When
the door thudded three times at his San Francisco apartment, Andrew Finch wondered
if opportunity knocked. He shuffled to the door. He hated late company, and the
shrapnel fire of rain on the sunroof had him edgy. But it might be Jingo. His
head throbbed from an ogre of a headache. Andrew cracked the door—enough to
peek through. It was not opportunity, or his lawyer with news.
Crisp zigzags of lightning backlit the returning stare.
Something familiar in visage—the cheek line—the set of the weak chin. The
sea-colored orbs. An odd panic gripped him, coursing up his body in capillary
action and his mouth tasted of saline.
“Can—I—help
you?” said Andrew, as if someone had tromped on his foot in the subway.
“I don’t know. Wait. There is one matter you
can perform for me.”
Before
Andrew replied, he was staring down the chrome barrel of .45 caliber Colt. He
recognized the inlaid pearl handle and the death inside its blue-black chamber
was his father’s death, his father’s pistol, a family heirloom Andrew had not
seen since—.
“Move
over to the table and SIT DOWN!”
The
man barked the order from behind the pistol while Andrew prayed for Jingo’s
rotten cantaloupe of face to stare in the front door window, even blinked and
prayed for the landlord to come squawking for his long overdue back rent. Anything
to distract this maniac. He blinked his eyes, but the stranger still stood
there.
Andrew
crumpled into the signaled chair. One brags about what he would do if someone
pulled a gun—Sunday Morning Quarterback stuff—but most people meekly obey and
try to keep from shitting their pants. He scrutinized the figure seated across
the oak table. It was the dorky boy from his senior yearbook pointing the gun,
and not the boy to the left of his picture, or to the right, but himself:
Andrew Finch. That is why the image seemed so familiar. How often does one
study the face he shaves every morning? He stared at his younger self. If not
for the gun, Andrew would have comforted the boy: his son. Instead, he stood
silent.
“You recognize who I am don’t you?” asked the man
with the revolver. He set it on the table with the barrel pointed, inches from
his trembling wrist. Andrew watched the prominent teeth nibble at the lower
lip.
“Todd.” Andrew stated. “What day is today…Friday?”
Andrew
swallowed, glancing at the resting revolver resting with its barrel toward his
chest. Ironic, an antique gun like that clinker might finish him off, if it
would fire. He looked over toward the still-cracked door that revealed no news
from Jingo. No settlement news from Jingo. No Jingo landlord and no
eviction notice.
Todd’s
eyes narrowed. “So that’s what I will look like someday.”
The
tense father shifted in his chair beneath the careful gaze while outside he
heard a car roar by, the sound enmeshed in a wave of rainwater. Oh, crap.
Not again.
If you let life slap you around as I did, Andrew
thought, and become a loser. “Yeah, this is what you will look like in,
say twenty years, when you hit thirty-eight. Except the scar.” He pointed to
his cheek. “Most people resemble their fathers.” Andrew smirked. His son off
on his delusion again!
“Earned? Didn’t you trip over an orange in the supermarket?
Fathers. Aren’t you a little more than that?” Andrew nodded in recognition and
smiled a sterile smile. A prophet never respected in his own home. He
told everyone who did not know better he bore a war wound. The younger man
slapped the table near the pistol and then rubbed breadcrumbs off his hands onto
his wet jeans. Grimaced.
“Damn
you, pig!” The boy shook his head and proceeded. “Mother told me, when you were
returning from Seoul, after the cloning, you decided to name me Todd, after her
father.” The boy’s eyes peered at him with a gambler’s concentration—one
betting his last hundred—. Dark circles hung beneath the eyes and the
eyebrows—HIS eyebrows pulled with intensity—accented the sea green eyes.
“Yeah, we figured since you’d have all my DNA, at least we
could name you after your mother’s side of the family. At least I brought you back
something besides a crummy t-shirt. You know, the ones that say MY PARENTS WENT
TO SEOUL AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY—. Todd, I’m jerking you. We’ve been
through this before. You are not a clone, Moron!”
