The Cockroaches of Stay More Page 11

  Because no female had ever lapped his affy-dizzy before, but because he had in his dreams, and night fantasies too, imagined the procedure, Sam was surprised to take leave of his body, or, rather, to observe his body take leave of him: once the female has been maneuvered into position to reach and taste the affy-dizzy, one of three specialized clamps in the male’s genitalia reaches up and seizes one of three specialized latches in the female’s genitalia. This clamp will remain firmly manacled to this latch for at least two hours.

  When the clamp and the latch were firmly affixed, in an instant, Sam attempted to sign, “Oops!” but could only spell it, and Tish was too distracted to notice.

  The intricate anatomy of the mechanisms of reproduction is astonishing: there are not one but two phallomeres, and it is the right one which first probes the female.

  “Sam!” she cried out, and then attempted to spell it, “S-A0M-!-!” but he could not see her; their bodies were already turning into the opposed position, end to end at 180 degrees.

  The second clamp, whose function is titillation as well as coupling, clinched a second latch and began tickling and was tickled in return. The third clamp grabbed the third latch.

  The sunlight coming into the room, into the face of the Clock, brightly blinded both of them, clamper and latcher alike. Above them rolled the ancient ceaseless workings of the Clock; within them rolled the classic machinery of their sex, in which the complexities of movement were no less involute, convolute, and revolute. The Clock would scream “SCONE!” and then it would groan “SUGARPLUM!” before Tish and Sam were finished. Tish had wanted to know a simple answer to a simple question, how Man and Woman twist and pound their babies. Indeed, for humans it is comparatively simple; for the species of Sam and Tish, it took hours, and inward constructions beyond all imagining.

  INSTAR THE THIRD:

  The Rally

  Chapter fourteen

  When Tish awoke, not to any inner biological clock but to strange sounds, it was already beyond gloaming. She required more than a minute to determine not only the source of the sounds but her very location: above her head were not the familiar rotting grains of wood in her sleeping cranny at the log, a homey sight her eyes had seen every waking evening of her life, but instead the smooth wooden-toothed edges of gears and wheels, like a magnified daymare of the interior of some creature’s gullet and gizzard, grinding away at her who had been swallowed whole. She tried to stifle a cry, the choked squeak escaping without disturbing the deep sleep of her companion, who, she suddenly remembered, was deaf. She stared at him, waved both sniffwhips over him to perceive the depth of his slumberscent, and determined that he was indeed far away in dreamland. There was a smile at the edges of his handsome mouth. But the sounds he was making! He was snoring. She had heard her late father snore, particularly during days after he had consumed too much Chism’s Dew, but nothing like this, the snores of a feller who could not hear himself snore! It would have been bearable except that each of his twenty spiracles was snoring in a different pitch, so that the effect reminded her of an assembly of cicadas drumming and shrilling in discord.

  She jumped, not simply in response to the grating sounds but in sudden recollection of the activity that had consumed most of her morning. She felt a fullness in her abdomen which was…it was quite pleasant, even wonderful, nothing at all like a stomach ache, but strange and somehow conclusive, final, as if to say to her, That’s all there is to it. Her sense of immeasurable gratification and satiety was tinged with a certain sadness, a feeling of loss, not simply the loss of her innocence and virginity but the loss of all her life that had led up to this event, as if the adult cecropia, designed for love alone, discovers after the act that love was not worth all that bother and metamorphosis. Her expectations were not entirely disappointed, save for the gnawing realization that it could have consequences in the form of sixteen passengers in an easteregg. She licked her lips and could still faintly taste the affy-dizzy. Had it all been worth the taste?

  And now she was hungry again! Not for more affy-dizzy, but for solid food, for breakfast. She explored Sam’s larder, the row upon neat row of crusts and crumbs of every conceivable provision, more a hoard than a pantry. Her touchers told her that all of these items were arranged and catalogued not only according to variety and sugar content but also according to age, as well as to crustiness and crumbiness, and many of them were older than she, even older than he! She selected a bit of well-ripened Twinkie, consumed it with gusto, and followed it up with an assortment of dabs of pudding, bits of candy, flecks of frosting, and specks of meringue. She noticed that one wall of the Clock was hung with the six cast-off moults of the owner, Squire Sam: the moults ranged in size from a first-instar scarcely larger than her head to a sixth-instar as large as she, which would almost still fit him. Why had he kept them? Not to eat, surely. Souvenirs of his childhood?

