Aftershock & Others (6 page)

Doug stumbled away through the rain in shocked disbelief. What was happening here? Why didn’t Bruno recognize him?

He stopped and checked his reflection in the darkened grimy window of a plumbing supply place. He couldn’t see himself too well, but he knew he looked right. The same tweed slacks, same leather coat, same white shirt. What was wrong?

At first he’d thought it was because Bruno hadn’t seen him leave, but there was more to it than that. They’d stood within a foot of each other and
Bruno thought he was somebody else.

LuAnn! He had to see LuAnn. Bruno had said she’d gone home. Early for her, but maybe she was looking for Marc.

Well, okay. She was going to find him.

Doug flagged down a cruising cab and rode it up to the West Eighties. LuAnn’s condo was in a refurbished old apartment house with high-tech security. Doug knew the routine. He rang her bell in the building’s foyer and waited under operating-room floodlights while the camera ogled him from its high corner perch.

“Marc!”
her voiced squawked from the speaker.
“Great! Come on up!”

On the eighth floor the elevator opened onto a three-door atrium. The middle was LuAnn’s. She must have heard the elevator because her door opened before Doug reached it.

Her smile was bright, welcoming. “Marky! Where on earth did you disappear to? I was—”

And then the smile was gone and she was backing away.

“Hey! What
is
this? You’re not Marc!”

As she turned and started to close the door, Doug leapt forward. He wasn’t going to be shut out twice tonight. He had to convince her he was Marc.

“No! LuAnn, wait!” He jammed his foot against the closing door. “It’s me! Marc! Don’t do this to me!”

“I don’t know what your game is, buddy, but I’m going to start screaming bloody murder in a minute if you don’t back off right now!”

Doug could see how scared she was. Her lips were white and she was puffing like a locomotive. He had to calm her down.

“Look, Lu,” he said softly. “I don’t unnerstand what’s come over you, but if I, like, step back, will you, like, leave the door open just a crack so we can talk and I can prove I’m Marc? Okay. Ain’t that fair?”

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled his foot free of the door, took the promised step back, and held his hands up, under-arrest style. When he saw LuAnn relax, he started talking. In a low voice, he described how they’d made it last night, the positions they’d used, the hard-core videos she’d insisted on running, even the yellow rose tattooed on her left cheek. But instead of wonder and recognition in her eyes, he saw growing disgust. She was looking at him like he might look at a sink one of the tenants had tried to fix on his own.

“I don’t know what your game is, clown, and I don’t know what Marc’s up to, but you can tell him LuAnn is not amused.”

“But I
am
Marc.”

“You don’t even come close. And get some diction lessons before you try to pull this off again, okay?”

With that she slammed the door. Doug pounded on it.

“LuAnn! Please!”

“I’m calling security right now,” she said through the door. “Beat it!”

Doug beat it. He didn’t want no police problems. No way.

And when he got outside to the street, he felt awfully small, while the city looked awfully, awfully big.

It didn’t seem the least little bit like an oyster.

“What d’ya need, Marc?”
Doug said softly over the bucket once he was home and back in the bathroom.

Something awful had occurred to him on his way home. What if Marc was sick? Or worse yet—dying?

The thought had been a sucker punch to the gut.

“Just lemme know an’ I’ll get it for you. Anything. Anything at all.”

But Marc wasn’t talking. Marc could talk only when Doug was wearing him. So Doug shoved his hand and forearm into the bucket again, deep, all the way to the bottom. He noticed how the goo was even cooler than before. Another bad sign.

“Come on, Marc. Make me say what you need. I’ll hear it and then I’ll get it for you. What d’ya need?”

Nothing. Doug’s lips remained slack, forming not even a syllable. Frustration bubbling into anger, he yanked his arm free, rose to his feet, and smashed his moist fist into the mirror. The glass spider-webbed, slicing up his reflection. His knuckles stung…and bled.

He stared at the crimson puddles forming between his knuckles and dripping into the sink. He turned to look at the bucket.

And had an idea.

“This what y’want?” he said. “Blood? You want my blood? Awright. I’ll give it to you.”

So saying, he jammed his fist back into the bucket and let the blood flow into the goo. When the bottom of the bucket turned red, he withdrew his hand and looked at it. The cuts had stopped bleeding and were almost healed.

Doug tried to stand but felt a little woozy, so he sat on the toilet seat cover and stared into the reddened goo.

Marc wanted blood—
needed
blood. That had to be it. Maybe the goo was some sort of vampire or something. Didn’t matter. If Marc wanted blood, Doug would find it for him. He’d said he’d get anything Marc needed, hadn’t he? Well, he meant it. Problem was…where?

