27 Numbers
in the Alphabet
Mark Cormier
Copyright 2011 Mark Cormier
Smashwords Edition
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27 Numbers
in the Alphabet
By Mark Cormier
Part One: Reactants
One: A Modern Medicine Man
Marie wiped big beads of sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her frock—she tossed the keys to Jake's baby onto her kitchen's built in cutting board—their rental had a lot of such built ins; for this, Marie considered herself blessed, for many of the rentals in the Flats lacked such modern blessings as built in cutting boards. Jake always scoffed at Marie whenever she mentioned how blessed that she felt and said that their landlord must have gotten a good deal on a "contractor's special."
Her beloved's keys slid from the cutting board and clanked as they struck the linoleum; Marie reminded herself that the kitchen's linoleum was another modern blessing for her to give thanks by Jingo.
Marie's sweater slid off the back of a kitchen chair; lifeless on the floor, a forlorn wool crumple lifeless on the linoleum—Marie didn't bother to pick either her husband's keys or her sweater back up; her nerves had gotten too unsettled from her drive out to the Delta seeking the Spider Woman.
And Marie lamented that like an ignorant cholita from the wrong side of the Fence, she had gotten hopelessly lost in the Delta's labyrinth of endlessly numbered roads and nameless sloughs and she had had to return home without completing her task; she thought that she might have made a wrong turn just past "Frank's Tract;" the plain wooden sign that had been shoved into the cross where the gravel of two roads had met had been confusing; Marie had even thought that the sign might have been lying—it had been gull danged lucky, she told herself, that she had even been able to find her way back to the 4.
Marie took a quick sniff under her arms; she thought that she smelled like spoiled chicken and mothballs; she told herself that she needed to shower.
She cussed the acres of traffic that had been on the 4; she well knew the cause—a caravan carrying a family of five had back ended a boxcar carrying cherry tomatoes right in the belly of the boxcar's big black iron (Fe) boiler—she remembered the big plume of black oily smoke that had snaked high into the Delta's flat gray sky—she had heard on the emergency transmission that the family that had been in the caravan and the boxcar's driver had all been scorched into cinders.
As Marie had slowly passed by, she had trembled as she saw the wrecked caravan hug the tipped over boxcar, both had been engulfed in huge flames and even though, Marie had had the windows of Jake's baby shut good and tight, she had still felt an intense heat on her face—and Marie remembered, after that, behind the tiller of the truck that she had borrowed from her beloved, she had ploughed through tomato pulp and melted hot asphalt for what had seemed like a bushel of shells.
Marie remembered that the red pulp had seemed redder than freshly spilled blood and that it had looked chock full of smashed tiny round organs. Marie hoped, by Jingo, that the undercarriage of Jake's baby hadn't gotten irreparably stained.
And then Marie remembered that after she had passed the black and white metering bar of the 4's exit ramp, and had crept onto the potholes of the frontage road, Marie had almost tangled Jake's truck into a farmer's barbed wire while swerving around a gopher scurrying across cracks in the asphalt—and after that, Marie remembered that she had been so spooked that she kept popping the truck's clutch at the wrong time.
She winced as she remembered that it had seemed like her foot had somehow gotten unhinged from her ankle—she remembered thinking that the grind of the truck's gears had sounded worse than her kitchen's modern garbage disposal gnawed on a tin's flip top or an errant pig's knuckle—Marie prayed by Jingo that her beloved's truck's transmission would still be OK.
She wondered if maybe she should say something to Jake about grinding his gears just in case she had really frigged things up. Marie didn't want Jake to hit her later on for no good reason.
Marie's beloved hit her, as did most husbands, their wives, in the Bear Republic, especially cholitas who refused to mind, but, usually, Jake didn't hit Marie very hard.
This too, Marie counted as one of her blessings; she knew that many husbands in the Bear Republic of Alta California were less merciful; she had heard stories and had seen silver nitrate (AgNO3) plates in the Sacramento Bee of wives who'd been beaten until they had bled badly. In the Bee's black and white plates, Marie had thought that the faces of the beaten cholitas had looked smeared with gray blood.
Marie wished that she had never thought to seek out the Spider Woman and cussed to herself that she should have asked her sister for better directions.
Marie listlessly gazed at Jake as he listlessly slumped on the green naugahyde of his Lazy Guy Lounger; her beloved didn't bother to look up from the flickering eye of the black and white I; her beloved was sucking on a half frozen hotdog; Marie noticed that he'd gnawed off the hotdog's red casing and was now sucking on the pale pink of its guts.
Marie had forgotten that there was a package of hotdogs in the icebox; she remembered that she had intended to make "pigs in a blanket" like her mom always had when Marie was a girl but Marie, unfortunately, hadn't been able to find the corn flour among the endless aisles and countless shelves at the Alpha Beta; she knew that she could have asked someone where the corn flour was but she remembered that she had worried that the grocery store workers were much too busy to help her out.
She remembered that some had been busy as bees stacking tins, others had been busy as bugs pushing large carts overflowing with cardboard boxes of breakfast mush, and still others had been busy as beans shoving huge rounds of cow, pig, chicken and goat through a massive mechanized slicing device.
Marie remembered that she had winced as the whirling blades of the device had cut through hard bone as easily as soft flesh. Marie remembered that she had worried that if she had stared too long at the blades, she might have somehow gotten sucked in as if the slicing device and its hardened steel (FeC3) blades had been a mechanized whirlpool.
Marie remembered that she had hung on for precious life to the bakelite handle of her shopping wagon with both hands. She remembered that she had wondered why the store's floors had been so waxed—she remembered cussing that it was almost as if to make it easier for the devilish device to suck people like her into its sharp blades. Marie remembered that she had dug the wooden heels of her flats hard into the overly waxed floor but that it had still felt like she might slide to a horrible death. She remembered that, for the first time ever, she had thanked Jingo for a bent wheel on a shopping wagon.