  Tish stepped out of the Clock to take her bath, and gave herself a thorough washing on the edge of the mantelshelf, while she surveyed the room, the Woman’s bed-and-sitting room, which did not have Sharon in it at the moment. Everything looked cozy and comfortable, as Tish had noticed the night before—had it been only one night before? It seemed like ages.

  A terrible noise almost knocked Tish off the mantelshelf. It was not the Clock. The Clock had said, almost politely, a few minutes ago, “NOUGAT,” and Tish was becoming accustomed to the things the Clock said. This was a shrill noise coming from a gigantic black insect perched upon a small table beside the Woman’s bed. The insistent tintinnabulation lasted for a full second before abruptly ceasing, but Tish scarcely had time to retreat within the safety of the Clock before it roared another long burst of the same skirling cry. She stood transfixed, staring at the creature, the like of which she had never seen, unless it was two creatures: a huge carpenter ant mounted across the back of a huge rhinoceros beetle. Yes, perhaps the ant was killing the beetle, and it was the wailing westering howls of the beetle that were making such an urgent, horrible jangle. The howls did not waken Sam, but of course he was deaf. Tish was tempted to shake him awake. A third time now the big beetle screamed for mercy, and the Woman Sharon Herself came into the room and seized the huge ant and plucked it off the beetle’s back. But then, instead of comforting the stricken beetle, She held the ant against Her cheek tenderly and spoke to it, saying, “Hi, Gran.” The ant was Sharon’s grandmother?!? The ant spoke to Sharon, but Tish could not hear the ant’s words. Sharon sat down on the edge of Her bed, still holding the ant against Her cheek, and listened to it for a long moment, then said, “Oh, the radio said that too, but we haven’t had a sign of it yet, have we?” Then She listened to more of the ant’s words, and said, “I tried oiling it, but still it sticks.”

  The ant, Tish perceived, had no sniffwhips nor gitalongs. It had a head and a thorax and an abdomen, and a long, long tail which, in fact, was attached to the beetle! It spoke some more to the Woman, who answered, “No, but I had another letter from him yesterday, and it took my breath away. He’s never written so beautifully, and if he has to get drunk to write like that, he might as well stay drunk! It was all I could do to keep from rushing right over there and hugging him!”

  The ant spoke for a long time to Sharon, who only contributed an occasional, “Yes, Gran,” or “I know that, Gran,” or “You’re right, Gran.” Then Sharon said, “At least I’ve done something I haven’t done before. I’ve written an answer. No, I haven’t mailed it. Where would I mail it? Oh? But this is Sunday, isn’t it? Where? Oh. Is that his mailbox, that thing? Well, I guess I could just poke it in there, but would he find it? I feel I have to say something to him, and maybe it’s the only way. I think he expects an answer. I told him in the letter that if he could just go for one solid week without a drink, I’d come and talk to him. I don’t know. What? I’d just have to take his word for it, I guess. He thinks I might let him move in here. It’s out of the question, the way things stand.”

  Sharon listened for a while longer, then
said, “Well, thanks, Gran, I appreciate that. How’s everything up your way?” Another minute of listening followed, and then Sharon said, “Take care of yourself too, Gran. Oh, wait, by the way, I meant to ask. The other night I saw a cockroach. Did you ever have those when you lived here?” Listening, Tish thought: cockroach? and wondered if she had heard correctly. The Woman would not have said Smockroach or Frockroach; all of those lived at Holy House and were never allowed to come here. Maybe She had said “Clockroach,” and was referring to Sam? But would Squire Sam have allowed himself to be seen by the Woman?

