Reptile House Page 14

  At night, the Blue Nevus moved over his body. From the biceps to the shoulder was the usual. But sometimes the Blue Nevus moved in the ear and crossed to the other shoulder. The Blue Nevus roved him.

  Roger Cotton roved the house, which was an average wood house. He cleaned the mirrors. He called Martha and left a message. He cleaned the ice trays. He roved again, entering and exiting the rooms of the house through various hatches with knobs.

  “They are doors,” Roger Cotton said. “These hatches are only doors.”

  He pulled the doors closed behind him by way of the knobs. He climbed the stairs that were covered with carpet and silent in slippers. In the second floor ceiling, one door pulled down with a loop on a string and a staircase lowered. It was an average wood stairway. It was narrow and steep.

  “It is only a stairway,” said Roger Cotton holding the stairway.

  He climbed up the stairway to the attic. “It is only an attic,” he said and sat in the dusty rocking chair by a pair of skis.

  From the rocking chair, he scanned the moons and planets for their peculiar movements through a small paned window. He set the skis across his knees as a tippy writing table.

  Roger Cotton rubbed his arm. He looked through the glass at the black sky: if this was not the rocking chair in the attic but the commander’s chair of the Omaha Control Capsule Simulator, for example, the capsule exit hatch would, of course, sit just up between those rafters. The exit hatch would open by way of a loop on string and a staircase would lower: a steel amalgam weighing no more than regulation: twenty kilos. In such a case, Roger Cotton would climb up the second stairway to the Gypsy VIII Observation Deck, the real one, not some Nebraska simulation. Kesley Starr would be there setting up her experiments, she was so diligent. On the Observation Deck, the rows of oscilloscopes would line up and whine, scanning for white giants and red dwarfs in the bay windows in the nose of the craft, which would, in such a case, most likely be tethered to the proboscis of the newest, most colossal orbiting dock tower. How wonderful. A batch of asteroids would fly by.

  “Perfectly Beautiful,” Roger Cotton wrote in the crew log, a dusty book from the floor. He watched the sky for additional facts. Check.

  If so.

  Dead-center in the dome of the Observation Deck would sit the sky-exit hatch made of thinnest ultrapress, the latest. Roger Cotton’s ancestors had been tall people and he set the crew log and the skis aside and stood. He went to the old oak armoire in the corner of the attic for his suit. As always, his fingers found the suit in the dark by way of the old leather and ruff at the collar. How his fingers loved skin and fur. Roger Cotton pulled on the old suit: one arm then the other arm. The arms were snug. The arms were too short, his ancestors had been thin-armed, short-armed people, though tall. The skirts of the suit hung to the floor. He secured the button at his collar and the sash, velvet, the silver epaulets on the shoulder, fringe. Check. Ready?

  “Affirmative. Over.”

  He sat back down in the rocking chair. He reset the skis. He reopened the crew log on the leather and farthest buttons.

  If so, if so.

  After forty-five-second decompression, the sky-exit hatch would open by way of a loop on string and a staircase would lower, polished steelene. Roger Cotton would climb up the staircase in his spacesuit for a prescheduled spacewalk. He would have been preassigned by the higher ups for a human-only assessment and level B checklist. He would bounce up the staircase. Happy. Check.

  “I’m ascending to the sky-exit hatch. Over.”

  He would squeeze out the hatch with his harness and O2 tether dragging, and secure the hatch with the knuckle peg. Glide out. Swim out. Float out, Roger Cotton. Check.

  “Spacewalk commencement underway. Over.”

  “We have you on the screen. Over.”

  Roger Cotton turned to a new page in the log. The further instructions:

  Turn about and see:

  (1) noting peculiar pulsars present, check.

  (2) noting errant nevi lingering and loitering, check.

  (3) initiating and confirming daily waste ejection procedure. Activating shoulder joint assembly, check. The shoulder socket unscrews, check. The flanges expand from the biceps and releases, check, check. The arm is jettisoned, check.

  “The Blue Nevus is jettisoned. Over.”

  “Roger that, Commander. Over.”

