The Egg Code (37 page)

“That’s none of your business.”

Steve stood in inept silence for a moment, then slid a chair out from under the dining table. “Well, this is a good time to start using it.”

“That’s not what my savings is for, Steve. My savings is
my
money which
my
mother gave to
me
.”

“As—I thought!—a wedding present.”

“No, that’s selective memory on your part. The wedding present was a ceramic mixing bowl which we don’t even have anymore because you broke it in the microwave.”

“
That
was the wedding present?”

“Yes, Steve, it was.”

“That was not the wedding present. That was
part
of the wedding present. She gave us the bowl because she needed something to wrap up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t wrap up a check. That’s why the bowl. So we could have something to open. She meant it as a
joke
.”

“That bowl cost over nine hundred dollars.”

“I stand cor—”

“Don’t you even remember what it looked like?”

“I have a vague recollection of there being a bowl.”

“It was signed by the potist.”

“The potist?”

“It was made by a very famous potist. Who’s dead now.”

“Lydia, listen. I sincerely doubt that Kay meant—”

“You don’t know anything about my mother! You’re being very presumptuous and offensive right now, Steve. My family’s estate is not your gold mine.”

“And I never said it was! My God, Lydia. You have absolutely no respect for me, do you?”

Lydia smiled and stood up, heading for the kitchen. “This is where it gets to be my fault.”

“No, wait, listen to me—Lydia?” He rose and followed her into the other room. “Look, I’m gonna get another job. That’s not an issue. I’ve got a lot of connections in the sales industry.”

“You and the rest of the bag boys.”

“The rest of the bag boys?”

“Yeah. The Kmart bag boys. You and the rest of the Kmart bag boys.”

“Okay, I don’t even remotely understand that, but fine.”

“You’re a joke, Steve. That job of yours. A joke.”

He took one step closer to his wife. Under the fluorescent lights, he looked blue and menacing. “I was district manager for the entire northern half of the state. That’s no joke, Lydia. That’s serious business. And I would’ve been zone veep by the end of the year if it wasn’t for this Simon thing.”

“What does Simon—”

“You know what I’m talking about. The ad campaign. Remember? That was
your
idea. Begged me to do it, and I did it because I wanted you to be happy. Then it turns out Simon’s running around on the Internet with a bunch of freaky terrorists, people are asking me questions like what do I know about the Egg Code, and I’m about ready to lose my mind.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have listened to me, then.”

“Ha! Isn’t that the way?”

Steve laughed and Lydia’s eyes narrowed. She tilted her head and looked at him sideways. “The way of what?”

“That’s a woman talking right there.”

“Yes, it is.”

Pleading now, he moved toward the sink. “Six months, hon. After six months of looking, I’ll have an
even better
job.”

“Doing what? Earning what?”

“In sales! That’s what I do!”

“You want to sell cars, Steve?”

“No, I don’t want to sell cars—that’s not the point.”

“I can get you a job. Selling cars.”

“I can get my own job. I am a store manager. And I’m a darn good one too, and if it wasn’t for all this political nonsense going on downtown, I would’ve had Jim Carroll’s job like
that!
”

“But that’s not what happened, Steve. What happened was, you lost your job, you got your free lunch, your free pat on the back, and now here we are.”

Steve hefted his pants, raising them up an inch and then down again. “I know that, honey. What I’m saying is, I can get a better job someplace else. Forget Jim Carroll! All those dinners with that thankless jerk.
Oh
ho, Jim, you’re really funny.
Drinking my liquor until two a.m. Give me a break. Forget Cam Pee! I can take this and make something happen.”

“No you can’t, Steve. I have zero faith in you.”

He gathered himself. “Look, Lydia. People have been watching me.”

“Ah-ha! I see.”

“Oh, yes. People have been watching me. You ever hear of Bargain Binz U.S.A.?”

“No, Steve, I haven’t.”

“Bargain Binz . . . it’s only the biggest . . .
place
they got out at . . . wherever that mall is. The one downtown. It’s right there on the sign. You can see it from the freeway. They just opened three branches on the east side. One in Hedgemont, one in—”

“I don’t
care
where they are, Steve.”

