13: Rhode Island

They called themselves possibilitarians. They squatted in warehouses in Providence. They constructed houseboats out of trash and moored them off the docks.

They rode skateboards down abandoned off-ramps. They organized noise and folk shows in co-op basements. They screen-printed posters. They ate from dumpsters. They loved each other.

They recreated pronouns. They imagined communities. They spoke in slogans. They formed multiplicities.

They said another world was possible. Anything is possible. Everything is possible.

12: North Carolina

“A is for Apple,” D said, “a juicy sensation. They’re grown by NC’s Apple Association.”

Baby George frowned. The book’s black lines and white spaces were drawn over, obscured by each of the brothers and sisters that came before baby George.

Crayon-scrawl in all colors covered a nonsensical picture, a fat man with a flowing cape and leaves for hair, holding some shiny thing and flying through the air.

“Daddy, no apple,” he shook his head as D tousled his hair. “No apple, Daddy.”

“Each apple is a toothsome treat,” D said, singsong, “that every eager eater eats!”

Flipping further through the flimsy pages, yellowed and crumpled, they came to the color-by-numbers for the North Carolina Beef Council. In the foreground a cow drank from a trough, while behind it a black-eyed sun rose over fence, field and forest, smiling like a lion, all furrowed brow, fur, and fangs, poised to devour the cow, and George, and the world. Forgetting his father, he started to cry.

“Go to bed, Georgie,” M said from the doorway.  “Dear, don’t show him that cow.” She took the picture book from him. “That picture’s too scary – he won’t be able to get to sleep now.”

“He’s got to hear about cattle someday,” said D. “Beef is a huge part of agricultural industry.”

“I know that, dear, believe me, I do. But isn’t it clear that he’s too tired for you?”

Just then Fanny and Clara came running. “Help Mommy, Help Daddy, you have to save us! Basil and Desmond are playing slaughterhouse.”

“Kids,” M called, “keep quiet. Hush all that noise.” She shooed them out of the room. “Go turn your lights out and I’ll deal with the boys.”

Later on in the evening, after the last little one was tucked in and the last light was dimmed, M and D lay down together in bed.

M patted her stomach and D smiled. Outside the flowers were blooming. March was for merry-making, early planting, daylight savings. Springtime was time for reproduction.

Nine members of their household, two adults and seven children, a new one every two years, staggered according to a careful plan for husbandry, sow in summer and reap in spring.

Other people thought their lifestyle odd, so they withdrew their kids from school and taught them on their own, crafting a curriculum from the Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Produce was both D’s business and his pleasure, and in 1995 it had brought him and his blushing bride together. She looked so pretty as she pranced across the stage. The pictures of her performance perched on the mantel, placed below the plaque he had won, the “Best in the Nation” award from the National Agricultural Marketing Association.

Quite a lot had changed since then. Nobody wanted to know where there food came from – they’d developed this queer idea that it just materialized in the grocery store freezer. Just a few short years after his triumph, his play was forgotten, his pamphlets replaced, his graphs and graphics redacted, and he quit in disgrace.

Really, the problem was far-reaching, but D took it personally, retreated to writing and recommitted himself to reading his own farming literature to his family.

She helped produce the books – his wife – out of pages he had illustrated. After Amy was born she’d given up on the stage and helping him with his rhyming. He called her Mother Goose with her gaggle of goslings, and she called him her Dr. Seuss sometimes.

They resigned from the PTA when their children left school, and after his departure the AG department stopped answering his calls. It was like they weren’t wanted, that nobody thought they counted. And for the past few years that was true. 

Until yesterday, that is, when an envelope arrived from the Census Bureau.

Very slowly, very carefully, M read the instructions aloud, “Count all people, including babies, who live and sleep here most of the time.” She patted her stomach.

When he was born she’d return the form, she was waiting until she could fill it out completely.

X already marked the spot on under Person 10 for the baby they expected, maybe this week and maybe next. She’d already written in his name and selected his sex. When he was born, M would fill in the last empty birthday box and mail it back.

Yesterday evening at bedtime she read the form aloud in the boys’ room, after tucking Desmond and Ernest in, and explained that the baby was already one of them. “It’s sort of like a videogame,” Desmond said, “an extra life. Sometime you get those from hitting blocks.”

“Zelda is better than government forms,” Basil said, unimpressed. “Let me know when they make Census for the XBOX.”