  The skis fell and frightened the cat. The rocker nearly crushed its tail, but no, the tail flew through to safety: just barely, though such factors as regulation guidelines and feline appendages often corresponded by coincidence with critical but unrelated other factors, a particularly vulnerable moment in the case history, for example, some crushing other moment, and cannot be discounted ever, if sequence and consequence are to be uniquely understood.

  From the rocking chair, Roger Cotton requested a private transmission to Omaha: “Martha, I want to be with you. Over.” It was forever unclear if Martha received the message. Solar storms were at their zenith that night, always a nuisance in that season, causing catastrophic radio interferences all around the star system.

  The morning after the Alonzo Turner’s Celebration of Life, Roger called Dr. Frankincense. The Physician’s Pavilion was downtown. The receptionist on the phone said she could squeeze Roger Cotton in at one. Could he make that time slot? She had a cloying, sycophantic, disgusting voice.

  “Yes, I can,” Roger Cotton said.

  Next, Roger Cotton called Roy’s Service to check on his car and left a message.

  The doctor’s pen was tied to a clipboard with a string. A hole was cut in the glass for the receptionist to talk through. This pen practice was so common as to seem trite. Roger Cotton signed in.

  This receptionist was mostly likely a former patient. She had a sizable strawberry scar on one side of her face. It was the color of boiling jam.

  “Staring is rude,” the receptionist said.

  Roger Cotton slid the clipboard through the hole in the glass then sat down in an orange plastic chair. This receptionist was stamping files, thud thud, noises like a heavy animal walking from a swampy area into dark leaning trees. The cavemen could smell such a beast from five miles. The prehistorical wind would carry the scent of game that far while the hungry caveman’s olfactory glands were pristine, untarnished by the abuses of modern chemistry, and second to none. The caveman sharpened his spear. He walked across the savanna, through tall grasses, crossed the cold river up to his shins smelling the blood of his prey. He plunged up the hill, which warmed his blood.

  “Staring is very rude,” said the receptionist. She snapped a blue-green bubble at Roger Cotton, like a monster in an old story.

  Once upon a time the orange plastic chair was tangerine. It was hard and his legs slipped. Roger Cotton read about the meteor protests in Omaha and at other major centers, Honolulu, Houston, and Akron, where threats had become actual, delivered in mock meteor bombs. Roger Cotton moved to another plastic chair.

  “The doctor will see you now,” said the nurse at the door.

  Roger stood and set down the magazine.

  Kelsey Starr’s dissertation at Cal Poly made waves in academia. “Gravity: Newton’s Miscalculation” was understood by almost no one in Lennox except her father, a physics professor at the university. It’s true, Jason Starr was old school. He did quibble over her details and several conclusions. They did argue at the kitchen table but Jason Starr was proud. When Kelsey made Gypsy VI, he passed the Newton paper around amongst his circle: men of the Lennox Science Academy Board, university science department heads, and other select people.

  Other copies of the Newton paper did, somehow, get out to the public and circulate. It was public record, after all, and people were fascinated by the new Lennox star in all her variety.

  “I didn’t get past the first sentence,” said most average readers in Lennox coffee shops and Laundromats.

  Roger Cotton found his copy on the bench at the Y. He understood every word and had no quibbles w
hatsoever.

  “Not one quibble? Not a single quibble? No, no because Roger Cotton doesn’t quibble.”

  “Stop it, Martha, don’t.”

  “Roger won’t quibble.”

  “Martha, give it back.”

  Dear Kelsey,

  Thanks for the check-in. Europe sounds wonderful. I’m well though I have some sad problems right now you might understand. I don’t want to burden you, but I have a request.

  National Space Agency Code of Conduct

  1. Respect and Dignity

  2. Infractions

  3. Violations

  4. Penalties

  “I can’t live with this arm,” Roger said to Dr. Frankincense.

  “As I’ve said, Blue Nevi are harmless,” said the doctor. “I have one myself.”

  The doctor tapped his knee. He spoke exactly like an American, brave-sounding, articulate, and confident.

  “I want it off,” said Roger. “That’s all. I must have it off. I’m losing sleep over it.”

  The doctor buzzed the nurse who rolled in a tray of tools.