“Shut up. Shut up. Just shut the hell up!” You aren’t
George Carlin or something. You still don’t think I’m serious, do you?”
As the
older man listened, the youth removed a .357 magnum pistol from beneath his
ill-fitting Member’s Only coat and cocked it. It produced a definitive sound, a
lock clacking in place, releasing the smell of gun oil, and Todd’s fear-sweat,
and mildew. A drop of rain plunked off Todd’s wrist to the furniture. Andrew
wondered if people—in real life—crapped their pants when they died. You spent
all your life fighting and holding in crap and in the end—it got you. Shit
happens and shit doesn’t. And a lot of times, it makes no sense. You are a
victim of other’s delusions.
The
namby-pamby, vegan vice-mayor hits you while she is out bicycling, saving gas
or some such crap, and you feign injuries, because no one can question back
injuries. Your cousin Jingo and you speculate collecting at least 45,000. Wear
a back brace for a while. No one can prove back injuries. Lower lumbar. Split
60/40. Jingo gets 27,000—you 17,000—no 18,000 dollars. Good scam, but then your
son comes wandering back in with his fricking bi-polar, schizophrenic nonsense
to finish up your day.
Todd slid the tabled .22 nearer to his parent. “Pick up the
gun, spin the chamber, put it to your head. Anything funny, and I blow you away
with this.” He nodded the barrel of the .357 (two?) and his instructions had
the certainty of endless rehearsal and planning.
“Look, I admit I deserted you and your mother, but—is this
going to solve anything? You might help me, put me out of my misery. And if
you’re going to murder me. At least let it be for something real. Son, you’re
not cloned, dammit!”
The
phone rang, startling Andrew. Loud, a lunch bell at a factory. He felt beads of
sweat forming on his forehead like the ones on a cold tea glass; one salty drop
slid into his right eye, blinding him. Maybe it was Jingo calling him with some
settlement news. Now he would never know that either. His dumb luck.
Shot by his idiot son either way he went here. Shot for one of the few decent
deeds he had tried to do in life: leaving Sylvia with a baby.
“I was
a lousy father, and I admit I went for the proverbial pack of cigarettes. But—”
In some ways, Andrew felt relieved. He had expected this confrontation. Knowing
his son, he had anticipated eventual pursuit. He peered down; he, finding it
difficult to meet Todd’s eyes. Todd’s steely eyes.
“I
love to think that I inherited your brains. You did go to Cal Tech, didn’t
you?”
Andrew
was mum. That was a lie also, as the source of the scar had been. He swallowed.
One that had succeeded, or had his son edged his voice with sarcasm. You
resemble me because you’re my son, numb nuts, Andrew thought. God! Science was not to blame for everything that
happened.
“Well,
we are going to play a little game called Russian Roulette, and this time: you,
and mother, and Doctor Kwang don’t make the rules. I make the rules.
Spin the freaking chamber, and the gun to your temple, now!”
The
reluctant parent obeyed. He had never been good at games of chance. He spun the
cylinder and gingerly positioned the steel against his throbbing temple. He smelled
the oiled steel. In a way, I deserve this. Though, he would miss
receiving Jingo’s news. He had promised to come by this afternoon and share any
news of the settlement against vice-mayor prissy priss.
“Let me update you, Pops. Oh, in case you want to grieve
while we’re doing this, Mom died over six years ago.” Andrew swallowed dry
cactus. He could not picture Sylvia dead. Maybe pale white, resembling the
overexposed pictures in their wedding album. We should have gone for the
Platinum Package, his mother-in-law insisted after examining the proofs. Look
how faded Sylvia looks.
“You remember, Aunt China?”
How
could Andrew forget? She made Sylvia’s mother seem like Mother Teresa.
“Aunt
China, that detested you. Well, she raised me from when Mom died until I
moved out.”
