The Genocides

“Rest,” said Orville. He had just discovered that his nose was broken. It had always been such a good nose too— straight and thin, a proud nose. “Does it look awful?” he asked Blossom.

She shook her head sadly and kissed his nose, but she wouldn’t say anything. She hadn’t said a word since the thing that had happened down there. Orville tried to return her kiss, but she averted her head.

Buddy and Maryann went away so they could be by themselves. “He seems so much bigger,” Buddy remarked, dandling Buddy Junior. “How long have we been gone?”

“Three days and three nights. They were long days, because I couldn’t sleep. The others have already gone up to the surface. They wouldn’t wait. But I knew you’d be back. You promised me. Remember?”

“Mmm,” he said, and kissed her hand.

“Greta’s come back,” Maryann said.

“That makes no difference to me. Not any more.”

“It was on your account that she came back. She told me so. She says she can’t live without you.”

“Shes got her nerve—saying that to you.”

“She’s… changed. You’ll see. She’s not back in the same tuber where I was waiting, but in the one next above. Come, I’ll bring you to her.”

“You sound like you want me to take up with Greta again.”

“I only want what you want, Buddy. You say that Neil is dead. If you want to make her your second wife, I won’t stop you… if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want, dammit! And the next time I say I love you, you’d better believe me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said in her teensiest, church-mouse voice. There was even the suggestion of small laughter, stifled. “But you’d better see her anyhow. Because you’ll have to think of some way of getting her back to the surface. Mae Stromberg is back too, but she’s already gone up with the rest of them. She’s sort of crazy now. She was still carrying her Denny around with her—what’s left of Denny. Bones mostly. This is the tuber. Greta’s over at the other end. I’ll stay back here with the lamp. She prefers the dark.”

Buddy smelled a rat. Soon, advancing through the tuber, he smelled something much worse. Driving through a town in southern Minnesota in pea-canning season once, he had smelt something like this—an outhouse gone sour. “Greta?” he said.

“Buddy, is that you, Buddy?” It was surely her voice that replied, but its timbre had altered subtly. There was no crispness to the d’s, and the initial B had a sputtering sound. “How are you, Buddy? Don’t come any closer than you are! I—” There was a gasping sound, and when Greta began to speak again, she burbled, like a child who tries to talk with his mouth full of milk. “—shill lub you. I wan oo be yours. Forgib me. We can begin all over again—like Adamb an Ebe—jus us oo.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Are you sick?”

“No. I—” A sound of violent gargling. “—I’m just a little hungry. I get that way now and again. Maryann brings me my food here, but she won’t ever bring me enough. Buddy, she’s trying to starve me!”

“Maryann,” Buddy called. “Bring the light here.”

“No, don’t!” Greta shouted. “You’ve got to answer my question first, Buddy. There’s nothing standing between us now. Maryann told me that if you wanted— No—go away! The light hurts my eyes.” There was a slopping, sucking sound, as when one moves too suddenly in a full bathtub, and the air was roiled, releasing new tides of fetor.

Maryann handed her husband the dimly burning lamp, which he held over the sty into which the huge bulk of Greta Anderson had sunk of its own great weight. Her bloated body had lost any distinctively human features: it was an uncomplicated mass of flaccid fat. The contours of her face were obscured by folds of loose flesh like a watercolor portrait that has been left out of doors in a rainstorm. Now this face began to move from side to side, setting the, flesh into a jellylike commotion—a gesture of negation, as far as one could judge.

“She doesn’t move any more,” Maryann explained, “and she’s too heavy to lift. The others found her when they were looking for Blossom, and they pulled her this far with ropes. I told them to leave her here, cause she needs some-. one to look after her. I bring her all her food. It’s a fulltime job.”

The commotion of flesh at their feet became more agitated, and there seemed almost to be an expression on the face. Hatred, perhaps. Then an aperture opened in the center of the face, a mouth, and Greta’s voice said, “Go away, you disgush me!”

Before they had left, the figure at their feet was already stuffing handfuls of the syrupy fruit pulp into the cavity in the center of its face.