Nocturnal Emissions (8 page)

He panted red-faced and sweaty-haired by the side of the field, Clare hovering over him as Coach Chandler left them alone together to go address some other dilemma. Dylan had had to be taken out of the game for flopping down on his back in the middle of the field and shouting obscenities, much to Clare’s chagrin, though she tried to countenance that display and the pain in her leg with calm and composure.

“Honey, this is supposed to be fun,” she told him.

“No fun no fun chase sterile egg we don’t like soccer.”

“Well
we
don’t like your attitude, young man. You’ve got to have more patience.”

The boy snapped his eyes to hers, suddenly looking less distracted than he had before. “Who is
we?
Are you our queen?”

“Now honey,” she sighed with irritation in her tone, reserved for times when no one else could hear and think she might be losing control, “you know I’m your mom. I told you, don’t let those pests talk for you. You have to work on that.”

“You call us prince your prince so you are our queen!” he whined, growing more agitated. Clare flinched, expecting another kick, but his shoe scuffed at the asphalt instead.

“Okay, okay, I’m your queen.” She took his hand and began walking him away toward the parking lot briskly, looking over to give a little shrug to Coach Chandler as if it didn’t ruffle her much, though it secretly irked her that other kids continued to run and play behind her, their parents no doubt glowing with pride—when not twisting their hands in their laps with dread that their child’s meltdown would come next. “Let’s just get home now so I can start thinking about dinner.”

“We want queen take us to king Burger King!”

“Whatever,” she sighed.

By the time they reached the rows of vehicles, however, her embarrassment was easing up already. Dragging him to their SUV had been like carrying a splintered cross upon her shoulders, while keeping her back as straight as possible, no sweat marring her expensively casual sweatshirt and jeans. Her poise counterbalanced her son’s chaos. Parents watching her retreat would feel less sorry for her than praiseful of her personal dignity. She epitomized the order that their children—their society—needed to get through all this.

««—»»

At last, Clare thought she had found something Dylan could take part in that would improve his social interaction, or at least upon which he could concentrate some of his turbulent energy. She was encouraged by the new class she was trying out on Wednesday nights, over in the city of
Worcester
. The class was called the Hive Moms, and the program they sponsored was called the Hive Chorus. The group’s approach was to confront and direct their children’s malady by “fighting hive mind with hive mind.”

“These worms aren’t going to claim our kids,” Hive Moms’ founder, Paula, would say, her own twin girls having been infested. “It’s time to take our kids back and show these things who’s really in charge.”

It seemed that many host-kids liked to sing, and could sustain their attention throughout not only the course of a song, but a whole concert of songs.

Apparently the parasites liked it, found it soothing when a group of children invaded with them bonded to a united purpose in such a way. It was a kind of harmony, as soothing to the moms as to the parasites they were in competition against.

A reporter from a Boston-based newspaper was in attendance at tonight’s concert in the auditorium of Dylan’s school, an event Clare had helped Paula organize. Clare heard the reporter ask Paula, “But might this kind of program be as beneficial to the parasites as it is to the kids? Obviously they’re getting something out of it themselves, since the host-kids take to singing so much.”

“Well,” Paula replied, unfazed, “even if that’s the case, that still works for us, because while we are determined that our kids’ identities won’t be eclipsed, and determined to evict these pests someday, in the meantime we have to deal with what we’ve got, and it’s undeniable that the worms are integrated in their minds. So if that’s the situation, and we can’t oust the worms at this point, then we at least have to help our kids live with them. And that means not only directing our children’s minds constructively, but directing the worms’ minds constructively along with them.”

Clare smiled. She couldn’t have said it better.

That night the children didn’t speak in tongues, but sang in the voices of angels. Clare clasped her hands together in pride as she watched them, and swept her gaze across the delighted (and relieved) faces of the audience. For the closing songs—Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings” and Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All”—the whole group of kids sang together, the stage filled with their little bodies and the air above their heads golden with their music. So many host-kids, and yet this was only one room in one town in this whole big country. For a moment, seeing the mass of their bodies clustered like one huge organism, Clare had a shuddering moment when she reflected that this was essentially a generation, and was thus the possible future of humanity. But she quickly brightened. With the help of devoted parents like herself, at least this generation would possess some kind of structure and order.

The applause was thunderous. Clare had tears in her eyes. Proud of Dylan.

