It’ll be okay.”

  He takes her hand, kisses it, and for a minute his shoulders droop and his face loses all expression. Then he opens up the envelope and glances at the form. His stomach burbles audibly.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “Nothing, he replies,” getting up from the couch. “I have to take a shit.”

  Earth-7

  Park Ridge, Illinois

  Feb. 21, 2014

  11:47 a.m.

  In the dark, Mr. Delgado’s cell phone rings. He is hanging off the edge of his twin bed; there is a noticeable depression on the other side, the blankets thrown aside in a rush. He looks around, mutters, “Hello?” but no one answers.

  He glances at the number but does not recognize it. He smiles when he hears her recorded message. “This is Kaylee, from a couple of weeks ago,” she says, her voice flat. “We need to talk. Call me back.” He rolls over in bed, phone in hand, and is about to call her back, but his eyelids start to droop and he falls asleep again, the phone open in his hand.

  Earth-45

  Park Ridge, Illinois

  Feb. 22, 2014

  8:07 a.m.

  We find Mr. Delgado not in his small Cumberland Avenue apartment, but in a large beige stucco house on Division Street, just a few blocks away—Kaylee used to look at it longingly on evening walks with Mr. Delgado and fantasize about living there one day, though it seemed very far out of reach. It is full of rust-orange leather furniture, and in one corner of the living room there is a sleek, shiny white Steinway baby grand. Mr. Delgado lumbers heavily down the wood staircase, a briefcase in one hand, a black sportscoat slung over his shoulder, his shimmery blue oxford shirt half-untucked from his black trousers. A quick search reveals that he teaches at the University of Chicago, a position which not only pays him well but, if the ethereoscope is accurate, also allows him ample time to perform with The Manhattan Project.

  We note that this world is most remarkable in that everything has gone right: the World Trade Center still stands; electric cars can be seen in large numbers on the streets; sea levels are steadily dropping; the economy appears robust. By all indications, life in this world is good.

  “Best get a move on,” Kaylee calls to him from the kitchen. “You know how traffic is. And it’s worse when you run late.”

  “Don’t be late, Daddy,” a high-pitched voice echoes.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says. “She here yet?”

  “Not yet,” Kaylee says. “Don’t forget your breakfast.” She hands him an asiago bagel from the Panera down the street.

  “Busy,” he says, attempting to tuck his shirt in.

  “You want me to feed you too? Are you that helpless?” She holds the bagel up and he takes a bite.

  “T’ankyou,” he mumbles, mouth full. “No cream cheese?”

  She takes the bagel back, opens it halfway, dips it in the small plastic container full of onion and chive cream cheese. “There.”

  “You’re a goddess,” he says, kissing her and smearing cream cheese on her lips.

  “What’s a goddess?” the small voice calls out.

  Mr. Delgado emerges from the kitchen, a young girl of about four over his shoulder. “A very nice lady,” he says through a mouthful of bagel, leaving cream cheese stuck to the corners of his mouth.

  “Yuck,” the little girl says. “You’re sloppy.” She reaches over and wipes the cream cheese from his face with her hand.

  The doorbell rings.

  “There she is,” he says, and carries the girl with him to the door.

  On the front porch is a tall, muscled woman in her early sixties, in a purple floral dress and a white faux-fur coat. Her hair is wavy and black with silver highlights and extends to the middle of her back, and she smiles wide when he opens the door.

  “Morning, Mom,” he says.

  “Nanna!” the little girl says and climbs from Mr. Delgado’s shoulders to her grandmother’s.

  “Good morning, little spider-monkey!” the woman says with a slight Colombian accent. “You ready to play the piano with your abuela?”

  “Yes!” the little girl says.

  We have no explanation for Mrs. Delgado’s presence—perhaps medical science has progressed faster in this world, or she was talked into seeking attention earlier than in other realities. But she is here, robust and happy.

  “One second, Daniela,” Kaylee says. “Little spider-monkey needs to wash the cream cheese off her hands first.”

  “Well let’s go, then,” Mrs. Delgado says.

  Afterwards, the little girl leads her by the hand to the piano, and they begin to run through scales, Mrs. Delgado calling out the notes as the girl plays them.

  Mr. Delgado puts his arm around Kaylee, and they watch for a minute.

  “Shouldn’t you be heading out now?” she whispers.

  “In a minute,” he says.

  Earth-1

  Chicago, Illinois

  Feb. 21, 2014

  12:55 p.m.

  The lunch-hour crowd at Yellowjacket’s are just finishing their drinks when Martha Delgado enters in a black leotard and flip-flops, unfazed by the cold, her yoga mat in a canvas bag slung over her shoulder.“He’s in the back, Martha,” says Dwayne, the daytime bartender.

  Mr. Delgado is hiding in a corner booth, nursing a vodka-tonic.

  “What’s up, little brother?” she says, sitting down on the opposite end of the booth.

  He shakes his head. “Found some apartment listings on her internet history.”

  “I take it you and Kaylee haven’t talked about this?”

  He shrugs. “Never seems to be the right time.”

  She steals a sip of his drink; he doesn’t protest. “That’s a lot of lime,” she says, puckering. “So what are you going to do?”