  “…So I called this toll-free number up at Harrison, you know, the one called Tel-Med sponsored by the Arkansas Regional Medical Program, which plays these tapes with advice on everything. I dialed the tape called ‘Cockroaches—Menace or Nuisance’ and got five minutes of stuff about their history, they’re the oldest insect on earth, haven’t changed for three hundred and fifty million years, and there are fifty-five different kinds of them in the United States. It said they have filth all over their legs and bodies, because they like to live in filth, and they’ll spread this filth all over your food, and they’ll puke and crap in your food too. It said to look out for their eggs, which are sort of leathery pouches that look like tiny pinto beans, and if you see an egg, destroy it, because it’s got a dozen or more baby cockroaches inside of it. The tape said that cockroaches are a sign of poor housekeeping, and that if you keep your house clean and sanitary, they won’t bother you. I was so ashamed when I heard that! This house isn’t dirty, Gran, you know that….”

  Listening. Listening. Was Gran giving Sharon advice on how to get rid of roosterroaches? Tish wished she could hear the voice coming through the ant, and she strained to hear, but could not.

  At length Sharon said, “Well. The tape warned that the disgusting little buggers will give you salmonella poisoning, diarrhea, nausea, dysentery, and even polio and TB, so if I don’t answer the next time you call, you know I’m bad sick!” Sharon laughed, and Tish heard some laughter from the ant, and then Sharon said, “Well, I guess I’d better go mail my letter before I die! Goodnight, Gran. Sleep tight.”

  The Woman returned the ant to the top of the beetle, but the beetle did not scream again; truly it must have been westered by the ant. Then the Woman reached under the bed and brought out a shiny and silvery stick with one great eye at the end. The Woman squeezed it, and it lit up like a zillion lightning bugs flashing at once, only it remained lit and did not twinkle off. The Woman picked up an envelope and carried it out of the room and to Her porch.

  Quickly Tish climbed down the mantel and followed, squeezing under the screen door as its spring closed it. The Woman was descending the porch steps as Tish gained the porch. Tish observed that the Woman was pointing ahead of Her with the great lighting stick, which was casting a circle of illumination out into the yard, and the Woman walked out into this circle. Overhead the dark sky was filled with heavy clouds full of water. Tish scrambled along behind the Woman as fast as her six gitalongs could carry her.

  Chapter fifteen

  The Loafer’s Court, gathered around Doc Swain and Squire Hank on Doc’s porch, had an unexpected visitor, who arrived right while O.D. Ledbetter was telling a really good ’un, raunchy as all git out, about this feller what claimed he had not just two pricks but three. “He was fixin to marry this gal up on Banty Creek,” old O.D. was saying, “but she accidental seen him a-takin a piss one night behind the wall, and she commenced hollerin that the weddin was called off. ‘That pecker a yourn is jist too big fer a little ole gal lak me!’ she tole ’im. But he jist laughs and says to her, ‘Sweetheart, I got three of ’em. One is the tickler size, another’n is the prober size, and the great big ’un is the depositer size. I always use the depositer size to piss with.’

  “So they went ahead and got theirselfs married,” O.D. told it, “and the first night he tried the tickler size, and everything was just fine. So the second night she ast fer the prober size, and he tried that ’un on her too, and it was just fine. Wal sirs, the third night she begged for the depositer size, and it was the best of all. Him and her had the finest couple a hours you could imagine, and it looked like they’d live happy ever after.

  “But about three weeks after the weddin the girl woke up one evenin and she says to him, ‘Hon, do you reckon you could find a rubber band anywheres?’ And he says yeah, they’s some rubber bands in Man’s writin-desk over to Holy House, but what does she want with one? ‘Wal, I jist thought of somethin,’ she told him. ‘If we can tie all three of yore pricks together, I might could git a decent fuckin for a change!’”

  Every loafer laughed fit to bust a gut, and complimented O.D. that that was the best ’un they ever heard, and challenged Squire Hank to tell a better one, and Squire was jist hitching himself up to do it, when they noticed that one of the loafers, who hadn’t laughed, was coughing pretty bad. They looked at the loafer and discovered that he wasn’t a loafer after all, at least not a regular one, but the preacher himself! Brother Chid Tichborne had climbed the porch unnoticed and moved in amongst them.

  O.D. apologized, “Heck, Preacher, I wudn’t never of tole such a brash tale iffen I’d knowed ye was listenin.”

  Tolbert Duckworth put in, “Yeah, Preacher, and I shore didn’t mean to laugh, neither. Why, I thought that there was the nastiest story ever I heared. Phew!”

  Fent Chism put in, “Yeah, and this is the Lord’s Day, and all. We ort to be ashamed, tellin dirty tales on the Lord’s Day.”