“And the other two, I don’t know exactly where they are. Anyway, that guy, hon, the head of all Bargain Binz U.S.A., calls me up must be
once a week
. Be my district manager. Run my sooper stores. I’m on register, this guy’s talking numbers!”

“I’m tired of this, Steve. The mediocrity.” She pushed him aside, then crossed and spoke to the window. “I want you to not be a part of my life anymore. I’m willing to be civil. I’m willing to work something out with Simon. I know that you love your son. I’m not going to get in the way of that. But I don’t ever want to see you again.”

He closed his eyes, rotating his neck in a slow, painful circle. “Wait, now. Okay. That can’t happen.”

“It can happen, Steve. It just happened. I am not going to support you for one more day.”

“Support me? I’m supporting you!”

“In every meaningful way, I have supported you. How many managers of Living Arrangements U.S.A. can—”

“It’s just Living Arrangements.”

“How many managers can afford to live in Big Dipper Township, in a house like this? None, Steve. If it was just you, we’d be living in a little shack in Skylor, no yard, no place for Simon to go to school.”

“But I
worked
. I worked hard, so you could stay at home and screw around with our son.
That’s
why I worked.”

“No, the reason why you worked, Steve, was so you could feel in control. The big breadwinner!”

“Okay, so now
I’ll
stay home.”

“Not here you won’t. I’ll let you come back in the morning for your clothes. The rest is mine.”

“But I haven’t even had my dinner yet!”

“You said you weren’t hungry.”

“I’m not, but—”

“Then go.”

“I want to stay.”

“I don’t care.”

Shaking his head, Steve walked toward his wife, but she kept him back, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Look, Lydia. It’s cold outside, I’m tired, I’ve been driving for an hour. I’ll nod off at the wheel!”

“You’re not going to nod off at the wheel.”

“One night, and we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Let me just take a nap. For a couple hours. Really, Lydia, I’m not faking. I’m exhausted. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“You’re not putting your feet on that sofa.”

Squeezing past the door, Steve ran toward the staircase and grabbed on to the banister. “Well, then, I’m gonna say goodbye to Simon. He needs to hear this from a man.”

Lydia followed—fast steps in the hallway. “Simon is sick. He’s sleeping.”

“He wasn’t sick this morning.”

“He’s sick, you idiot! Why won’t you listen? You stupid, stupid—”

“All right, don’t yell.”

“Get out of this house!”

“Don’t push at me.”

Lydia punched at his chest with both hands, pushing him toward the front door. “Look at you, pathetic shit. Someone should break your skull with a hammer.”

“Let go of my shirt.”

“You fuck.”

“I’ll hit you, and then it’s gonna hurt.”

“Get out!”

Dragging Lydia across the foyer, Steve used the rest of his energy to pry himself loose, grinding his elbow into her palm until she finally let go. “All right, bye! I’m driving
far
away!”

He strained and reached for the door. Lydia pushed again; the door gave and he stumbled onto the porch step. Shivering, he held up both hands, a conciliatory gesture, but the door was already closing and Lydia was now just a pair of angry clenched jaws snarling between a six-inch gap of light.

“Stop. Staaaahp.”

“Shuuhhtt—”

“I wanna get my nice shoes.”

“Oh DIE!”

