Red Clocks(50)

“So we have a deal?” she says. “No more romanticizing?”

“Okay, but hold on, eh—I need to hear more.”

“Another time.”

“I’ll get it out of you eventually,” he says. “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your story down!”

Didier hapless. Penny yawning. Bex whining about kittens. Mattie’s luck. The semeny eggnog. The cysts on her ovaries. Her dad eating soft vegetables at Ambrosia Ridge Retirement Village. Susan believing the biographer is not yet an adult. Every Child Needs Two coming true in three weeks.

They’ve tucked into Didier’s roast when a late-arriving guest is ushered in, a pudgy white guy with a shaved head. “Everyone,” says Susan, “this is Edward Tilghman. We were in law school together. By the way, you didn’t need to dress up.”

“I didn’t,” he says, brushing rain off his suit jacket. “These are my work clothes.”

“Edward has a client in town,” explains Susan.

The guest settles in between Penny and the biographer, takes a sip of water, and shakes out his napkin.

Something warm and moist hits the biographer under her left eye. She finds it in her lap: a slice of meat.

Another wet little slap—Bex is hit too.

“Cunt!” says the girl.

“Goddammit, John,” says Didier, “if you can’t sit at the table without throwing food, you’re not going to sit at the table.”

Susan stares at her husband. “Why does she know that word?”

“How should I know?”

Bex sings, “Cunty McGee was a happy little cunt.”

“Goodness,” says Edward.

“Not a nice word, Bexy—” But Didier is laughing.

“Does it go in the special box?” she asks.

“What special box?”

“Nothing, Momplee.”

“Mommy,” cries John, “a boy and a fish is friends.”

Penny asks, “Whom are you representing, Edward?”

“He can’t divulge,” says Susan.

“Their names aren’t confidential,” says Edward. “This isn’t Alcoholics Anonymous,” and Susan takes the shock of correction square in the face.

“But the fact of representation,” she insists, “is privileged in some jurisdictions—”

“A woman named Gin Percival.” Edward helps himself to a plop of parsnip.

“The witch!” says Didier. “She’s been doling out the wrong kind of family planning.”

“Ucchh, shut up,” says Susan.

“Momplee, that’s rude and you should say sorry.”

“I think Daddy should say sorry. For being an idiot.”

Didier is watching Susan with an expression the biographer has never seen on him before.

Penny stands up and claps. “Time for all children who live in this house to prepare a welcome letter for Mr. Claus! All children of the house, please come with me to the letter-writing station.”

“We have to be excused first,” says Bex.

“You’re frigging excused,” says Susan.

The kids follow Penny to the living room, and Susan carries plates to the kitchen. Didier, wordless, heads out to smoke.

The biographer feels bad that Gin Percival is in jail, but not as bad as she should. Gin can’t help her anymore, and the biographer can’t be sympathetic right now.

Unless a pregnant woman or girl decides, in the next three weeks, that she’d actually really love for her baby to be raised by a single mother on a high school teacher’s salary, then the biographer will be removed from the agency’s list. To restore dignity, strength, and prosperity to American families.

She can remain on the fostering list; but ECN2 stipulates that in single-parent homes, foster placement cannot lead to permanent legal adoption.

She sneezes, wipes her nose on the pink linen napkin.

Edward leans away from her and says, “Could you please cover your mouth?”

“I did cover my mouth.”

He moves three chairs away.

“Really?” says the biographer.

“Sorry, but my immune system isn’t strong and I can’t afford to get sick right now.”

The biographer pushes the tip of her napkin up one nostril.

In?breath.

She wants to go home, where no one can see her.

Out-breath.

Sneak out now without saying goodbye.

In?breath.

Susan would hold a grudge for such rudeness.

Out-breath.

But what if—

What if, instead—

Mattie gave her the baby?

What if she just gave it to her?

But that’s insane.

Demento dementarium.

What if Mattie said, Yes, okay, here—for you. Take care of him. Take care. I’ll see you later, miss. I’m off to my life. Tell him about me one day.

What if she asked, and Mattie said yes?

She would never ask, obviously.

Unethical. Malfeasant. Pathetic.

But what if?





Ice fog = pogonip

Ice crystal = frazil

Ice feathers = rime





THE WIFE


What joy to walk naked after a shower and hear your labia clap. To rise from the toilet and hear your labia clap.