  “I hope it’s not too late,” Roger Cotton added.

  The nurse prepared the Blue Nevus with a cotton ball. She gave an injection at an angle near its mouth, a long needle and only briefly painful. The nurse and Dr. Frankincense wore masks, gloves, and lights on their heads. The goggles were huge and clean. The scalpel slipped in. The blade cut an oblong ring around the Blue Nevus.

  “There is nothing to worry about,” said Dr. Frankincense.

  There was very little blood. The gloved hands were swift and neat. The nurse handed in tweezers and a tiny tool that worked like a spatula.

  “My wife is in Omaha now,” said Roger Cotton. “She could not get away for my procedure.”

  “It’s really and truly unnecessary,” said the doctor. The needle crossed with black thread trailing. The skin sucked shut. In the end, the Blue Nevus sat on the gauze on the tray in its own yellow ooze. The doctor snapped off his gloves and exited.

  “I dislike doctors,” said Roger to the nurse when the door shut.

  “No one likes to come to the doctor,” she muttered. She had braces on her teeth that affected her pronunciation. She was pretty in a plain way, like most people, when she smiled.

  “What will they do with my Blue Nevus now?”

  “They’ll send it to Kansas City to the medical incinerator.”

  “But I’d like it to do some good,” said Roger. “After all this trouble and misery. Maybe something memorable.”

  “Incineration is the rule,” the nurse said.

  “I’d like my Blue Nevus to serve science somehow,” he said. He followed the nurse and the rolling tray into the hall.

  “I know what you mean,” she said and touched his good arm. “No laboratories are studying Blue Nevi at this time. They are not significant.” She pushed the cart away.

  At the glass box, Roger Cotton showed his Health Card to the receptionist.

  “Sign here,” she said and he signed.

  “We will see you on the thirteenth, Mr. Cotton,” she said, not unfriendly now, and wrote out a card with the date. She gave him the card through the hole in the glass. He might have exited then. Instead Roger Cotton bent his mouth to the hole in the glass.

  “You are the ugliest person I’ve ever seen,” he said to her.

  That night, the Blue Nevus stitches itched and burned. He tried not to scratch them, as Martha always said not to. But in the end he disobeyed her. He pulled the gauze off. He scratched. In the dark under the covers it was soothing at first.

  He dabbed cream on the stitches in the bathroom. In the tool room he found a fresh straight-edge pack and cut a wider ring around the stitches. In the hall mirror, he excised the blue tissue the doctor had missed. It was a painful procedure, but life is painful. At the end of the procedure, the stitches floated like a black island in a capillary sea. He stored the Blue Nevus excess in a silver amulet of Navajo design, one of his favorite of the collection. He set the amulet in the basement freezer.

  Roy’s Service sat between the new dump and an out-of-business modern dance studio at what was then the outskirts of Lennox. Martha had gone to high school with Roy. That was the only connection. Since their marriage, no one had touched Roger and Martha’s car but Roy. Roy’s shop was on the bus route.

  “WE FIX ANYTHING” was painted on the belly of an old-style cement truck. It stood on a rotating platform at the center of the yard. Junkers were clustered under the cement truck like ducklings. The belly turned counterclockwise one rotation hourly while the platform rotated hourly clockwise, each 8760 rotations per year, assuming no malfunctions. The cement truck was a famous Lennox landmark.

  Roy’s shop was open-air in summer. Tools of every kind were in plain view to passersby or from the bus: drills, presses, power-hammers and welders and the universe of saws: hack saws, wet saws, circular saws, duplicating saws, jig saws were all there for the taking. Lennox was a trusting town. Kelsey Starr kept her Phoenix Speedster under a canvas tarp at Roy’s. Roy kept it tuned and ready for when Kelsey was home.

  “Your car’s not finished yet,” said Roy to Roger Cotton in his greasy voice. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag. “It has a mysterious problem. What’s wrong with your arm?”

  “Just a sprain,” said Roger and he lifted the sling. “I’m off work right now.”

  “Oh,” said Roy. “Hi to Martha.”