The light in the foyer cut off with a snap. Steve leaned against the window and looked inside, but could see no movement, no sign of Lydia. Giving up, he turned and walked back to his car. Just past the yard, the frozen lake reached out to him like a white spill about to dribble over the side of a table. Realizing his new situation, he climbed into his car and started the engine, then pulled onto the main road. He drove slowly, for the road was icy and the curves were sharp. He’d come this way thousands of times before; the long commute sometimes rankled, but overall he’d loved living in Big Dipper Township. And now it was gone. Please note the changes in your course calendar. To see his own child—this was a privilege. Something given and later taken away. New rules, weekly visits. Everything subject to litigation. Have him back by six. The Friday-night anticipation. Trying not to drink, not to stay up too late. Must get up early, must leave enough time to shave in the morning. Make the ol’ man look presentable. For Dad now leads a strange existence. Cold motels, rented by the week. Bad, cheap food. Grilled sandwiches. Lukewarm flirtations with the waitress down the road.
So, you a
dee-vor-say?
Ordering dinner by the number. The four. The number eight.
Gimme the seventeen, no onions.
Wearing sunglasses while eating dinner in a narrow cafeteria. The old lady in the opposite booth. A quad cane. Brown stockings rolled down to the ankles. The glass of bubbled plastic. Red tint. The faint taste of detergent. Slinking off into the night. The gum machines in the foyer. All proceeds donated to the Kiwanis Club of Crane City. The stacks of free literature. Apartments. Property in Florida. Jacking off to the realtor’s head shot. Getting it all over her fancy blazer. The awful room. The kitchenette. The clean ashtrays. The place in the mattress where it always dips. The pay-per-view flicks. $6.46 an hour. Soft-core pornography.
Hot Satin Nites.
Our featured selection—a Mel Gibson movie! The same clip of Mel Gibson running away from an oncoming torrent of fire shown over and over and over again. “Get down!” he’s shouting.
“Get down!”

Olden watched from the side of the road as Steve’s car slowed around a curve and passed out of view. He’d been waiting outside for several hours, and now it was night and soon he would have to go home. The men from the Gloria Corporation were still here; he could hear their feet scurrying through the underbrush. Near. Not so near. He walked deeper into the woods, trying not to lose sight of the road, for that would mean staying out here until dawn. He could do that. After four years in the country, he was used to roughing it a little. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway, not until he knew what had happened to Mr. Tall and Mr. Short. There was a whole team of them lurking about, not just a few individuals. The entire organization had been dispatched to this place, making its nest amid the fruitcakes of Big Dipper Township. But why here? Why not New York City?

Reaching a break in the trees, he stared into a long column of mist. A man was standing at the far end of the column, his arms hanging at his sides, gunfighter-style. With a deft motion, Olden skipped back into the woods. He didn’t hurry ahead, simply walked to where the man had been standing and looked in all directions. A small clearing opened off to the right, where he saw a gigantic tree, its roots feeding into a platch of frozen floodwater. Coming closer, he noticed that the bark was unusually smooth, like parchment. Reaching along the base, he felt a strange protuberance, about the size of his fist. At first he thought it was an old knot where a branch had snapped off some years ago. But no, it was too smooth, too properly manufactured.
Manufactured
, that was it. It was a doorknob—locked, no less. Taking a step back, he looked up to survey the full extent of the tree. High above, the moon glowed through snags of complicated bramble. Four thick trunks angled toward the same fat ball of roots. Each limb grew away from the center—a wooden cage, forty feet tall and nearly half as wide. Its overall shape recalled that of an onion, and indeed it seemed like something that belonged underground rather than out in the open.

My God, Olden said to himself. He thought about his father. He thought about Bartholomew Hasse. He thought about his small, orchestrated life.

Hoisting himself, he placed his foot on a low branch and began to climb, using his hands only to keep his balance. Near the top, the four main trunks were no longer discernible in the mass of intersecting twigs. Above a ceiling of evergreens, the air became cooler as the breeze skimmed across an unbroken expanse. All around, the tops of the pines twisted in the wind, little mad arrowheads of fuzzy green. The landscape cleared around the lake, frozen to a pale crisp. He spotted his own shack, Julian’s house, a cluster of summer cottages near the water. Straight ahead—as if connected to the tree by an imaginary line—the tower stood, apparently larger from this perspective. The line streamed, passing through Olden’s house at the midpoint. Even here, the equation made sense. A straight line between two points—well, that’s simple. But between
three
points? This required effort, a conscious decision. A plan.

XXI

Suckass

My Darling Boy, Who’s Going
to Be a Dentist

1966

He acts like he hates it, but look at him! Look!” Doreen Mould means well. She sits on a high stool behind the register at the Warm Devotions Christian Book Store every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, volunteering her time. A breezeway lined with potted plants connects the bookstore to the Unity International Non-Denominational Church and Community Meeting House, Shepherd Dane T. Foote presiding. Non-denominational, meaning non-denominational Christian. Meaning no Jews, no Hindus, no Buddhists and certainly no Muslims. It’s not that we wish them harm; it’s just that we don’t approve of their beliefs and practices. Muslims are the worst.

