Idolon (9 page)

Nadice felt queasy. The trip to Dockton had left her shaken. So had lack of food. The shelter stopped serving at seven and she'd been forced to go to the Tandoori Express down the street.

Surely a solid meal would help. But standing in line, her guts recoiled at the aroma of warm chicken, chutney, and curried rice.

She clutched her plate, certain she was going to vomit on the elderly woman in line in front of her. The woman hunched over the buffet, oblivious, neck and shoulders curled by osteoporosis.

Nadice tried to tell herself the nausea would pass in a couple of minutes. She was tired, exhausted, that was all. It had been a long day. Stressful. She just needed a minute or two for her nerves to settle.

She eased out of line, made her way to an empty table, and cradled her head in her hands. The nausea abated some, enough for her to take a few tentative sporkfuls of curry. But the queasiness lurked at the bottom of her throat, and after a moment she pushed the plate aside.

It was more than nerves or not enough to eat. Tne 'skin was beginning to tox her. Under the ceiling lights, it looked poisonously dull and cloudy. She had been planning to take the inhibitor after the trip to Dockton. But with the ware still in her, she had to wait. Another day or two, Mateus had said. She wasn't sure she could hang on that long. She stared at the bamboo-patterned floor tile, unable to look at the frenzied ad clips that kept appearing on the veneer of the table. "lET
—
fashioning the fuuture." "Vurtronic ... so real it's reel." "Snap Dragon Karate, where open hands lead to open hearts."

"Mind if I join you?"

Nadice looked up. A man stood across the table from her. He wore black jeans, a faded denim shirt, had a neatly trimmed goatee and a shaved head. His eyes were a quiet blue, swirling with specks of white like the flurries in a snow globe. Her gaze slid to his hands, tucked into the pockets of his pants.

''I've already eaten," he explained. He removed his hands from his pockets, as if to prove he had nothing to hide.

Nadice offered a vague nod, which the man seemed to interpret as an invitation to join her.

"Jeremy," he said.

"Nadice."

They shook. His hand was warm and dry, and didn't linger too long. She noticed his nails were philmed the same pacific blue as his eyes. For some reason it didn't bother her. Perhaps because she was too exhausted to feel anything but sick.

"I saw you at the shelter," he said.

Was he hitting on her? She couldn't tell. He seemed more curious than anything.

He nodded at her half-finished plate. "Didn't care for what they were serving up back at the cafeteria?"

"Not really." No way she was going to get into where she'd been and why.

He nodded sympathetically. "It can take a little getting used to. Especially if it's your first time."

He seemed to know a lot about her, more than she was comfortable with. Her left knee bounced under the edge of the table. "I guess."

"I assume you've met Sister Giselle."

"We talked, yeah."

He placed his elbows on the table and threaded hands together. "What do you think of her?"

"She seems nice enough and all"

"'Yes."

She got the feeling he was prompting her, expecting her to say more. "For a nun, I mean. I don't really know her."

"Of course not. Let's hope it stays that way." Nadice blinked, uncertain what he was implying. "Don't get me wrong. It's a great place. Clean, and well run. But you don't want to get stuck here long term."

"No."

"All I'm saying"
—
he leaned closer, lowering his voice
—
"she's not the only game in town. You have other options."

She shook her head numbly, feeling stupid, confused. She was missing something.

"I can help you," he said. "With the baby."

"I'm not
—
"

"You're not the first to end up here," he continnued. "Believe me. That's why I'm talking to you."

"I'm fine." Nadice smoothed her thighs with flat- tened palms. "I can take care of myself."

"I know you can." He spread his hands, as if conceding the point "Otherwise you wouldn't have found your way to the shelter."

"You don't know anything about it." Or me, she thought.

"I know it won't be easy. You'll need prenatal scans. Help with delivery. Drugs."

His bluntness unnerved her. She didn't feel mennaced ... in danger, or anything
—
just out of sorts, nudged from her center of gravity. "What're you saying?"

"If you're under contract, I can buy it out. If you need protection, no problem. If necessary, I can even arrange to have you naturalized."

And in return ... "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

The flurries continued to swirl in his eyes, gently, patiently. "Your baby is special. Wouldn't you agree?"

She said nothing. What did he expect her to say?  Still, he didn't seem to be patronizing her. The question wasn't entirely rhetorical.

"I have reason to believe that your baby might be unique," he went on. "A miracle one might say. I want to make sure that miracle is given the best posssible chance at life."

In a sickening rush, it came to her. He wanted her to sell her baby, or give it up for adoption.

"No," she said, pushing her chair back, away from him.

"You can't have the baby here," he said. "Where will you go? Whatever company you work for will pressure you to abort. So that's not an option. The father? If there is one, he isn't an option, either. Am I right? If there isn't one ... " His voice trailed off, but his gaze didn't falter. It blanketed her, enfolding her.

He knew. Somehow, he could tell there was no father. That she had conceived on her own.

"Think about it," he said. "That's all I ask." He reached across the table, took one hand, and pressed something into it, curling her fingers around the little object.

"You're not alone," he said, standing. "There are others just like you. Remember that."

And then he was gone. Nadice unfolded her sweaty hand. A polymer-coated combead the size and color of a pomegranate seed nestled in her palm.

Her head spun. When he said there were other  women like her, did he mean other virgin pregnancies? If so, how many? Where? What was happening?
How
was it happening? The questions somersaulted inside her, leaving her motion sick and confused.

"Damn TVs," someone said loudly, pointedly.

