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Chapter Fourteen: What Do Women Want?

"Why is Daddy in TV again?" demanded Ida. "I want him right here."

"He has to go to jail," said Sorrel. "Was Daddy bad, Ma? Pass the ketchup, please."

"BOOM!" shouted Tom. "Remember, Ida? BOOM!"

"Will you be quiet?" snapped Sybil. "I'm trying to hear the news."

The well-fed, blond German newscaster-woman continued talking on their rented TV. She wasn't plump exactly . . . just very solid. Buxom. Sybil wondered, once again, how the Germans could eat so well, yet look so trim.

"Do you children want more spaghetti? Ida, you haven't touched your food. There'll be no dessert until you empty that plate."

"Mean!" shouted Ida, bursting into tears.

"S.A.D.," taunted Sorrel. "Shrink And Die. Mommy, Ida's going to shrink and die."

"Hush, Sorrel."

"Well that's what Daddy always says when we don't eat."

"BOOOOM!" bellowed Tom. The picture of the smashed museum was on the screen again. Sybil thought briefly of Virgilio.

"I'm sure that Daddy will be back tomorrow," she told the children comfortingly. "The bomb wasn't really his fault. He just has to explain to the police how it happened."

"What's for dessert?" inquired Ida.

"Canned pineapple. At least eat your meatballs."

"Okay." The sound came out a fat quack. "But no buscadey."

"Mommy?" asked Tom, looking up. "Mommy, if you dreamed that you died would you never wake up?"

"You always wake up."

"But what if you have a heart attack?" put in Sorrel. "From being scared to death!"

"Do you children have bad dreams?"

"Night before last I did," said Sorrel.

"In Rome?" asked Tom, glancing at her.

"Yeah, everything was all mixed up like scrambled eggs."

"I had bad dweams, too," added Ida. "It was awful."

"You poor children. That dream was from something Daddy did. You helped to bring him back."

"He's not here now."

"I'm sure he'll be home tomorrow. Now let's put the dishes in the sink, and you'll get pineapple."

The girls helped, but Tom crawled under the table to look for his new Superball. When Sybil brought out the pineapple the way the kids liked it, in bowls with toothpicks, Tom had found his ball and was bouncing it between floor and ceiling.

BAT-a-PAT-a-Bat-a-Pat-a-bat-a-pat-a-babab'b'b'b'bbbbbbbrrrrrrrthok. It bumped to a stop against the table leg. Tom retrieved it and flung it down on the floor again. BAT-a-PAT-a- . . .

"Tom, would you sit down and have your dessert?"

 . . . 'b'b'bbbbbbrrrrrrrt. The ball was stuck under the couch this time. Tom wormed about on the floor, trying to get his arm in far enough.

"That's a neat ball," said Sorrel. "Have you looked inside it, Mommy? You can see things moving in there. Like our dream."

"What do you mean?"

"It's magic. All three of our Easter toys are magic. Right, Ida?"

"Rwight. My mousie whispers to me. She's alive, rweally!"

"And your special pillow talks, too, doesn't it, Ida?" Sybil gave her little daughter a kiss.

"No, no, Ma," insisted Sorrel. "I heard the mouse talking. And my doll-heads smile at me when no one's looking."

"I think you children are still dreaming. It's time for bath and bed. Come on, Tom, you can get that ball out tomorrow."

The kids had a happy, noisy bath together. Afterwards Sybil read them Mr. and Mrs. Pig's Evening Out, the current favorite. Kisses, prayers, kisses, lights out, last kiss. Tom was already asleep.

Sybil closed the bedroom door and sat down on the couch where she and Alwin usually slept. It was hard to believe they were living in a two-room apartment. A bedroom and a dining/living room with a couch for sleeping. Just a year ago they'd had a four-bedroom house. But then Alwin had lost his teaching job and had gotten a grant to do research in Heidelberg. A two-room apartment in the foreign visitors' housing complex was all they could afford.