Marie remembered that she had stared for a long time at one of the busy as bones butchers in his blood-smattered smock and that she had then hurriedly crossed herself and like a spooked goose had flown into the next aisle. There, she remembered, had been huge stacks of paper towels, toilet paper rolls and plainly wrapped brown paper packages of sanitary bandages. Every stack had seemed like it was about to tip over and the shelves had looked crammed like jam crammed into jars.
Marie watched Jake's Aaron's apple bob as he swallowed the last of his hotdog. And then, Marie summoned up the courage to stammer:
"Hi honey."
"You're frigging finally home. You didn't run my truck into a ditch or run over a cat or do anything else thick like that, did you?"
Marie knew right then as a woman banded but barren that she had to do something else besides her failed trip out to the Delta to resolve her situation. She knew as well as Jingo's Wings that she couldn't remain a gilt. Marie sensed from the bones of her toes to those of her crown that her marriage might soon be in serious trouble unless she was soon bebooned with a farrow; she worried that her beloved might even start hunting around for a Second.
Marie snuck like a duck in muck into the kitchen and quietly spun the bakelite dial of the black telephone mounted onto the wall there; she muffled her voice—it seemed to Marie like her mouth was practically smothering the black vulcanized cup—or like she was administering to the cup, CPR (Cardio Pulmonary Revivification)—along with every middle school child in the Bear Republic, she had learned CPR—in the Bear Republic, every organ counted even if damaged—everyone knew that Sickle and Scythe could work wonders with tissue—in a scrunched whisper, Marie requested a connection; she couldn't quite remember the four digit number her sister had told her after the initial M and the initial W; Marie thought that she had written the number down on a scrap from a napkin and that she had stuck it into her purse but she lamented that her purse was full of things she had lost; she vowed that one of these suns that she would get busy and sort the lost things in her purse out.
Marie listened intently as the switchboard operator riffled through her directory.
Marie noticed some crackling on the wire; Marie wondered if maybe Jake and her shouldn't have gotten rid of the crank—she thought that electricity was certainly much easier on the elbow but that the transmissions didn't seem as transparent.
Marie made an appointment; the receptionist seemed nice on the cup; Marie's sister had recommended this doctor to Marie; Marie remembered that her sister had said that he specialized in reproductive issues—cholitas' big three—moons, pregnancies and abortions.
Marie winced as she remembered that her sister had said she had gone to see him for the third—an abortion—the last thing Marie's sister said that she wanted was a baby or even a husband for that matter; Marie wondered if maybe her sister really was a real deal quirk and not just the toying around kind; Marie thought that their mom would be so ashamed if she ever found out.
Marie figured that it was probably the receptionist's job to sound nice over the wire.
But then she worried that the receptionist might not really be nice at all; Marie thought that the receptionist might even be downright mean—kind of like when Marie had on a whim shoveled out chits for a chocolate bar the last moon at the Alpha Beta—the wax paper package of the bar had made it look so yummy but, Marie frowned, as she remembered that the bar had ended up tasting like a cake of soap—she remembered that the bar had been called, "Nursemaid's Delight"—she remembered that the soapy tasting bar had been on the rack right before the cash registers and right below her two favorite women's magazines, Verve and Cook Pot. She remembered that on the cover of Verve was a cholita with her arms full with her farrow of triplets, her headscarf that proclaimed her a proud sow, a brilliant bright blue, and her eyes had seemed, to Marie, to shine like brilliant bright panes.
Marie couldn't remember what had been on the cover of Cook Pot—probably a plate of something easy and nutritious to fix for a hungry beloved and his blessed brood.
Marie gnawed on her thumb as she remembered that whenever her sister or her had accidentally cussed or said something even faintly blasphemous, their mom always had threatened to wash their mouths out with a cake of soap. Marie remembered that their mom had only carried through on her threat a couple of times but, Marie remembered, gagging like a epileptic, once, as gads and gads of overly sweet smelling foam from her mom's homemade cake of soap had spilled out from her little girl mouth and onto her chin.
Marie remembered that she had accidentally swallowed some foam and afterwards, her stomach had ached like she'd swallowed snake's venom. She remembered wondering if the foam had somehow made the lining of her stomach bleed.
Marie even remembered that she had checked in the toilet to see if her stools had gotten stained red. They hadn't but she remembered that then she had worried that maybe her stomach had bled but just not a lot—like when a small pin from a frock punctures flesh.
Marie lamented that her ovaries had been aching a lot; aching like her stomach had then and like her swollen tonsils had when she had been a young girl before the doctor had scythed them out; Marie remembered that after that, her mom had fed her ice cream and smashed cake with a round spoon; Marie remembered that the doctor had asked if she wanted him to put her scythed tonsils in a jar filled with vinegar (ethanoic acid) so she could take them to school to show them to her schoolmates; Marie remembered that she had told him, "no."
She remembered asking him if maybe she could "donate them to somebody who needed tonsils" but he had told her that her tonsils had been too swollen and diseased to be organs of any use to the Requisition's List even as tissue.
Marie wondered if maybe she should mention her ovaries to the doctor when she saw him; maybe her ovaries were bleeding inside her—Marie wondered if maybe she should get her ovaries scythed out so she'd have nothing more to worry about but then, she lamented, she'd never be able to conceive.
Marie knew that her beloved would never agree to adopt; everyone knew that the only babies readily available were Coy dogs, many from the wrong side of the Fence; she knew that her husband wouldn't want to have such a dark fleshed little creature kicking around and anyway, everyone also knew that most of the Coy dog babies were only for lease until their organs got big enough for a thresher. She'd heard that the Requisition made adopting couples ink papers and if they refused to yield up their adopted child at the end of the lease, the couple's own organs were subject to seizure.