As he watched the goo that was Marc he noticed the red of his blood begin to swirl and coalesce in its depths, flowing to a central point until all the red was concentrated in a single golf ball–sized globule. And then the globule began to rise. As it approached the surface it angled toward the edge of the bucket. It broke the surface next to the lip and spilled its contents over the side. The rejected blood ran down over the metal and puddled stark red against the white bathroom tiles.

A cold bleakness settled in his chest.

“All right. So you don’t want no blood. What
do
you want, man?”

Marc lay silent in his galvanized metal quarters.

“You’re sick, aren’t you? Well, who the hell do I take you to? A vet?”

And then it hit him: Maybe Marc wanted to go home.

Aw, man. No way. He couldn’t let Marc go. Without him, he was nothing.

Which was pretty much what he was now. But maybe…

Slowly, reluctantly, Doug lifted the bucket by its handle and trudged through his apartment, out into the hall, down to the basement. Wet down here again, but the floor drain wasn’t backed up. Not yet, anyway. He knelt by the grate, lifted the bucket—And paused. This was pretty radical. Pouring Marc down the drain…no coming back from that. Once he was back down there it was pretty good odds he was gone for good.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’d come back. Who knew? What choice did Doug have anyway? Maybe Marc just needed to get back to the drain to re-charge his batteries. Maybe he had friends or family down there. Might as well put him back where he came from because he’d didn’t look like he was gonna last too much longer up here.

Doug lifted the grate and tipped the bucket. The goo almost leapt over the side, diving for the opening. It slid through the grate, oozed down the pipe, and splashed when it hit the water in the trap below.

Doug sat down and waited, wishing, hoping, praying for Marc to come bubbling back up the drain and crawl onto his arm again. He didn’t know how long it would take, maybe days, maybe weeks, but he’d keep waiting. What else could he do? Without Marc he’d have to be Doug all the time.

And he didn’t want to be Doug anymore.

The spark for “Foet” flashed in my brain on or about three
A.M.
on November 11, 1990. (I know because I wrote it down on a daily calendar sheet.)

It came as I lay awake after an argument with someone over fur coats. (Such a deal, she’d bought two.) She wasn’t fazed at all that anal electrocution—ramming an electrode through the anus and into the innards, then turning on the current—is the method of choice for killing minks. (Mustn’t mess up the pelts, you know.) Her attitude: Animals are here for our use, to do with as we please. Another woman at the table agreed. My wife, Mary, didn’t want to hear. She was squeezing my thigh under the table as she does when she knows I’m about to ignite. I realized then that you cannot have a serious conversation about the humane treatment of animals when vanity or fashion has hijacked the helm. These folks would never harm a dog or a cat. Yet inform them that a bunch of little animals were broiled alive from the inside to make their coat and they shrug it off because it’s so
beauuuuuutiful
.

I remember thinking that night that they’d probably wear human skin if the fashionistas said it was in vogue.

And thus was “Foet” born. Tom Monteleone picked it up for
Borderlands 2
.

Think of it as a companion piece to “Pelts.”

Denise didn’t mind the
January breeze blowing against her back down Fifth Avenue as she crossed Fifty-seventh Street. Her favorite place in the world was Manhattan, her favorite pastime was shopping, and when she was shopping in midtown—heaven.

At the curb she stopped and turned to stare at the pert blonde who’d just passed. She couldn’t believe it.

“Helene? Helene Ryder, is that you?”

The blonde turned. Her eyes lit with recognition.

“Ohmigod, Denise! Imagine meeting you here! How long has it been?”

They hugged and air kissed.

“Oh, I don’t know. Six months?”

“At least! What are you doing in the city?”

“Just shopping. Accessory hunting.”

“Me, too. Where were you headed?”

“Actually I was looking for a place to get off my feet and have a bite to eat. I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”

“That sounds good.” Helene glanced at her watch. A diamond Piaget, Denise noticed. “It’s tea time at the Waldorf. Why don’t we go there?”

“Wonderful!”

During the bouncy cab ride down Park Avenue, Denise gave Helene a thorough twice-over and was impressed. Her short blond hair was fashionably tousled; her merino wool topcoat, camel’s-hair sweater, and short wool-and-cashmere skirt reeked of Barney’s and Bergdorf’s.

Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.

Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.

Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute—like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump—she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.

And on the subject of pocketbooks, Denise could not take her eyes off Helene’s. Fashioned of soft, silky, golden brown leather that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of the cab, it perfectly offset the colors of her outfit. She wondered if Helene had chosen the bag for the outfit, or the outfit for the bag. She suspected the latter. The bag was exquisite, the stitchwork especially fascinating in its seemingly random joining of odd-sized and odd-shaped pieces. But it was the material itself that drew and captured her attention. She had an urge to reach out and touch it. But she held back.

