Alien Nation #3 - Body and Soul (17 page)

He couldn’t believe this. This was like that nightmarish time when he’d been fifteen years old and bought his first box of condoms. Standing there in the drugstore, with the woman behind the counter bellowing all the way to the front of the store, “Hey, Morris! I got a kid here who wants a box of rubbers! I can’t find ’em! Where’ve we got ’em?” And then Sikes had to stand there for five achingly long minutes as every customer passed by and chuckled at him while the woman searched everywhere, through every damned box, saying loudly, “Now where are those rubbers?”

He wondered if it was, by any chance, the same woman who was sitting in front of him now, staring up at him with apparently infinite patience—and infinite willingness to holler her questions repeatedly until she got an answer.

“It’s none of your business,” Sikes said desperately.

“What?”
yelled Mrs. Krik.

“Matt, it’s important,” said Cathy. “In sex, it all has to be precisely timed, and the speed of the penetration is based on the length of—”

“Okay, okay!” said Matt. He glanced behind him. Everybody behind him was shuffling, annoyed at the hold-up.

And just to make it worse, every Newcomer in the mixed couples behind him was a male. Male Newcomers were renowned for their . . . endowments. Matt had never forgotten the time he’d shown George a condom and described its purpose. George had stared at the rolled-up piece of rubber and said, mystified, “And it fits?”

Sikes had unrolled it to its full length and said, “See? It stretches.”

George had taken it from him, studied it, and pulled it to its greatest possible length, and had then repeated, in that same amazed tone, “And it fits?”

Indeed, although Sikes had never really wanted to admit it to himself, one of the things he’d found intimidating about approaching Cathy on a physical level in the first place was her mentally contrasting him to Newcomer males she’d experienced. Who wanted to get himself into a situation where he was virtually guaranteed to suffer in comparison?

And now, here he had to confront it right up front . . . in a room full of people.

He sighed. “Ten inches.”

This drew a derisive snort from the Newcomer behind him, and he muttered something no doubt unflattering in Tenctonese.

But Cathy was now saying with great skepticism, “Matt . . .”

Now there was a thought.

“More or less,” he said defensively.

“Matt,” she said in an admonishing tone.

Mrs. Krik was still staring up at him, her pencil poised above the form.

With a last-ditch effort to preserve what was left of his dignity, Matt leaned forward and whispered directly into Mrs. Krik’s ear. At that range even she could hear him. She wrote down his answer, and then handed him a plastic specimen cup.

“We’ll need a sperm sample,” she said primly.

“What? Right now?”

Mrs. Krik pointed. “That’s the men’s room. You’ll find some magazines in there.”

Matt took the cup and stared at it.

The Newcomer male behind him said something else in Tenctonese that drew some laughter from behind him. In a low voice, Sikes said to Cathy, “What’d he just say?”

For the first time she actually seemed to empathize with Matt’s embarrassment. “He said ‘Maybe he’ll need a bigger cup to accommodate him.’ ”

Matt turned to face the grinning Newcomer male. And then he hooked his jacket open just wide enough to display his gun in its shoulder holster. The Newcomer’s eyes opened wide.

“This big enough for you?” said Sikes in a low voice, too low even for Cathy to hear.

The Newcomer nodded wordlessly.

Pulling the tattered remains of his dignity together, Matt went into the men’s room.

There were several stalls there. One was occupied. He heard some very distinctive sounds coming from within, and knew damned well he wasn’t going to be able to do anything until this guy was done.

He heard a foot slam against the stall door, and a magazine dropped to the floor in a rustle of paper. Sikes concentrated with all his might on combing his hair just so.

A minute later, the stall door opened. A human male, grinning lopsidedly and looking slightly punchy, stepped out. He was holding several porno magazines in his hand, and he tossed them on the counter in front of Sikes. “Here y’go,” he said.

Sikes watched him head toward the door, and then his ever-present sharp detective’s eye noticed something. “Hey. You forgot, your cup.”

The guy turned and looked at him blankly for a moment, and then he understood. “Oh. I don’t have a cup. I’m not with them,” he said, pointing outside. “I just come here for the magazines.”

