LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

back to you.”

      “Go ahead, James,” Daddy laughs, “enlighten our impatient little naturalist-in-training. Explain how the same sex glands and genitals develop in both sexes.”

      “Dad-eee,” Lauren whines.

      Two embryo-shaped dumplings do the backstroke in the cooling soup tureen.

      Jamie slaps his arm. “It doesn’t matter what it’s called, Paul. It’s just a word, but the idea, the scientific fact, is deep. That we create each other is amazing! Isn’t it, girls?” She takes turns smiling at all of us.

      “It’s a miracle!” I cry, and accidentally kick poor Mrs. Wiggins under the dinner table. She moans; I must have hit her tumor.

      Mom drops her fork. “Is the dog under the table, Lily? I said no, didn’t I? Mrs. Wiggins is sick. She smells bad. You know better.”

      “That’s a perfect example,” Jamie says. “Science is bursting at the seams. In the future, Mrs. Wiggins could be cloned. We have the capacity to do so many incredible things! What if people had the option of being both sexes? Or neither sex? What would being human mean if we could reshuffle the chromosomes and be something completely different?”

      Dad laughs. “You mean like a hermaphrodite?”

      Mom throws her napkin at him.

      This is the best, most grown-up conversation of my whole life.

      “We could reinvent the world, create new foods that could save mankind! What if,” Jamie says, turning to Lauren and me, “there were real mermaids and giants and DayGlo jungles? And lichen tasted like coconut, and we could take elephant rides on the moon?”

      “Wow!” Lauren says.

      Mom smiles. “Wow is the word, all right. You’ve been reading way too much science fiction, sis.”

      Jamie takes a big gulp of wine. “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but if we have the science for it, why not the imagination? What are we afraid of? What’s so special about all these overpriced toys, anyway?” She glances around the room, holding out her arms like the TV game-show model Carol Merrill. “When we could have a more meaningful and . . . interesting life. You’re an artist, Kit. Don’t you want that?”

      Mom scowls at her. “They’re not toys, Jamie. We work hard to have nice things. There’s nothing wrong with nice things.”

      “I know, I know, it’s just that . . . we have to change, Kit. It’s almost too late already. We waste energy making things we don’t need or even want once we get them home. We’re destroying the planet.”

      “Let’s not go into that over dinner. You’re frightening the girls.”

      “No she’s not!”

      “Lily!”

      “Why shouldn’t the girls be part of the discussion? Their generation could save the world. They could save us from ourselves.”

      Mom gestures for our dirty dishes and we pass them, surprised when she starts scraping them right there at the table. She never does that. They make an angry sound.

      “As fascinating as the book is,“ Jamie continues, “as amazing as the birth process is, our importance is overrated. We’ve messed things up. Mother Earth is polluted, and overpopulated. Her resources can’t support—”

      “Stop it!” Mom cries as she picks up the stack of plates and storms out of the room. “I’ve had enough Mother Earth for one night.”

      I slump in my chair. Sometimes I think Aunt Jamie is my real mom. Over her shoulder is the china cabinet where my swim-meet ribbons are kept, along with Lauren’s first-through-fourth-grade attendance diplomas, and fragile little things no one’s allowed to dust. Aunt Jamie’s swimming trophies are in there too; Mom’s keeping them for her until she moves out of “that damp little house on the old coast highway.”

      I braid the tablecloth fringe until Mom arrives with the dessert tray and coffee.

      “Love your bread pudding and hard sauce,” Dad says, wiggling his eyebrows. But when Lauren turns up her nose at it, Dad announces that it’s eight thirty and sends her to bed. “Take the dog,” he adds.

      Mrs. Wiggins groans as she struggles to rise up then wobbles across the room. She’ll feel better when we get to the lake tomorrow. Mrs. Wiggins loves Peace Lake.

      “Thirty minutes, Lily,” Dad reminds me. “Maybe you’d rather watch TV than listen to all this boring grown-up conversation.”

      “No thanks.”

      Mom pours coffee. “My God, that dog smells,” she says. “You’d think she was still in the room.”

      “Shall we talk about eyebrow mites? Or bed bugs?” Aunt Jamie laughs, taking a sip of wine. “The way they live off us is so smart, so evolved—”

      “You’re talkative tonight.” Dad gives her an impatient look. “Feeling the booze?”

      Jamie glares at him. “You sound threatened, Paul. Does it hurt to stretch the old cerebral cortex, or are you just being sexist?”

      I thought they liked each other.

      “Okay you two,” Mom says, clearing her throat. “I appreciate that we’re taking a break from politics for a change, but can we talk about something that isn’t creepy crawly for a while?”

      Dad pushes his dessert aside. “Why stop now? We’re just getting started. ” His eyes turn black and deep. “I know. Let’s talk about Frog Boy.”

      “Let’s not,” Mom says.

      “Frog Boy?” Jamie asks.

      “I’m surprised you haven’t . . . Oh, that’s right, you read The Socialist Worker instead of the silly little magazines we do,” Dad says.

      “Paul!”

      Jamie blushes.

      “There were pictures of him in Look.” All eyes are on Dad, who drains the last of his beer before saying, “Frog Boy isn’t man or woman. Or a child. He’s a freak. You can hold him in your hand. Is he happy? How the hell could he be happy? He’s a mistake. He lives in the circus and people stare at him all day. I hope he doesn’t have a brain. I hope he isn’t aware of a damn thing.”

      Why is Dad being so mean?

      “There are pictures of Frog Boy?” I ask. “Can I see them?”

      Dad looks startled to hear my voice. “No,” he answers quietly. “They’ll give you nightmares.” He clears his throat and smiles at Mom. “Great dinner, honey.” He picks at the beer label. “We love you, James, but for a college graduate you’re insufferably naive.”

      There’s an uncomfortable silence before all three grown-ups laugh.

      I don’t understand. “Maybe Frog Boy likes living in the circus,” I say.

      All three grown-ups laugh again. Jamie pats her mouth, and smiles into her napkin. “It’s the wine, Lily. Not you,” she says, taking my hand. Her fingers are cold. Maybe she’s a lizard, with boy and girl chromosomes and a hidden tail, like me. Maybe like Frog Boy too. “Your folks are right. I’m a dreamer.” She smiles at me. “You, however, are something special. You’re an original, a one-of-a-kind without even trying. And a master swimmer to boot.”

      “No I’m not.”

      But Jamie doesn’t hear me when she touches the pink quartz stone at the center of my crucifix. “Pretty,” she says. “But why do people wear the symbol of Jesus’s death around their neck? Why not His life?”

      I’ve wondered too. Maybe I shouldn’t wear it, maybe it makes Jesus sad, maybe it makes everybody sad.

      “Blasphemy!”

Скачать книгу