Nigel sat on the examination table in Dr. Nzinga’s office, wearing a gray hospital gown. The nurse had already drawn blood and taken his vitals. Nigel and I were like those two theatrical masks, him all frowns, me all smiles.
“Someone has a case of the pouts,” said the nurse, pumping the blood pressure cuff.
“Girl trouble,” I said.
I was on cloud nine thousand, of course. When I explained the plan to Octavia, she had immediately shifted into gear, throwing out the names of production companies and other contacts I needed to get in touch with. We met with Eckstein’s people just two days later and signed contracts. “You’ll be a shareholder within twenty-four hours after the festival is over, sugar,” she said. In the meantime, I was to get Nigel signed up for demelanization. She would cover the consultation fees. She said I was a good father for working so hard to improve my son’s life.
The nurse placed a hand over her heart. “Aw. It’ll get better,” she said. “You just have to move on, sweetie.”
“I already have a new girlfriend,” Nigel said. His mark seemed darker and more clearly defined under the fluorescents.
“That’s the spirit.” The nurse gathered her equipment and pinched his arm. I smiled at her. She winked and left the room.
Nigel asked me how long would this take. Not very long, I said. Dr. Nzinga had already explained the process to me. It was a six-month procedure, similar in some ways to the cancer treatments they used to give. The plan would play out in stages. A few weeks of primer treatments, various markers and agents added to the body to prepare it for complete demelanization. Then active reagents introduced. That was where the real work began. Epigenetic restructuring that I only understood in the broadest strokes. That was where the actual retoning of the skin occurred, among other changes to the hair and visible membranes like the gums, etc. Of course, Nigel’s procedure would leave his nose, lips, and other features untouched. The changes would focus on getting out that damned spot.
But the process was also preventive and would keep him, or his once and future children, from ever being black like me. Dr. Nzinga described it as sending out millions of little demolition teams, each crashing a wrecking ball through a ghetto facade. The final stage was the bum’s rush, when the tiny crews attached bombs to the melanocytic pillars and brought down the house. The procedure had been much improved with time. Crown’s process had taken nearly two years.
“Let’s play a game,” Nigel said. I was startled when he spoke. He had been on his device, flipping from screen to screen. But now he held a pair of dice. “Double or nothing. If I win, we leave. If you win, I’ll do it and never complain again.”
“That’s not necessary. You already promised.”
“But I didn’t promise to like it.”
We had left before daybreak. But not before Nigel threw a fit, wrapping his arms around the porch pillars and refusing to move. He wanted that nettlesome girl to come along. She was there by our door waiting, doing her best impression of a darkened corner, when we exited. I wouldn’t have it, of course. This was a private experience to be shared between father and son—a cornerstone of our future relationship. It was only by convincing him that he was making a small child of himself in front of Araminta that I was able to pry his koala fingers from the wood. He exchanged words with her. She seemed genuinely wounded.
“How do we play?” I asked. Nigel tossed the dice into the air and caught one—and then the other.
I always found the game uncouth; the men who gathered in semicircles on the streets of the Tiko were invariably society’s dregs: unemployed or chronically underemployed, lacking imagination or premium insurance, empty message bottles headed for the great recycling facility in the sky.
But the few times someone convinced me to roll, I had a lucky hand. In fact, I often found favor in games of chance. Lady Fortuna knew the score and sought to help dedicated, pure-hearted men like me carry out our appointed rounds.
Nigel climbed off the examination table. I refastened the tie on the back of his hospital gown. He tossed the dice, and a good number rolled up. I tossed and a bad number rolled up. We agreed to best five out of seven, but he won the first three. Then five out of six.
“Let me see those,” I said. He gave the dice to me. I eyed them and shifted them in my palm. I actually had no idea what rigged dice looked or felt like, but I had the feeling that maybe I could learn. I held one to the light.
Nigel took them from me. “They’re fake, Dad.”
“What?” I asked.
“Loaded.”
I was astonished. My son was brilliant and wily, of course, but only a child. I never imagined him using his intelligence against me, even if only for a second. It was an inversion of our relationship. It was I who was supposed to clobber him at chess or embarrass him with feats of manly strength. It was my job to show him how cruel and uncaring the world could be, so that he would toughen up. Not vice versa.
“Why did you tell me?” I asked.
Nigel turned the dice over in his hand and threw them into the wastebasket. He shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Dr. Nzinga entered. “Ah,” she said. “Very well to see the happy family. Are we ready to start?”
Nigel glanced at me. “Yes, ma’am.”