In a way it was liberating not to own anything. But why did the apartment floor have to be concrete with a thin covering of green felt? Inexplicably, the expected wood parquet floor was mounted on the ceiling. Wood ceilings and green felt floors. Worst of all, the couches had no arms.

Sybil went to the kitchen and opened a green liter-bottle of white wine. That was the one thing that was cheap in Germany. Cheap and good. She drank off a quick glass and took a refill. Thank God that sex sphere, that Babs thing, was gone now. All Alwin had to do was tell the police how he'd been kidnapped. After being threatened by Cortland Burton and his lawyers, Vice-Consul Membrane had agreed to support Alwin's story.

When Sybil went back into the living room, the lack of arms on the couch suddenly maddened her so much that she set down her glass and shoved the couch across the floor. Scooted it over to the bookcase so she could rest her arm on the lowest shelf. There. She lit a cigarette, tilting her head back to keep the smoke out of her eyes. The light was better here, too. Now, where was that new book?

Something bright glistened on the floor where the couch had been. Tom's ball. But it was moving, oh no, and growing just like at the museum!

"Babs?" Sybil had trouble getting out the name. "Are you the sex sphere?"

The glistening globe hovered in front of her. Images swam in it like fish in a bowl. It was as if Sybil kept seeing what she expected to see: color swirls, Giulia, ass-cheeks, bloody teeth, an A-bomb. How she wished Alwin or Virgilio were here.

The sphere shrank a bit and took on the form of Virgilio's face. "Hey, svheetie. You OK?"

"Oh, stop," protested Sybil. "Don't."

"Vhant to fuck?" purred the sphere. Virgilio's features furred over and his nose grew into a stiff mauve prick. Nodding suggestively, it glided closer.

"That's not what I want," cried Sybil, lashing out with her fist. "Don't!"

The sphere smoothed over and went blandly yellow. Two black dot-eyes and an upcurved black line-mouth. A living Smiley button . . . with a Hungarian accent.

"Why are you back?" asked Sybil. "Alwin said his bomb set you free."

"I vhant to set humanity also free," intoned the yellow face. "Alwin understands."

"Can't you leave poor Alwin alone? He's done enough for you!"

"Alwin is za Savior of za human race, you vhill see. But vhy did you reject me just now?"

"You want to know why I didn't let you stick that gross penis-shape in me?"

The great yellow head nodded.

"Well, why should I? It was just an organ with no person attached. That kind of thing may be all right for men. But women . . . "

"Vhat is it zat vimmen really vhant?"

The same question that had stumped Sigmund Freud. There was still hope for humanity if this alien invader had to ask that.

"If you don't know by now," said Sybil, lighting another cigarette, "Don't mess with us."

"I have no time to mess. Vimmen must join me, and if not vhillingly, zen unvhillingly. If necessary I vhill eat you all up!" The long mouth-slash opened, and the sphere drew closer.

Just then the phone rang. Sybil picked it up.

"Hello, Sybil? Guess where I am?"

"Alwin! Did you get out of jail? Should I pick you up? The sex sphere is back. She's threatening me."

"I know. Dear Babs. She showed me everything. I'm like a god. Guess where I am!"

"You're in a bar on Hauptstrasse."

"Guess again!"

The sex sphere squeezed up next to Sybil and the receiver, trying to eavesdrop. Sybil hit it as hard as she could.

"Alwin, I don't really care where you are. Come home and help me!"

"I'm in the sky, Sybil. I'm floating in the sky about three hundred meters above you. And get this: I'm not using a telephone!"

"You're still in jail, aren't you, Alwin. Are you on something?"

"I'm high all right, but not on false drugs. Step outside and look up if you don't believe me. Are the pigs there?"

"You mean the children?"

"The police, Sybil. Have the police showed up yet?"

"No . . . ."

"They will. Tell them to get fucked. Tell them the Second Coming is here and I'm it. Tell the newspapers."

"I thought it was over, Alwin. I thought everything could go back to normal."

"Step outside, I tell you. Look up!"