Andrew
remembered the sour smell of Aunt China’s kitchen, swallowing. Todd’s mother,
Sylvia, was a troubled, but striking woman. However, they had lived three years
together, before Todd. It slammed another door in Andrew’s character knowing
her dead. He knew she would never have taken him back, but hearing her dead
snuffed out any final candle of hope.
“I
been trying to track you down for three years now, ever since, they released me
from SPRINGTIME. I know you were in a crazy farm for awhile too, but I figure
my problems were more than just heredity.”
“This isn’t just about me leaving, is it?” Andrew said.
“You really think you’re cloned. Believe your mother and I could afford
that. Would do—to get you?”
Todd
chuckled as Andrew stared. It renewed the uncomfortable reaction that found him
deserting Sylvia and this child. His discomfort with himself. Face it. He
disliked kids. Detested being around them. Lacked patience with them. Even detested
their smell. And hating yourself left little room for others. A
reverse-Buddhist form of philosophy.
“You got that right, father. Dr. Christianson—at the
institute—he tried to help me work through my problems. But then, they even
have an acronym for us, don’t they: CDS, Clone Distress Syndrome. Seems some of
us ‘20’s cloning projects just can’t deal with it, dear Dad. In fact,
they dropped the program in ’23. But that didn’t help me, did it? Here’s the
deal. Since you like playing God, me too. Life and death in my—” he stared down
at his hands. “You spin the cylinder and squeeze the trigger three times. One
time after each spin and if you can do that, and live, I’ll leave.”
“This is nuts, let me go. Don’t’ flatter yourself that you
were part of that program.” Pull the trigger three times! He must
hate the crap out of you.
“I just want you to suffer a little, like me. Pull. damnit!
Pull.” Spittle from Todd’s mouth hit his .357. Andrew expected it to sizzle. He
knew Todd was no bluff, never seen so much hatred in a face—. Andrew cocked the
pistol’s hammer.
“No funny business!”
Todd’s
finger tightened on his revolver. Andrew formed a silent prayer. He could
not remember any formal ones. Just a “please Lord” whisper. He considered
Todd’s narrowing eyes, shut his own and bit-by-bit, squeezed the trigger. There
was a— snap—from the dry fire. A dry metallic, toothless click. Andrew issued a
slow relieved sigh. But would he be losing that much? He scanned the hovel he
occupied over 23 hours a day. The empty take-out containers and the empty beer
cans, wine bottles, cigarette packs. But who had been on the phone? He speculated
how many people Curiosity had kept on this earth.
“Well, someone’s lucky today.” Todd’s voice cracked
on the “lucky” as Andrew’s sometimes did when excited. “Andrew, a thought
puzzles me. Will this will earn me a place in Hell—messing with you.” Todd
continued.
“You
see; I don’t even believe, for sure, I have a soul.”
“That’s
ridiculous. You have—” The boy glared. Andrew stopped.
“Maybe
we share one; what you think? That’s something Dr. Christianson and I discussed
a lot. I love to read, like you. I’ve read the Bible through three times. Don’t
see anything in there about clones”
Stupid
kid, Andrew thought. Clone of a moron.
“When
they filched that cell from you, sucked out one of Mom’s eggs, and prepared me
from your helix, what did they make? Am I even human? Or just some kind of
omelet.”
“Todd, you’re as much a man as anyone.” Andrew was
addressing his college self, arguing with his past single-mindedness. You did
not have to be a clone to repeat the sins of the father. “Let the theologians
fret this one; just live your life.” Andrew felt loathing rising through the
unease Todd triggered in him.
For a moment, Todd did not respond.
He resumed, “In case—you’re inter—ested, I
blame Mom too, but she’s already dead. Spin it.”
Andrew rotated the chamber and placed the cold barrel
temple-ward for a second time. “Why three? What’s the poetic significance?”
“Oh, the three of us. Did Peter deny Christ three times?
It’s a magical number, isn’t it? The three years I been looking for you. Take
your pick, prick.” Todd chuckled at the alliteration.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t deal with—”
“—Watching yourself grow old, again?” Andrew’s fingers
turned white as the pearl handle of his pistol. “Pull it, dear Daddy. Almost
there. You’re still getting off a lot easier than I am.”