  Roger Cotton took the bus home. His arm throbbed. He set the sling on the bus sill. The window was cracked and wind cooled the sling. Lennox flew by. These nights, when the route was ended, Roger got off at the station at midnight. He walked home from streetlight to streetlight. He sometimes stood in the dark cusps between the streetlights and went missing from the universe.

  Weeks passed.

  While on sick leave, Roger took the intercity bus to Omaha that departed three times daily. Tickets at the zoo were priced so that anyone could go. The motto of the zoo was “Animals Are For Everyone!” There was a sliding scale. The bus and zoo had a promotional partnership. The bus lurched at stops, yes, but there was no reason to have a car.

  The ride took three hours. On the way, Roger Cotton called Martha and left a message. He collected and sorted the coupons printed on the old bus tickets found on the floor. Some were found under the seats and in the men’s room in the station. A free bag of animal crackers was often offered but for some animals only, the petting zoo, for example, with the camels at your own risk. The parrots at the entrance were given so many they were never hungry. Roger Cotton looked for her there at every cage. The monkeys licked themselves and others. The lions licked themselves and others. The zebras licked themselves and others. Roger loved the savanna best, an acre and a quarter, the biggest in the Midwest, old prairie grass reseeded. From the gift shop window he watched the protesters who were truly everywhere with their pickets and sit-ins. They stomped and sang. He thought of joining and lighting a candle to a dead baby elephant they’d stuffed and mounted on the protest flatbed. It was parked in the loading zone.

  The perforations on the coupons were often pristine. At home, Roger Cotton kept the perfect perforations in a pile by the flour jar until the expiration dates. After two months, Roy sold the car for parts since the vehicle could not be fixed. He sent Roger Cotton the money in the mail. Upon receipt of the check, which said WE FIX ANYTHING at the top center, Roger climbed up into the attic, sat in the rocker, and wrote in the crew log: Up yours, Roy Martin, you grease-fingered Liar, you foul-toothed Ape, what a Charlatan you are. Mr. Genius: so you do Trig in your head? Can you feed the Starving on the Starving continents? Water the Droughted? Wive the wifeless? Since ANYTHING means EVERYTHING, Roy. May the Hair-Lipped children hunt you. May the Amputees roast you on a slow turning Spit. Ten thousand turns. Baste you in oil from your Second-Rate Drums.

  Roger Cotton was not satisfied with the work, but dated the entry.

  “Hello, this is Roger Cotton. I need an appointment to see
the doctor as soon as possible. I’m having some issues with my hands.”

  When Roger Cotton arrived home each night, he raked the bushes and brambles behind his house. Because there was no fence. Because there were no horses to eat the leaves. He arranged the leaves in patterns for Martha.

  Blue

  Blue Nevus

  Blue Nevus Blue Nevus

  Then the wind blew the pyramid away. Days passed that seemed like weeks.

  “I need to show this hand to the doctor,” Roger Cotton said to the receptionist. The hand was wrapped in gauze and taped.

  “He’s with a patient,” said the receptionist.

  “This concerns him,” said Roger Cotton. “This situation is relevant to his future.”

  The receptionist buzzed the nurse who unwrapped the gauze and saw the stump of the pinkie and buzzed the doctor. The doctor entered and closed the door.

  “Please sit down,” Roger Cotton said. The doctor sat. Roger Cotton gave the doctor the hand.

  “What have you done?” said the doctor. “You’ve butchered your finger.”

  “It had Blue Nevus spreading everywhere,” said Roger Cotton holding the stump. “I value my fingers, yes, of course, but I want to live.”

  Roger Cotton rolled the tool cart closer.

  “The Blue Nevus is spreading.”

  “I think you should talk to someone,” said the doctor.

  Roger Cotton twisted off the iodine cap with his good hand.

  “I took the bus here,” said Roger Cotton. “I don’t have all day.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” said the doctor under the wall of diplomas. “I’m not afraid of you, sir.”

  That night, Roger raked leaves with his good arm. He held a powerful flashlight under the sling. The woods were thick as he cleared the leaves away from under and between and within the branches of the shrubs. The shrubs moved deeper in the unending woods. Roger throbbed in the sling. The woods smelled of clove or cinnamon.