World Of Shell And Bone (2 page)

It occurs to me as I put the key in the lock that now, everything is different. I try to find a nugget of excitement or even trepidation inside the folds of my brain, but there is nothing.

I enter to find Shale sitting on the sofa, his enormous hands placed neatly in his lap, his short black hair carefully combed. He has a pleasant smile on his face, as if there is nothing he’d rather be doing than waiting on me.

“Hello, Vika,” he says. “Would you like some tea?”

I set my bag on the table and unlace my boots. “Yes, please.” I don’t know if I should sit down or wait for him. I solve the problem by visiting the washroom.

When I return, Shale has arranged my tea and snack on a silver serving tray. “Dinner will be ready at six. The Match Clinic told me you have no special restrictions on your diet.”

“That’s right.” I sit down and pick up my cup. After a moment, I gesture toward the tray. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“Thank you.” Shale gets a cup and we sit there, sipping our scorching tea and nibbling on our dehydrated protein snacks in silence. The steam curls into my nostrils and I wince from the heat. Somewhere outside, a siren wails. Probably an Escort van, cleaning up the city.

I want to say something, but the words that have leaked out of me in the course of the day have not been replaced. My mind is a blank.

There is a knock at the door. Shale gets up, but I gesture to him. “I’ll answer it.”

I know who it is.

My mother stands on the other side of the door in her purple coat and skirt. Her armband with three fruits on the tree is proud and crisp. She must have come straight from work. Her gaze slides off me, as if I am made of ice, and probes into the gloom of the apartment. We are not allowed to turn on the lights until the sun has disappeared from our sky.

“Were you Matched successfully?”

“Yes.” I step to one side so she can come in. “His name is Shale Underwood.”

She sees him, hooks her finger and curls it, indicating to him that he should stand up. He does so without preamble, keeping his eyes focused above her head. My mother’s expert hands run over his shoulders, feel the glands in his neck. She peers in his eyes and mouth, her expression stoic. Finally, she gives a curt nod. “I don’t see anything wrong.”

I let out a breath silently. Although it has nothing to do with me, I feel a small tug of victory. “I’m glad.”

“Do you start tonight?” she asks.

I nod. “Yes. I’m two weeks in; ovulation should happen soon.”

“Take your supplements.” She says this while checking her watch. “I have to be going.”

“Do give my regards to Orion.” My mother and her partner have been together three years now, ever since the government assigned me an occupation and my own apartment, but I have never actually met Orion. My mother’s personal life and I are kept separate at all times: in her line of work, a childless daughter is a disgrace. It does not matter that I only turned twenty three months ago. I am a failure until I prove otherwise.

She strides past me. “I shall expect a report in two weeks,” she says.

At six-thirty, the light switches activate and I turn on the one lamp we are allowed. The living room now looks jaundiced. I glance at the clock, nervous. I should not be nervous. I know what is expected of me—I have known since childhood. That this is my first time is irrelevant. Knowledge is power, and I know exactly what to do.

And yet…and yet. The thought of failure, of spending any longer vacant, barren, empty, grasps me around the throat, choking off my polluted air supply. I wonder if Shale is feeling it, too. But he looks serene, sitting by the lamp, working on some darning. The needle looks toy-sized in his hands, but his fingers are long and graceful.

I wonder briefly about the male psychology we’re taught at school—that they’re aggressive, unintelligent, and barbaric, unable to cope with the realities of the world on a day-to-day basis. If the world had had women leaders, there never would have been a nuclear war. But right now, looking at Shale, calm, complacent Shale, I don’t see any hint of those pathologies.

At seven, he sets the basket aside and looks at me, a placid smile on his face. “Shall we?”

I nod and walk stiffly to the bedroom. I lie on the bed and push my skirt up to my hips as we have been taught to do. Shale walks past me without looking and goes into the bathroom. I lie in the dark, focusing on each breath going into and out of my lungs, imagining it suffusing my ovaries and uterus with the oxygen they need to make a perfect, healthy baby. For New Amana.

When the bathroom door opens, I bend my knees and open my legs like I have been told to do. Relax, I tell myself. Relax and think of the embryo you hope will implant, of the fetus you want to carry.

Shale lies on top of me, using his hands to brace himself. He holds his body just a hair’s breadth away from mine so there is no more contact than necessary. He mumbles, “For New Amana.” I respond in kind. Then, with his knees on either side of my hips, he pushes into me, beginning the procedure.

I am not prepared for the pain. I keep my face a steady mask, thinking of how this is just preparation for the delivery. They say you don’t know pain until you’ve had a baby come out of you. I think they’re wrong, this hurts, but then again I’m only a woman with a zero armband. I don’t know as much as I think I do.