He sauntered out.

Sikes contemplated arresting the guy, and thereby dodging the whole problem that he was now faced with. Ultimately, though, that would solve nothing. Cathy would just be annoyed with him, and besides, Sikes didn’t want to have to fill out the paperwork on a collar like that.

Maybe he could have George do it . . .

Nah.

Why postpone the inevitable.

As he took the magazine and, feeling thoroughly humiliated, set about to take care of “business,” he hoped that perhaps George was having an easier time patching things up with Susan. Because he knew that, no matter what George was claiming, Susan was, in fact, pissed.

Warily, George Francisco entered his living room.

He did so with the air of someone who felt as if he had to watch for land mines or booby traps. Clutched in one hand like a life preserver was a potted cactus with a red ribbon tied around it. It was Susan’s favorite type of plant.

“Susan . . . I’m home,” he called cautiously.

George wondered if, in coming to his wife with such an obvious attempt at reconciliation, he was going to appear too desperate to patch things up. Would she accept the plant in the spirit with which it was given? Or would she look at him disdainfully and say, “You thought you could make me happy with some potted plant?” He pictured her grabbing it from him and hurling it against the wall . . . or even worse, bouncing it off his head.

Maybe he should call ahead first. Maybe it’d be best if he just backed out the front door while there was still time . . .

Susan emerged from the family room.

She was wearing a black dress that looked as if it had been spray-painted on her. In front of her she was carefully holding a tray on which were balanced a carafe of sour milk and two champagne flutes.

“Hello, George,” she said, in a voice that elevated the room temperature by at least twenty degrees.

George wasn’t falling for it. Not immediately, at any rate. This might still be a setup. The complexity of a woman’s mind knew no bounds. He held up the plant and said, “I brought you a cactus.”

She looked at it as if it had just been handed down by God, accompanied by a heavenly choir and a ten-minute light show. “It’s beautiful,” she sighed. “Set it down and have some sour milk,”

“All right,” he said, allowing himself to feel slightly encouraged. This was certainly a far better reception than he could have possibly imagined. He set the cactus down and stared at the incredibly tight black dress she was wearing. “Is that a new outfit?” he asked.

“Why, yes,” she said.

She set the tray down on the coffee table, and then twirled in place once. George gaped in astonishment as he saw that the dress was cut very low down the back, nearly to the base of the spine. On a human woman, it would have been alluring. On a Newcomer woman, with its open display of the hypersensitive potniki spots, it was the equivalent of a human woman wearing a dress that consisted of simple nylon mesh from neck to crotch, and nothing else.

“Do you like it?” she asked coquettishly.

“I can see almost all your potniki,” George said, trying to keep the amazement from his voice. He couldn’t remember Susan ever being this overt before. Not that she had ever been a—what was the Earth term?—shrinking violet. But even so . . .

Susan approached him, draping her arms around his neck. “Is that so bad?” she asked. “Seeing my spots, I mean.”

“No,” said George, and he felt his blood racing. “Not at all.” Then he paused, taking the plunge. Referring to events best left forgotten might not be the smartest thing under the circumstances, but he still had to clear it up. “Susan, that fight we had last night . . . it was ridiculous.”

“Yes,” she agreed readily.

“Let’s make up.”

Again, she said, “Yes.”

They brought their temples together, sharing in the physical and spiritual enjoyment of their proximity. He started to slip his hand around her waist, but before his fingers could brush against her spots, she pushed him a step back.

It took a moment or two for George to register that she had broken contact. He shook his head slightly, as if to try and toss off a fog. “What?” he asked.

In a voice that was like ice, she asked, “Have you changed your mind about Albert and May?”

George had been so certain that that was a closed issue, that he was completely confused to find it suddenly thrown up in his face again . . . especially as he began to realize with a hideous sinking feeling that he had completely misread the situation. “I thought you’d changed yours?” he said with a bare touch of hopefulness.

This barely optimistic viewpoint was quickly dashed as she said firmly, “Of course I haven’t.”

