Connie Willis - Fire Watch

“Yeah. And a lock of my hair so’s they could make it.”

“How long ago was that?”

I think about how long it took to get him and how long he’s been setting at that kitchen table. “Two months about.”

“This mail-order clone scheme you invested in is one of several mail frauds currently under investigation by our department. Indictments have been issued against Clones, Inc., president Conrad C. Conrad, whereabouts unknown. Claims against Clones, Inc., for the return of your money can be filed by the individual with our department.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I say I mean, sure, I have lots of reasons to complain about the guy, but it don’t seem right getting my money back. I did get my clone and everything.

They hand me a form to fill out about eight pages long. “Just take the completed form to the local post office. You will be informed by mail of the priority of your claim. Our toll-free number is at the top. We’d like you to call it in case Conrad C. Conrad tries to get in touch with you.”

So far they are real businesslike. But then one of the guys who hasn’t said nothing so far comes up to me, flashes a badge that sure don’t say United States Post Office on it, and starts asking questions real fastlike.

“Did you send for a clone as per this ad? Is this your handwriting? Is this the money order you enclosed with your order?”

I just say yeah to all of it till he gets to this real funny question.

“Do you know Conrad C. Conrad?”

Now, how would I know the president of a big company? “Nope,” I say.

“Have you seen anyone of the following description: five foot four, brown eyes, black hair, black mustache.”

I don’t pay much attention to this part ’cause just then I think I see Marjean and my clone coming. Anyway, I ain’t seen nobody but them two in two months. “Nope,” I say.

“We have reason to believe Conrad is in this area, probably under an assumed name.”

The first mail guy turns to the other one, and says, whisperinglike, “Another assumed name. The guy’s as slippery as an eel. They don’t even have a picture of him. He’s such a smooth talker he’s probably convinced one of his dumb-bunny customers he’s a clone and moved in with them.” The cop shoots him a dirty look.

“Are you sure you’ve had no communication with Mr. Conrad or with Clones, Inc?”

“Nope. All I got was my clone.”

All four guys lean forward. “You received the doll advertised in the magazine?”

“Doll?” I said. I was gonna say, Hell, no, I wish it hadda been a doll and not some big good-for-nothing guy. Only just then I saw for sure it was Marjean and the big good-for-nothing. They was both bombed out of their minds. I could tell 'cause they was sort of weaving down the road, but that ain’t what gets me. Right in the middle of the road my clone stops and plants a big old kiss on Marjean. He’s got his hands where they got no business being either. And old Marjean is eating it up.

“Did you or did you not receive a clone as ordered?” the cop guy says, annoyedlike.

“I want to file a complaint,” I says, real mad.

They give me a number to call if I see that Conrad guy, and then they go off in their big cars. They drive right past Marjean and the clone guy, who are still feeling each other up. They don’t pay no attention, and that makes me know for sure they are not Welfare guys. Those guys don’t let you do nothing .

I stand there on the porch, just watching them and thinking. I think about the post office guys and the cop. And then I think about Marjean and how that guy don’t look nothing like me even when he’s feeling up my wife and pretty soon I get an idea. I am not so dumb.

Marjean knows it, too. When she comes in, smelling like beer and pot, she is pretty sassy, but she ain’t sassy now. I heard them talking at the kitchen table yesterday and she says, “He’s figured it out,” and the clone guy kind of laughs, but not too loud, and says, “Him? He couldn’t figure his way out of a paper bag.” But he don’t sound real convinced.

I been pretty busy. First thing I done I read all of Marjean’s love magazines. I found some good stories like “I Killed My Wife’s Lover” and “A Husband’s Revenge” and I put them real casual-like on the kitchen table open to that page like I been reading them. Then I real casual-like cut out one of them ads for a laser gun. That disappears like sixty and when I check the other magazines I see she’s cut out every gun and knife ad and thrown them all away I keep suggesting she take my clone over to the Indian camp, but she won’t go nowhere. All she does is sit at that kitchen table reading stories and biting her fingernails till there ain’t nothing left just like I planned. Pretty soon I will leave that complaint form around where the clone guy can see it. Then he will know I am not so dumb. But I think I will wait on that.

See, while I’m standing there on that porch I figure out I have been looking at this clone thing all wrong. That story about the orphan girl throwed me off, the twin stuff and all. That ain’t what clones are for. And any way you look at it, that guy don’t look nothing like me at all. So what I figure is, a clone of Marjean’s won’t look nothing like her neither. It’d be all round and soft and curly blond hair maybe. Not so high-and-mighty neither. I know just what Marjean’s clone’d be good for. And I am all set. I got twelve ninety-five and a envelope full of Marjean’s chewed-off fingernails and I am sending it in. I am not so dumb.

Some of the stories in the Bible are really old. Bible scholars think parts of Genesis date back to the Bronze Age, but I think they may be far older than that. Consider the tale of Esau and Jacob:

Isaac, old and blind, wanted to pass on his inheritance and his blessing to Esau, his firstborn, who is described as being “red, all over like an hairy garment. “ But his younger brother, Jacob, “a smooth man, “ cheated Esau of his father’s blessing by putting goatskins “upon his hands and upon the smooth of his neck” and so fooling the blind old man.

Jacob of course sounds uncomfortably like us, but who is this red and hairy brother we have stolen our inheritance from? And will he forgive us?

Reverend Hoyt knew immediately what Natalie wanted. His assistant pastor knocked on the half-open door of his study and then sailed in, dragging Esau by one hand behind her. The triumphant smile on her face was proof enough of what she was going to say.

“Reverend Hoyt, Esau has something he wants to tell you.” She turned to the orangutan. He was standing up straight, something Reverend Hoyt knew was hard for him to do. He came almost to Natalie’s shoulder. His thick, squat body was covered almost entirely with long, neatly brushed auburn hair. He had only a little hair on top of his head. He had slicked it down with water. His wide face, inset and shadowed by his cheek flaps, was as impassive as ever.

Natalie signed something to him. He stood silent, his long arms hanging limply at his sides. She turned back to Reverend Hoyt. “He wants to be baptized! Isn’t that wonderful? Tell him, Esau.”

He had seen it coming. The Reverend Natalie Abreu, twenty-two and only one year out of Princeton, was one enthusiasm after another. She had vamped the Sunday school, taken over the grief counseling department, and initiated a standard of priestly attire that outraged Reverend Hoyt’s Presbyterian soul. Today she had on a trailing cassock with a red-and-gold-embroidered stole edged with fringe. It must be Pentecost. She was short and had close-cropped brown hair. She flew about her official duties like a misplaced choirboy in her ridiculous robes and surplices and chasubles. She had taken over Esau, too.