The sex sphere darted over to the patio door and began tugging at its handle as if she were some pet dog eager for her walk. Sybil got the door open and stepped out onto their tiny concrete patio.

The foreign scholars' Gästehaus apartments were located on a promontory some hundred meters above the Neckar River. As Sybil opened the door she could hear a barge's diesel engine laboring upstream, the barge way down there on the water, its long dark bulk lit by the headlights of cars speeding along the highways on either side of the river. There on the near road was the flashing blue light of a police car coming this way.

Sybil tilted back her head, looking up past the brambles, up past the tall German pines. It was a clear, star-besprent night. High up there hovered something dark and ragged. Sybil shuddered with the deepest fear she'd ever felt.

The sex sphere bounded up to join the bewitched form, and in the sphere's pale light, Sybil could see for sure: Alwin. Alwin floating, flying up there with his arms outstretched—oh Alwin, are you gone for good?

Already there was heavy pounding on the apartment door, then the grating of a passkey in their lock. A child cried out. Sybil ran in to face the intruders.

Herr Blöd was in the lead, his furious purple face aglow. He was the building superintendent, and hell on kids. They called him the "Killer Tomato." Close on Herr Blöd's heels were two aging American MPs with nightsticks, followed by three green-capped German Polizei packing automatic weapons.

"Wo ist der Herr Professor?" cried Herr Blöd. "Er ist gesuchte Terrorist! Ihre Familie ist ab morgen ausgewiesen, Frau Professor!"

Frau Professor. That was about the worst thing Sybil had ever been called. The title had no organic connection to anything relating to her existence as an individual person. "Wife-of-professor."

"Get fucked," Sybil said, unconsciously following Alwin's advice.

"What is it?" screamed Sorrel, standing terrified at the bedroom door. The Polizei noticed the open patio door and rushed on out. Alwin's voice came down from the sky, high and faint, shouting something garbled, something of a religious nature.

"Da is' er!" barked one of the Polizei.

"Aber unmöglich! Fliegt er denn?"

The MPs peered apologetically into the bedroom, while Herr Blöd examined the bathroom.

"Whut all are they sayin'?" one of the American MPs asked Sybil with a nod towards the patio.

"That my husband can fly. It's true, he really can."

The man's eyes bulged out, and his mouth worked for words. In the silence Sybil had time to read the name on his uniform. RON BLEVINS, SR. With some vague intent of lodging a complaint, she read the other soldier's name as well. BING BONE. That one looked drunk. Dark, wiry and shifty . . . a little pirate of a man. The first one, Blevins, had a fat body and sticklike arms . . . arms that waved about like an excited potato bug's feelers. A pirate and a potato bug, our nation's finest.

"What's going on, Mommy?" Sorrel clung anxiously to her leg. In the next room Ida had started to cry.

"Go in there and take care of Ida, honey. The police won't hurt us. They just made a mistake."

"But, Mommy . . . "

"Please, Sorrel!"

"I'm scared."

"I'll tuck you back in." Glaring her hardest at Herr Blöd, Sybil ushered Sorrel into the bedroom. All three kids were upset and full of questions. She shushed them as best she could, and returned to the living-room.

"Did you say your husband can fly?" asked Bing Bone, the little pirate. He made a flying gesture with his left hand, and Sybil noticed some rust-red stains under his nails. Blood?

"Mah waafe had her a Baahble vision just this naaht," put in potato-bug Blevins. "She phoned me up. After the call is when ah noticed yore husband had made good his escape. You say he rilly flaaaahs?"

"I . . . I saw my dead wife," put in Bone.

"These are the last taahms!" bleated Blevins.

"Was sagen die Soldaten?" asked one of the Polizei. Apparently Sybil was supposed to be translator for her husband's international hunting-party.

"Quatsch," she said simply. "Nonsense."

