Fishbowl (24 page)

“Hello,” comes a call, so close, separated only by an inch of bedroom door. “It’s the superintendent here to fix up the leaking sink.”

He’s a good man, Garth thinks. He works so hard to keep this place operating. He fights the battle daily, unnoticed and unappreciated, a struggle every waking hour just to keep things the same. He sees the dirty underbelly of the building, wrestles with its shorting electrical wiring, its overflowing toilets, and its plugged sinks. He sees the ugly underside so the residents didn’t have to, and he still manages to give everyone a passing smile.

And he’s whistling some song. The last few faint bars filter through the bedroom door, something familiar yet unknown to Garth.

He’s a good man and I’m going to tell him so, Garth decides as the song ends and a single, low whistle comes from the other side of the door. I’ll tell him so, but not without the proper footwear.

Garth snatches a shoe from the bed beside him. In his haste, the straps become entangled, and while he has a good grip on the one shoe, the other swings with it, dangling precariously before falling to the floor. It lands on the carpet with a muffled thud. Garth stops breathing. He freezes, all muscles contracting in fear and his mind scolding his clumsiness.

How could he not hear that? Even through the door it must have been audible.

Sure enough, the super calls out again.

“Hello? It’s the super here to fix up the leaking sink.”

Now is the time, Garth thinks. He stands, shoe still in hand, and strides the three steps toward the bedroom door. He reaches for the handle and then stops with his hand on the doorknob. Clanking and banging sounds come from the kitchen. Jimenez has moved on to the task at hand.

Garth realizes he’s holding his breath. He slowly lets it out. His hand falls from the doorknob, slowly too, as if deflating with the exhalation.

Garth returns to sit on the bed. He leans forward and slips his foot into the shoe he had been holding. It fits beautifully, and as he buckles the strap into place, he can’t help but embrace the shoe in both hands for a second. There is power here. Everything fits and everything feels perfect. There’s no danger here, no shame, he realizes. He retrieves the other shoe from where it had fallen and dons it like a piece of armor.

There’s nothing here but me, he thinks. This is me.

He stands again and puffs up his chest a bit. He smooths the fabric by running flat hands from chest to knees. He fastens the crepe drape as a scarf. He will not dampen the impact of the gown by using it as a midriff sash, even though Floria designed the gown so it could be used as such. He takes one manly stride toward the door, then another, his pace building speed and his mind building confidence with each step. The two-inch heels are easy to maneuver in, easy to swagger in, much more manageable than the ostentatious four-inchers he had ordered the first time.

Subtlety always wins out.

I’m as tough as that woman that Danny pointed out at the construction site, Garth thinks. The one who walked past on the other side of the chain-link fence. The chain-link fence wasn’t there to protect her from me and Danny; it was the opposite. Or Faye, the one from the stairwell who had been so strong and seemingly lost in love. Garth pitied her boyfriend. He was no match for her. Most men didn’t know what to do with that beauty, that innate righteousness. That which is flowing now through me.

Garth flings the bedroom door open and crosses the short distance to the kitchen. He is the most stunning man ever to put on a dress, and he’s going to thank the man who performs the thankless tasks that keep this building humming along every day. He’s going to acknowledge him and demand to be acknowledged in return.

He hears Jimenez mumbling to himself.

As Garth rounds the corner of the cabinetry, he sees Jimenez sitting cross-legged with his head under the sink. It is both clich
é
and a truth that Garth’s eyes are drawn first to the crack, exposed through the gap where his shirt has lifted and his pants have dropped. And, like a burly, hairy man in a dress has to accept, Garth thinks it is wonderfully endearing and uniquely human to simply be how one has to be.

And this is how it will be, he thinks, right now.

“
Gracias por arreglar el lavamanos
,” Garth says, his voice rolling smooth and deep.

Jimenez jumps and bangs his head on the underside of the sink. He backs out and sits on the linoleum, his flashlight on the floor under one knee. A wrench in one hand and the other rubbing the back of his head.

“
No hay de qu
é
,” Jimenez says, then looks up at Garth.

