The Egg Code (3 page)

II

Dipshit, U.S.A.

Old Man, Alone

1998

Grass on my shoes, wet grass. The steep slope, from the house to the lake. Could Mother have lived here? Nope, I would’ve had to do everything. Julian, fetch the groceries. Oh, yes, ma’am! Just sit right down, there you go...

It’s a nice view, though. Water looks cold. You buying a new house, that’s half your investment. Girl’s trying to tell me,
You need to refinance
. I said,
I don’t need to refinance—if you can get me zero-point-nine percent, I don’t need to refinance nothing
. No sir. I got
plenny
of money. I take better care of my money than most people do . . .

Leaves are coming down early this year. I can see my house from here. The lake, the moving van, the ramp sticking out of the back, big words, bold and blocky: CRANE CITY MOVERS. Looks like a popcorn bag—remember those?—with the blue and red pinstripes, and the words HOT POPCORN always written in one square serif or another. It’s a childhood thing. Summer carnivals. Of course, there were no carnivals back in 1944. I remember those days. DuMochelle Mason fights the Japs while his wife builds the bombs. That was my childhood, right there . . .

These little kids don’t know. They’ve got no reason to worry. But when you’re living in the city, then you’re dealing with a whole ’nother situation.
That’s
when you get it . . .

I don’t even know if these people have a police department. In the wintertime, I’ll probably have to stay inside. Teach myself to chop wood. What’s the trick? I guess you just have to make sure you don’t swing too far. Cut right through your leg. That would hurt more than a shot to the stomach. No thank you. There are other ways for a man to die at my age . . .

Whoo, wow! I need to get me some of that cream . . .

Activity, that’s what I need. Get to work by seven in the morning. This sleepy street could put me into a coma. The hardware store, bags of fertilizer in the window.
Feed in back
. I’m not familiar with that design. Almost looks like a modified Caslon. Obviously done by an amateur. Americans love that stuff. And this banner—another American institution. SEPTEMBER DAYS—ALL LOCAL VENDORS WELCOME! It’s a little tacky for my taste. Red’s a good color, though. Not particularly seasonal, but it keeps the place in mind. You want a nice, simple presentation. Nuttin’ too flashy . . .

Sun’s comin’ out. What time is it, anyway? I got a craving, boy. Somethin’ salty . . .

Streets are quiet. Must be a school day. Maybe I’ll come back on the weekend. I’ll do some free sketches, drawings of the children. Having kids around always puts everybody in a good mood. I guess they must bring ’em up from the city. Youngsters on the bus, twenty miles to class each morning. I remember Boston, back in the fifties. Those schools didn’t look much different than this one here. Same style of architecture. Incised Romans. The ogee line curving along the base of the L. Thick windows, cast-iron moldings. Classrooms dark and dreary. Heads down, hands on the table. Bored out of their minds. That one’s not even paying attention. Eyes outside. Never seen a nigger before . . .

Our Fine Community

Simon Tree-Mould sat by the classroom window, holding a beautiful pose. His black hair capped his head with its hard, snap-on shape. He was eleven years old, a few months younger than his classmates. Important months. Phallus rising! In those days of accelerated development, the boys’ shower room was a panicky place. The first time he saw another boy’s dick, he almost cried. Black stuff. Disease. A punishment for something.

Yawning, he stared across the classroom, ignoring his test. Mrs. Oates kept her back to the students as she spoke to an elderly janitor. Past the window, an American flag tossed in the wind.

The janitor looked at the flag, then at the teacher. He tried to smile. “Mrs. Oates, I don’t know if I can just take it down. Isn’t there some sort of federal law that says—”

“Do we have to argue about this in front of the children?”