"Wir suchen weiter." The three Polizei trotted out of the apartment, weapons held smartly across their bodies. Herr Blöd stayed, eyeing Sybil and the soldiers with blind suspicion. Actually she was glad he was still there. Crazed yokels like Blevins made her nervous. And that sinister little pirate with blood on his hand, talking about his dead wife. Ugh!

"I'm terribly sorry I can't be of any further help," Sybil said in her best upper-class accent. "Good-bye."

Blevins looked like he wanted to stay and discuss the Book of Revelations, but Bone had the decency to lead him out.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Bitter."

"Baa-aaah," chimed in Blevins. "And, ma'am, you should take yore Baahble in yore lap tonaaht. It's done mah waafe a world of good."

Purple-faced Herr Blöd got off the last shot. "Ab Morgen sind Sie ausgewiesen." "Tomorrow you have to move out."

"Nein!" shouted Sybil, forgetting all her German but the word for no. "Nein, nein, nein!" She slammed the door behind Blöd and hooked the inner chain. Good thing they already had a lawyer.

The children were in an uproar, and it took a half hour to calm them down. Finally that was done, and Sybil could sit back down with her cigarette and glass of wine.

The phone rang again. Something in Sybil snapped. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the phone cord out of the wall. The phone kept right on ringing. With a sigh, she picked up the receiver.

"Hello, Alwin."

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Where are you?"

"Do you think the line's tapped?"

"No. I just pulled it out of the wall."

"What for? Are you in a bad mood? You sound cranky."

"Alwin, I'm leaving. I'm taking the children and flying back to America tomorrow. I can't take this . . . this sitting around and being Frau Professor while you're in dimension Z."

"Where will you get the money for the tickets?"

This gave Sybil pause. Their bank-account was low. Her father would never pay to have her go back to the US . . . he'd want Sybil to stay and keep her mother company in Frankfurt. The horror and helplessness of her situation welled up, and she began to cry.

"Hey," came Alwin's voice over the phone. "Hey, Sybil, don't cry. I'll get the money. I'll put it in our account at the Deutsche Bank."

"How."

"I can do anything. I can! I'll just reach into their computer and . . . " his voice broke off. Sybil sat there for a minute, holding the dead phone.

Holding a dead, unplugged phone. She must be hallucinating. Oh, this was bad. This was the worst it had ever been. She had to get back to America, back to some friends. She could go stay with the DeLongs or . . .

"Sybil? Sybil?" Alwin's voice was back on the phone. "I've done it. Switched twenty thousand deutsche marks over to our account. That's about ten thousand dollars. Get it tomorrow, get it in cash dollars before they straighten things out. Deutsche Bank has a branch at the Frankfurt airport. Go ahead and go to America. Go first class! I'll look for you there, once I get things rolling here. I'll miss you, baby."

"Where . . . " Sybil had trouble controlling her voice. "Where should I go? How will I take care of the kids alone, Alwin? You can't just send me off like this."

"I'll be there. I promise I'll be there . . . next week or sooner. Why don't you go up to Maine. I'll meet you there." Alwin's family had a summer cottage near Boothbay Harbor.

"I'll be all alone."

"Get my mother to come. Or one of your friends. Get Nancy from Boston."

"Where are you, Alwin?"

"I'm in a tree right now. Outside Huba's. I might spend the night at his place. He can help me get things rolling."

"Get what rolling?"

"The end of the world. The apocalypse. Babs is going to help the whole human race move to a higher plane. It's gonna be great. Don't you want to learn to fly?"

"I'd rather have a husband. And a father for my children."

"Sybil, I don't want to get into all that. This is much bigger."

"For you."

"Good-bye, honey. See you in Maine, if not in heaven first."

"Oh, good-bye."

The phone went dead again. Sybil put the receiver in its cradle. It was almost midnight, but there was no hope of sleeping.

Something came rolling out of the bedroom. Ida's mousie. Babs again.

"Get out of here!" cried Sybil in sudden fear. She snatched up the mouse, went in the bedroom and found the set of doll-heads, took them all out on the patio and threw them up into the sky.

I don't want the next world, she thought. I want this one.

 

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