Nadice jerked her head up. She'd been staring blankly at her bowl.

Two men stood at the far end of the table. Each held a bowl of soup and a package of crackers. They looked like temporary guest workers in their jeans and steel-toed Timbo boots, but underneath they were pure crunk.

"Fuckin' waveheads. In here ridin' dick. Knowmsayin? Bumpin' off at the mouth an kissin ass."

"Fasho."

They didn't look in her direction. But they seemed to be talking to her as much as each other.

"I can't believe they let 'em in here. He comes back slangin' that shit, I'm a gonna get off in
his
shit."

His companion nodded as the two sat. "Bet. I gotcha, bruh."

"Things are gonna get crucial around here. No way that motherfuck is gonna hull this place."

A Transcendental Vibrationist. That was who'd sat down with her. All of the TVs she'd ever seen wore robes. This one had been different, polite, not pushy. Still ...

She looked af the bead in her hand, then stood and pushed her chair from the table. As she passed a trash can, she paused, her hand near the opening.

She was doing fine. She didn't need any more help. She was safe. She had Sister Giselle and the other social workers to protect her. There was no reaason to go anyplace else. Plus, the TV's interest in her baby seemed odd, unnatural. And yet he'd known there was no father. And he had treated her with reespect. Not like a freak.

"You gonna pick your ass crack all day?"

Nadice flinched as a six- or seven-year-old boy prodded her in the back of the thigh with a spork. The bead slipped from her hand.

"Leave her alone," the small girl with him said. She sniffed, and rubbed her mucus-glazed nose with the back of her hand.

The boy ignored his younger sister, keeping his attention fixed on Nadice. "What's the matter? You a 'tard or somethin'?"

Nadice listened to the bead skitter across the floor
—
tick ... tick ... tick
—
then fall silent.

A sign? The bead had come to a rest in the corner, lodged in a grimy crack in the floor. Pick it up? No, she decided. It wasn't worth it. She'd find the answers to all the questions she had someplace else.

_______

Nadice woke to muted shouting. Faint ... down the hall somewhere. She imagined one of the elderly residents wandering the floor, confused and afraid, in an Alzheimer's-fueled panic.

The commotion grew louder. Not only that, it was headed her way. She sat up on her futon. Moonlight sifted through the window closest to her, projecting a grid of bleary lines on the far wall. Soft, stirring noises came from the other side of the partition, stifled whispers thick with anxiety, followed by hushed reassurances. At some point during Nadice's absence, a family had replaced the old woman who had shared the room with her.

Intermittent words punctuated the disturbance, urgent and sweaty:

" ... know you're here ... "

The voice sounded familiar. No, she thought wildly. It wasn't possible. Not here.

" ... room ... every one if I have to ... "

Mateus. He sounded drunk, angry. How had he found her? How had he gotten into the shelter? Nadice thought about the crunkheads in the fastfood buffet. Coincidence? It didn't seem likely.

" ... goddamnit ... where are you? ... "

She couldn't tell where his voice was coming from. It caromed off the walls, like a reflection in a room full of fun-house mirrors.

Where was Sister Giselle ... the night staff? Someone must be on duty. Surely they had called the police.

A door banged open and someone screamed. There was a brief scuffle, then a thud shook the walls.

Nadice felt the shudder reverberate inside her. She rose, placing a hand against the fabric of the acoustic partition to steady herself. On the other side, the man comforted his wife, rocking her, stroking her hair.

"It's okay," he soothed. "There's nothing to be afraid of. We're safe. It's not him. Trust me."

She couldn't stay here. She had to leave. She made her way to the door, slowly at first, then more quickly. Gripping the knob tightly, she steeled herrself, then turned the handle and peeked out.

Mateus stood across the hallway to her left, next to an open door less than ten meters away. He was flanked by the two crunkheads. They formed a loose circle around a man who sat slumped against the wall. A woman wrapped in a pink nightgown hudddled in the doorway, sniffling.

"Shut the fuck up!" Mateus shouted, discharging flecks of pink-colored spit under the muted LED hall lights.

The woman flinched but continued to whimper. "Leave her alone," Nadice said. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind her.

Mateus turned. " 'Bout time."

"What do you want?"

He nodded at the crunks and walked toward her.

"Let's go."

"Where?"

His breath stank of cheap wine. "Wherever the fuck I" say." He caught her by the arm.

"I need my stuff," she said, stalling.

"Forget it." His fingers pressed into her biceps. "We'll get you new stuff."

Several more doors on the floor had opened. Out of the corner of her eye, people emerged, some sleep-addled, others irritated, belligerent. They coalesced into a smob of sorts in the middle of the hall.

A stocky, thickset Japanese man stepped forward. "Is there a problem?" He wore black drawstring baggies, a black leather jacket, and a green turban. In his right hand he carried a flute made out of a sawed-off length of white PVC pipe.

"No problem," Mateus said. "Go back to sleep."

"What's going on?" Nadice asked. She kept her voice reasonable and composed, trying to instill some measure of calm into the situation.

He slapped her, his open hand catching the side of her head. She winced, resisting the urge to touch the welt left by one of his rings.

"Keep' it down, " someone in back shouted.

"Yeah," another voice said. "Take it outside."

Nadice dry swallowed. Her tongue felt anesthetized. "All right," she said, hoping to buy time. If she dragged her feet ...

She allowed him to guide her down the stairs. The crunkheads trailed several steps after them, interpossing themselves between Mateus and the smob. More people had gathered on the first floor. No police or private security. What was taking them so long?