Бен Маркус - Notes from the Fog - Stories

The transition to the new situation was not especially complicated. I certainly did not need to consult Drew. His opinion did not interest me. I readied myself before entering his room, so I could sit astride him and begin the procedure. Intercourse itself, if you dispense with various ceremonies, along with human speech, can be remarkably efficient. Probably, a long time ago, creatures had to perform intercourse in absolute silence, in the woods, in caves, or else they’d be detected and killed. We still have these skills, they are not entirely dormant in us, even if the threat is gone. Excess noise during intercourse is the sign of a decadent society. Drew still pretended to be asleep, although sometimes he put his hands on my hips, but even that seemed to broach an intimacy that I felt was not warranted. He cried sometimes afterward, and didn’t try to hide it from me. But I wasn’t there for that. I had the boys to think of, and I liked sleeping alone, where no one could touch me.

The plans were rollinginto place. My husband texted me a picture, and it looked like he’d squeezed a bunk bed into the spare room and started to paint it. There were toys on the floor, old ones from when the girls were little. “Thank you,” I wrote back. I sent him a red heart emoji, and I held down the button, so there’d be more of them than he could handle. He always came around. Even when he was far away, I could see his body pitching and turning, starting to bank, and then he would come around, back to me.

There was so much to do. Schools and doctors to call, appointments to make. Paperwork to sort out with Drew. He was very organized. He had a binder. He’d given it all a lot of thought. There was a bank account, and he gave me the card and the PIN. There was a caregiver’s contract that conferred authority on me in an emergency. We would be in constant contact, he explained. He would Skype the boys every night. He wanted updates on every little thing. Pictures and videos and the whole deal.

“I don’t know what to say,” Drew said. And I knew that. I knew he didn’t, and I expected nothing to be said. It was strange to see him in the daylight. At night he was just a shape, hardly even that. He cried out and he wept and he came, and he hid his face in the sheets. He did not speak and I never saw his eyes. He’d bought this palace and it was already haunted, he was already spooked. I wondered if he was always like that. Sarah had never said. But when I thought about it, I couldn’t remember her mentioning Drew even once. It was always the boys, and what they were up to. The boys the boys the boys.

The trip was upon us,and the boys needed gear, so I took them shopping. I told them that they could pick out shirts and shoes and pants, even caps, along with socks and undies, but when I saw what they chose, I quietly put everything back and picked out a few things myself. They would never know the difference, and I’m sure they would have just as soon gone around naked. In the store they ran wild, their little helmets jiggling on their heads. When other shoppers glared at them in exaggerated shock I stared them down, ready for anything. Go ahead, I thought. Say something. Do something. Think something.

We went for french fries and milkshakes for lunch. I told them they were being so grown-up. So brave. They were such good young men. My little young men. We were all going to be okay, just great. We had a big adventure waiting for us in their new town.

“Daddy said he will visit,” the big one said, and the little one nodded.

“Daddy will absolutely visit,” I said. “He can visit whenever he wants to. And we will visit him, too. Everyone will visit everyone.”

“Are there schools there? Are there other kids?”

“Yes and yes. And did I say yes?”

“What about those things you told us about. Teenagers. Do they have those there?”

“Your cousins are teenagers. They can’t wait to see you. It will be like having two great big sisters. A big sister is the best thing in the world. They will always protect you. Your mom was my big sister. Just like you”—I pointed to the big one—“are a big brother to you”—and I pointed at the little one.

“Why?” asked the little one.

“Because your mom was born first. She came out into the world before me, and she looked around, she checked everything out, and then she whispered to me, wherever I was, that it was all clear. Everything was fine. I could come out.”

“And did you? Did you come out?”

“I did. One year after your mom.”

“Why did it take so long? Did you forget the way?”

“I was kind of slow. I was still sort of scared. But the whole time I was headed her way. I knew she was waiting for me and I was excited to see her. I just couldn’t wait to see her face.”

The boys looked at me and we all decided that it was probably time to go, because we still had to pack, and we had a plane trip tomorrow, and wasn’t that going to be fun, but we’d better get ready and we’d better get a really really good night’s sleep. At the curb to the parking lot the little one grabbed our hands and cried out for us to wait. No feet in the street, he said. Never, we all yelled. Never ever. He wanted to be the one to say all clear, so he held us back and looked one way, then the other. He took his time, and we waited for him to give the sign that it was okay to go, we could walk, it would be safe.

Carl Hirsch didn’t do holiday parties.At least, not correctly. All the so-called people, wind streaming from their faces. Fleshy machines spewing pollution, fucking up the environment. If he squinted, the celebrating bodies of his coworkers very nearly blistered into molecules, shining with color. Too often the whole of it—people, places, and things—looked to scatter. Everyone on the verge of turning to soup. So what if there was no precedent for a full-scale human melt, bodies reduced to liquid pouring from a window? You could still worry about it. Sometimes you had to.

Tonight’s party was in one of those long, skinny city apartments you’re supposed to verbally fellate with praise. It was like walking into a tiny, dismal doghouse, a real doghouse, and then kissing the furred ass of the dog who lived there, who was super annoyed to have you clogging up his tiny room. You were allowed to stay as long as you kept using your tongue.

Hopefully, this doghouse had sick drinks. And free money. And those soft bones in sauce they sometimes served at company parties. Even if he was only permitted to sniff them, because of his, uh, dietary regimen.

“The light, the space, my god!” Carl found himself saying to the small, perfectly dressed host, who stood on the landing.

The host greeted Carl with alarm.

Carl reached up, too late, to cover his face. He didn’t want to be a burden—at least, not to just anyone. And yet, fuck this guy. Didn’t Emily Post have a whole chapter on hiding all reaction to astonishing creatures who appeared at your door? Shutting your little face down so as not to reveal the horror and disgust you might really feel?

To the host, Carl said, grinning far too hard, “Just show me to my rooms and I’ll get out of everyone’s way. Jones is on his way up with my luggage. This is going to be such a fun year, roommate!”

The host didn’t hear him, missed the joke. He was already looking over Carl’s shoulder to where people were crowding up the narrow staircase, trying to push their way inside. Because heaven. Because drinks. Because loneliness and flesh pleasure. Because the invite said, “Levitate, my friends! Let us see the soles of your feet!” Because Mayflower, where they all worked, was pure shithouse. The future was ripe for sexual conquest, and they were busy greasing up their parts.