Mrs. Oates was not a woman who liked to complain, so when she addressed the janitor, she did so in a whisper, angling her body so the poor man couldn’t squeeze past the door.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to argue. I’m just telling you that there may be certain things that I can’t—”

“This is an important day for this class, and for me, and for the children. We’ve been doing tests all morning, and have three more to administer this afternoon. Everyone is tired. Now, this is not fair to the students. If the school system cannot provide us with a soundproof testing facility, then we’re just going to have to come up with a suitable compromise.”

Outside, the flag snapped; a heavy rope banged against the steel pole. The janitor rubbed his face; his tongue moved in and out of his cheek. He was a stocky guy with suntanned skin and a perpetual squint. An oily hank of hair stuck out horizontally from the side of his head. “The noise didn’t bother you this morning?”

“I told you, the wind picked up just now, just fifteen minutes ago, right before I called you, and that is why we’re having this discussion.”

The janitor chewed on his lip. “Well, all right, I guess I’ll take it down. But it seems like there ought to be a federal law against it or something.”

The old man left, mumbling. Hoping to restore order, Mrs. Oates closed the door, wincing as the knob mechanism clicked into place. Turning to face the class, she pressed a finger to her lips, requesting silence. “Simon?”

“Mmm-hmm, yes?”

“Why are you looking at me? Why are your eyes not on your paper?”

“Can’t concentrate.”

“You can’t concentrate, what’s the matter?”

“The noise, the flag outside. The janitor, when he came in. And then the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“The singing.”

“Singing?”

“Someone’s singing.”

“Singing? Where?” Mrs. Oates stared at the public address system. “I don’t hear anything. This is a perfectly quiet room. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to continue with the examination.”

“You can just barely hear it.”

It was a lame stall, but Simon didn’t care. These new assessment tests were a drag. Ultimately, he preferred the easy exams, where they’d show you a drawing of a big egg inside a box and you had to figure out how much space was left over, you know, like around the edges and stuff, and they gave you a bunch of numbers like, oh, 6, 8, 9, 22 and 213, and right away you know that it’s not 213 because that’s just silly, and it’s not going to be 6 either because that’s the smallest one, and it’s also probably not 8 or 9 because how could it not be 8 and yet still be 9, or vice versa, so that just leaves 22, and even if that turns out to be wrong, well, you tried. Bonus points!

“This singing, is it coming from inside the building?”

“I don’t know. It’s okay. I’ll try to ignore it.”

These new exams, however, were a problem. Too many open-ended questions. It wasn’t fair that there didn’t seem to be one right way to respond to anything. Some of the questions were so long, you’d get to the end and wonder what the hell you were supposed to do next. I mean . . .
You are a slave owner in Georgia in 1861. You receive a letter
from your brother (sister) who is currently in Boston attending law school.
He (she) informs you of his (her) decision to fight for the Union army.
Based on what you know about the time period . . .
Fuck that! Bring back the egg!

“Hey, man.” The girl sitting in front of Simon turned around in her chair. “Miz Oates wants to see you.”

“Wha?”

“You high or something? Two times already she called.”

Mrs. Oates and the school nurse were standing by the doorway. The other woman didn’t look much like a nurse, even though she wore a paper hat which she kept in place with four hairpins situated around her head like the points of a compass. As she lingered in the doorway, one of the pins caught the light and winked at Simon. A copper flash.

“Simon, please go with Nurse Wheatt.”

“Come with me, please, Simon.”

Nurse Wheatt held her hands behind her back as she spoke— another bad habit. The exaggerated concern, the broad body language, the facial expressions learned from a pop psychology paperback and practiced with calisthenic discipline every night on the toilet—all of this would have appealed to a second-grader with a splinter in his thumb. Simon once had a dream where he peed in Nurse Wheatt’s mouth and she didn’t like it.

“Where are we going?” he asked, rising in his seat.

“Your mother’s come for you.”

The nurse, when she talked to Simon, liked to lean over slightly and wedge both of her hands between her thighs, palms out. This was strange, since she wasn’t much taller than the boy. The leaning over, Simon thought, this must mean that I’m a kid and you’re not. You’re a sensitive adult who cares about my thoughts and feelings, I guess, or whatever.

