A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  Hey. What’s happened to you here? You’ve gone all soft on me. What’s the matter with—?

  “Hey, where’re you goin’? We was just starting to have some fun . . . Hey, don’t leave . . . Hey, Bob, what’d I do wrong? . . . What’d I say? . . . Bob! Come back and—

  “Well! Can you believe that? I swear . . . sometimes I just don’t understand men.”

  FOET

  Denise didn’t mind the January breeze blowing against her back down Fifth Avenue as she crossed Fifty-seventh Street. Her favorite place in the world was Manhattan, her favorite pastime was shopping, and when she was shopping in midtown—heaven.

  At the curb she stopped and turned to stare at the pert blonde who’d just passed. She couldn’t believe it.

  “Helene? Helene Ryder, is that you?”

  The blonde turned. Her eyes lit with recognition.

  “Ohmigod, Denise! Imagine meeting you here! How long has it been?”

  They hugged and air kissed.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Six months?”

  “At least! What are you doing in the city?”

  “Just shopping. Accessory hunting.”

  “Me, too. Where were you headed?”

  “Actually I was looking for a place to get off my feet and have a bite to eat. I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”

  “That sounds good.” Helene glanced at her watch. A diamond Piaget, Denise noticed. “It’s tea time at the Waldorf. Why don’t we go there?”

  “Wonderful!”

  During the bouncy cab ride down Park Avenue, Denise gave Helene a thorough twice-over and was impressed. Her short blond hair was fashionably tousled; her merino wool topcoat, camel’s-hair sweater, and short wool-and-cashmere skirt reeked of Barney’s and Bergdorf’s.

  Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.

  Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.

  Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute—like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump—she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.

  And on the subject of pocketbooks, Denise could not take her eyes off Helene’s. Fashioned of soft, silky, golden brown leather that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of the cab, it perfectly offset the colors of her outfit. She wondered if Helene had chosen the bag for the outfit, or the outfit for the bag. She suspected the latter. The bag was exquisite, the stitchwork especially fascinating in its seemingly random joining of odd-sized and odd-shaped pieces. But it was the material itself that drew and captured her attention. She had an urge to reach out and touch it. But she held back.

  Later. She’d ask about it during tea.

  Sitting here with Helene on a settee along the wall in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf, sipping tea and nibbling on petites fours from the tray on the table before them, Denise felt as if she were part of the international set. The room whispered exotic accents and strange vowels. Almost every nationality was represented—the Far East most strongly—and everyone was dressed to the nines. The men’s suits were either Armani or Vacca, and a number of the women outshone even Helene. Denise felt almost dowdy.

  And still . . . that handbag of Helene’s, sitting between them on the sofa. She couldn’t escape the urge to caress it, could not keep her eyes off it.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Helene said.

  “Hmmm?” Denise felt a flash of embarrassment at being caught staring, and wondered if the envy showed in her eyes. “The bag? Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  “I’d be surprised if you had.” Helen pushed it closer. “Take a look.”

  Soft. That was the first thing Denise noticed as she lifted it. The leather was so soft, a mix of silk and down as her fingers brushed over the stitched surface. She cradled it on her lap. It stole her breath.

  “Um . . . very unusual, isn’t it?” she managed after a moment.

  “No. Not so unusual. I’ve spotted a few others around the room since we arrived.”

  “Really?” Denise had been so entranced by Helene’s bag that the others had gone unnoticed. That wasn’t like her. “Where?”

  Helene tilted her head to their left. “Right over there. Two tables down, in the navy blue sweater chemise and matching leggings.”

  Denise spotted her. A Japanese woman, holding the bag on the coffee table before her. Hers was black, but the stitching was unmistakable. As Denise scanned the room she noticed another, this one a deep coffee brown. And she noticed something else—they belonged to the most exquisitely dressed women in the room, the ones draped in Helmut Lang and Versace. Among all the beautifully dressed people here in Peacock Alley, the women who stood out, who showed exceptional flair and style in their ensembles, were the ones carrying these bags.

  Denise knew in that instant that she had to have one. No matter how much it cost, this was the accessory she’d been looking for, the touch that would set her apart, lift her to a higher fashion plane.

  The Japanese woman rose from her table and walked past. She glanced at Denise on her way by. Her gaze dropped to the bag on Denise’s lap and she smiled and nodded. Denise managed to smile back.

  What was that? It almost seemed as if the women with these bags had formed some sort of club. If so, Denise wanted to be a member.

  Helene smiled knowingly when Denise looked back at her.

  “I know what you’re thiiiinkiiiing,” she sing-songed.

  “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh. ‘Where do I get one?’ Right?”

  Right. But Denise wasn’t going to admit it. She hated being obvious.

  “Actually I was wondering what kind of leather it is.”

  A cloud crossed Helene’s face.

  “You don’t know?” She paused, then: “It’s foet.”