Proud of herself. She felt a sense of vindication.

Even her ex-husband Gary, his new wife with her cutely rounded belly beside him as if they rode together in cramped airplane seats, looked over at Clare and smiled, nodded. She felt even more vindicated, and smiled back, trying not to feel smug. (So unbecoming.)

Thank God she had found the Hive Moms! They were definitely the best group she had tried yet. There was even one mom, Leslie, who had introduced Clare to a cosmetic surgeon who promised to minimize some of the scarring on Dylan’s head. Leslie had used the surgeon to reduce the Down’s Syndrome look of her own son. A son with Down’s Syndrome and a daughter with the parasite! Leslie was an inspiration; all the Hive Moms were. Their motto had become a chant, their chant the droning buzz of their own determined hive mind. And that motto was: if you can not conquer, endure.

After the concert, Gary and his pet wife met Clare and Dylan in the parking lot to congratulate them.
Gary
hugged his son, and absent-mindedly brushed at the smear of mucus on his jacket afterwards. “Great job, champ, great job!”

“We thank you,” Dylan said to him. He then reached out to touch his stepmom’s belly but she jerked back a little.

Bitch,
Clare thought, indulging herself tonight with one sugary spoonful of undignified nastiness.

The cars began pulling away, dispersing toward their respective homes.

Clare was one of the last to go, after having stayed to say goodnight to most of the other parents, basking in her satisfaction at having helped set up tonight’s show. Dylan was fairly patient throughout this but at last she had to buckle his squirming body into the seat beside her and drive off in her own SUV.“I was so, so proud of you tonight, honey. Thank you so much.”

“It is for you.”

“Huh?” She looked over at him as she drove. “No, honey, it’s for you. This is all to help you, not me.”

In the vehicle’s murky interior, his narrow black eyes glittered a bit dis-concertingly. For that moment he appeared not only to be of a different race, but of a different species; something from another world or branch of evolution. His bristly black hair stirred, and she realized one of the parasites had extended far enough from the corner of his eye to twine up behind his ear and into his hair as if to camouflage itself there. It poked up a bit more, like a periscope.

“We love you love you worm-queen.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet. I love you, too, Dylan.” The eerie moment had passed and she reached over briefly to stroke his mucus-smudged cheek.

“No,” Dylan replied, “no—you love
us
. Queen loves all us
all
us.”

“Okay, okay,” she sighed, facing forward as she navigated through the center of town. “I love all of you.” Encourage him—them—with whatever worked. As Paula had told the reporter, “that means not only directing our children’s minds constructively, but directing the worms’minds constructively along with them.”

Dylan leaned as far over as his seatbelt would allow, so as to rest his head against her arm. She was very touched by this affection, but shivered for a second as she felt a slithering damp caress along her elbow.

“Sit up now, honey, we’re almost home,” she told him.

Endure, she thought, smiling tightly into the night. Endure.

Channel 3:

the pool

of tears

8/3/02

Hello, daughter of mine.

I like to remind you of the fact, from time to time, as I’ve heard wild and I hope unfounded rumors that you suspect I’ve forgotten I have a daughter. I have not, nor could I forget. I don’t want to say anything negative about your mother, but I can only pray — I fear, in vain—that she doesn’t speak only with negativity about me. Not to absolve myself of all the sins of the father—and husband. Sometimes, however, I think your mother might have preferred that I had spent my time not hunting beasties that may not exist, but stalking lovely creatures of an all too tangible nature…spending money on drinks and hotel rooms rather than flights to Mexico and Vietnam’s “Lost World”. I think your mother began to see the Chupacabra as the “other woman”, and though I am a bit of an old goat these days, I am not consorting with any “goat suckers.”

A father can make rude jokes like that to a daughter who will soon turn eighteen, too soon metamorphose into a woman.

Enough. I fear I might alienate you. Besides, there is the thrilling matter of the monster I must relate. I know that you once shared my enthusiasm for monsters. I would dedicate ALL my books to you, as Nabokov did to his Vera…if I could ever sell even a second beasties book. Maybe the first will have to suffice. I hope that despite the sad times that have yawned like a terrible chasm between us over the past few years, that you can still share some measure of my excitement. That you haven’t come to disdain my Quixotic adventures as your mother has. Sometimes, Maria, the windmills really ARE
giants.