“Boy, think this through.” Did Andrew hear someone walking
outside the building? Heard them through the crack in the entrance door. His
son was too centered to notice the splashy steps.
“Don’t say that! You, you don’t think I’ve thought this through! You should have never cooked me up. I understand other sons say that, but none with more right. Who did you people think you were?” Todd’s Adam’s apple jerked downward as he spit out the last word.
“Don’t say that! You, you don’t think I’ve thought this through! You should have never cooked me up. I understand other sons say that, but none with more right. Who did you people think you were?” Todd’s Adam’s apple jerked downward as he spit out the last word.
“Sylvia wanted a child, more than anything. We couldn’t
conceive. I was sterile.” Andrew studied the tabletop, almost whispering the
last sentence. Again, he avoided Todd’s narrowed eyes. “But you aren’t a clone.
We just—borrowed some semen from someone.”
“Borrowed semen? Pull!” This time, Todd said it as if the
word itself tasted malicious. “Pull, damn you!”
Andrew
held the cocked gun. He felt the thin edge of the trigger starting its backward
motion. What a sorry way to go, he whispered inside his head. On the
outside, he was quiet, hesitant. Had he heard someone hesitate at the door? Had
his aggressor?
Todd’s finger tensed on the .357’s trigger the nail turning
white.
He didn’t. Andrew hesitated but no one burst in. No one
yelled, “Stop, what are you doing!” Andrew pulled his trigger almost as if to
prevent Jingo from entering the door.
Snap!
Andrew
sighed. Was he relieved? His lower bowels flowed liquid, gurgling. He would
soil his pants. He clinched his butt cheeks, trying not to embarrass himself.
What an odd action to worry about. Soiling his pants, when at any minute his
intellect could be gravy dripping down the kitchen wall. He had lost control of
this, like everything else in his life. Just once, he would like to feel in control.
Even the decision to birth Todd had been Sylvia’s. He sued people. Once again,
a reaction not an action on his part.
“That’s two,” said Todd. “You’re almost home free, but no
matter what happens, I’m still just a copy. Not even a mirror image. Just, the image
image.
“Wouldn’t you like to know who your real father was?
“Sins
of the father are passed down to the sons. I’m sorry; but I’ve never been able
to get past feeling I’m just you—all over again. Morality always has trouble
keeping up with science. You two weren’t giving, but selfish and you wanted
me—like a prize.”
“You are not what you think, you stupid bastard!” Andrew
said, then grinned at the irony.
“My father? You left me—with someone who treated me
just like she treated you, Aunt China. Spin it. Cock the hammer. Not my
father—” Todd pointed to Andrew’s forehead. “I want to see you sweat.”
“Guess
you’ll never meet the truth.” Andrew spun the barrel, and then spun it again
for good measure. Yet, maybe that was a mistake. Maybe he had returned it to
the loaded chamber. What did it matter? “There is only one in here, right?”
“Just one, DEAR dad. One hollow-point and five empty
chambers. That bullet will make mush of your brains. I can’t blame you for
leaving anymore than you can blame me for this crazy stunt. It’s genetic. We’re
predisposed to this you know. Both losers.” Todd’s free hand swept to encompass
the dreary room. “Our family has got its share of crazies. You…and Aunt China
for instance.”
“Aunt China.” There were several crazy people in their …his
family tree. Aunt China and others like him…them.
“One more.”
The
barrel pushed a dimple into Andrew’s tender temple. He felt the pulse of his
living blood against the gun barrel. He gripped the trigger. No one could be
lucky enough to tug this trigger three times and not discharge that waiting
chamber, even him. His index finger tightened on the trigger, and he felt it
giving. But was death such a bitter pill? His head pounded from headache and
stress. Up above jagged light flashed through the sunroof. The rain hit the
plastic like small marbles.
“I’m sorry. We…I was selfish. Having you…me leaving. But don’t
do this. You could be the first one in this miserable family to be somebody.