It seemed to Marie like the switchboard operator or somebody else might have been listening in to her phone call—even though Jake and Marie's wire was supposed to be private—in addition to the crackling on the wire, Marie had also heard some queer pops—she'd heard that a lot of the switchboard operators got nosy—Marie couldn't blame them really; she thought that it must get awfully boring shoving plugs into holes on a switchboard all sun long; it would be hard for any cholita to mind her own beeswax—Marie had heard that Clarion's operators did get lunch and a break—but even with lunch and a break, Marie thought that she wouldn't want to do such a tedious job; she thought that she might be tempted to listen in too.
Marie lamented that she wasn't sure what she'd like to do for a job; she knew that a lot of modern cholitas had jobs outside their husbands' holds in a big cities like Sacramento—Marie thought that maybe she could go back to UC and get her Anglo as a Second Language teaching certificate. She thought that it might be nice to be a teacher.
Jake hadn't forbidden her to work outside his hold and Marie knew that they could sure use a little extra steel but Marie told herself not to worry about money too much—she figured that Jake would probably get the raise that Rico had promised him real soon—and things weren't so bad anyway, that way—even now, they could afford the fancy cakes of store bought soap that Marie had learned to love so much since she'd been banded.
Marie shuddered as she remembered the muslin-covered buckets of tallow that had always sat in the garage at her mom and her dad's house in the Heights; back then, even people who lived in the fancier neighborhoods often made their own soap—she remembered that she had accidentally knocked a bucket over once with her shin and she winced as she remembered the greasy black stain that had sat on the white concrete of the garage floor for a long time after.
She told herself that she had always loathed home made soap; she told herself that it always smelled faintly like spoiled chicken no matter how much lavender her mom or anyone added.
Around that time when she had knocked the bucket of tallow over, Marie remembered that her dad had banded a Second but that, that marriage had lasted no more than a moon. The cholita had been much younger than Marie's mom and, indeed, had only been a few cycles older than Marie and her sister, but Marie remembered, that the cholita had acted much older, smearing paint and powder on her lips and on her cheeks. Marie remembered that the cholita's Anglo had been broken and, that her pink headscarf had looked like it hadn't been laundered for a long time.
Marie remembered that her dad had had his Second stay in an old chicken shed in their backyard that he had retrofitted with shagged carpet and a coal burner. He had set up a mattress, with sheets and a blanket and he had veiled the bare bulb that had hung from the shed's ceiling with gauze and a twisted iron (Fe) coat hanger.
For the first quarter moon, Marie remembered that her dad would visit his Second every dark time after Marie or her sister had brought the cholita some left over supper in a covered dish. But Marie also remembered that he soon had stopped visiting her and that sometimes, he forgot to remind Marie or her sister to bring the covered dish out to the shed.
By the end of that moon, his Second had run away; Marie remembered that everyone had supposed that she had gone back to the Delta where she had said she had family. The dark time before her dad's Second disappeared, Marie remembered that she had stammered to Marie in her broken Anglo when Marie had brought the covered dish out to her that she was scared that Marie's dad would declare her unwanted.
Marie remembered that about a moon or so after, the sheriff had shown up at their door to ask Marie's dad some questions about the body of a cholita that had been turned into a Sickle and Scythe Organ Reclamation Center for a Finder's Bounty; the body had been found half hidden in mud and some weeds near Frank's Tract—Marie remembered overhearing the sheriff say that the flesh on the cholita's left forearm had been flayed off with a Bowie, destroying the tattoo of her chop, removing her embedded radio chip and, of course, preventing proper identification. And evidently, the Finder's Bounty had been claimed without the proper papers inked and because of this, Marie remembered the sheriff had harrumphed—the proper taxes hadn't been collected.
Marie hadn't been able to make out her dad's answers—she remembered that both men had suddenly dropped their voices and that they had spoken in low tones—but, she remembered, that the sheriff had soon driven off, after she had heard a clinking of thick bottomed Kill Devil glasses, and she remembered that she had spied from the window of the room that she shared with her sister, the sheriff, carrying a wicker out to the trunk of his black and white; she remembered that the wicker had looked laden with steel.
The sun's chariot visited and returned from the Land of the Dead seven times over; the moon went through half of her cycle—the sun of Marie's appointment arrived—she asked Jake again for his baby's keys; again, she made up a lie about why she needed to borrow his truck; another trip to the Gigant-O-Mall with her sister; this time for glass knick-knacks half cost—and thanks by Jingo, Marie's beloved didn't mention his truck's undercarriage or its transmission.
Marie told herself that she had been too much of a worry worm about her beloved's baby—Jake was fixated on the flickering eye of the I again—Marie furrowed her brow—she thought that that was all her beloved seemed to do lately; watch I but she told herself that Jake deserved to relax whenever he was at home; Rico had been asking her beloved to work a lot of double shifts these times—Marie obediently stood behind her beloved's Lazy Guy Lounger; she obediently waited for her husband to look up.
But Jake ignored her—he aimed the remote—a brass (Cu3Zn2) tuning pitch chimed—Jake toggled to another I transmission.
A corpse five hundred cycles old; from before the time of the Great Conquest—some scientists had found it in a mountain cave in the Eastern Sierras—a research team from UC; their mission had been to clear the area of antiquities before the construction of a necessary to the security of the Bear Republic of Alta California coal slurry pipeline—five hundred cycle old pine nuts and five hundred cycle old pine branches surrounded the corpse; the carbon Julian, plus or minus fifty cycles—evidently, the high dry air of the desert plateau had mummified the corpse better than the ancient Egypsies had their own dead; the high dry air had also mummified the pine nuts and the pine branches—despite herself, Marie got trapped into watching the transmission even though she knew that she might be late for her appointment.