“Steven can be hyperactive sometimes. Like when I took him to the doctor last month. I went with him into the examination room, because you never know about those people. They go off to medical school and they get all sorts of crazy ideas in their heads. So I’m standing there, holding my purse, and the doctor tells Steven to disrobe. ‘Steven,’ I whisper, just trying to be helpful, ‘the doctor is asking you to take off your clothes, so you’d better strip and pronto! Don’t worry, Mother will be right here.’ Poor Steven! His face goes beet red and he starts to cry, and I say, ‘My goodness, Steven, what’s wrong?’ and he says, ‘I don’t want him looking at my ding-dong!’ Precious. ‘Steven,’ I say, ‘I’ve seen your dingdong and it’s such a pretty little thing and you’ve got absolutely nothing to be ashamed of,’ but I can tell that we’re getting nowhere, so I reach over and I tug on his pants and—wouldn’t you know?—he’d worked himself up into such a fury that he’d given himself a . . . well, you know. The darnedest thing. The doctor said he’d never seen a boy his age do something like that. Said most boys are ten years old before they can . . . well, you know.”

The ladies laugh and clap as Steve sits on his own little chair and goes blink-blink. He stays quiet most of the time, unless his mother asks him to sing “A Mighty Fortress” or “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe” or “Hound Dog,” and then he rises from his chair and stares down the neck of his shirt, drooling the words “You unt nun buh how daw, crin awl time” until she says, “Oh, Steven, you’re making yucky-ucky,” and wipes his mouth with a Kleenex. Again, the ladies laugh and clap. Their husbands are salesmen and police officers and factory foremen. It is 1966. The era of the housewife is drawing to a close, but these ladies don’t know that yet. They have heard rumors of misguided young women roaming the commons at Midwestern University, handing out leaflets and chanting strange slogans, but thus far no such dissent has made its way into the suburbs. Doreen Mould, like many of her contemporaries, has no use for equal rights. Even this job is little more than a hobby, an amusement, a way to serve the Lord and to get away from the television. Doreen has no desire to challenge her husband. Warren “Barndoor” Mould is a mean man who loves his family and would do anything to protect his wife and son. He once strangled a drifter with a curtain cord because he caught him trespassing in the backyard. A nigger. The police said, We’ll let this one go, Barn.

“I know what you mean, Greta. Steven sometimes has trouble controlling his bowels. Even now he’ll poo his pants at least once a month, but I don’t make him wear a diaper because I don’t want to humiliate him. We went to the Thursday-night sermon a week ago, and I’d dressed him in his nice yellow suit because Shepherd Foote was giving the service, and I wanted to make a good impression. Not just for my sake— Steven will be an usher one day, and it’s important for him to fit in with the rest of the congregation. So we’re sitting in one of the pews, and Steven leans over and says ‘Mommy,’ and I say, ‘What, and shush,’ and he says, ‘I made poop in my underwear,’ and I say, ‘Oh no, Steven, not now.’ Right in the middle of the first epistle. Of course we couldn’t just stay there for the rest of the service, so we stood up and hurried out of the chapel, and I took him into the ladies’ room to get cleaned up. Mrs. Foote was sitting at the vanity table, doing her hair, and I said, ‘Good evening, Mrs. Foote, we had a little accident,’ and I took down Steven’s pants—which were ruined—and I showed her, and she said, ‘My, what a mess,’ which it was, all down his legs and stinky too. I couldn’t very well make him wear those pants out of the building, so I just told him to go bare-butt naked, and he said, ‘Mommy, I don’t want to,’ and I said, ‘Oh hush, no one will see you, and if they do, so what?’ and so I carried him out through the lobby, and—wouldn’t you know it—the bell choir was getting ready to play the doxology, and I figured heck, if you can’t laugh at life then what good’s living, so I held Steven up over my head and twirled him around and the girls in the choir giggled and I laughed and Steven was crying and I said, ‘What are you crying for?’ and I took him out to the parking lot and he made wee all over the car seat.”

