Busted Flush

They reach the toilet and Drake folds up like an origami figure. The smell of vomit tinged with stew and chocolate pudding fills the steam-filled room. I feel my own gut heaving in sympathy. I’m frantically trying to wrap the towel around my waist.

Niobe holds out an imperious hand. “Wet a washcloth with cold water,” she orders. I don’t act immediately. I’m getting the sheltering towel in place and tucked. “Would you get me a damn cloth!”

This time I obey. It’s a tiny room, and my back is against the wall as I try to shuffle out. I watch as she wipes Drake’s face, and murmurs to him soothingly. I remember just such nights, but it’s my father’s warm baritone I hear. Drake is crying. I don’t think it’s just because he’s puked. I leave them.

I should be sleeping. Instead I’m standing at the edge of the ocean, smoking. The waves hiss and giggle on the rock and sand shore, and the sound of the rising and falling water is like the breathing of a great beast. I want to walk into it and let the waves close over my head.

I have that writhing feeling in the belly when you feel like you’ve said or done the wrong thing with someone you want to please. Why did the little bastard have to get sick right then? Why couldn’t it have happened five minutes later. I should have put the towel right by the tub. Dried myself in the tub.

Carried on the night wind, the squeak of the sagging front door seems like a scream. I listen to her footsteps. Oh, crap, she’s joining me.

“You didn’t have to be embarrassed. I’ve seen a few penises.” I don’t answer and the silence yawns between us. “Is that what the wild card did to you?” she asks.

Anger shakes me. “No. That’s what a genetic fluke did to me.”

Nervous, she gathers her thick, bristly tail into her arms and cradles it. “Isn’t it the same thing?” she asks.

“Somehow it seems more cruel.” I cough to clear the harshness from my voice.

“At least your deformity is hidden.” And she drops the tail as if horrified to find herself holding it.

“I’m not sure that helps all that much. I can’t tell you the number of times my classmates jumped me and pulled down my pants and underwear for a firsthand look. Children are such little animals.” I see her blanch at that. “I’m sorry. You obviously don’t feel that way.”

“Children are a blessing.”

“That’s what my father says.”

“But not you.”

I should just walk away from this uncomfortable conversation, but I find myself answering. “A little side effect of this cosmic joke is that I’m sterile,” I lightly add. “The noble line of Matthews dies with me.”

She doesn’t realize I’m joking. “And your father blames you for that?”

“Oh, Christ, no, he doesn’t give a damn about all that. He just would have liked to have grandkids.” I take a long drag on the cigarette and release the smoke in a sharp exhalation.

The tips of her fingers are cool as she quickly touches my wrist. “But you feel guilty.” And I realize it’s true.

A flick of the fingers sends the butt soaring away over the water trailing red sparks.

“When did you find out? That you couldn’t . . .” Her voice trails away.

“When I was twelve. My teenage years should have been fantastic—stick with me, baby. All the fun and none of the risk. But it didn’t work out that way.”

“Why?”

“Christ, woman, are you dense? You saw me. I’m grotesque.”

She reaches back, feeling along the length of her tail. “Do you know how I ended up at BICC?”

I shake my head.

“I was twenty-two when I learned this isn’t just a tail,” she said. “As if things hadn’t been bad enough already.” She looks up at me, challenging me to engage. I decide to go along.

“And what, exactly, does that mean?”

“My parents never had any interest in raising a joker. I was, um, embarrassing to them. They distanced themselves from me as much as they could. They called me their niece, said they’d taken me in after my own parents died.”

“Charming. They must live in a world where image is more important than anything else.”

She seems startled at my words. She nods slowly. “I had no idea I was an ace until it just sorta happened.” Her eyes have gone dark, and her expression is bleak. “I thought he liked me, but he just wanted sex. And it happened almost instantly.”

“What?”

“The eggs. It hurt so badly, I thought I was dying. I thought God was punishing me. That this was what happened to wretched little whores.”

“I hear a quote in that.” I find I’m suddenly fascinated, and furious at whoever would have said such a thing to a frightened teenager.

“My father.” The words are spoken so quietly that I have to lean in to hear her.