The scientists from UC had found some scattered stones that looked like foundations in front of the cave and some shards of stone tablets that had been inscribed with Cathayan characters. They also had found some scattered human bones that had been gnawed as if eaten, what looked like the remains of the long ago rotted ribs of a boat's hull, and wedged into a crevasse in the back of the cave, they had found a stone statue of Buddha.
The scientists had surmised that a party of Cathayan sailors must have gotten blown off course and, lost in a queer land, had headed inland to try to find their way back to Cathay; perhaps they had carried some kind of life boat with them as a means to transport supplies.
They may have run out of supplies and, also, may have run out of water, once they'd crossed the high spine of the Sierra Nevada.
The scientists thought that the corpse might have been some kind of a Buddhist holy man that had accompanied the expedition—a crumbling cloth around his neck that might have been a holy man's cowl—the cloth not only around his neck but also queerly knotted around both of his knees; the mummified corpse hunched in on himself like a fetus—a scientist with a huge head surmised on the I that the cloth may have aided the holy man in assuming a secret meditative position had ultimately lead to his death.
Marie noticed that the scientist with the huge head had a lisp:
"Ith the Buddhitht holy man had fallen athleep during hith meditation and hith head had thlumped forward then the cloth would have been in a position to thtrangle him."
Another scientist with a smaller head and no lisp pointed out that the rings of trees lower down from the mountain cave seemed to indicate that a big drought had occurred in California about five hundred sun cycles ago, perhaps, concurrent with the demise of the holy man and the deaths of the itinerant sailors.
A pitch came on the I in which a spokesman for the big oil, gasoline, and coal company—Jake's company—laying the pipeline pointed out that it was a good thing his company supported such interesting scientific research as this. Marie noticed that the spokesman wore a business suit, an extra wide tie, and a white hard hat. He didn't have a lisp, his head was medium sized and, Marie also noticed, that his voice was almost as low and as dry as the mid sun newsreader's. She hated the mid sun newsreader's voice—it made her flesh itch.
The transmission about the mummified holy man and the band of lost sailors came back on; Marie fingered her crystal; she worried that her beloved might never look back; the scientist with the huge head and the lisp compared this Cathayan mummy to the more common Egypsy mummies and explained that the mummies from the Land of the Nile were "intenthional" and not "acthidental" like this holy man mummy although the two desiccation processes were "ethentially thimilar."
The scientist guessed that, perhaps, the holy man had sacrificed himself with his cowl as a plea to some queer Buddhist God. Perhaps, he guessed, as a sacrificial offering on behalf of the band of lost men; perhaps, the scientist with the lisp guessed that the holy man "had committed thuicide with the length of cloth to bring a thucthethful end to the drought or to summon a rethcue attempt from Cathay."
Marie tapped her crystal; she guessed that if she didn't leave for her appointment within five shells, she'd definitely be late, especially, if there was even an acre of traffic on the 4.
Her beloved finally looked back.
"You haven't left yet?"
"I was waiting to say good bye."
"Good bye."
"The keys are in your jacket pocket?"
"Where else would they be? What are you thick?"
"I'm not thick."
Jake aimed the remote; he toggled:
"Executions —Then and Now"
Marie saw dripping gray blood, this, a darker gray on the edges of the black and white I oval and then in the corner, the familiar black and white crossed Bowies of Sickle and Scythe.
Marie remembered that Jake had said that he was going to buy one of the new living color Is just as soon as he was able to sock away enough steel. Marie didn't really care; she only really watched I whenever her beloved toggled it on. If her husband wanted to see I transmissions in living color then that was certainly his right. After all, by the Law, he was the man in the marriage, the householder, and Marie's secular boss. And even though she had the honor of being Jake's First, Marie still knew her place.
"Frigging repeats."
Her husband toggled again.
Marie thought about the dead holy man. She couldn't get his desiccated blackened face as he had stared out from the I's oval glass curtain out from her head.
She thought that everyone knew that Jingo had sacrificed himself on the Cross to save everyone from the sin of the First Wife in the Garden but Marie had learned from sun of the Sun school lessons that it had actually been the Zoroastrians who had put him to death—she thought that this was a fundamental difference between Buddhism and The Faith; she wasn't so sure about the Zoroastrians—for those of The Faith, Marie knew that suicide was a sin even worse than fornication. For a holy man to strangle himself with his cowl, Marie thought, would not be pleasing to any true God, drought or no drought.
Marie squirmed as she picked at the sleeve of her frock—she had also heard that Buddhists had more than one Gideon and that one of Buddhism's Gideons was a "How to Go to the Well" manual that advised men and women to imitate various animals when summoning forth the Primordial Rain, even to the extent of braying like donkeys, lowing like cows or even growling like tigers; Marie's sister had told Marie all this and said that she liked growling like a tiger whenever she slept with someone; Marie's sister liked to tell queer stories and boasted that she often committed the sin of fornication; Marie knew better than to believe her but she still prayed for her sister's soul anyway.
Marie knew that there was nothing like this neither in The Faith's one true and only Gideon nor in the book of lies about Jingo that the Born Agains put out.
Marie wondered if she were a Buddhist cholita going to the well what animal she would pick to imitate. Maybe a monkey or a bird so she could leap up and down on the bed; she remembered that when her sister and her had shared a queen bed when they were little—one of their favorite games back then was leaping up and down on their queen bed like loony tunes.
Marie figured that Jake would probably pick a bull or some other strong creature to imitate—maybe even a rhinoceros with an extra big horn. The honey in Marie's well suddenly thickened.