“Mrs. Oates, can’t I stay and finish the test?”

“I’m afraid not, Simon. Your mother needs you now.”

“Well, okay.”

Simon turned his paper over and followed the nurse out of the room. Over her shoulder, he could see EAT FUCK NANCY WATKINS scrawled across a series of lockers, one letter for every door; at the far end, a custodian with a red beard was busy blacking out the words with a marker.

“I’m taking you to the health clinic right now, Simon.” Stopping quickly, Nurse Wheatt’s shoes squeaked against the floor, producing two swishy streaks like the logo for a corporation of some kind. Sinking to a crouch, she wrapped her arms around her legs. This whole I’m-taller-than-you thing has got to go, he thought. “You just have to be brave. Everything is going to be all right.”

The health clinic was a poorly lit room located between the girls’ lavatory and a loading dock. The room smelled vaguely of Band-Aids. A glum boy sat on one of the beds, his arms folded in his lap and his saddle shoes swinging high above a nylon backpack. Lydia Tree watched the boy from across the room. Following the nurse into the clinic, Simon could hear the end of a muttered conversation between his mother and the unhappy patient.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t feel good.”

“Your mommy’s coming to get you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can’t you wait until the end of the day?”

“Got sick twice.”

“Oh, why don’t you just grow up.”

Lydia Tree was a tall woman, thirty-nine years old. She didn’t feel particularly old—didn’t look it, either, and watch your mouth. Oh, there were a few concessions she’d had to make as of late. The dresses had gotten longer over time, the shoes less daring, the undergarments more functional. But overall, she liked what she saw. Years ago, she’d always worn her hair long. A versatile look. She could keep it straight for around the house or curl it for a formal occasion, not that Steve ever took her anyplace fancy. This phase lasted for many years, until one day she decided to try something daring.
Bernard, I feel naughty today, take
off eight inches.
Problem was, when it finally grew back, she found that it looked different. Not bad, just different. Bernard suggested a perm, maybe some copper highlights. Lydia thought it made her look like a giant cauliflower, but her friends didn’t seem to mind, and as the months passed, she began to notice similar vegetables clinging to the heads of her contemporaries. And that’s when it hit her: This is what women my age are
supposed
to look like. This is thirty-nine! Even her mother, at age seventy-two—whenever the fuck she died—even Kay Tree, who was not a beautiful woman, had always managed to stand out at Republican Party mixers. And the worst thing about it, Lydia realized, was that she’d done it to herself. A kind of death, this was. Death by hair. This growing-older business would have to be watched
very carefully
.

“Oh, my baby.” Seeing her son enter the room, Lydia jumped up from her seat and took hold of his hands. The cigarette hidden in her palm was damp with sweat, bent out of shape.

“Ms. Tree, would you like me to inform the principal?”

“No, that’s not necessary. Not until we know all of the details. It still may turn out to be nothing. Oh, God, I hope it’s so.”

Simon looked over his shoulder and smirked at the sick boy. He knew that his secret was safe with Antonio Fava. Antonio’s own tactics for getting out of class were revolting and crude. Oatmeal in the toilets—a striking resemblance! The acrid smell of fresh vomit meant freedom, a day away from the books, the scritch of the chalkboard, the female instructors who seemed like a cross between his mother, a television news anchor and a phantom in a mystifying dream. With all this hanging over his head, Antonio would never reveal Simon’s little ruse.

“Mother, where are we going?”

“Simon, your father’s not feeling well. He’s resting now, in a place where people will be able to take very good care of him. He wanted me to send for you. He said he wanted to see you before . . . oh, before . . .”

Nurse Wheatt handed her a Kleenex, which Lydia used to dispose of her gum.

“Ms. Tree, you must be strong for your son.”

“You’ve been so good to us, Nurse Wheatt. My husband and I will remember you at Christmastime.”