The sheets rustle under us as Shale pounds into me, using only the amount of pressure needed to deposit his semen deep enough inside where the sperm can find the egg. He is rhythmic, staid and steady, drumming out a song. Once I am used to the pain, I find myself getting tired. My eyes are unfocused, thinking of work, of Moon asking me how the first night went in her snide tone, when Shale groans softly, shudders, and is silent. He rests for a moment, then gathers himself up and disappears back into the bathroom.

I roll onto my side and close my legs, but I feel some of his seed dribbling out from my center. Please, I think. Please.

I fall asleep sometime later, and when I dream, I dream of zero armbands engulfed in flames, of rooms flooded with light, and of little girls lying rigid on the floor with streams of foam dribbling out of their mouths.

There is no acid rain the next morning, but the prickly smell of it hangs heavy in the air. I try not to breathe too deeply; nosebleeds stain my uniform and blood is difficult to rinse out. Little vines and saplings are inching their way out of cracks in the sidewalks, violently green amidst all the gray. I’m careful to step over them as I head for the bus station.

Moon pops her knuckles as I settle into my seat. “How was your first night?” She asks this with a leer, but I notice the desperation in her eyes as her gaze gropes my face, looking for a clue as to how this all works. She wants to be let in, to know what goes on in our bedrooms that doesn’t go on in hers.

I turn my computer terminal on. “It went according to procedure. Fate willing, we’ll be successful on our first attempt.”

“You better wish it happens soon.” Moon leans in close, and I can smell the metallic tang of impure tea on her breath. “Six months goes by quicker than you expect. See poor Io over there?” She points her chin across the hive of tables at a woman with short hair and a thin face. “It’s her third attempt, and today is six months and one day. They’ll be coming for her soon.”

As if she can sense Moon’s poisonous words, Io fingers her conspicuous zero armband and looks around the room. Her walnut-brown eyes meet mine, and her lip trembles. I look away. Bad luck can be catching.

When the Escorts come for Io, the office is quiet. It is the hush of midday—far enough away from the morning so everyone is tired, but not near enough to the end-of-day whistle for us to feel rejuvenated, or at least, less lethargic. Everyone keeps their eyes on their terminals, but for all I know, they are peeking from the fringes of their eyelashes as I am.

The Escorts walk in a trio, with one out in front like an arrow, and the other two side-by-side behind her. They are dressed in pristine white tracksuits and have stern faces, like avenging angels, come to take back what is theirs. Come to clean up the debris, restore the city of Ursa to her rightful healthy state.

Io stumbles out of her chair, tears streaking her face. She holds out her wrists to be manacled, and I notice her hands are shaking so hard she has trouble holding them together. The Escorts’ faces are smooth, unlined. They will never be in her shoes. Only mothers are picked to be Escorts. It’s doubly shameful for the barren that way.

“I’d like to appeal for another month,” Io says desperately, her words all mangled together. “Please. Another month, and I know I can make it happen.”

The Escorts do not reply. The one in the front leads again, and the other two shepherd Io between them, looking as if they are strolling through the streets while Io brays guttural sobs between them. She will be gassed by sundown.

I’m tense after dinner, my stomach churning with the heavy food and heavier panic. I try to read the booklet on fertility that the Match Clinic provides all qualifying women, but my mind dashes off into the forest of my thoughts at the slightest excuse. I glance at Shale, and am discomfited to see him watching me, that same calm smile on his face.

“Would you like me to turn on the radio?” I ask.

He can listen to the news, but males are not educated, so he cannot read. Entertainment of any sort is discouraged for Husbands because it is thought to interfere with their subservient natures. Entertainment for the rest of us is thoroughly vetted to make sure that it is either educational or promotes good physical health.

“No, thank you,” he replies, still smiling. “I like to watch you read. It’s intriguing.”

“Intriguing? What do you mean?” I catch myself folding up the corner of the booklet and force myself to hold still. When I am uncomfortable, I fidget. My mother used to say fidgeting is the mark of a weak mental state.

“Your entire body goes so still as you take in the words. I often wonder what it would be like to see those lines and squiggles and have them make sense.”

I don’t know how to respond to this, so I nod and pretend to study my booklet for a moment. “I’ve been curious about your genetic history. Do you know how many children your father bore?”

Shale’s tea-hued eyes never waver. “I am told he bore three sons and two daughters.”

I breathe. “Good. My own mother had thr—two children. My brother and me. Mica’s older than me; he left for the Husbandry when I was still quite young.” I see a flash of Ceres’s eyes rolled back in her head and blink it away.

“We won’t have any difficulties, Vika,” Shale says softly. “You shouldn’t worry.”