Marie remembered that her sister had told her a joke about an elephant and a naked man, the moon before last. Her sister had given her a ride to Church and for once, Marie's sister had actually stuck around for the Mass.
After Father had announced the end of the Mass; both women properly had stayed in their pew; they had waited for the men to clear out first, as was the Law.
Her sister had cupped her mouth as she had suddenly pulled Marie's headscarf to the side; she had pressed her lips into Marie's ear—Marie remembered that her sister's breath had been hot and moist like the air in a small bathroom with the door shut and the shower full on:
"An elephant said to a naked man: 'How do you breathe through that thing?'"
Her sister had then pantomimed a man's pencil; she had wiggled her trigger finger back and forth in front of her well; Marie remembered that she hadn't wanted to look down at the V her sister legs had formed as they joined but that Marie hadn't been able to help herself.
"Then the naked man said back to the elephant: 'How can I get one of those?'"
And then Marie's sister had bared her left forearm in front of her face and had violently thrust it up and down. Her sister had had tears in her eyes. Marie remembered that some of the men exiting the Church had disapprovingly glanced back over their shoulders.
Marie remembered that she had giggled along but then towards the end, Marie had wondered why she was giggling; she hadn't thought that her sister's joke was that funny even if her queer sister had made the better choice to tell it outside of the Church.
A flick of Jake's frigged up trigger finger—a transmission of a monster truck demolition derby—Jake toggled the cones of the I to the max—Marie plugged her ears; she lamented that the cones of the I cranked to the max, sometimes, gave her a bad pain in her brain.
It was definitely time for her to go; Marie didn't want to be late—her appointment with the doctor was in less than thirty shells. If there was any traffic at all on the 4, she'd be dead as a peg—she found Jake's jacket in the kitchen; she fumbled in its pockets for his keys—Marie went to kiss Jake on the brow—he shoved her away:
"Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Are you sure it's still OK, sweetie, that I borrow your truck?"
"I still don't understand why you can't take the gull danged bus to your sister's…. hush, this is going to be good, the Devil's Details is getting rammed square in its boiler. By Jingo, that sucker is smoking like a sum of a bitch. And look at that mother's radiator leak—like a gull danged cholita that can't hold in her pee—this one is over!"
"The bus isn't direct and the cinders from the stack always fly into my eyes. Please, Jake, if it's not OK, that's OK too. You don't have to ink your permission."
"I've already inked the gull danged slip. Just go! Sacramento! I'm sick of going over this again and again and again, by Jingo!"
Jake's frigged up trigger finger fiddled some a small cake of brown wax from his right ear.
Marie was glad that she had decided to crack open one of the capsules her sister had given her this time before she had lied to her husband—she had noticed that the yellow powder seemed less bitter each time.
Again, the 4, clogged; this time, for no apparent reason—but again, it was hard for Marie to keep from grinding Jake's gears; Marie's limbs felt light like kites; she figured that it must due to the powder—she crossed herself—her bones felt hollow like bird bones; maybe she was actually becoming a bird—but she told herself that she wouldn't want to become a nasty old crow or a big ugly buzzard—she'd much rather become a cute little sparrow or a big beautiful swan. But then Marie worried that maybe a Spider Woman who hated her for no good reason would turn her into a flying bug.
Sometimes, in dreams, Marie flew—she still had a human body, but in her dreams, her heavy human body just lifted up off the ground; her human body, light like a feather—in her dreams, Marie wore a special silk sleeping gown not The Faith approved bleached white cotton or rough yellow wool and her special silk gown billowed around her human body like a reverse silk parachute—in her dreams, Marie couldn't believe that she always forgot how easy it was to fly; she could fly whenever she wanted to—easy as pie; she just had to find the silk gown in the back of her closet and slip it on over her naked body.
Marie wondered when she would actually learn how to make a proper pie.
She remembered that she had reheated up a store bought a few moons prior but she thought that maybe Jake would be happier with her if she learned how to make a real deal pie sometime from scratch.
But Marie knew that she didn't know how to make a good crust. But she might not have to—she'd seen the pre shaped crusts in the cold air cabinet at the Alpha Beta—she thought that maybe she should bake a home made pie not from scratch but the modern way with a pre shaped crust as a surprise for Jake's birth feast.
But Marie then wondered if she should bake a sweet pie or a savory pie. Marie gnawed on the knuckle of her ring finger and wiggled her steel (FeC3) wedding band with her tongue; it tasted like metal.
Marie knew that she wouldn't want to ask her husband straight out which kind of pie he would prefer —that would give her secret away. She thought that maybe she could just buy two pre shaped crusts and make two pies, one sweet and one savory. That way, her secret would stay safe and Jake wouldn't hit her for making the wrong choice.
Marie's toe absent mindedly lifted from the gasoline button—Jake's baby sat dead in the lane—she'd spaced out and forgot that she needed to keep feeding Jake's baby fuel; she lamented that gasoline was so different from coal—cars and trucks clustered behind her, hooting their horns; flashing their lamps—Marie saw a bare-chested man with a bushy mustache; he was behind the white leather tiller of a bright red convertible; he rudely flicked Marie off—she figured that he was probably a quirk from the City of Saint Francis but she didn't want to stereotype anybody.
She crossed herself and asked Jingo for forgiveness for being so stereotyping even to a probable quirk. It was funny but she noticed that her honey again had thickened. She hoped it would thin before her appointment. She didn't want the doctor to think she was a slut or some kind of whore.
Over a peck of shells late for her appointment—Marie didn't realize that she had been driving so slowly and the traffic on the 4 had gotten even worse—but everything turned out to be OK—the doctor was running late too; Marie thought that doctors always seemed to run late; everybody who was sick or who needed attention always seemed to have unforeseen complications or she figured, that maybe some of the people just wanted someone to talk to.
