Tribes (7 page)

You see, evolution had chosen not to continue her parents' genetic line. Her father had lazy sperm—they apparently preferred lounging about watching hockey. Her parents had cheated their biological destiny.

I watched Elissa, extremely happy that she had been able to become a living organism.

"Try these on," she said. A flashy red-and-green blur struck my chest. I closed my arms too late. "Nice catch!"

I looked down at a pair of large, baggy unisex shorts, designed to cover the knees.

"Get me a shirt, too, Miss Fashionoski," I said.

"As you command, Perky." She disappeared into the closet.

I slipped the shorts over my pants. They fit: two flamingo pillowcases on toothpick legs. A large oval mirror hung on the opposite wall. I examined
Australo-Percy-ithecus
in the shorts. I smiled. Elissa was one of the few who could make me feel truly happy.

Elissa. And Willard.

Will.

Willard was smallish and squat. Puberty had been cruel to him, planting an acne minefield under his face. He had a big smile, a high-pitched hyena laugh and a cowlick at the back of his hair that bobbed when he walked.

Once, the three of us went to a
Planet of the Apes
film festival. Grunting like simians, we monkey-walked to a nearby café and consumed several banana splits. Giddy with the sugar high, I told them my heart's dream was to be an anthropologist. To search for lost tribes in the jungle. Will said, "That's awesome!"

A year later he told me he loved Marcia Grady. That she was so beautiful he nearly wept when he saw her. It was one of our last conversations.

An ache the size of the La Brea Tar Pits filled me. He had been my friend. We'd shared secrets. Understood each other. And now I hardly remembered him. My brain was haphazardly erasing experiences, changing them.

Elissa emerged from the closet holding two shirts: bright yellow and a rainbow of colors. "Why'd you put the shorts on over your pants?"

"I couldn't very well undress in front of you."

She rolled her eyes. "I had my back turned. You worried I might see your Mickey Mouse briefs?"

"I—I'd never wear that commercialized rodent on my shorts!"

"Touched a nerve, did I?" She looked me over. "They fit, at least. Here, try this." She handed me the rainbow shirt, good camouflage if I had to hide in a parrot cage. "No, take off your T-shirt. Wear this one with a few buttons loose to show off your chest hairs. All two of them."

"I...I can't—"

"Don't be so anal. We're tribemates. Like two monkeys. C'mon."

"Yeah, but—"

"Hurry up!"

I undid my shirt, the air-conditioned chill forcing arm hairs to stand on end. She handed me a cotton rainbow; I stuck my arms through the holes. She attempted to button it but nearly choked me. "Too small! Your chest is bigger than I thought. You been working out?" She gave it another try.

"Hey," I said. "I need air."

Elissa let go. "Oops. Sorry. You..."She leaned forward, staring at my chest. "Wh-what are those scars?"

I looked down. A ring of white bumps circled my left nipple. My stomach filled with sand. "Ritual scarring. To release the pain."

Cool fingertips explored the marks. "Oh, Percy," she said softly, "oh, Percy."

"They're mine," I whispered. I stepped back and her hand fell away. She wore a look of absolute pity. I closed my eyes. "Mine. Mine."

"It's okay. Everything's so screwed up. Willard's gone. Your dad, too. You're...stressed. I understand."

She did? "Everyone. Leaves me. Like the Beothuks," I whispered. "Out of luck. One of them."

Her brow furrowed. "The what?"

I looked at her. Were we really from the same tribe?

I removed the shirt, grabbed my own from the floor and slipped it on. "This clothing, it—it—is not satisfactory," I said.

She still clutched the yellow shirt. "I've got more."

"No. I'll find something at home." I stepped out of the shorts; they fell to the floor. I backed away.

"We can talk, Percy."

"Talk?" Another step back. A third. "I. Must. Go. Home."

"Percy." A whisper. "We're friends. Don't shut me out."

I fled, taking the stairs two at a time, the sun shooting through the giant windows, lighting me up. Lighting the earth. Holding it inexorably in place. As it had for over four billion years.

nine

TRUNK

Within twenty minutes: relief. The skin around my left nipple ached brilliantly. My mind was clear. Copacetic. I cleansed my pin with rubbing alcohol and returned it to the container.