42

In Which Petunia Delilah Reminisces About How She and Danny Fell in Love During the Zombie Apocalypse

Petunia Delilah drags the boy into the apartment by his leg. He’s dead weight, a limp and gangly burden of boy who thankfully doesn’t weigh too much. She lets go when he’s past the doorjamb, then takes two more steps and leans against the wall. She can’t help but let out a squeal as a contraction ripples through her body, and when it has passed, she slides down the wall to the linoleum. That position is uncomfortable, so she jiggles and shifts until she lies flat on her back. The floor is cool against her skin; the feeling through her sweat-soaked nightgown is a relief because she feels like every inch of her flesh is on fire.

Claire tries to close the door, but it jams halfway when it bumps against the side of the boy’s head. He mumbles and his eyes roll under his eyelids. She uses the toe of her fuzzy slipper to ease his head out of the way and quickly closes the door. Claire raises trembling fingers and locks the dead bolt before sliding the chain back into place.

Petunia Delilah crooks her neck and watches the woman look down at the boy crammed, his limbs loose like a marionette’s, in the corner near her closet. He’s breathing slowly, and his features are pacified by unconsciousness. She envies him his peace in light of the confusion and panic she feels. She wishes she could be unconscious through this. Then Claire spins to look at her lying on her floor, beside the island.

“What can I do?” Claire asks. Her face is sheer terror, and her words are fast and quavering with apprehension. “What can I do to help?”

“Call Kimmy,” Petunia Delilah says. “My midwife.”

Claire hops over the boy and dashes to the kitchen. She takes the long way around to ensure she maintains the maximum distance from Petunia Delilah. She snatches the headset from beside the computer and puts it on. Petunia Delilah recites the numbers, and she types them into the calling program.

Over the whoosh of blood pulsing in her ears, Petunia Delilah hears Claire ask for Kimmy. She says a few other things too, but Petunia Delilah can’t concentrate. A sharp, piercing pain strikes her stiff, and a ringing blots all other sounds from her ears. She lets out a guttural wail and, as it fades, is aware of Claire by her side, not touching her but holding her hands near her shoulder and her forehead as if she really means to.

“Kimmy isn’t home,” Claire says. “Mel said she went to the market and won’t be back for an hour or so. Mel said Kimmy doesn’t have a cell phone. She says Kimmy thinks that they cause brain cancer. Who doesn’t have a cell phone? Especially in this day and—”

“Call my boyfriend,” Petunia Delilah gasps through clenched teeth. “Call Danny.”

She’s sweating profusely. She feels it cascading down her face and tastes the salt on her lips. She needs to hear Danny, needs to hear his voice say that it will all work out. She needs him with her, holding her hand and rubbing her back. Then, once this is all over, when there’s a beautiful little baby in her arms, she needs him to get her a fucking ice cream sandwich.

“Call him now.” She grunts out the numbers, and Claire leaves her side to dial them into the computer.

“Here,” Claire says after a few seconds of touching her finger to the earpiece. She puts the headset on Petunia Delilah. “It’s ringing.”

Petunia Delilah needs Danny’s voice. She needs his love, and she needs him here. She needs to hear those words that make her fall in love with him every time he talks. He always has almost the right thing to say. She thinks it so sweet, his talent for getting so close to saying the right thing all the time.

The phone rings.

Petunia Delilah loves it when he says those almost romantic things. Like after their first date: He had taken her to a movie and was so embarrassed when he realized he had forgotten his wallet and she had to pay for the tickets. He was even more embarrassed when she had to pay for his popcorn and soda at the concession as well. After watching that movie, the one in which the undead overran the world, he said, “Baby, if it were just you and me to survive the zombie apocalypse and we were trapped in a sporting goods store and they were breaking down the door and busting through the windows to eat us alive and we had a gun with just one bullet left, I would use that last bullet on you.”

It was so sweet. She knew they belonged together.

The phone rings.

And that’s just how he is, all the time. He would save her from suffering the ravenous horde of undead and die by gruesome disemboweling in her stead. With his last breaths, he would rather watch creatures eat his own entrails than let her suffer for a second. But in that particular case, Petunia Delilah had reasoned, the sporting goods store would probably have more ammunition at the hunting counter that they could use, so it was an unnecessary act of chivalry.