I try to smile as Io’s shaking hands flood my vision. There is never any dearth of black, toxic images. “Yes, well. Shall we commence the procedure?”

Shale gets up obediently and scuttles to the bedroom. I set the booklet down carefully and follow.

Afterward, Shale goes to the bathroom to wash off and I lie there repeating my mantra. Please. Please give me a healthy embryo. To whom, I don’t know. Religion is not allowed any longer, although my mother can remember a time when she actually went to a church as a young child before the practice was abolished. The War is now sixty-five years past, but our streets are littered with the relics from before. Churches and temples still stand, but they’re used for educational purposes now, to show how religion clouded people’s thinking in the time before the War. Now, the mere mention of an all-knowing entity is punishable by imprisonment.

I slide a hand down to my stomach. Will I know when it happens? Will I feel it? Did Io know she was unsuccessful all those times? Did she feel that hollow sense of utter concaveness? I imagine my uterus, an apple-sized organ, vibrantly red, warm and wet, waiting. Just waiting.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice asks, And what if your child is born a Défectueux—misshapen or sickly? Did my mother face these fears when she was going through the procedure with each of her Husbands? When she got pregnant with Ceres, did she know there was something inherently wrong, intrinsically off somehow? What does it feel like when a part of yourself turns out to be rotten, like a blushing fruit cut in half and pulsing with fleshy white maggots?

The computer blares at me. An incoming message. I click on the envelope icon, and see a list of alphanumeric names. My heart closes into a tight fist as I scan the names, looking for any form of identification. But, as usual, none can be discerned.

A batch of Défectueux were moved from the Asylum in what used to be Toronto, Canada and is now Toronto, New Amana. I don’t know anything else about the move; why it was done, or who exactly was moved. The names of the Défectueux are obscured by the alphanumeric codes they are assigned. When the feminist party gained power after the War, they immediately set about implementing a nationwide alphanumeric code that would be used in classified communications to prevent the general citizenry from being able to decipher them. Only the Code Office has a copy of the decode list, and not many people are privy to it. Working for BoTA, I might be able to procure a copy under extenuating circumstances, but even that would be scrutinized and analyzed for possible terrorist connections. I have never attempted to gain access.

I meticulously copy the list and transfer the information into the proper database. This is my job. I am the record-keeper of the Défectueux. I make sure there is no chance they can escape.

When my sister, Ceres, was born, I was eight years old. My brother, Mica, was older than me by three years, and remote, removed. It was as if he knew from the start that he was the lower sex. He pinched me when my mother wasn’t looking and slipped into the washroom right when I was about to use it. He put sand in my bed. I cannot remember a single time when a smile passed between us. When he was sent off to the Husbandry at the age of seventeen, I was relieved.

Ceres was born light-skinned with light eyes. People in New Amana have interbred so the distinct ethnic groups of my grandmother’s time are no longer in existence among the young, mainstream population. Now, almost everyone is some shade of medium brown with hazel or brown eyes and hair that ranges from chestnut to soot. But Ceres’s eyes were gold, like the jewelry my mother kept in a safety box. People often remarked on her unusual coloring. We should’ve known that something was wrong.

When my mother brought her home from the hospital, I was ecstatic. I knew we’d be best friends. I was so sure I wouldn’t have to go through this life alone. Sibling relationships are not particularly encouraged, but even at the age of eight, I felt like Ceres and I would always be each other’s touchstones. When I put my finger in her cradle, she wrapped her fist around it and brought it to her mouth. After an inquisitive nibble, she smiled at me. My mother said babies that young don’t smile, that it was likely a grimace. But Ceres did smile. She knew me, just as I knew her.

The fits began when she was four years old. I was chasing her around the house one day when her body went stiff, like she was pretending to be a light pole or tree. I laughed, thinking it was just one of her many pretend games. But then her eyes fluttered in her head and she began to smack her lips and clap. I shook her shoulder, calling her name until my throat was raw, but she wouldn’t wake from whatever had possessed her. When she finally came around, she couldn’t remember a thing of what had happened.

It wasn’t too much longer after that that the Escorts came for her. I cried more than she did. She was stoic for a child, oddly calm. She patted my hand matter-of-factly. Don’t cry, Vikki, she said. We’ll see each other again. It sounded like she actually believed it. Who can tell what children tell themselves? So off she went to the Asylum in Toronto. They told us she’d be well taken care of.

The word
asylum
is funny. It means “an inviolable refuge;” to give someone safe haven. But even before the War of the Nations, asylums were used to separate the demented from the rest of society. It was a way to compartmentalize us, keep us from seeing things which might affect our delicate sensibilities.