One day later their baby brother would be born.

Two weeks later he would be taken from them.

Three months later they’d submit their census form.

Four years later they’d still be missing number ten.

Five decades later the family would still gather once a week, D would ask everyone to bow their heads and thank NC for its bounty, for all the beautiful animals, fruits, and vegetables it produced and it took away. “Goodness grows in North Carolina,” he would say.

11: New York

 
This is not a story about New York City. You left that town for good.


Upstate is a big place, it turns out, but then it does pretty much start the moment you cross the Tappan Zee, buildings and people replaced by fields and streams.

For lack of a better idea, you followed the Hudson, swimming upstream like a salmon, and here you are: “The All America City,” Albany.

Your office is on the outskirts of the city, the suburbs. It still feels weird having to say that word.

Your second day here you walked from one end to the other. You got lost looking for a bodega and wound up in a supermarket. You hadn’t seen the inside of one of those in years.

The people around here smile more, and the politicians are more honest about being liars. Nobody reads the New Yorker. There isn’t a decent Chinese place for miles.

It’s been a month now. You have a few clients, a few cases. Domestic stuff, not much.

It’s boring here, but better – you’d been doing the hard-bitten thing for too long.  The City had chewed you to bits, and you figured it was better to be spit out than swallowed up.


Everything went wrong a month and a half ago, the night something happened to the moon. The pattern was pale, so faint you almost swore it wasn’t there, but it was.

That’s when the Chinese women started disappearing, though nobody noticed that either, not at first. “Missing persons,” is what Escobar called them, like maybe they’d all just turn up in some municipal lost and found, like it wasn’t a case of somebodies becoming nobodies – they’d all been nobody all along.

You were still in the city at the time, holed up in your office above Wu’s noodle shop, but it wasn’t any of your business, not until your secretary went missing, not until she walked in.

“The Woman in White.” That was the first thing you thought. Well, the second, after you thought about how the hell she got into your office. Though, to be honest, you weren’t really clear on how you’d gotten to be there, yourself.

You were still wearing yesterday’s suit, you noticed, as you lifted your head off your desk. You dragged your hand down over your stubbly cheeks, breathing out, checking for cheap booze on your breath.

“I’m looking for a woman,” she said. She was beautiful, but you’d read the stories. Beautiful women are always trouble. Always.

“Is it my secretary?” you asked. “Because I was wondering about her, too.” You pressed the button for the intercom and heard the buzzer in the other room.

“It is not a person of this place.” She parted her deep red lips in a waxing crescent smile. Her eyes were black, a void reflected back.

“So they’re from Jersey?” You reached discreetly into your jacket pocket for your gun. It’s best to have your finger on the trigger when you sense a bout of crazy coming on.

She took a picture from her pocket, slid it across the desk. “I am looking for her,” she said.

You picked it up. It was a woman, all right, though the photo was grainy, taken who knows how long ago, when the whole world was black-and-white.

“I don’t suppose you can give me anything else,” you said. “Your name, maybe? Hers?”

You looked at the picture again. The woman in it and the woman in your office looked exactly the same.

She handed you an envelope, red as blood. “Happy new year,” she said.


You look around your office in Albany, at the piles of brown cardboard boxes. The only files you’ve dug out are the Woman in White’s. You haven’t hired a new secretary yet.

She’d given you ten thousand dollars, cash, and walked out before you could turn her down. You never did get her name. You never saw her again.

You call Escobar to see if he’s heard anything, but his partner answers, says something stupid about using the official channels. You never liked that kid.

You had a partner, once. Back when you were still on the force, when you were still looking to save the world.

He was a decent guy – a little burned-out and counting down the days. You’d expected something dramatic, like the movies, but in the end he just retired to California.

Life was like that. Anti-climactic. You stare out your window at the skyline. The buildings are gray against a washed-out sky, dull.

You hum a few bars of Charlie’s favorite song. This is the town that’s right for you.


It was around the time that the Woman in White showed up that the weather went crazy, a blizzard blanketing the entire country, snow falling like dust bunnies drifting down from the moon.

You spent even more time at Wu’s than usual, looking for patterns in your lucky numbers, staring at all the soon-to-be missing faces in the mystifying columns of cheap Chinese newspapers.

The new waitress kept the fortune cookies coming. You didn’t know her name. “I’d like to get you on a slow boat to China,” you sang.