Some patients before her were tapping their crystals; Marie noticed that everybody was looking everywhere but at each other—Marie decided to flip through a woman's magazine—last moon's Needle and Thread—but it was hard for her to plough through to the end of any sentence—she figured that this must be due to the yellow powder that she had sniffed.
Jake would really be irked if he knew that she was here at the doctor's; and if he ever found out that she had lied to borrow his baby, she'd be in real trouble; trouble with a capital T; Marie remembered that her and her sister had gotten into "trouble with a capital T" whenever they had gotten too "spastic"—some of the queer words her dad sometimes had dropped; Marie had always thought that his queer words had sounded like how folks might have talked way back in the Oughts or the Teens.
Marie gave up trying to read—she just stared at the magazine's silver nitrate (AgNO3) plates—the plates, glossy and slick—some of the glossy, slick pages stuck together; Marie wet her fingers to pry them apart—she stared at beautiful cholitas who weren't smiling; plaid waist frocks, white cotton blouses and high walnut heels, polka dot headscarves spun from the finest spider silk—this season's beautiful look.
But no matter what the season's beautiful look was, Marie lamented that the cholitas in the magazines never seemed to look like her.
She thought that even if she were to be nice to the beautiful cholitas, they probably would never be nice back; they would never ever consent to be her pal, her best pal forever, her "BPF."
Marie guessed that the beautiful cholitas might even whisper among themselves about the size of Marie's bottom; she guessed that they'd whisper among themselves that she was ugly and fat; that they'd whisper among themselves about her dark flesh; they'd whisper that she was more than half Coy dog.
Marie figured that the beautiful cholitas would whisper among themselves about how one of Marie's shoulders still hiked higher than the other; Marie knew that this was because of her scoliosis but she knew that the Healer had cured that when he had laid his miracle metal hand upon her nape and had tuned in the transmissions of the Holy Ghost; the cholitas would be wrong to whisper about her uneven shoulders—but Marie knew that the cholitas in the magazines might pretend to be nice to her but Marie knew that their niceness would just be a lie—she knew that they'd, for sure, mock her thick ugly eyebrows.
Marie remembered that when she had been just over thirteen cycles old, her mom had grabbed the tweezers out of Marie's hand and then she had slapped Marie's cheek hard—Marie had plucked so many hairs from her eyebrows that her eyebrows had disappeared; Marie couldn't make her Milwaukee Brace go away but she, sure, had done a good job on her eyebrows.
Her mom had yelled that she was a stupid thick goose; her mom had said that if her eyebrows ever grew back, they'd be even thicker and uglier than before—Marie told herself that her mom had been dead right to slap her; dead right like a kite—Marie hated her eyebrows—they had grown back all right, thick and ugly like swamp weeds—but Marie didn't dare pluck them anymore.
Whenever Marie stared into a looking glass, she covered her eyebrows with her hands but when she moved her hands, her thick ugly earthworm eyebrows would come right back.
A nurse came for Marie; the nurse's eyes didn't meet Marie's—Marie figured that the nurse was too busy inking notes on her clipboard or, Marie figured, that maybe the nurse thought that Marie was too ugly and fat to look at—the nurse clicked the door of the small examining room shut, she ordered Marie to defrock; she thrust her a rough white paper smock—Marie had a hard time tying a knot in the back of the smock so she just wrapped the string around itself a few times but then, Marie fretted, that the smock might slip off and that then she'd be naked in front of the nurse.
"What about your headscarf?"
"I thought I could keep that on."
"You need to take everything off."
"Even my headscarf?"
"The doctor might want to examine your scalp."
"For what?"
"Cooties."
"I'm not here for cooties."
"There have been a lot of bugs of all kinds not just cooties around lately. Bugs can cause all kinds of problems, sometimes, even problems seemingly unrelated to a patient's stated complaints."
Marie unknotted her headscarf; her thick brown hair cascaded onto the brown flesh of her shoulders—Marie noticed that the nurse had big bony white hands—her big bony white hands squeezed a brown leather cuff around Marie's brown arm; Marie noticed that the leather was about the same shade as her too dark flesh—Marie's heart stomped like a spirited steed; blood flooded her temples. She thought that she might faint and flop onto the floor like a dead fish; she gripped the cold edge of the examining table with both hands to steady herself.
The nurse then ordered Marie to step on a scale; Marie winced as the needle swung to an embarrassing number. The nurse inked Marie's blood pressure and weight onto the clipboard. Marie thought the scratch of the nurse's quill sounded like cockroaches in walls.
Marie thought that maybe she should apologize to the nurse for being so heavy but Marie wasn't sure how to start so she didn't say anything. The nurse inked some more notes onto the clipboard—she ordered Marie onto the examining table—the cold steel (Fe3C) of the edge dug into Marie's dimpled fat thighs. Marie promised herself that she would go on a diet as soon as she got home. She vowed that she'd drink nothing but coffee and eat only beans.
"The doctor should be here in a few shells. Does he know why you're here?"
"I'm not sure."
"You're not sure he knows why you're here or you're not sure why you're here?"
"I'm not sure he knows why I'm here."
"Why are you here?"
"My…. flesh is dry and ...umm ...I want to know why I can't get pregnant."
"You should have mentioned the dry flesh to the receptionist when you phoned. You'll need a referral to a dermatologist for that."
"I didn't realize that."
"How long have you been banded?"
"Over a sun cycle."
"Congratulations. My first and only marriage lasted only six suns."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be. The seventh sun would have been worse than Hell's Caverns—my husband was a real pendejo even though I had the honor of being his First—all men are, pendejos, that is—testosterone and brains are like vinegar (ethanoic acid) and water. They just don't mix; with all due respect to your husband who I assume is a man."