“Susan,” he said imploringly. His mind and body were in total havoc, one battering against the other. His mind was telling him that it was important to get matters settled. His body was letting him know that the top priority right now was getting Susan into the bedroom so that he could peel her like a grape.

He reached for her, but she pushed him away. “No,” she said firmly.

And then, as if the situation weren’t difficult enough, they heard a thudding down the stairs as Emily trotted into view. “Mom, Dad, I fed the fish, I did my homework, and now I’m going with Jill to the mall.”

George’s mind said,
Good. Now your mother and I can have a satisfying exchange of ideas, without being concerned over raising our voices.

George’s body said,
Good. Now I can rip Susan’s dress off and take her right here on the floor, without being concerned you’ll walk in on us.

And then George saw what Emily was wearing.

And George’s mouth said, “Not like that you’re not.”

She was sporting a dress that, while it wasn’t tight like Susan’s, was nevertheless cut low down the back.

Susan, despite her abrupt cold-shouldering of George, immediately allied with him out of parental sense of presenting a united front. Besides, she wasn’t thrilled either. “Come back here! Where did you get that dress?” she demanded.

“Jill gave it to me,” said Emily, with an injured air. “It was too tight on her, and I liked it. What’s the problem?”

“You’re naked!” said George, waving his hands and feeling like some sitcom father.

“I am not,” retorted Emily.

Susan pointed and said, “Your potniki are showing.”

“So? What about you?”

“For one thing, I’m not marching around a mall. And for another, I’m a grown-up!”

“What difference does that make?” Emily’s hands were on her hips in her best defiant manner.

George spoke as firmly as if he were making an arrest. “Little girls do not go around with their potniki on display.”

“You march back up those stairs and put something on.”

“What?! Mommmmm!!”

“You heard me.”

Emily stomped her foot. “It’s not fair! How can you tell me not to do something when you do it yourself!”

“Because . . . because we’re your parents!” said Susan in exasperation.

She looked to George for backup. George, for his part, knew that morally they were on extremely shaky ground. But there was one thing of which he was completely certain, and he didn’t care a bit about any shadings of gray. “You are not leaving this house,” he said firmly, “until you put something decent on.”

Emily exploded with an infuriated “Ooooohhffff!” and stormed back up the stairs as if hoping that every step would shake the house apart.

Susan and George looked at each other.

Her expression indicated that she was frustrated, exasperated, vulnerable.

George’s mind said,
Say something sensitive. Write off sex for tonight. Concentrate on being a nurturing husband.

George’s body said,
She’s vulnerable. She’s worked up. She’s still in that dress. Make your move. Do it! DO IT!

His body won.

George lifted the carafe and said invitingly, “How about that sour milk now?”

Susan stared at him as if he’d just sprouted a third eye.

“I’m getting out of this stupid dress,” she said. And she marched up the steps, making a stomping noise that was quite similar to the one her daughter had produced mere moments ago.

Rattled and bewildered, George sank down on the floor next to the coffee table.

George’s body said,
She’s upstairs taking the dress off. Now’s your chance!
If—

“Oh, shut up,” said George tiredly. He started to pour himself a stiff shot of sour milk, and then changed his mind and drank it straight from the carafe.

He hoped that Matt was having better luck with his sex class than George was having with his sex life. Maybe, after Matt had finished with the course, George would ask him for some advice on how to handle Newcomer women. Because Matt would be freshly schooled, and George couldn’t imagine that he, George, could be doing worse with his Newcomer woman than he was right now.

The classroom for the Human/Tenctonese sex class was lined with wall charts depicting a variety of interesting things: Human and Newcomer internal sex organs; Newcomer lovemaking positions (back to back, head to head); and the human digestive system.

The sex therapist was a middle-aged Newcomer woman with a general sort of earth mother air about her. She was wearing a loose-fitting brown peasant blouse and a long flowing skirt spread neatly across her lap.

The class was seated in a circle of chairs. There were chairs set up for nine couples—six where the males were Newcomers, and three where the females were the Newcomer partner. There was only one empty chair in the group.