You’ll end up in jail over this. I’m not worth it. Aren’t you the least bit
curious who your real father is?”
“I won’t. I don’t. Who’s to say this is even a crime?”
“Boy, we’re not puppets. No matter what you believe, God
watches. He doesn’t pull your strings.” Where did that come from?
“You make a point worth considering. You’re really
not—” Todd did peer shortly at Andrew, debating their choices, spinning the
different scenarios in his mind as Andrew spun the gun chamber. “I’m sorry, but
I don’t think I believe all that crap. Sophocles stated it well in Antigone,
destiny, and the fates. If God can see the future, then he must already have
all this planned, and I am just playing my part. Pull!” Andrew hesitated, his
finger thick, as if pulling against the pressure of a vice.
“Pull, damn it, or I’m going to plug you myself!”
“Good. I’m glad you won’t know, everything.” Andrew curled
his finger around the trigger again and tightened. Please, it couldn’t end this
way. He could feel fierce tears in his eyes for both. He and his son—himself.
He never made the rules. Maybe fate did have the final say. If his pull
released the bullet, he would be unaware, and it would murder him so quick the
world would end right there on the end of his finger. Finally, he eased the
trigger back.
Click.
The two stared at each other. No jubilation released in
Andrew’s chest. What had either proven? Todd’s eyes remained hollow. Andrew’s
own eyes years before, yet here, now filled with something worse than hate,
pity maybe. How this mixed up person pity him? That loaded the dice for him. A
hammer clicked back and then a trigger pulled a fourth time.
Bam!
Luck
forced to expire.
Todd
missed it coming. His face…held clamped in disbelief. He hesitated, unaware
what was next. Andrew was motionless. Then, he whacked against the table and
Andrew exhaled. What rage had made him do that? But Andrew was in control again
now and would not let anyone pity him. He plucked Todd’s .357 like fruit from
the boy’s curled hand and he checked: every chamber held a bullet.
He still had a chance to do right by himself. He searched
around. Found a scrap of paper and a pen. A black pen. Had to scratch it across
the paper a couple of times to make it work. He scrawled six words, smiled.
Andrew noted the filthy apartment with its many empties—back at the .357,
debating. He was back in charge. What now? Meticulously, he placed the thick
pistol barrel in his mouth. It was cold and biting on his tongue, the hard-set
of metal against his teeth. This time he wouldn’t pull timidly, but jerk the
trigger back…wouldn’t he?
Up
above, the fall shower had subsided while a few beads of water were
afterthoughts clinging to the Plexiglas. He stared at the back of the boy’s
head. There were the telltale signs of male pattern baldness appearing in the
hairline on the scalp, a definite thinning, and there was blood. His eyes moved
back up to where the pistol was a smoking pipe protruding from his mouth and
Andrew released an exhausted breath captured in his lungs. At the same time, he
relaxed his trigger finger and positioned the pistol flat on the table. Maybe
fate still controlled him, or destiny.
Maybe
he just lacked the guts to pull the trigger. His hands went up to stroke his
temples as he released a flood of anguish in the form of hot tears and rained
it down on his son’s still form. Andrew started as the door swung open. His
brow creased in recognition. “Jingo.”
“Andrew.
What the hell happened here? I came to talk to you about the—then—what is this.
Todd? What’s he doing here?”
Andrew
glanced down at the note. Jingo was still staring at Todd’s bloody head. Andrew
retrieved the paper from the table where he had placed it for his cousin to
find. No sense stirring up any harder feelings. Jingo’s glance was still
elsewhere. “Wanted to tell you we’re getting the settlement—before—this.”
“Good,”
Andrew said. He glanced at the note before crumpling it up:
Say
hi! to your son, Jingo! Though he takes after me. Cloning’s getting better. You
would think they would work a little on improving psychiatry.
Andrew
stuck the crumpled note in his pocket while Jingo punched 911 on the phone.
Got
the settlement. Damn, maybe this was his lucky day after all.