"Of course, he's a man. What else would he be?"
"The doctor will be in soon."
The door to the small examining room slammed shut.
Marie doffed her glasses and rubbed her eyes—she lamented that doctors are never in soon—they are always so busy; not like herself—she lamented that, sometimes, she had nothing at all to do all sun and couldn't think of anything at all to do; she reminded herself that that was why she liked her crosswords so much—they kept her busy; better than watching the eye of the I; a lot less pain in her brain—the paper smock scratched Marie's flesh—she lamented that the scratchy white paper made her dark flesh look even darker. She lamented to herself:
"Why couldn't they pick some other color for smocks?"
Marie remembered the school nurse in her starched white cotton frock and stiff red cap who had diagnosed Marie's scoliosis when Marie had been almost eleven cycles old; that nurse had had big bony white hands too.
That nurse had ordered Marie to bend over—she had ordered Marie take off her white school blouse; all the girls at her school had worn white blouses; Marie had always hated how dark and impure her brown arms had looked against the white school blouse—Marie remembered that that was around the time that her dugs had begun to bloom.
Marie remembered that she had wanted to cover the ugly, even darker, circles of her pebbles with her hands but that she had been scared that the school nurse would yell at her—the nurse had laid her big bony white hands on Marie's bare brown back—Marie remembered that the nurse's fingers had felt hard like a crab's claws and they had felt cold like tins in a chiller.
The school nurse had reassured Marie that it was only a routine screening. But Marie had been the only one in her middle school sent to the doctor. He had told her that maybe she had once been infected with a mild case of polio or, he had said, that maybe her crooked spine was just "developmental. " He had said that despite what everyone thought, "scoliosis was a descriptive condition and not a disease."
But whatever the cause, after that, Marie had become the girl with the Milwaukee Brace.
This doctor was in a hurry; busy, busy—he ordered Marie to stick her feet into twin iron (Fe) stirrups that he swung up from under the examining table—he slid bright orange rubber gloves onto his hands; Marie wrinkled her nose—the bright orange gloves smelled like cornstarch—the doctor ordered Marie to lay back and then he ordered her to spread open her thighs—Marie squeezed her eyes tight; she clutched her glasses to her chest and tried to ignore the doctor's incessant poking and prodding.
She wondered when the doctor would examine her scalp; Marie prayed by Jingo that she didn't have cooties.
The first sun that she had worn her Milwaukee Brace to school, the other kids had whispered among themselves and, Marie remembered, they had pointedly avoided her locker.
Marie remembered that she had overheard a boy snicker that she had looked like a "scarecrow on a stick."
And Marie winced as she remembered that another boy had dared say to her face that she looked like a fudge sickle because of the brace and her dark flesh. Marie had wanted to cry but remembered that she hadn't wanted to cry in front of everyone at school. Then they would have called her a "bawl baby."
Marie had tried to ignore all the thick whispers and mean snickers but, after that awful sun, Marie remembered, she'd go straight home every sun after school. She'd pour herself a big glass of chocolate milk and then she'd often write poems or draw silly pictures in her diary. That had been long before her dad had bought their first I. She remembered that their first I had been a tiny oval about two fingers wide in a huge brown walnut cabinet that also had had an ordinary radio and cones.
Marie remembered that her mom would scold her and she often told Marie that if she drank too much chocolate milk, she would get fat.
Her mom, as always, had been dead as a kite right.
Marie knew that she had a weight problem but she also knew that she could never stick to her diets. She thought that it was a good thing that the springs in the doctor's scale hadn't snapped.
The doctor slid his fingers out from her well. Marie opened her eyes and donned her glasses; she had gripped them too hard, the frames sat cooked on her nose and her earpieces felt tight—they gripped her temples like forceps. She noticed that her glasses' lenses had also gotten smudged from her fingers; Marie went to wipe the lenses with the sleeve of her white paper smock but then she remembered that the optician had ordered her to never wipe glasses' lenses with paper—the tiny fibers in paper would leave tiny invisible scratches; the optician had ordered her to always use cloth; cloth had longer and more orderly fibers because the fibers in cloth were carefully woven and not randomly pressed.
The doctor wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips; Marie thought that it looked like he was sucking on something sour like a lemon ball extra—Marie wondered if maybe she should have sprinkled more talcum power (H2Mg3 (SiO3) H) into her bikini bottom—she told herself that she should have made especially sure that she smelled good down there—maybe her well hadn't smelled good to the doctor, maybe it had smelled like spoiled chicken and mothballs, maybe that was why the doctor looked like he was sucking on a lemon ball extra.
The modern medicine man removed his bright orange rubber gloves; puffs of cornstarch swirled and then settled—he casually tossed the gloves into a big black bin—Marie saw that a bright yellow warning triangle was stamped on the outside; the same bright yellow as a lemon ball extra; inside the triangle, she saw a line drawing of a hypodermic—she watched as the doctor inked some notes on the clipboard.
"Everything looks fine, Maria. There's nothing wrong that's keeping you from conceiving. And on your way out, ask the receptionist for a referral for your dry flesh. The co pay is fifty dollars and he only takes steel but the dermatologist we use is one of the best. He trained in Greater Texas—a lot of flesh conditions down there because of the heat and from all the chemicals still lingering around from the Big War. Luckily, modern science has come up with all kinds of miracle creams and ointments. I notice your flesh is dark. Lucky for you that you don't need a prescription for a lot of the better flesh whiteners anymore and most of them have gotten rid of the arsenic (As). On the QT, I hear even the Blonde Madonna uses one."
"My name is Marie."
"That's right—my bad—Marie."