  “Feet? Whose feet?” And then Denise realized what Helene had said. “Oh . . . my . . . God!”

  “Now, Denise—”

  Foet! She’d heard of it but had never thought she’d see it or actually touch it, never dreamed Helene would buy any. Her gorge rose.

  “I don’t believe it!”

  Denise pushed the bag back onto the sofa between them and glared at Helene.

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I committed a crime or anything.”

  “How could you, Helene?”

  “Look at it.” She lifted the bag. “How could I not?”

  Denise was captured again by the golden glow of the leather. She felt her indignation begin to melt.

  “But it’s human skin!” she said, as much to remind herself of that hideous fact as to drag it out into the open.

  “Not human . . . at least according to the Supreme Court.”

  “I don’t care what those old farts say, it’s still human skin!”

  Helene shook her head. “Fetal skin, Denise. From abortions. And it’s legal. If fetuses were legally human, you couldn’t abort them. So the Supreme Court finally had to rule that their skin could be used.”

  “I know all about that, Helene.”

  Who didn’t know about Ranieri v. Verlaine? The case had sent shock waves around the country. Around the world! Denise’s church had formed a group to go down to Washington to protest it. As a matter of fact—

  “Helene, you were out on
Pennsylvania Avenue with me demonstrating against the ruling! How could you—?”

  Helene shrugged. “Things change. I’m still antiabortion, but after we moved away from Fairfield and I lost contact with our old church group, I stopped thinking about it. Our new friends aren’t into that sort of stuff and so I, well, just kind of drifted into other things.”

  “That’s fine, but how does that drift you into buying something like . . .” She pointed to the bag and, God help her, she still wanted to run her hands over it. “This!”

  “I saw one. We went to a reception—some fund-raiser for the homeless, I think—and I met a woman who had one. I fell in love with it immediately. I hemmed and hawed, feeling guilty for wanting it, but finally I went out and bought myself one.” She beamed. “And believe me, I’ve never regretted it.”

  “God, Helene.”

  “They’re already dead, Denise. I don’t condone abortion any more than you do, but it’s legal and that’s not likely to change. And as long as it stays legal, these poor little things are going to be killed day after day, weeks after week, hundreds and thousands and millions of them. We have no control over that. And buying foet accessories will not change that one way or another. They’re already dead.”

  Denise couldn’t argue on that point. Yes, they were dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

  But . . .

  “But where do they sell this stuff? I’ve never once seen it displayed or even advertised.”

  “Oh, it’s in all the better stores, but it’s very discreet. They’re not stupid. Foet may be legal but it’s still controversial. Nobody wants trouble, nobody wants a scene. I mean, can you imagine a horde of the faithful hausfraus from St. Paul’s marching through Bergdorf’s? I mean really!”

  Denise had to smile. Yes, that would be quite a sight.

  “I guess it would be like the fur activists.”

  “Even worse.” Helene leaned closer. “You know why those nuts are antifur? Because they’ve never had a fur coat. It’s pure envy with them. But foet? Foet is tied up with motherhood and apple pie. It’s going to take a long time for the masses to get used to foet. So until then, the market will be small and select. Very select.”

  Denise nodded. Select. Despite all her upbringing, all her beliefs, something within her yearned to be part of that small, select market. And she hated herself for it.

  “Is it very expensive?”

  Helene nodded. “Especially this shade.” She caressed her bag. “It’s all hand sewn. No two pieces are alike.”

  “And where’d you buy yours?”

  Helene was staring at her appraisingly. “You’re not thinking of starting any trouble, are you?”

  “Oh, no. No, of course not. I just want to look. I’m . . . curious.”

  More of that appraising stare. Denise wanted to hide behind the settee.

  “You want one, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely not! Maybe it’s morbid on my part, but I’m curious to see what else they’re doing with . . . foet these days.”

  “Very well,” Helene said, and it occurred to Denise that Helene had never said Very well when she’d lived in Fairfield. “Go to Blume’s—it’s on Fifth, a little ways up from Gucci’s.”

  “I know it.”

  “Ask for Rolf. When you see him, tell him you’re interested in some of his better accessories. Remember that: ‘better accessories.’ He’ll know what you’re looking for.”

  Denise passed Blume’s three times, and each time she told herself she’d keep right on walking and find a taxi to take her down to Grand Central for the train back to Fairfield. But something forced her to turn and go back. Just once more. This time she ducked into a slot in the revolving door and swung into the warm, brightly lit interior.

  Where was the harm in just looking?

  When he appeared, Rolf reminded her of a Rudolf Valentino wannabe—stiletto thin in his black pinstripe suit, with plastered-down black hair and mechanical-pencil mustache. He was a good ten years younger than Denise and barely an inch taller, with delicate, fluttery hands, lively eyes, and a barely audible voice.

  He gave Denise a careful up-and-down after she’d spoken the code words, then extended his arm to the right.

  “Of course. This way, please.”

