Toronto, November 1979
“Watch what you’re doing with the soap, you stupid cow! Can’t you even do that right?”
“Don’t call her that. It’s an insult to the cow.”
“What was I thinking! At least a cow is useful. From a cow you can get milk.”
“More than milk. If you’re starving you can eat it. Yum, hamburger. Yum, brisket. Yum, spare ribs. Not like her. How can she possibly be useful? Look at her teats. Dried up like her. No flesh on her bones. Look at her skinny arms, her legs are worse. The meat would be stringy. Bah!”
“You’re not doing the soap right, stupid cow! You’re out of order again. Not the whole abdomen, just the left side. Always the left first. What the hell’s the matter with you? How many times do I have to tell you? Start over!”
Birdie stopped the progression of the soap down her body. She looked down. The abdomen again. This was where she always went wrong. The abdomen was a circle. Her hand went around in a circle. She couldn’t stop it. She peered through the spray of water: the hand below clutching the soap. Disconnected. Not hers. How could it be? If it were hers she could control it. They didn’t understand that it wasn’t hers. They couldn’t see through the water. She could barely see, but she knew that someone switched it when she was in the shower. One minute it was hers, then the next time she looked down, it wasn’t. It looked like hers, but it wasn’t. She didn’t mind. It was the price she paid for the surging stream of water that washed off her sweat as soon as it formed. And there was always sweat. She perspired like mad. Mad! Yes that was a good one. Did she sweat because she was mad or was she mad because she sweated and the bacteria hatched in the drops of water beading all over her skin? Millions of bacteria. Millions begat millions. No matter. Too late for conjecture. Only action counted. This water. The bacteria were swept away in the deluge, the bugs trying to kill her, no chance for them if she did this right. She must do it right. She must start again just like they said. They hated her, but they were right. She deserved to be hated.
The soap smelled clean. It would clean away all the dirt, the bacteria, the excrement the bacteria left behind, all the terrible things she’d done. Start at the left forehead, the left cheek, the left nostril, get every spot, every atom of skin. If you missed an iota of surface, the bacteria would seize it, make it their own, burrow into the pores where they would propagate and breed and multiply and fester until you’re done for. It’ll be over. Finally. Not so bad. Would it be so bad? Oblivion. The struggle would be over. No more war with the bugs. They would win. But she would win oblivion. She could forget. Finally. She would join all the tiny souls that she let loose so long ago. Yesterday. All those tiny, innocent, perfectly formed creatures that would never understand anything.
No, mustn’t think about that. Mustn’t think. They never suffered. Not like her. What choice did she have? Ever? And now The Controller has found her. Has come for her. She must protect her Precious and keep her safe.
He understood. He knew because he had been there. No one else. All gone, the others. He had seen what it was like, that she had no choice. Where was he? He must protect her from The Controller. He was the only one who could. Because she had protected him once. She did everything she could. Not much. But he kept his life (he must remember). Now The Controller wants hers. And now he must protect her. Because The Controller will come back. Where is it? Where is it? She won’t give him her precious treasure. It’s a piece of her and he can’t have it. There are so few pieces left after everything they took. She has shrunk to nearly nothing. Soon she will be nothing.
Birdie looked out shyly past the curtain of water at the other women, coming and going. They were not like her; they showered for a moment at the nozzles along the tiled wall. Then they went swimming, or came back from swimming. She had seen the pool: it was blue, the colour of formaldehyde. Stunk of chlorine. She couldn’t go near the pool. It would kill her. Kill her and preserve her at the same time. She would float like a perfectly preserved specimen in a giant bottle: This was how a wicked woman ended; examine the heart. What? Can’t find it? Well there’s the problem. There was no heart.
There was, once. He remembered. He remembered when she had a heart like everyone else. But it had been broken. Like the rest of her. It didn’t vanish without a fight. She had struggled, but they pulled it out of her chest and tore it apart with their teeth. Not all at once. Bit by bit. They were hungry. Like the bacteria that gnawed at her body and chewed her up, left their slime on her skin.
Where was he? He never came anymore. He hated her too. No, maybe he was on the other side, the men’s side. He couldn’t come here. Only women. Men gave women babies, and men weren’t allowed here. But he couldn’t make babies. Not ever again. She wanted to see him. Where was he?
“You did the abdomen again, you stupid cow!”
Birdie stopped soaping. She looked down. Her hand was circling her stomach again. Was it her hand? No, they switched it again.
“Don’t you ever learn, stupid cow? Only one side at a time. How many times must you be told? Gott in Himmel. Start over!”
Birdie let the rain of water rinse the lather off. Then she lifted the soap to the left side of her forehead again.
Later she sat in a corner near the lockers. Eyes down. Don’t look at them and they’ll leave you alone. Wait till they go. Sit very still; play with the little key around your neck. Hair still wet. Eyes down. Look! A crack in the tile. Bigger than last time. Filthy. Swarming with bacteria. Bugs breeding, swelling up, a city of germs spawning till they flood over. Filth and more filth. Look! The crack is growing! There! Can’t they see the floor moving? Creaking open with bugs. Like a great yawning mouth. The floor is disappearing into the crack.
She jumped up. “Stop it! Stop it! Can’t you see?”
The others cringed back, stared. She was used to it. Always her effect on people. They would be sorry when the bacteria got them.
Must get out. Oh sweet clean wind! Cold fresh scoops of it on the street. Swept over her still damp hair, scouring her skin from the bugs and their larvae, their rot and putrefaction.
Walk faster — no, slower. No, faster. If The Controller found her out here it would be the end of her. Finally, the yard. The Controller couldn’t hurt her here. Open shed with the key. Pull out the wagon. Where’s my Precious? I remember. Precious gone. I miss her. There, there, don’t cry. Let’s find the darling box. Feel the smooth metal with the dear little house, green trees. Open the lid. See the pretty mouse? Pat the pretty fur. Something long ago, darling and warm — when was it? Can only remember the braids. Sweet braids. Like a mouse tail, twisted and shiny. Feel my pretty braids. Where are they? Gone, all gone. The Controller took them. Like everything else. But he wasn’t happy with every thing. He wanted her soul, too.
An image flew by in her head. Glass breaking. The Controller in a white coat, angry, shouting. What’s in her hand? A pen? Lines on paper, like ladders. Like snakes. Inky little strokes between the snakes. Pen wriggling in her hand. She’s turning into a snake. Can snakes be afraid? She’s scared like the men waiting, but not the same scared. A different danger. Nothing compared to theirs. She wants to tell them it’s all right, knowing it isn’t. Their eyes watch; her pen jumps between the snakes, squiggles in ink. No people. Just numbers. Do numbers have eyes? Can they be scared?
Something was missing from the box. The numbers. The squiggles and snakes and numbers that used to have eyes. She pulled all the bits of paper and old pens and broken pencils out of the pretty box till she saw the bottom shining beneath. It was gone. What was gone? Can’t remember. Her heart being eaten alive, that was what.