  “Wal, boys,” said Brother Chid. “I hope I don’t never hear of none you’uns stealin the Lord’s rubber bands.”

  “Hit was jist a story-tale,” O.D. protested. “Wudn’t never nothin ever really happent lak thet, nohow.”

  “Naw,” said Elbert Kimber. “Wunst she had been fucked with the tickler size, that was all she could take!”

  Everybody laughed again, except the preacher, who frowned at Elbert’s language. Everybody stopped laughing abruptly, and studied the preacher’s frown, and waited for him to say something else. But Brother Tichborne only looked properly pious and disapproving.

  Finally Doc Swain himself had the boldness to ask, “Wal, Reverend, what brings you to my place tonight?” This was a fine question to ask, because it reminded the preacher that he wasn’t a regular member of the Loafer’s Court.

  At least half of the loafers, Chid had mentally counted, were Crustians, and members of his congregation. Tolbert Duckworth was even an elder in the church, and Fent Chism was a deacon. It was to these good Crustians rather than to Doc that Chid addressed his next words, “Brethren, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Though He giveth thee the bread of life, He also planneth to taketh it away from thee.”

  “Amen,” said Tolbert Duckworth.

  “Praise His name,” said Fent Chism.

  “And as ye may know,” Chid announced, “tonight we are havin the prayer meetin and worship service right at the Lord’s gitalongs, with Him awake and all, and ready to cast judgment upon us.”

  “Amen,” said Fent Chism, and “Praise His name,” said Tolbert Duckworth.

  “No doubt He will rapture right and left,” Chid observed. “No doubt a many and a many of us will know Rapture. Amen. Praise His name. And et cetera. But fellers—” Chid paused for dramatic effect, changing his tone and his tune “—I am here to tell ye the news that the Lord is fixin to try to move into Partheeny!” Chid glanced at Squire Hank to see his reaction, but the Squire remained expressionless. The others, however, stared open-mouthed at the minister, and then at one another, and then at Squire Hank, to see what he would say.

  Squire Hank squinted at Chid and asked, “How do ye know?”

  How could Chid tell them? He had preached at them every Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday night prayer meeting too, never to touch the Lord, never even to think about going near His Person, and here he had been up underside the Lord’s shirt collar himself, and that was how he knew that the Lord had written a letter to the
Woman of Parthenon, in which He had hinted, or actually requested—well, to be honest, begged—to be allowed to move His “things,” including His self, into Parthenon.

  “I have done seen a letter,” Chid revealed. “I caint quote you His exact words, but He more or less informed Her that it was his intention to abandon Holy House and move into Partheeny.”

  Again all the loafers looked at Squire Hank for his comment, and finally the Squire declared, “I misdoubt that She would ever think of allowin Him to move in on Her.”

  “Maybe She invited Him, who knows?” suggested Tolbert Duckworth.

  “Yeah,” Chid allowed. “One way or th’other, He jist might do it, and then what would we do? Maybe we had better be ready to move out, ourselfs.”

  “Or maybe,” Squire Hank said, “all of you’uns ought to be prayin to yore Lord to stay put.”

  “Good idee, Squar!” said Fent Chism. “Yeah, Brother Tichborne, maybe tonight at the prayer meetin when we’re all assembled right there at the Lord’s gitalongs, maybe we had ort to pray to Him and beg Him not to leave Holy House.”

  “That’s what we ort!” agreed Elder Duckworth.

  But Chid said, “Naw. It wouldn’t do no good to beseech the Lord in that wise. Maybe the one we ort to beseech is Squire Hank, right here. Maybe we ort to be askin Squire Hank if he would ever let every last blessit one of us move into Partheeny when the Lord does.”

  All eyes and sniffwhips were upon Squire Hank. He ruminated. He spat. He frowned a bit. He ruminated some more. Then a trace of a smile crept upon the corner of his face, and he said, “Why don’t you’uns ask Her that?”

  “Speak of the Mockroach!” exclaimed Mont Dinsmore, who was sitting on the north edge of the crowd nearest that direction, and suddenly thrashed his sniffwhips. He exclaimed, “Hey, fellers, lookee who’s a-comin yonder!”