The Caterpillar King (4 page)

“Well, lucky us, the child’s ready,” I say.
“They phoned us with the news. Thought you’d be anxious to see
him.”

“I’ve been at work the last 10 hours,” she
says. “Get him yourself.”

Try my best to look shocked. “Why, I can’t
believe you’d be so heartless,” I say. She doesn’t bite; I take a
different tact. “Besides,” I say, “I’m cooking.” Grab a two-pack
from the freezer, throw it in a pot of boiling water. Galla less
than amused.

“I think I can take care of this,” she says,
pointing to the pot.

“This time, try to leave me a tiny bit,
won’t you?” I say.

“What do you need another one for?” she
says.

Don’t give her the satisfaction of a
response. Instead, turn to leave.

“Enjoy the drive,” she calls out.

Head for the car. Once the sarcasm kicks in,
a marriage is done for. Ours was over before it ever began.

On the road, mind turns to the task at hand.
This makes how many offspring? Six? Seven? Enough to keep me busy.
Galla holds her job over me like a cartoon anvil; I raise the least
objection, she drops it. Not all of us are so fortunate to be born
into wealth. Some of us have to trick others into sharing it.

Galla’s the VP for the third largest earplug
manufacturer in the world. Two guesses as to who the president is.
Exactly, her father. The insufferable bird. Constantly chirping in
Galla’s ear, inviting her to attack me with ultimatums. Why do I
need an income when we’re well off? But resentment has a volcanic
build to it, the simmering, the crescendo, the explosion. She’s
threatened to cut me off if I don’t make my way into the workforce.
Naturally, I’ve found a way around her threats.

As long as a child’s around, I’m safe.
Someone’s
got to watch them, keep them nourished, and so
forth. I take care of the baby, I’m taken care of. Fair trade, I
suppose. If it occasionally means I have to take an unpleasant
drive, so be it. And now that the road flattens out, I spot my
salvation. It takes the form of the incubation clinic.

Building is in two dimensions—length and
width, but no height. Looks like a severely amputated skyscraper.
Walk inside, am greeted by a nurse. Hideous. Hair like a lampshade,
face like a weasel. Half-expect her front teeth to be missing, but
alas.

“Name is Arboss Covington,” I say.

Her smile disappears.

“
You’re
Mr. Covington?”

A familiar musicality in her voice…a hint of
pink fills in her cheeks. Of course! It’s the nurse from the phone
calls, the petite blonde of my dreams. Barely recognizable. Still
much lovelier when angry, though.

“Someone else can deal with this man,” she
says. Stomps off in a huff.

“Promise you’ll phone again soon!” I say.
She pauses, seems to consider an obscene gesture. Decides it would
take too much energy, keeps walking away.

A presence behind me, then a male voice.

“She’s quite emotional.”

Spin around, am looking at a man’s stomach.
Look up, there’s his face, right by the ceiling. Wager there’s
never been a larger human being.

“Yes, well, you know women,” I say.

“So….umm…may I help you, Mr. Covington?”

Realize the great brute’s shy. My God.
Absolutely fascinating.

“Someone seems to think I made a baby. I’m
here for the grand reception. What do you say?”

“Let me check…on…on…on that for you. One
moment.”

The brute goes behind the desk, then into
some back room. I wait, I wait, I wait. Daydream about the hideous
nurse returning. Unzips her skin like a costume, turns out to be
the lovely blonde I’ve always known she was. But the nurse doesn’t
return. Only the brute, a great brown box cradled in his arms.

“Now…umm…Mr. Culverson.”

“Covington,” I say. “With an “ovington.” I
reach out. “The package, please.”

He hands me the box. Bulky thing, but it
hardly weighs in at all. Turn for the door.

“Mr….”

“What? You need me to sign something?
Identification?”

“Your child was here for a week…and that
leads to risks…such as-”

“Yes, the boy’s overstayed his welcome, I
left him here for too long. Don’t remind me.”

“It’s not that…”

“You want money?” I say. “I have money.”

“No, Mr. Covington.” The brute seems to
resign himself. “Have a nice day.”

“Getting better every minute,” I say.