Marie watched as the doctor yawned his maw wide; she noticed twin rows of gold (Au) teeth; she watched as he tapped a machine cut out from his pack; she watched as his thumb flicked the serrated metal wheel of a lighter; the lighter's bright flame made her eyes water—her nose wrinkled as she smelled that the machine cut was a menthol extra—Marie's eyes watered even more; she told herself that the water was from the chill and refreshing menthol smoke of the modern medicine man's cigarette and not because he had upset her.
She told herself that the water in her eyes was definitely not because she was crying.
"But as with any equation, by definition, there are two sides… Marie, for me to completely analyze the cause of you and your husband's infertility, I will, of course, need to examine the other side. I will need to examine him."
Marie felt like vomiting; her gut churned like a roofer's boiling tar pot. She told herself that she might as well have been kicked in the ovaries. She told herself that she shouldn't have corrected the doctor; if he had wanted to call her "Maria;" she should have let him—after all, it was almost her name—what did one letter matter in the long run?
She figured that the doctor must be irked at her for being such a nitpicker. She knew that Jake would never agree to come in to be examined—Jake didn't like to talk about not having kids; Marie knew that his family kept bugging him about babies; it wasn't like he was any less of a man but, she knew, that her husband took it personally.
And she also well knew that Jake didn't like doctors; he said that they were nothing but glorified mechanics with a bunch of fancy letters after their names—and Marie worried that her husband would also find out that she had lied about why she had needed to borrow his baby.
"What about cooties?"
"Did the nurse say something to you about that?"
"Yes. She made me take off my headscarf."
"I'll speak to her about that."
Jake had never slapped Marie that hard before; Marie knew that he'd been overly indulgent with her that way—she watched as her glasses skidded to a stop on the linoleum and then she probed her nose to make sure that it wasn't bleeding too bad.
He punched the kitchen wall a few times after that. Jake even thought for a shell that he might have broken a knuckle but then he figured out that he'd just bruised it quite badly; and he cussed to himself that it was his frigging First's fault.
But eventually, Jake apologized to Marie for slapping her so hard but it was still hard for Marie to stop crying. This time, she knew that the wetness in her eyes was definitely because she was crying.
She almost stepped on her glasses as she hauled herself back up to her feet.
After a sun or so, Jake agreed to go see the doctor. Marie never knew why. She figured that maybe Jake felt sorry for her.
"The good news is that both you and Maria are healthy. The bad news is for you, in particular, especially, if you and Maria wish to conceive a child by natural means is that, for whatever reason, your sperm count is unusually low. I don't see any acute cause so there's no need to worry about the vitality of your manly organs but it does make you and Maria's chances of conceiving without medical interventions highly unlikely. And, of course, even if it were still legal, banding another wife wouldn't resolve your condition."
"Her name's Marie."
"That's right. My bad."
The doctor went over some scenarios; he went over some medical interventions. When the doctor told them how much the interventions cost, both Jake and Marie knew that they couldn't afford them.
Jake couldn't find ten dollars steel for the co pay in his wallet, not even a bakelite chit—the receptionist told him that it was OK—that she would send him a bill in the pouch.
Jake's eggs ached like sin; the tiny hypodermic with which the doctor had extracted his rain had scared the chit out of him—he cussed to himself—it was all his lying First's fault.
Marie and Jake didn't speak on the ride home—Marie instinctively scooted to the far side of the truck's bench seat; she sensed that Jake didn't want to be anywhere near her and her lies; that her very presence bugged the chit out of him—she winced as the crank of the side window dug into the flesh of her fat hip.
She noticed that a steel (FeC3) Cross on a steel (FeC3) chain dangled from the rear view—she figured that Jake must have wound it there recently—Marie hadn't thought that her beloved cared about such things; he claimed in private that he was an atheist; he claimed far from the observing eyes and the mechanized listening ears of the Inquiry that God was no more than a pigment on a primitive palette fit more for Coy dogs than men with more than beans for brains—Marie figured that maybe Jake's mom or his sister had given the Cross to him as an early birth feast present and that her husband had felt obligated to display this symbol of Jingo out of respect for his family.
The stylized steel Prophet tapped against the inside of the windscreen whenever the truck hit a crack in the road's asphalt—Marie noticed that a light rain was now tapping against the outside of the windscreen.
Even though the Cross and the rain were on opposite sides of the double strong glass, it was hard for Marie to tell the two tapping sounds apart. She wondered why her sister hadn't referred her to a modern medicine man closer to downtown Sacramento instead of a doctor way out towards the Delta.
Marie guessed that maybe the doctor didn't yield all of his aborted fetuses to the Requisition's harvest; she figured that maybe that was why his office was so far from downtown—Marie had heard of such doctors—she'd heard that some of these modern medicine men were even secret agents of the Destroying Angel.
Marie noticed a fire smoldering in a farmer's field—the fire's fuel, cabbage stubble and garbage—also, a stack of old tires burning—a small plume of black smoke; she watched as a sudden gust of wind cranked the plume into an oily black tornado—Marie started to crank open the side window—Jake ordered her not to; she saw that her beloved's lips were two tight, white lines and that his brow was furrowed like a wind ravaged pond. Her beloved's pupils were tiny and tight like twin steel (FeC3) pins.
"That'll only make the stink worse, bitch."
Marie was petrified to say anything; she was petrified to let out even the tiniest of peeps—she didn't want to disturb Jake's concentration.
Marie spotted a Cross that someone had shoved into the gravel of the 4's breakdown lane—the Cross, plain wood—Marie saw that clumps of flowers and pieces of fruit littered its base.
She figured that there must have been a bad accident there where the Cross was shoved where somebody had died —she knew that some of The Faith believed that such a Cross will help a loved one's ghost find its way home.