The ladies laugh and Steve sits and blinks. The only reason why he comes here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon is because it’s either that or the baby-sitter, and you never know about those people. Darn near the only ones willing to work for those cheap wages come up from Downriver or the north side of Crane City, and most of them are— what do you call it, when one of their grandparents did it with a Negro? Octoroons.
Orangutans
is what Doreen Mould calls it, and she calls it like she sees it. Not that Steve minds the long waits while his mother runs the register. The bookstore is calm and quiet most of the time, with just his mother and a few of her friends. The stock hasn’t turned over in five years. Ceramic virgins. Dried flower arrangements. LP records of Perry Como or Mahalia Jackson or Lawrence Welk, but no Frank Sinatra ever since he took up with that hippie. Motivational pamphlets: “America Is God’s Country and Jesus Is Our God,” “Moderation: It’s the Right Thing to Do,” “Explaining the Draft to Your Young Ones.” Holy Cross refrigerator magnets. Steve likes to make the magnets stick together, and sometimes he puts them in his mouth and his mother has to say stop it. Some of her friends are pretty nice, too. Mrs. Tyler is an older woman, slightly decrepit but good at making funny faces, like the one where she acts like President Johnson.
Eye’m Layn-dyn Jawhn-sun,
and eye ’m an eem-buh-sul.
A sick woman, in and out of the hospitals. Had cancer once, then she didn’t. Then she did. Then she didn’t. Did. Didn’t. Did. Mrs. Fleet is new to the group, a young wife with pretty brown legs. Rumored to own a diaphragm. Steve once stuck his head up her long dress and his mother said stop it and Mrs. Fleet said “It’s okay, he doesn’t know what to look for,” and Steve had no idea what that meant.

“I never spank my boy, but when I do, I believe in doing it on the bare bottom. The child won’t make the connection any other way. A good, firm whack on either cheek, and then one on the crack for good measure. Last month, we went to a dinner party at my sister-in-law’s house. Steven was looking at the wedding pictures on the wall, and he said, ‘Who’s that woman? She’s ugly.’ Terese pretended not to hear, but I knew he’d hurt her feelings, so I said ‘Steven, you come here and take down your drawers.’ Warren tried to say we’ll just go, but I said, ‘No, no, he’s got to learn.’ Steven knew I meant business, so he pulled off his pants, and I said, ‘Underwear too,’ and he took off his underwear and I had him lay right on the buffet table—we moved all of the leftover rib-eyes and vegetables out of the way—and I gave him three good swats, cheek-cheek-crack, and that was that. I had Terese stand over my shoulder, and I said ‘You watch good now, so when you and Lance have your first one you’ll know what to do.’ Then I told Steven to get up off of the table and put his pants back on, and Terese said, ‘Can he have some ice cream?’ and I said, ‘Of course he can.’ He’s been punished. He knows he did the wrong thing. Now he can have his ice cream.”

Steve normally stays in his little seat, but when work is slow, his mother lets him wander the empty corridors of the church next door. Dane T. Foote’s portrait hangs inside the main atrium, its textured surface made smooth and shiny by a thin layer of shellac. Looking at the picture, Steve knows that if Shepherd Foote ever asked him to do something—even something bad, like take money from the register or write bad words in the men’s room—he would do it, he would
have
to do it, because Shepherd Foote is an important, well-respected man, and Steve understands that he must listen to him and obey his every word. Steve’s favorite place to go in the entire complex is the breezeway, where the smell of car exhaust rises from the interstate, gathering in a sweet, toxic cloud a foot above the indoor-outdoor carpet. Tall potted plants reach over his head. Alone, he kneels and prays to one of them, wondering,
What if God was really a potted plant
,
and we all had to do what it said?

“This was last summer, when we were driving north to Mackinac Island for the Fourth of July weekend, and about two hours into the trip I got to thinking, Hmmm, Steven sure is acting quiet back there, and I looked over my shoulder, and I said, ‘What’s that smell? Oh, Steven, you didn’t! . . .’ ”