Haul the package to the car. Immediately
regret not asking for help. How does something so light become so
heavy? Continuous pressure can overwhelm any man. Bet the brute
could’ve carried the box out in his palm. Quite rude of him not to
offer. My own behavior was less than graceful, though. Perhaps it
was deserved. Make it to the car and nearly drop the whole thing.
Would’ve been tragic. Open the trunk, the box fits nicely. Moments
later, drive away with my treasure safe and sound.

Ride home seems to take half the time.
Life’s strange that way. Roll into the drive, unload the box. Walk
to the house, muscles screaming in pain. First lift must’ve done me
in.

“Galla! Open the door! For God’s sake
the-”

Door opens and bottom half of wife appears.
Top half is blocked out by the box. It’s a very large box.

“Dear,” I say. “Little help?”

She sighs, grabs the back half.

“This one’s a chunk,” I say.

“Doesn’t weigh a thing,” she says. “You
could’ve brought him around back. Like every other time.”

“No fun at all. Got to show him the living
arrangements. He won’t be seeing these for another dozen years,
after all.”

“If only the same went for you,” she
mumbles.

Want to insult her, but at this point she’s
lifting the entire box. Gratefulness trumps anger. We slow down at
the back door, maneuver so I can turn the handle. Just like that,
we’re outside. She sets the box down. Almost time for the
hanging.

Backyard looks great, if I may say so.
Landscaped it myself. A patch of grass, flower bed here, flower bed
there, and the tree. Tree’s fantastic for its age—only twenty years
old, and about three stories tall. Nearly caught up to the
neighbors’. Ours has a thick base, and low, sturdy branches. What
more could one ask for? Wood even has a nice, sparkling sheen.
Thing cost a fortune, but it was Daddy’s money. Won’t find me
complaining.

Galla unboxes, I get a drink. Feel like I’ve
earned it. Pour a brandy, find a mirror in the kitchen and toast
myself. Oh, you handsome devil. To another decade of freedom! Clink
glass against glass a bit too hard, mirror considers shattering.
Thankfully, it doesn’t. Back outside, Galla’s clearly
struggling.

“Honey,” she says. “Little help?”

She’s on her knees, pulling. One flap of the
lid’s open, but the other half won’t cooperate. Hands clamped
around the edge, knuckles white with tension. Eyes squinted shut.
Looks like she’s on a terrifying roller coaster. Easy to see where
this is going.

“If you keep on like that-” I say.

Before I can finish, the lid pops free.
Galla slams backward, crashes to the ground in a lump.

“That solves that,” I say. “Care for a
drink?”

“Ughhh,” she says.

Galla doesn’t seem to be moving much.
Implication: I’m supposed to take over. Fine with me. Glass of
brandy goes on an outdoor table, and I pull out the box’s contents.
A soft white bag, already nicely cinched, the child (presumably)
inside. A ribbon of cord dangles off the pouch. Sling it over my
shoulder and head for the tree.

At the trunk, run my hand along the tree’s
birthmark. Our birthmark’s round and blue, about the size of a
tennis ball. Smoothed out from all the years of touching, almost
like a polished stone. Hard to imagine a more wonderful setup.
Children need another’s touch to aid development. Wouldn’t want the
child being born as some kind of rabid wolf, after all. Birthmark
provides touch by proxy. Twice a day, I make the long walk to the
backyard, put my hand on the stone, and hold for thirty seconds.
Twelve years later, the child pops out, healthy and complete, and
we ship ‘em out to an apprenticeship the next day. Then it’s on to
the next one. A minute a day keeps Galla at bay.

She appears behind me, sees me communing
with the tree.

“Maybe we just cut off your hand and glue it
there,” she says. “Save you the trouble of leaving the house.”

“Never gets old,” I say.

“What are you waiting for? Finish it up,
then,” she says.

Walk over to the hanging branch, child in
tow. Branch is roughly twice my height, and wonderfully solid. Held
three children at once for a couple years, no problem. But now the
tree is bare. Unacceptable. Could easily reach the branch with a
stool or ladder, but I’m much too lazy. Thank God for the tail.
Whoever invented it should be on the fast-track to canonization.
Take the lump in my hands, feel its soft pulse. Seems fragile, this
one. Tilt it slightly upwards, and then crack the tail like a whip.
It wraps tight around the branch and bonds. Starts to camouflage a
bit, too—the rope hardens, becomes wood-like. My child still in
hand, and now I’m thinking of filth. Swear I’ll be fantasizing
about the priestess at my mother’s funeral. Can’t help myself.