  Mr. Delgado sucks down the remainder of his drink in one long sip. “I’m gonna do it,” he says, all expression fading from his face. “Gonna get a ring, get down on one knee, do it right.”

  Martha says nothing for a minute, staring at him. She has never seen him so profoundly sad. “And then what?”

  He sighs, loud and long. “Quit the band. Get a J-O-B. Buy a house in the suburbs. Make babies.”

  “Okay,” she says. “You know I think the world of Kaylee, but are you sure you’re ready to give up everything you love?”

  “I love her,” he says.

  “That’s a hell of a choice, then,” she says. “You’re the only one who can make it, sweetie.”

  Mr. Delgado lays his head across his crossed arms on the table and does not speak again. Martha stays until she has to leave for her next session, kisses the back of his head, and goes.

  Earth-7

  Park Ridge, Illinois

  February 23, 2014

  7:55 a.m.

  Mr. Delgado is just getting ready for bed when his cell phone rings. He checks the number, sees that it is Kaylee again, lets it go to voicemail. He is about to crawl under the sheets when he relents and checks the message.

  “Hey,
” she says. “Fine. You don’t want to talk to me. But this is important, and I don’t want to leave this on voicemail, so call me back.”

  He sighs and dials her number.

  “Hey back,” he says when she picks up. “What’s up?”

  She says nothing for several seconds. Then, finally, “I’m pregnant.”

  He clears his throat, blows out his breath. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’m sure.”

  “Are you sure it’s mine?”

  She is silent again for a minute. “I’m sure. You didn’t have a condom on you, remember?”

  “I thought you were using something,” he mutters.

  “Well, that’s what you get for thinking,” she says flatly.

  “So, uh, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m keeping it.”

  “Okay,” he says, slumping down onto the red-orange futon. “Tell me what you want to do.”

  At noon Mr. Delgado walks to the Panera, grabs a cup of dark-roast coffee, finds an empty booth. He called Martha just after Kaylee informed him of her pregnancy, but her counsel was unhelpful. In this reality, Ruth left her, causing her to turn to religion and move to Arizona, and she spent the whole time telling him he needed to mend his ways and get right with Jesus.

  His leather jacket is slung over the other chair, but he moves it when he sees Kaylee come through the door. She takes off her sunglasses; her eyes are puffy and have dark circles beneath them. On her left cheek, below her eye socket, is a deep bruise, inexpertly covered by makeup.

  “Hi,” he says as she sits.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m glad you showed up,” he says. “Didn’t think you would.” He looks at the welt on her cheek and reaches up to touch it, but she swats his hand away.

  “Don’t,” she says. “Just...don’t touch me.”

  “Jesus,” he says. “You didn’t tell me he hit you. I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”

  “No,” she says quietly. “It’s done. Just leave it.”

  Mr. Delgado buries his face in his hands for a minute. “You have somewhere to go, right?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. All our friends were his friends. I guess I’ll go to a motel.”

  He takes a deep breath. “You can stay with me if you want.”

  She laughs. “That’s very nice, but...”

  As he looks into her swollen eyes, his face softens, as if he is looking at the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. “No, really,” he says. “I want to do right by you. And the baby. You’ll need support.”

  She goes silent for a minute, turns her head to look at the service counter. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Well, not yet,” he says. He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, fumbles around.

  “Oh, shit,” she says. “Tell me you’re not about to propose.”

  “What? God, no.” He pulls out a set of keys, jingles them, slides them gently across the table.

  “This is insane,” she says.

  “Can’t argue with you.”

  “You ruined my life,” she says with a mirthless laugh.

  He picks up the keys, opens her hand, gently sets them in her palm. “I can fix it. Just take them. We’ll get your stuff this evening.”

  She thinks about it for a second, then her fingers close around the keys, and in a faint, raspy voice, she says, “Okay.”

  Earth-45

  Chicago, Illinois

  February 24, 2014

  8:27 a.m.

  The engine of Mr. Delgado’s white BMW electric hums like a beehive as he merges onto I-294 North, listening to NPR. In half an hour, the All Things Considered interview with himself and Charlie about the George Clooney film they scored together is due to air. At the moment, the topic of conversation is the approach of Asteroid M-371, which will pass very close to Earth within the week. It will be most visible in the Great Lakes region on the twenty-sixth. It should make for spectacular viewing.

  “Hmm,” he says. “Have to check that out.”

  He leans back in the seat and enjoys the rest of the drive.

  Earth-2

  Evanston, Illinois

  Feb. 23, 2014

  1:05 p.m.

  In the dean’s office at Springdale Performing Arts Academy, Mr. Delgado sits across the desk from a thick woman with squarish glasses, platinum-blonde hair, and an intricate network of silver charms around her neck. Things are going well. The kids loved his teaching demo, the other teachers seemed charmed.

  “So, Mitchell,” she says, looking over his curriculum vitae. “This is a very impressive list of accomplishments. And I hear your teaching demo went very well. I take it you’re prepared to teach theory as well as performance?”

  “Very much so,” he says. (In truth, he had to brush up, since it has been six years since he had a music theory class.)