But that’s just how he is, passionate to the point of being illogical. That is how his love works, and it belongs to her. Petunia Delilah didn’t want to ruin the moment by pointing out there would probably be lots of ammo around.

The phone rings.

And Danny always has something almost romantic to whisper in her ear or tell her when they snuggle in bed. Like, “Baby, of all the women I’ve had in this bed, you’re the most beautiful. Ever,” he told her. “Of all of them.”

He’d say things like, “I like how you are so soft and squishy all over, way nicer than those skinny girls,” and, “That new haircut is so hot, it makes you look ten years younger. It makes me want to do you right now.”

Petunia Delilah is only twenty-six, but she didn’t think it an odd thing for him to say. She knew what he meant to say but didn’t seem capable. He would say all these things with a smile, his eyebrows raised and his head nodding as if he were giving her a gift and he was so excited to see her open it.

There’s a burst of noise on the other end of the line.

Danny shouts, “Hello?”

“Danny, the baby’s coming,” Petunia Delilah says.

“What?” Danny’s voice is drowned out by loud music and noise from a crowded space. “Who’s this?”

“Danny, the baby’s coming,” Petunia Delilah shouts into the mouthpiece.

“What? No.” Danny’s voice rises with excitement. “Yes. Holy shit. I’m having a baby,” he shouts. There were some drunken cheers in response. “I’m having a baby.” More cheers, this time from a larger group of people.

“Danny,” Petunia Delilah says into the receiver. “Danny,” she says louder when there is no response.

“Yeah, baby? The guys are really excited too.” He laughs. “They say I have to buy them a round.”

“Danny, you aren’t having a baby. I am. Right now. On a floor in some lady’s apartment. Apartment 805.”

“Holy shit. Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way right now,” Danny says. “I just ordered another beer, but I’ll chug it. And I’ll get my burger to go. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hangs up.

The boy lets out a moan from where he lies. He wriggles a bit, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn’t move for a few moments but then slowly rolls onto his side. His body convulses with a retch, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Slowly, he pushes himself to a seated position, gags once more, and starts huffing deep breaths into his lungs. After a few moments, he looks around with bleary, uncomprehending eyes.

Petunia Delilah clenches again and lets out a harsh growl.

“We need help,” Claire says to her. “Real help. Now.”

Claire makes to snatch the headset from Petunia Delilah but stops short when she sees it tangled in her sweaty hair. She glances at how close the mouthpiece is to Petunia Delilah’s mouth and a look of revulsion spreads across her face. Claire runs back to the kitchen and picks up the receiver from her personal phone.

“I’m calling 911,” she says.

43

In Which Claire the Shut-In Works Hard to Deliver Petunia Delilah’s Baby

Claire punches 911 on the phone. She watches Petunia Delilah writhe through another contraction on the floor. The leg projecting from between her legs wriggles a bit, and the two humps of the baby’s bum protrude from her vagina. The boy near the door kneels with his hands on his thighs and his elbows locked. His head hangs low toward his lap, and Claire thinks how she absolutely couldn’t stand it if he threw up on her floor.

“911,” a man’s voice comes through the receiver. “Where’s your emergency?”

“8111 Roxy Drive,” Claire says. “It’s the Seville on Roxy. Apartment 805.”

“Okay.” There’s a moment filled with the sound of typing. “What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“We need an ambulance. There’s a woman giving birth on my floor,” Claire says.

“Okay, please stay on the line with me,” the man says. “An ambulance is being dispatched.” The sound of more typing comes through the line. “Their ETA is four and a half minutes.”

Petunia Delilah screams. The veins on her neck stand out, and her skin flushes a sweaty purple as she pushes. The baby’s hips appear between her legs. One leg is still folded up inside her, and the other lies on the floor. The boy in the doorway jumps at the noise and then again at the scene in front of him. He quickly looks away and brings his forehead to rest against the door, his eyes clamped tightly, the skin wrinkled at the corners with tension.

“I don’t know if we can wait that long,” Claire says. “It’s already coming out. There’s a leg and a butt hanging out.”

“A leg and a butt?” the operator asks.

“Yes. A leg and a butt.”