“Looks good,” says Galla.

Well, something here has to. I let go of the
child, the bag bounces softly and then settles. Head back to the
birthmark, hold my hand there for a solid minute. Figure a head
start never hurt anyone. Galla and I are both spent. We go back
towards the house, stop at the patio. Another day’s work complete.
The sun shines, the birds chirp….and the cow moos.

“First decent hanging you’ve done,” she
says.

Too happy to be bothered. A summer breeze
blows in, the bag rotates a bit. Seems to be a dark spot near the
bottom. Hadn’t noticed that before. Step forward, give it a closer
look. Then horror. Absolute horror.

“Galla,” I say.

“Yes?”

“The bag,” I say, pointing. “The bag is
ripped.”

6.

I joke, I tease, I laugh, but in truth, I’d
prefer
not
to have a dead child on my hands. Unfortunately,
it appears I’m well on my way to a first. Galla’s in hysterics, I’m
nearly as bad. We put on a good show, pretending not to care, yet
when faced with the possibility of disaster, we fall to pieces. The
gods called our bluff. Can’t blame ‘em. Fact is, the child means
more to us than we realized.

What to do in case of emergency? We stand
and we watch. As if an indiscreet step might trigger a land mine,
blowing the whole scene to bits. It is not a catastrophe, I remind
myself. Not yet. And then, very quietly, a small, white leg pokes
through the hole in the bag.

“Oh no oh no oh no,” says Galla, like some
kind of brain-damaged parrot.

“Amazing,” I say. “The thing’s almost as
pale as you.”

“You’re
joking
?”

“Well, I could start SCREAMING TO SIGNAL
DISTRESS,” I say. “Lot of good that would do.”

“You’ve
never
taken anything
seriously,” she says. “Never.”

“Not about to start now,” I say.

“If you…” She keeps talking, but I can’t be
bothered to listen.

Back at the tree, the action’s getting good.
The leg seems to be growing by the second. Of course, it’s not. The
thing’s merely revealing more of itself to the world. It kicks
around, looking for solid ground to land on. No such luck. The
child’s a good meter and a half up.

“Don’t just stand around,” says Galla.

“Right,” I say, “That’s your job.”

Absolutely infuriates her. I know how to get
a reaction, no denying that.

“I’ve let you stay here for our entire
married life, fooling around with your “steam art.” I slave away,
you
stand around. So no, this is
not
my job. You
ass.”

Galla’s interrupted by the child. All its
kicking has torn the bag further, carving out a decent-sized hole.
The leg sinks completely out. His bare behind is exposed.
What?
I think.
That’s it?
Felt like a cement block
when I was carrying it a minute ago. Once a little comes out, the
rest follows smoothly. The fall happens in double time. First a
chest, then an arm, then a couple frames are skipped. And suddenly
there is a living creature sitting on our lawn. God knows how much
longer it’ll
stay
living, but I’d rather avoid that
thought.

Galla’s hand finds mine, seems almost
natural. We approach the lump as a united front. It’s not making
any noise, but it has eyes that are popping out of its head.
Strange looking thing. Hair pattern of an old man, face of a
cartoon, eyes of an alien, about the size of a fat little dog.
Seems like a regular fellow who’s been trapped under a very heavy
rock for 100 years. Everything’s been compacted,
miniaturized…including a certain endowment. Still, clearly a
boy.

“Hello there?” I offer.

Galla retreats at the sound of my voice.

“What?” I say. “He’s not going to breathe
fire. Look at the rascal. Pure innocence.”

“We need to get him to the clinic. They’ll
know what to do,” says Galla.

“Let’s not be rash,” I say. “They’ll
probably throw him to the wolves. Easier than caring for a lost
cause like him. Now,” I turn my attention to the boy. “What name
would you like to go by? CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

Child gives me a long, empty look. Then he
bursts into tears.

Galla finally springs into action. “Look
what you did,” she said. “And the neighbors. The neighbors!” Of
course she’s concerned with public image at a time like this.
“We’ll bring him inside,” she says.

“And where do you plan on putting him?” I
ask.

“The bed? The bathroom? Anywhere but here,”
she says.

Have to admit, she’s got a point. She swoops
up the lump, and it quiets down in her arms. Only rational
explanation: the child’s paralyzed with fear. She takes it inside,
I follow.