Silence. My mother was teaching a Qi Gong breathing class at the community hall. I sat on the meditation pillow in my room, assumed the lotus position and closed my eyes. Now to order my thoughts. To analyze my reactions. To—

The phone buzzed. I remained still. The answering machine clicked on. Elissa's voice entered our house via the speaker. "Call me," she said, then coughed and hung up.

I breathed deeply, tightening my stomach muscles—a Tai Chi method I'd learned from Mom. I had a goal: to discover where all of this was leading. Evolution, that is. It pointed forward, indicating an obvious mission for us, a next logical step.

What was it?

I attempted to send my mind back through the millennia, to the source of all life. Somewhere in my brain was a link to the first organism with its orders to survive and replicate. Perhaps if I found the beginning, I could ascertain the end.

Green appeared in my mind, with a dark circle in the middle. I was envisioning mitosis—the nucleus dividing to form two nuclei. Chromosomes being copied. Life continuing. This was almost the beginning.

The phone buzzed again—a distant noise. The green faded to black. I concentrated on bringing the image back but failed. I uncrossed my legs, got up and rubbed my aching head. No contact with my primordial ancestors. No answer. Yet.

The light blinked on the answering machine. Automatic response: I pressed the button.
"Call me,"
Elissa's disembodied voice implored. Then:
"Percy, meet you at the party, okay?"

I replayed the messages several times. I picked up the phone, punched in half her number, then clicked down the receiver. I repeated this procedure, then stood quietly listening to the monotone hum of the line. Soon the phone beeped loudly at me. A sign that I shouldn't call. I returned the phone to its cradle.

I concocted a meal of sprouts and seaweed. While masticating, I pondered Darwin's life. In 1831, at the age of twenty-two, he embarked on H.M.S.
Beagle
. For the next five years he studied animals, bugs, seeds and stones in South America, concentrating on the Galápagos Islands. From his observations he came up with the theory of natural selection. It took him twenty years to complete his first book on the topic.

I didn't have that kind of time. I wanted to understand now. To see the answer. To have that elusive eureka moment.

Time passed. I wandered from room to room, eventually ending up in the basement, where I was surrounded by rows of jarred peaches, pickled beans and bags of rice. The floor was a pad of concrete that supported an octopus furnace with large ducts running every which way across the ceiling. One light hovered in the center of the room like a giant firefly.

I bent under a duct and knelt before an old wooden trunk coated with dust. I opened it. On the top were several yellowed newspapers with headlines like
Local Anthropologist Identifies Mystical Zuni Object, My Life Among the !Kung
and
Montmount Mounts Mount Machu Picchu.
I skimmed the articles, then reached for the prize underneath.

My father's clothes in a neat, perfect pile. First: a canvas hat with a brim that flipped up. As a child I'd often donned the oversized headgear and pranced around the cluttered basement, imagining my father's adventures and shouting out: "Dr. Montmount, I presume!"

I slipped the hat on. It fit perfectly. I dug into the stack, discovering a multicolored shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I stripped, not feeling the chill, then dressed in my father's outfit. Gently closing the trunk, I ascended the stairs.

I had a party to attend.

ten

THE DELUGE

I committed a fatal error at the Tacky Party.

The festive event was three blocks away at Sandra Woodrick's. I squeezed between several Jock Tribe members who congested the doorway, and helped myself to a pink lemonade-based punch. I sniffed gingerly. Conclusion: alcohol-free. I sipped nonchalantly, bobbing my head to the music. When in Namibia, do as the Namibians do, my father often said. Teens in colored shirts danced wildly through the living room; others sat on couches or the floor, shouting to be heard.

I stood near the bathroom, jammed between a bookshelf and a life-sized reproduction of Rodin's
Thinker.
Hung behind him was a framed picture of card-playing canines dressed up like gangsters. I smiled. Anthropomorphism at its best. Mr. and Mrs. Woodrick must have a fabulous sense of humor, judging by the juxtaposition of those two works of art. Or no taste.

My smile faded as Michael and Nicole strode into the room. I ducked, but they veered in my direction like two lions stalking a lone antelope. And here was my fatal error. I broke a basic law of survival: Always have an escape route.