Later. She’d ask about it during tea.

Sitting here with Helene
on a settee along the wall in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf, sipping tea and nibbling on petits fours from the tray on the table before them, Denise felt as if she were part of the international set. The room whispered exotic accents and strange vowels. Almost every nationality was represented—the Far East most strongly—and everyone was dressed to the nines. The men’s suits were either Armani or Vacca, and a number of the women outshone even Helene. Denise felt almost dowdy.

And still…that handbag of Helene’s, sitting between them on the sofa. She couldn’t escape the urge to caress it, could not keep her eyes off it.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Helene said.

“Hmmm?” Denise felt a flash of embarrassment at being caught staring, and wondered if the envy showed in her eyes. “The bag? Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“I’d be surprised if you had.” Helen pushed it closer. “Take a look.”

Soft.
That was the first thing Denise noticed as she lifted it. The leather was so soft, a mix of silk and down as her fingers brushed over the stitched surface. She cradled it on her lap. It stole her breath.

“Um…very unusual, isn’t it?” she managed after a moment.

“No. Not so unusual. I’ve spotted a few others around the room since we arrived.”

“Really?” Denise had been so entranced by Helene’s bag that the others had gone unnoticed. That wasn’t like her. “Where?”

Helene tilted her head to their left. “Right over there. Two tables down, in the navy blue sweater chemise and matching leggings.”

Denise spotted her. A Japanese woman, holding the bag on the coffee table before her. Hers was black, but the stitching was unmistakable. As Denise scanned the room she noticed another, this one a deep coffee brown. And she noticed something else—they belonged to the most exquisitely dressed women in the room, the ones draped in Helmut Lang and Versace. Among all the beautifully dressed people here in Peacock Alley, the women who stood out, who showed exceptional flair and style in their ensembles, were the ones carrying these bags.

Denise knew in that instant that she had to have one. No matter how much it cost, this was the accessory she’d been looking for, the touch that would set her apart, lift her to a higher fashion plane.

The Japanese woman rose from her table and walked past. She glanced at Denise on her way by. Her gaze dropped to the bag on Denise’s lap and she smiled and nodded. Denise managed to smile back.

What was that? It almost seemed as if the women with these bags had formed some sort of club. If so, Denise wanted to be a member.

Helene smiled knowingly when Denise looked back at her.

“I know what you’re thiiiinkiiiing,” she singsonged.

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh. ‘Where do I get one?’ Right?”

Right. But Denise wasn’t going to admit it. She hated being obvious.

“Actually I was wondering what kind of leather it is.”

A cloud crossed Helene’s face.

“You don’t know?” She paused, then: “It’s foet.”

“
Feet
? Whose feet?” And then Denise realized what Helene had said. “Oh…my…God!”

“Now, Denise—”

Foet!
She’d heard of it but had never thought she’d see it or actually touch it, never
dreamed
Helene would buy any. Her gorge rose.

“I don’t believe it!”

Denise pushed the bag back onto the sofa between them and glared at Helene.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I committed a crime or anything.”

“How could you, Helene?”

“Look at it.” She lifted the bag. “How could I not?”

Denise was captured again by the golden glow of the leather. She felt her indignation begin to melt.

“But it’s human skin!” she said, as much to remind herself of that hideous fact as to drag it out into the open.

“Not human…at least according to the Supreme Court.”

“I don’t care what those old farts say, it’s still human skin!”

Helene shook her head. “
Fetal
skin, Denise. From abortions. And it’s legal. If fetuses were legally human, you couldn’t abort them. So the Supreme Court finally had to rule that their skin could be used.”

“I know all about that, Helene.”

Who didn’t know about
Ranieri v. Verlaine
? The case had sent shock waves around the country. Around the
world!
Denise’s church had formed a group to go down to Washington to protest it. As a matter of fact—

“Helene,
you
were out on Pennsylvania Avenue with me demonstrating against the ruling! How could you—?”

Helene shrugged. “Things change. I’m still antiabortion, but after we moved away from Fairfield and I lost contact with our old church group, I stopped thinking about it. Our new friends aren’t into that sort of stuff and so I, well, just kind of drifted into other things.”

“That’s fine, but how does that drift you into buying something like…” She pointed to the bag and, God help her, she still wanted to run her hands over it. “
This!
”

“I saw one. We went to a reception—some fund-raiser for the homeless, I think—and I met a woman who had one. I fell in love with it immediately. I hemmed and hawed, feeling guilty for wanting it, but finally I went out and bought myself one.” She beamed. “And believe me, I’ve never regretted it.”

“God, Helene.”