“Sorry?” She said, confusing her Ls and Rs. She didn’t speak English too well.

“Gimme the number 14. Extra MSG.”

“That stuff will kill you, you know,” Charlie said, sidling over, beer in hand.

“Not fast enough.” You cracked another cookie open. “’If you shoot for the stars and hit the moon, it's OK. But you've got to shoot for something,’ Confucius says.”

Charlie snorted. “I think what that’s supposed to say,” she said, “is that if your want to shoot the moon, you better be counting cards.”

She was a pedicab driver. The fastest one in the city, she said. Her name wasn’t really Charlie, but you had to call her something.

“For as long as I can remember,” you said, “there were four women at that table, playing mahjong like it was going out of style.” You pointed to the corner. “And this week they disappeared one by one, falling like dominoes.”

Wu was out of the kitchen for once, talking to the waitress in the back. Mandarin, maybe Cantonese. “What are they saying?” you asked.

Charlie was bobbing her head to some disco song playing on the chintzy jukebox. She didn’t answer, so you asked again. “Forget it, Jack,” she said. “It’s Funkytown.”

She got up to leave, flicked the brim of her cycling cap down. “I love you,” you whispered as she walked away. She didn’t hear you. They never do.

You opened up another fortune cookie. Confucius said: “When a wise man points at the moon, the imbecile examines his finger.” What did he mean by that?


You have two calendars on your office wall in Albany, turned to March and February, 15 black Xs on the one and 14 red Xs on the other.

14 women in two weeks, then it ended just as suddenly as it began.

Your secretary had been number 7. Before her were Wu’s old waitress, two fashion designers, a masseuse, a couple students at NYU.

Number 8 was a translator for the UN; number 9 ran a blog.

10 through 13 were the mahjong ladies. Not even Wu could tell you anything about them. He had just looked at you curiously, and shook his head. “What women?” he’d said.

Number 14 you left blank. You were still hoping she’d come back.

You add them up again, and there’s still one extra character, an imaginary number that doesn’t fit, a name that doesn’t belong.


“How’s it going Charlie?” you asked.  It was late Monday morning, and she was leaning against her pedicab, arms crossed, hat brim turned down over her eyes.

“Excuse me?” The driver looked up, and it wasn’t her. It wasn’t a woman at all.

“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“Let me guess,” he said, and smirked. “We all look the same to you?”

“Give me a break,” you muttered, and started walking toward Wu’s.

“I saw her last night,” he called after you. “I gave her a ride.”

You stopped and he went on. “She was standing right here, looking up, dressed all in white. It was pretty late, and she asked me for a ride. I asked how far, and she told me ‘as far as you can.’ When we stopped, she handed me a hundred dollar bill and left without a word.”

“I went home to get some sleep, and put the money under my pillow, for luck, and when I woke this morning, I took it out,” he paused, and looked at you inscrutably. “But it was ghost money.”

You walked to Wu’s and tried the door, but it was locked tight. You knocked a few times.

You took a drag from your cigarette and tossed it in the gutter, a little white mixed in with the red and black of last night’s firecrackers. The big red lanterns were still hanging up, the banners swayed in the breeze, folds of crimson covered in Chinese.

You were almost at the bodega when you saw it, wheat-pasted to a wall – a picture of The Woman in White, standing on the moon.

“Shit,” you said. “That fucking bitch.”

You ran back to the shop, footfalls echoing in the empty street. The gunshot echoed, too.

You had the office key in your pocket, but your pistol was in your hand, so you had to shoot at something. When you opened the red envelope the pale ashes swirled out like snowflakes, fluttering like fat moths toward the sky.


It’s colder up here in Albany, quieter. The moon reappeared like usual and nobody said a thing.  It was as though nothing had ever happened.

Maybe nothing did. Maybe Escobar was right, for once. Maybe it just didn’t matter. You never knew her in the first place. But who ever really knows anyone?

You’re waiting for your order at another Chinese place, looking at the calendar hanging on the wall. It isn’t a square, but a circle. There are no numbers on it at all.

You peer at it, disoriented. The years spin around and around, rising and setting like the moon and sun.

The files are splayed across your office desk. A quick web search turns up the connection you’ve been looking for. You’d been looking at the wrong calendar all along.