I’m not sure if you heard I had gone to
Maine
, or if you’ve heard of the monster on the news at all. There was a small bit on CNN last night. Even with physical evidence, astounding evidence, the press has made light of the matter thus far. In any case, it’s ironic after my travels all about this great rock that a beastie should wash up on
Sand
Beach
, of all places, in our lovely, lovely
Acadia
National Park
that you so loved as a girl.

Mike Finney—do you remember him? marine biologist? invited me with him to Newfoundland when an architeuthis washed up?—is the one who gave me the call, after he’d gotten the summons to come look at this carcass that some tourists found on Sand Beach after a storm. I drove right up to
Maine
that night and got there at eight in the morning, went straight to the College of the
Atlantic
, where they’d moved the mass the day before.

Before he unveiled the thing to me, Mike showed me digital photos and a video he took of the carcass in situ. It was an indistinct blob, to put it simply, coiled up in wrack and beginning to decompose. He told me the stink was terrible. There were no gulls, no crabs going at its flesh, which strikes me as odd.

The photos reminded me superficially of those taken in 1896 of that colossal octopus beached in
St. Augustine
,
Florida
—a vague, but undoubtedly organic
“globster”.

Mike told me that the theories were flying thick and furious when he got there from Woods Hole. Giant sea cucumber (some can grow to nearly seven feet, you know!). Giant octopus. Giant squid. Giant conga eel. Rotting whale.

Rotting shark. But Mike knows his rotting flotsam and jetsam, and he told me with a very unscientific grin, like a little boy on Christmas morning, that this blob was nothing like any of those things.

And then he showed it to me.

It stank. The locals had that much right. And it was indeed about seven feet in length, with a rather segmented body, giving the general appearance of a huge, fat worm or slug. My mind went racing, along with my heart. You can imagine how I felt, Maria, can’t you? Here, my brain gushed, is the Loch Ness Monster’s cousin, at last! Here is the source of the Sea Serpent, Olaus Magnus’

Soe Orm…the Moby-Dick of every half-demented cryptozoologist like your dear old Dad. Reeking, deteriorating, but solid, corporeal, irrefutable flesh!

The thing is greenish in color. There are fifteen segments, I would say; I’ll have to verify that. On one end, and in the middle of the body, there are about seven pairs of small nubs. These, also, are segmented…and can only be legs, suggesting a creature that dwells on the bottom of the ocean, and which with its soft body would decompose down there where no trace of it would survive to wash ashore intact, under normal conditions.

Most amazing of all…most bizarre…is the thing’s head. Again, the body is decaying, and the animal’s features are somewhat unclear, but it has the most uncanny appearance! There are mandibles (as I assume), one above the other, and similar to the legs, which suggest a protruding human nose and chin. The thing’s mouth, a horizontal slit with lips, so help me, rests between the two protuberances. And the
eyes
…

You’ve heard me say how advanced, how sophisticated, are the eyes of squid, on so primitive an animal? My dear, these eyes are even more remarkable. I could almost imagine that someone had removed them from a human being, and grafted them onto this worm-like creature.

If you are free, I would urge you to come and share in your Dad’s adventure. It isn’t so terribly far. Well, yes, it’s about an eight hour drive, but still…you remember the way to
Bar Harbor
, don’t you? This is a remarkable find, Maria. At last, at long last, I have more than just plaster casts. Vague bits of hair and feces. Blurred photos, raspy recordings. This is a monster, daughter of mine. It is a sphinx, a griffin, a unicorn, as amorphous as it is. It is, in fact, the very
embodiment
of my life long dream.

Call me on my cell phone. Tell me you’re coming. I’d love to see you, despite those unfounded rumors.

– Dad.

««—»»

To: Villa, Maria

From: Villa, Abraham

Subject: Synchronicity

Date: Sunday, 4 August 2002, 4:05 PM

You may get this email before you receive my letter of yesterday. So reading it out of context may be confusing to say the least, but I couldn’t wait to tell you of the latest development. When you get my letter, you’ll be able to piece my enthused ramblings together…

Today, Mike Finney and I went beach-combing, so to speak, along
Sand
Beach
in the area where the worm was discovered. Hoping to find some smaller remnants of the thing. It began pouring, like that time I hope you still recall when you and I walked along the same beach, cringing under one umbrella, and it was raining so hard that you joked (a little nervously, I’m sure) the ocean would swell and drown us. I said it was like Alice, who nearly drowned herself in her own tears because she had wept them when she was nine feet tall. Your favorite bedtime story. I remember, my love. I can still recite bits of it by heart. I know I’m embarrassing you. I know you’re rolling your eyes. Your cursor hovering toward the DELETE button. You must wait.