Now, the Asylums are a way for the scientists to determine why some children from healthy families come out wrong. Damaged. Defective. We are told the children are treated with respect, as subjects of science. We are told they perform a great service to society.

I believe what I am told. I cannot bear the thought of Ceres in a cage, her eyelids pinned open, those gold eyes staring at women in coats. I cannot stomach the idea of her being injected with chemicals as they attempt to explain the cause of her fits. I simply cannot. And so I believe.

When the whistle sounds, I step out into the stinging rain, blinking and stretching at the world outside. It’s always gray now, just varying shades of it. The blanket of nuclear fallout smothering our part of the world hangs heavy and soft in the air, robbing us molecule-by-molecule of the oxygen we breathe. I imagine a giant clock hanging over each of our heads, counting down the seconds we have remaining until our radiation- and pollution-ridden bodies simply stall out and die. I cannot have much longer left. If I don’t bear fruit, I will be left here to perish.

I march along the dirt path to the bus station, my hand on my bag to discourage thieves. Bartering took over when the economy died after the War, but there are still some black market—le marché noir, it is called, due to the remnants of French Canadian influence—sellers unscrupulous enough to make away with my things. I pause a moment, wondering. I don’t particularly feel any sense of anger at the thought. What I actually think is, At least they are living the way they want to live. An unbidden thought. Unbidden and dangerous. There are Sparks everywhere, waiting to label me a Radical, a terrorist. I pick up the pace.

As I come to the corner of Market Street, the Maintenance van sails by, its sirens wailing.
Wah-oh-wah-oh-wah-oh.
Perhaps it cries out of resentment for its ignoble duties—to protest against the savage unfairness of it all. The van stops next to an alley, siren still wailing balefully. The Maintenance workers hop out, dressed in protective suits of orange, with face masks and big rubber boots. Maintenance workers are men, one of the few duties they are permitted to do under the feminist regime.

They round up the usual herd of radiation-poisoned homeless, the Nukeheads, who are strewn like litter on the sidewalks and hang like smoke against the walls. They are the luckless successors of genetic pools that were infected by radiation from the War. Skin peeling off their bones, fist-sized pustules ruptured, they are also a sight no one wants to see. They remind us of what the men did when the world was in their care.

I once saw a child, maybe six years old, who had a whole set of teeth embedded in the back of his head. He sat by the steps of my apartment, begging for scraps. A genetic mutation that seeped into his DNA, one of many caused by massive amounts of radiation still in the air his mother breathed, in the water she drank while pregnant with him. Those of us who are still fertile have this possible outcome to contend with. He was gone abruptly one day. I did not sleep for a week.

I reach the station just as the bus is pulling out and, sitting down, continue to watch the Nukeheads outside. One of the Maintenance workers is pulling on a frail old man when a chunk of the man’s hand falls off, splat onto the ground. His mouth opens in a howl I cannot hear.

I look away.

The woman in front of me, perhaps no older than Moon, is watching the Maintenance workers in rapture. I note her cashew-colored skin and think of Ceres. What would she say to me, if she saw the way I look away from things that bother me? She was always the brave one, even when she was barely old enough to walk or talk.

And just like that, a memory envelops me so the world before me falls away. It often happens this way when I think of Ceres; the world stops its orbit while I’m whisked away to a different time.

There used to be a little Nukehead girl where Ceres and I lived with our mother and Mica. After school, we’d go out to play behind the apartment building. The Nukeheads generally kept their distance from us Flockers, but this little girl was about five—older than Ceres, but younger than me. I suppose she didn’t have parents who could tell her not to stare at Flockers; that we were no good for her kind. I didn’t realize Ceres had been watching her. One day, she brought her pinwheel toy outside to play. Only, she took it to the little girl and handed it over silently. I remember being nervous that our mother would find out that we were being kind to a Nukehead child; they were looked at with disgust, as the pollutants of the gene pool they are. But Mother didn’t find out.

The next day, Ceres brought the girl another toy, a pair of plastic binoculars. In an effort to get her to stop, I told her the Nukehead girl probably didn’t have any use for her toys; that what she really wanted was likely food. In response, Ceres hid a piece of fruit from breakfast the next morning and gave that to her instead. I remember the girl; her forehead bulged out grotesquely and she had no hair. Her black eyes were like shallow cups, entirely empty of emotion. But that day, she smiled at my sister.

No matter what I said or how I explained it, Ceres could not seem to grasp that we might get punished for what she was doing. “But she’s little, like me, Vikki,” she’d say, her gold eyes wide and irresistible. “And you said it’s good to share.” I was relieved the day we came downstairs and the Nukehead girl was gone; likely cleaned up by Maintenance. I was born a coward.