  He led her to the back of the store, down a narrow corridor, and then through a glass door into a small, indirectly lit showroom. Denise found herself surrounded by glass shelves lined with handbags, belts, even watch bands. All made of foet.

  Rolf closed the door behind them.

  “The spelling is adapted from the archaic medical term.”

  “Really?”

  She noticed he didn’t actually say the word: foetal.

  “Now . . . what may I show you?”

  “May I browse a little?”

  “Mais oui. Take your time.”

  Denise wandered the pair of aisles, inspecting the tiers of shelves and all the varied items they carried. She noticed something: Almost everything was black or very dark.

  “The bag my friend showed me was a lighter color.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m sorry, but we’re out of white. That goes first, you know.”

  “No, this wasn’t white. It was more of a pale, golden brown.”

  “Yes. We call that white. After all, it’s made from white hide. It’s relatively rare.”

  “ ‘Hide’?”

  He smiled. “Yes. That’s what we call the . . . material.”

  The material: white fetal skin.

  “Do you have any pieces without all the stitching? Something with a smoother look?”

  “I’m afraid not. I mean, you must understand, we’re forced by the very nature of the source of the material to work with little pieces.” He gestured around. “Notice too that there are no gloves. None of the manufacturers wants to be accused of making kid gloves.”

  Rolf smiled. Denise could only stare at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Trade humor.”

  Little pieces.

  Hide.

  Kid gloves.

  Suddenly she wanted to run, but she held on. The urge passed.

  Rolf lifted a handbag from atop a nearby display case. It was a lighter brown than the others, but still considerably darker than Helene’s.

  “A lot of people are going for this shade. It’s reasonably priced. Imported from India.”

  “Imported? I’d have thought there’d be plenty to go around just from the U.S.”

  He sighed. “There would be if people weren’t so provincial in their attitudes about giving up the hides. The tanneries are offering a good price. I don’t understand some people. Anyway, we have to import from the Third World. India is a great source.”

  Denise picked up another, smaller bag of a similar shade. So soft, so smooth, just like Helene’s.

  “Indian, too?”

  “Yes, but that’s a little more expensive. That’s male.”

  She looked at him questioningly.

  His eyes did a tiny roll. “They hardly ever abort males in India. Only females. Two thousand to one.”

  Denise put it down and picked up a similar model, glossy, ink black. This would be a perfect accent to so many of her ensembles.

  “Now that’s—”

  She held up her free hand. “Please don’t tell me anything about it. Just the price.”

  He told her. She repressed a gasp. That would just about empty her account of the money she’d put aside for all her fashion bargains. On one item. Was it worth it?

  She reached into her old pocketbook, the now dowdy-looking Fendi, and pulled out her gold MasterCard. Rolf smiled and lifted it from her fingers.

  Minutes later she was back among the hoi polloi in the main shopping area, but she wasn’t one of them. She’d been where they couldn’t go, and that gave her a special feeling.

  Before leaving Blume’s, Denise put her Fendi in the store bag and hung the new foet bag over her arm. The doorman gave her a big smil
e as he passed her through to the sidewalk.

  A cold wind had sprung up in the dying afternoon. She stood in the fading light with the breeze cutting her like an icy knife and suddenly felt horrible.

  I’m toting a bag made from the skin of an unborn child.

  Why? Why had she bought it? What had possessed her to spend that kind of money on such a ghoulish . . . artifact? Because that was just what it was—not an accessory, an artifact.

  She opened the store bag and reached in to switch the new foet for her trusty Fendi. She didn’t want to be seen with it.

  And Brian! Good God, how was she going to tell Brian?

  “What?”

  Brian never talked with food in his mouth. He had better manners than that. But Denise had just told him about Helene’s bag and at the moment his mouth, full of sautéed spinach, hung open as he stared at her with wide eyes.

  “Brian, please close your mouth.”

  He swallowed. “Helene? Helene had something made of human skin?” . . . not human . . . at least according to the Supreme Court . . .

  “It’s called foet, Brian.”

  “I know damn well what it’s called! They could call it chocolate mousse but it would still be human skin. They give it a weird name so people won’t look at them like they’re a bunch of Nazis when they sell it! Helene—how could she?”

  . . . they’re already dead, Denise . . .

  Brian’s tone became increasingly caustic. Denise felt as if he were talking to her.

  “I don’t believe it! What’s got into her? One person kills an unborn child and the other makes the poor thing’s skin into a pocketbook! And Helene of all people! My God, is that what a big pay raise and moving to Greenwich does to you?”

  Denise barely heard Brian as he ranted on. Thank God she’d had the good sense not to tell him about her own bag. He’d have been apoplectic.

  No doubt about it . . . she was going to return that bag as soon as she could get back into the city.

  Denise stood outside Blume’s, dreading the thought of facing Rolf in that tiny showroom and returning her foet, her beautiful foet.