Lydia and Simon said their goodbyes, then marched out into the hallway. Simon walked in front while his mother stayed close behind, her right hand smoothing a lock of his hair. Without speaking, they went outside and crossed the parking lot. There was a gym class on the field, playing a violent game. Like prisoners, the kids stared through the high wire fence as Simon and his mother drove away. Simon liked it when the other kids watched him. It made him feel warm under his clothes. Gazing at his classmates, he pressed one hand against the rolled-up window. “Do I have to be off book?” he asked. The passenger seat was too big for him—too deep and too cushy.

“You’ll do whatever they tell you.” Lydia clutched the automatic transmission, working it like a stick shift. “You know how these things go. Now what’s this old fool doing in my way?”

Julian Mason stepped onto the lawn, watching as Lydia sped around a curve. His heart seemed to rock back and forth, favoring the right side, a double pulse. He returned to the sidewalk and continued past the school, the car now only a screech in the distance. Closing his eyes, he remembered the driver’s face in the windshield. Her judgment of him. He tried to laugh, resolving not to take it personally. From now on, he wouldn’t take anything personally. He was tired of carrying his race on his shoulders. His clothes reflected this desire to blend in, to assimilate at all costs. Jeans and a T-shirt. The words QUALITY, INTEGRITY circled the rim of the button fly in a kind of unshadowed Gold Rush font. Julian knew the hidden language of print. Walking the streets of this, his new home, he made himself available to the information. Every sentence, every phrase bannered across an awning transmitted two signals at once—the literal meaning and the visual sense it conveyed. A black-letter Fraktur swinging above the entrance to Simster’s Biergarten expressed not only the building’s identity, but also the old German Reich, the Gothic type now reduced to the status of novelty, rendered harmless by the easy icons of the global theme park. Passing the bar, he smiled up at the sign, ignoring the woman in the entryway. A nice design. Black paint, varnished wood. Touch of the artisan. He liked this place. Now two blocks east of the school, he wondered at the town’s size. Mass communications, common in the city, seemed out of place this far off, where telephone lines and fiber optics crossed the main part of town, then vanished into the forest. The main road curved down a slight hill, and at the base of it he could see a row of detached apartments and walk-ups. A parked van sat with blinkers flashing in the street as a man made trips in and out of the building, his arms brimming with loose piles of clothes. A divorce, Julian guessed. Even the words on the side of the van underscored this impression of hasty flight: GET OUT OF DODGE TRANSPORTATION FACILITIES written in slanted block sans serifs with tiny scores of motion streaming past each word.
Pack up your things and run
, the letters said.
Leave nothing behind.

“Hey, you got the same idea as me.”

“What’s that?”

“New to town.” Julian stood on the curb and slid his hands into his pockets. A dingy convertible, moving slowly, passed between the two men. A woman in the passenger seat made a face as he called across the roof of the car. “Just moved up from the city.”

The car stopped, then turned at the corner. Heaving a pile of books, the man met Julian in the center of the road. “I’m not new to town. My wife and I, we’ve been here for quite some time.”

“Oh, well, all right then.”

“Yes, I’m a native of this place. Not exactly, of course.
Native
implies that I’ve been here my entire life, and that’s not true.”

“Oh, okay.”

“My wife and I used to live right by the lake. The lake, if you’ve seen it, it’s just up the road.”

“Oh, well, then you got it going on.”

The man lifted the stack of books and braced it with his chin. “My wife still lives in the same house. I—as you can see—I’m a bit at loose ends.”

“Oh yeah, I know how that is.”

Clouds covered the sun, casting a shadow over the man’s face. He was tall, in his early fifties, and you could see the shape of his skull through his tight, thin skin. Wheat-brown hair had receded to the back of his head, and a stiff mustache made a broom across his upper lip. His teeth were yellow and crooked, and his blue eyes gleamed with an unnatural radiance. The overall impression was that of a normally reasonable man struggling to conceal the effects of a bad drug.