They approached, clad in matching garb: lime-green shorts and bright yellow T-shirts emblazoned with a red sun and a bird bearing a laurel branch. They absolutely
had
to talk to me: God's orders.

You see, they were from the Born-Again Tribe. They viewed me as a misguided mammal and were hell-bent on saving my soul.

"Percy," Michael said, "it's great to see you."

I straightened my back. "It is?"

"Of course." His light blue eyes were ethereal. His face flawless—smooth white skin and a glistening smile. His teeth had been artificially straightened.

"Are you having fun?" Nicole asked. She too had unnaturally perfect teeth; two large, friendly eyes. She tucked a curl of brown hair behind her ear.

"I experience a modicum of enjoyment."

"Modicum!" Michael echoed. "I like that. You have a real gift with words. It's a blessing."

"Thank you." I was flustered. I hadn't expected them to attend this function, had assumed it would be against their beliefs. But here they stood clutching cans of Canada Dry, looking...

...as if they belonged.

"Fun party!" Michael gushed as he watched the cavorting students. Did he see them as souls, some smudged with the darkness of sin, others shining as bright as a thousand candles? "Drink?" He offered a can that dangled from a plastic six-pack holder.

"No, thank you." I raised my glass.

He moved a few centimeters closer. "I have a question for you."

My heart sank. "Not another Wilberforce," I whispered.

"Wilberforce?" Nicole asked.

"Bishop Wilberforce of Oxford," I huffed, annoyed that they didn't know their theological history. "Darwin's archenemy. He gave the
Origin
a bad review. Asked whether man was descended from monkeys on the paternal or maternal side. He knew nothing about science. He died when he fell off his horse and hit his thick head on a stone."

"Oh," Nicole offered. "Really."

Michael's smile hadn't faded. "That's interesting. But what I'm curious about is the fossils. I know you think we're crazy."

"No," I said emphatically, "religious beliefs are not an insanity. All societies consider it normal to believe in supernatural beings and forces."

"So you don't think we're crazy?" Nicole said.

"I just made that point."

"Good to hear." Michael lightly squeezed my shoulder. His hand was warm. I stared down at it until he removed it. "Anyway, about the fossils. You know how they date them and stuff. I asked our study leader why the scientists got it mixed up."

"Mixed up?" I asked. "Oh, that's right. You believe the world is only ten thousand years old."

"You don't have to yell, Percy," Michael said softly, "the music's not that loud. The earth is actually only six thousand years old. Adam was created in 3975 b.c."

Nicole edged closer. "And don't forget that lots of scientists aren't sure carbon dating even works. Or that evolution is true. It's just another theory."

Michael used his opposable thumb to open the last can of ginger ale. It fizzed, so he brought it to his mouth. "Anyway, it's the fossils we want to talk about. They're real."

"They are?" I asked.

"Yes." Nicole was now face to face with me. They were a spiritual-philosophical tag team. "But you've been fooled by...well, you know...
him
." She pointed at the floor. "Evolution. Devilution. Soul pollution." It was a tribal chant. "
He
made you think that fossils are millions of years old. He does tell the truth but circles it with lies. You see, Percy, there were dinosaurs."

"There were?" I sensed a breakthrough. "In the Bible?"

Michael fielded this question. "On the ark. Two of each species is what God told Noah. And when the ark finally was caught on Mount Ararat, the dinosaurs stepped out into the new world. Rain had swept everything away. There were new diseases. All of the dinosaurs got sick, died, fell into the ocean and were compressed by the weight of the water, hardening their bones instantly into fossils. Do you see?"

"I understand," I answered, though the idea that the ark could hold enough animals to repopulate the world was ludicrous. A population cannot sustain itself with only two of its species: The gene pool would be too small. Not to mention that water pressure can't harden living flesh into stone.

Thankfully, I glimpsed Elissa across the room. She'd chosen a flashy pink shirt and a giant gardening hat that could have doubled as an umbrella. When she looked at me, I waved. She removed her hat and held it like a shield against her bosom. She was trapped by overexcited dancers.

"You know," I said, turning my attention back to the Born-Again Tribe, "the age of the universe can be measured using the speed of light. Astronomists have devised a formula that proves light from distant stars began traveling toward Earth billions of years ago."