You crack open a fortune cookie. “Ignorance is the night of the mind,” Confucius says, “but a night without moon or star.”

You close the files, put them back in the bottom drawer. You don’t want to read them again. This is not a story about New York City. Not anymore.

10: Virginia

Dear RW,

I was very pleased to hear of Frank’s success at VMI last semester. It was hard sending him off for the first time, and I’m glad that his training commenced without a hitch.

You should have seen his face when we loaded him onto the bus – he looked so alive. I could see the spark of life in his eyes, like he knew was headed off on some grand voyage of discovery. I almost didn’t want to let him go – I couldn’t believe this was the same boy I’d brought into the world what seemed like only months ago – but I knew the benefits of his labors with you would be inestimable. I did the best I could to mold him in our image, but you’re going to make a real man out of him.

It’s some program you’re running there. I looked over the outline you sent me with Frank’s file. I know you’ve refined your approach since the last time, and while your curriculum is ambitious, to say the least, I’m confident he’s up to it. We share the same vision, you and I.

Things are humming along here on the Potomac, though the recent weather did shut down the lab for a couple of days. I hope to be able to send my next boy off to you this fall, according to schedule. Keep me posted on Frank’s progress until then.

Best of luck in your undertakings,

Victor


Dear RW,

I know what you mean. Of course the SOP had to change after the incident at VPI (it took us almost two years to regroup!), and now that Renegade is POTUS, we’ve all got to play our cards even closer to our chests. Can you believe it’s been over six years since we started this? How quickly the time has passed.

It was easier under 43 – nobody was counting the KIAs as they came in. Now we have this uppity rag from SF poking around at Arlington. We’ve replaced our man there. The numbers are slowing down, though – we’re hoping the new push in SWA will help, but we may have to line up a new source. That’s not your problem, of course, so don’t worry – I’ll keep them coming, one way or another.

I must say time is crawling without Frank around. Maybe it’s all this frost and snow – I hate to think that I’m just being sentimental. But, I have come to think of him as a kind of son. Perhaps that isn’t so unnatural.

Really, though, I think what I’m missing is someone who really shares my enthusiasm for this project. I know OPSEC demands otherwise, but it was easier when we were working on this together, side by side – these emails are a poor substitute for those times. 

My hands are trembling as I type this. I marked off the last black day on our OPTEMPO calendar this morning. We’re on the edge of the unknown, the unexplored. We’ve never made it this far before.

How soon will I hear from you again? What kind of news will your next email bring? I won’t wish you luck – we’re beyond that now. I am confident in our success.

Your brother in arms,

Victor


RW,

I was shocked to read about today’s tragedy online. It was awful. All of our work, ruined again. I’ve been taking a lot of fire here. I don’t see how we can recover from this.

I’m writing this note in haste – I’m due to deliver a SITREP to the Pentagon ASAP. Hopefully 44 hasn’t caught wind of our involvement yet.

V


Dear RW,

I thought we were done for, but it looks like last week’s incident had a silver lining after all. The DOD was impressed by Frank’s efficiency, at least, and is willing to stick with the project until the personality kinks are worked out.

I’ve decided to call our new boy “Adam.” The lab approves – Mary is eager to make a fresh start, too. I’m feeling positive about this one.

It’s strange. Just yesterday it seemed like our situation was hopeless, and today the mists have cleared and we’re making rapid progress again. You’re doing a heck of a job down there. Keep it up, and soon it’ll be “mission accomplished.”

This week has been difficult, but when we look back from the future, who knows how we’ll feel about it? Some people may say we’ve played God or created a monster, but I think Adam is destined for greatness. This is the future of warfare. I think history will be sympathetic to us.

Yours,

Victor

9: New Hampshire

He knew poetry was a problem once he couldn’t pass the plums in the produce section without mouthing: “sweet” and “cold;” when every time he heard: “they taste good,” he would add: “to her.”

He hoped it would be better in Connecticut, but winter came. Soon he shielded his eyes from sun-glinting snow-crusted pines, blocked the bare wind from his ears.

He moved to New Hampshire the next year, after apple picking, after the frost, after the fall. The air was raw, the rough earth frozen, the dark deep lovely woods asleep.

He longs to sleep as well.

But first: unmend the walls, scatter the stones, let skitter mountainsides then amend the poems: break lines, rend words and make an end of metaphor: let the old man lie.