You must listen…

In the surf, half buried in a great clump of black kelp, Mike discovered what I took to be a lamp at first. Part metal, part crystal. Battered by the ocean.

And like some indistinct animal itself, it had a kind of long tentacle growing out of its side.

It was a hose, Maria. Mike said he saw one of these devices in
Istanbul
, once, where they have bars for such things if you can believe it.

It’s a hookah.

Do you understand what I’m saying? No, you mustn’t. You’ll know better when you read my letter. When you read about what I now think of as a caterpillar.Mike doesn’t suspect a connection between the hookah and the beached carcass. Nor do I—in a literal sense. But I believe in synchronicity. In an intri-cate cosmic web that others write off as coincidence…however lacking I am in your mother’s brand of faith.

Reading back this last bit makes me fidget in my seat. Maybe there is no significance. No doubt I am only projecting a personal meaning on these two finds. How can I hope to understand the doings (mindless or otherwise) of the universe when I can’t even understand myself, half the time? Do you recall what
Alice
said?

‘I can’t explain
myself
, I’m afraid, sir’said
Alice
, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’

She said that to the caterpillar.

But
Alice
was shrunken. The caterpillar was only three inches tall. Not seven feet long, like mine.

You’ll think I’m losing it. You’ll tell your mother, “Dad thinks he’s seen the Dover Demon again. He thinks he has the hair of the Florida Skunk Ape in his hand.”

Enough synchronicity. Enough of the mysteries of the cosmos. I’ll stick with the flesh that I can feel, that I can smell. If only you would come and see this thing.

Please…don’t think it was I who was smoking that hookah. :-) I love you. Truly, my
Alice
.

– Dad.

««—»»

To: Villa, Maria

From: Villa, Abraham

Subject: The MothraMan Prophecies

Date: Saturday, 19 August 2002, 5:12 PM

Maybe I have the wrong email address for you, Maria, though my message wasn’t bounced back, per se, so I imagine you haven’t checked your box, or are too busy to reply. But I thought I would update you. By now, I’m sure you must have received the letter I sent you last week.

With others at the College of the Atlantic, Mike Finney has definitely identified the creature found in
Acadia
as an insect. Specifically, as an imma-ture Lepidoptera.

That’s butterfly, to the layman.

The press has nicknamed the thing Mothra. Have you seen it on TV yet?

Any butterfly that could develop from such a caterpillar would not possibly be able to support itself in the air. Mike says the thing can not actually be what it seems, is only distantly related to such. But here it is, on its slab before us. With its two human eyes in place of the six stemmata, or eyespots, a caterpillar should have. And those curious lips, curiouser and curiouser, that I can secretly imagine closing around the mouthpiece of a hookah.

Give me an email, my dear. A postcard. Call and yell at me if you like! I deserve it. I welcome it. Or come. Please come. See that Dad was not charging windmills after all. I miss you, my favorite of all monsters.

– Dad.

««—»»

To: Villa, Maria

From: Villa, Abraham

Subject: Crying in my cups

Date: Sunday, 18 August 2002, 1:08 AM

I’ve been drinking tonight, so I shouldn’t send you this message through the ether like so much telepathy, so much ectoplasm. So little sense. Yes, I still drink. Your mother will be disgusted, or perhaps pleased that her suspicions are confirmed. Feel free to tell her. I don’t ask you to keep secrets from her.

Once you listened to me avidly, hung on every word I read from
Alice
, the Oz books, and even from my own obscure scribblings. But now I see you in my mind as turned toward the wall. Or already fallen asleep. Or not even in the bed at all. I’m reading to myself. Talking to myself. Well…if I am…so be it. It still comforts me to pretend. You lost interest in the stories, Maria, as you grew, grew and grew like
Alice
, and as we grew apart. But I still have them with me. As if someday I might read them to you one last time. Or for the first time, to a child of yours. I live for that, my darling. I would trade a Sasquatch fur coat for that, little
Alice
.

I won’t beg, implore, beseech any more. It embarrasses us both. If you wanted to contact me, you would. When you’re ready to, you will.