  “That’s good. School hours are eight-thirty to three. I assume you’ll still be playing professionally.”

  “As much as possible,” he says.

  She smiles. “Well, there’s always weekends and summers, if you have the stamina.”

  They shake hands; she will get back to him within a week or so.

  In the parking lot, as he’s sitting in his old Nova, Kaylee calls him.

  “So?” she asks. “How’d it go?”

  “Great,” he says. “Nailed it.”

  “I’m so happy for you.”

  Earth-1

  Park Ridge, Illinois

  February 27, 2014

  5:35 a.m.

  Mr. Delgado opens his eyes to find Kaylee standing by the bed in the dark, staring down at him, still in the oversized Care Bear T-shirt in which she slept.

  “What is it, baby?” he says.

  “Do you love me?”

  He groans. “Baby, I can’t do this right now.” Kaylee has a habit of asking him thoughtful questions when he is bone-tired and vulnerable.

  “We don’t have to talk about the job now. Just tell me. Do you?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Very much.”

  Her chest falls, as if she’s been holding in a deep breath. “Okay,” she says. She grabs the back of his head and kisses him so hard it hurts his teeth. “Show me how much.”

  Perhaps it is her desperation, but Mr. Delgado is aroused. He pulls her toward him, reaches for the box of condoms on the bedside table. He accidentally knocks it over in the dark, but neither of them cares enough to fetch it.

  Earth-45

  Chicago, Illinois

  March 1, 2014

  4:55 p.m.

  Mr. Delgado and Kaylee pass through the archway of the South Shore Cultural Center in his white BMW, where the Manhattan Project is about to play at a fundraiser for a neighborhood-renewal project. Mrs. Delgado and the little girl are in the back seat, reading Dr. Seuss’s The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.

  Mr. Delgado’s mother greets his bandmates with forceful kisses before the soundcheck, then proceeds to play Uno with her granddaughter in a corner of the hall.

  After a short set culminating in “Michigan Avenue Lullaby,” Mr. Delgado leads his family to the window to take in the view of Lake Michigan, bathed in the orange light of the setting sun. It is a magnificent sight.

  Then he notices a red-orange streak on the horizon, seeming to be moving in their direction. “What’s that?” the little girl asks, pointing at the streak.

  He and Kaylee look at each other with the same flat expression. “Nothing, sweetie,” he says. “Just a shooting star.” But it is getting bigger.

  He throws his arms around his family and holds them tight.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” the girl asks.

  “Nothing, baby,” he says. A few seconds later, the meteor hits the water, just a few miles from shore. Half a second later there is a silvery rush of water, glass breaking, and then, nothing.

  Earth-7

  Midlothian, Illinois

  March 2, 2014

  12:55 p.m.

/>   Mr. Delgado and Kaylee are idling in his classic black Nova in the parking lot of the suburban office of Congressman Bobby Rush, a characterless, flat-roofed building with white siding so indistinct that he passed by it several times. They have been waiting here for some time, scanning the faces of anyone exiting the glass doors or parked cars. Finally, a silver Audi pulls into the lot and parks three spaces away from him, and Mr. Noonan emerges, holding a foil swan.

  Mr. Delgado exits the Nova; Mr. Noonan does not seem to notice him. Mr. Delgado catches up to him at the door, taps him on the shoulder. “Hey,” he says in a low voice.

  Mr. Noonan turns around, the door half-open. “Something I can help you with...” he begins to say, smiling rigidly, and then he recognizes Mr. Delgado. “Oh, fuck.”

  Mr. Delgado’s first punch smashes the bridge of Mr. Noonan’s nose and snaps his glasses in two; the second connects with the side of his head with a dull pop. Mr. Noonan falls to the icy pavement, thick blood gushing from his nose, clutching his head in his hands. “I’m sorry!” he bleats as Mr. Delgado kicks him repeatedly in the ribs. He seems to be weeping as Mr. Delgado picks the foil swan up from the blacktop, unwraps it, then dumps Szechwan pork all over his tailored suit. A few people have gathered at the door; someone says, “Call the police.” Mr. Delgado pulls his phone from his pocket and shows them a close-up of Kaylee with a black eye, then points to Mr. Noonan. No one moves.

  Mr. Delgado kicks him once more in the spine and walks slowly back to the car.

  “Thanks,” she mutters as he pulls out of the parking lot. “That was really stupid, but thanks.” As they turn onto 147th St., Kaylee notices he is driving left-handed, his right lying limp in his lap.

  “Let me see,” she says, takes his hand, peels off the glove, gives it a little squeeze.

  He howls, nearly driving up onto the curb.

  “It’s broken,” she says. “Looks bad, too. We need to get you to the ER.”

  “No,” he says. “Got a show tonight.”

  “Not anymore you don’t,” she says. “My stupid, stupid hero.”

  Earth-2

  Park Ridge, Illinois

  March 4, 2014

  8:15 a.m.

  The phone rings. Kaylee is still in the shower, so Mr. Delgado rolls out of bed to pick it up.

  “Hello, Mitchell,” says a woman with a sweet lilty voice. “This is Maggie Baker, dean of Springdale Performing Arts Academy.”