“They’re already dead, Denise. I don’t condone abortion any more than you do, but it’s legal and that’s not likely to change. And as long as it stays legal, these poor little things are going to be killed day after day, weeks after week, hundreds and thousands and millions of them. We have no control over that. And buying foet accessories will not change that one way or another. They’re
already dead
.”

Denise couldn’t argue on that point. Yes, they were dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. But…

“But where do they sell this stuff? I’ve never once seen it displayed or even advertised.”

“Oh, it’s in all the better stores, but it’s very discreet. They’re not stupid. Foet may be legal but it’s still controversial. Nobody wants trouble, nobody wants a scene. I mean, can you imagine a horde of the faithful hausfraus from St. Paul’s marching through Bergdorf’s? I mean
really!
”

Denise had to smile. Yes, that would be quite a sight.

“I guess it would be like the fur activists.”

“Even worse.” Helene leaned closer. “You know why those nuts are antifur? Because they’ve never had a fur coat. It’s pure envy with them. But foet? Foet is tied up with motherhood and apple pie. It’s going to take a long time for the masses to get used to foet. So until then, the market will be small and select. Very select.”

Denise nodded.
Select.
Despite all her upbringing, all her beliefs, something within her yearned to be part of that small, select market. And she hated herself for it.

“Is it very expensive?”

Helene nodded. “Especially this shade.” She caressed her bag. “It’s all hand sewn. No two pieces are alike.”

“And where’d you buy yours?”

Helene was staring at her appraisingly. “You’re not thinking of starting any trouble, are you?”

“Oh, no. No, of course not. I just want to look. I’m…curious.”

More of that appraising stare. Denise wanted to hide behind the settee.

“You want one, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not! Maybe it’s morbid on my part, but I’m curious to see what else they’re doing with…foet these days.”

“Very well,” Helene said, and it occurred to Denise that Helene had never said
Very well
when she’d lived in Fairfield. “Go to Blume’s—it’s on Fifth, a little ways up from Gucci’s.”

“I know it.”

“Ask for Rolf. When you see him, tell him you’re interested in some of his better accessories. Remember that: ‘better accessories.’ He’ll know what you’re looking for.”

Denise passed Blume’s three
times, and each time she told herself she’d keep right on walking and find a taxi to take her down to Grand Central for the train back to Fairfield. But something forced her to turn and go back. Just once more. This time she ducked into a slot in the revolving door and swung into the warm, brightly lit interior.

Where was the harm in just looking?

When he appeared, Rolf reminded her of a Rudolf Valentino wannabe—stiletto thin in his black pinstripe suit, with plastered-down black hair and mechanical-pencil mustache. He was a good ten years younger than Denise and barely an inch taller, with delicate, fluttery hands, lively eyes, and a barely audible voice.

He gave Denise a careful up-and-down after she’d spoken the code words, then extended his arm to the right.

“Of course. This way, please.”

He led her to the back of the store, down a narrow corridor, and then through a glass door into a small, indirectly lit showroom. Denise found herself surrounded by glass shelves lined with handbags, belts, even watch bands. All made of foet.

Rolf closed the door behind them.

“The spelling is adapted from the archaic medical term.”

“Really?”

She noticed he didn’t actually say the word:
foetal
.

“Now…what may I show you?”

“May I browse a little?”

“
Mais oui
. Take your time.”

Denise wandered the pair of aisles, inspecting the tiers of shelves and all the varied items they carried. She noticed something: Almost everything was black or very dark.

“The bag my friend showed me was a lighter color.”

“Ah, yes. I’m sorry, but we’re out of white. That goes first, you know.”

“No, this wasn’t white. It was more of a pale, golden brown.”

“Yes. We call that white. After all, it’s made from white hide. It’s relatively rare.”

“‘Hide’?”

He smiled. “Yes. That’s what we call the…material.”

The material
: white fetal skin.

“Do you have any pieces without all the stitching? Something with a smoother look?”

“I’m afraid not. I mean, you must understand, we’re forced by the very nature of the source of the material to work with little pieces.” He gestured around. “Notice too that there are no gloves. None of the manufacturers wants to be accused of making kid gloves.”

Rolf smiled. Denise could only stare at him.

He cleared his throat. “Trade humor.”

Little pieces.

Hide.

Kid gloves.

Suddenly she wanted to run, but she held on. The urge passed.

Rolf lifted a handbag from atop a nearby display case. It was a lighter brown than the others, but still considerably darker than Helene’s.

“A lot of people are going for this shade. It’s reasonably priced. Imported from India.”

“Imported? I’d have thought there’d be plenty to go around just from the U.S.”

He sighed. “There would be if people weren’t so provincial in their attitudes about giving up the hides. The tanneries are offering a good price. I don’t understand some people. Anyway, we have to import from the Third World. India is a great source.”