Quickening
by Miriam Heddy

     That very night was anomalous, an aberration of the soul so deep as to shake him for hours afterwards, and he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, considering what it all might mean, beyond the obvious, of course.

He'd been pregnant, though in point of fact, on a scale that was defined at one end by Aunt Louise the Flesh Eater and on the other by amnesia, hosting an apparently healthy fetus somewhere between his kidneys was not especially alarming, despite the incongruity and sheer unlikelihood of it all--the nagging realization during the dream that it was a dream breaking through, though not enough to waken him. No, it was actually the strong urge to urinate that woke him, finally, just as he was getting used to the very odd idea and all its repercussions on what he'd long considered a life doomed to bachelorhood, with himself the terminus of his genetic line.

The dividing cells were metaphoric, of course, almost certainly his subconscious warning him of an impending idea--something remarkable, he hoped, as he'd been sorely lacking in remarkable ideas lately.

The part that still troubled him was that Charles Eppes had been the father of the natal cluster, and had been absolutely disinterested in the news, and so he'd been alone in the doctor's office with its antiseptic white walls, the bad art, the cold slick jelly on his bared midsection and the pressure of the ultrasound wand against his abdomen. He woke before seeing the image, and was glad of that.

The next morning, whatever brilliant idea the dream promised failed to show itself, and was possibly scared off by the two theses he had yet to read, and by lunchtime, he was beyond boredom, and still a little irritable to find that Charles' disinterest in their mutual progeny seemed symptomatic of a more general problem that extended well into his waking life.

Finally, he sighed heavily, and Charles rolled his eyes and said, "What?" impatiently, taking a bite of his sandwich, and Larry responded, "Nothing, nothing," and sighed again, noticing the woman at the next table balancing her plate somewhat precariously on the sleeping child strapped to her chest. Crumbs of food were falling on the infant's head despite the napkin draped over it, obscuring its face, and the young woman wiped them away absently as she talked to her companion. Drinking her cup of coffee required she crane her head away from her body rather like a swan, and he wondered if that took practice or if it was maternal instinct, and whether the biological effects of pregnancy relaxed or elongated the neck muscles to facilitate gestures like these, or if--

"No, really, what?"

He looked back at Charles and wondered where Amita was. Wasn't Charles scheduled to have lunch with her today? "Have you ever considered that we might be spending too much time together?"

"What?"

"You really do seem to find your work with the FBI a good deal more interesting than anything I'm working on."

Charles' eyebrows raised at that, and he shook his head. "Larry, you seem to find my work with the FBI more interesting than anything you're working on."

Larry sighed again, this time genuinely, because Charles had a point. "So you're suggesting that I might have reached a point of reckoning."

"Maybe. I have no idea what that is, but--wait--does this have something to do with that woman I saw you talking to yesterday?"

"This has nothing to do with a...." He stopped, considering whether that was true. He'd had very little in the way of feminine companionship lately, and he'd had no pressing desire to pursue a romantic relationship--or even a brief carnal dalliance--in quite some time. "I dreamed I was pregnant."

Charles laughed again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he recovered from choking on his water. "I thought you didn't dream."

"Everyone has dreams, Charles."

Charles abruptly stopped laughing and looked at him strangely, his head cocked to the side, his brows drawn together. "So you're thinking about having kids again?"

"I believe the pregnancy was symbolic, Charles, not literal. New beginnings, nascent ideas--"

"Oh. Okay. So who was the, um...."

"You, apparently."

"So this was a case of asexual reproduction?"

"I didn't say that, though you're welcome to draw your own conclusions."

Charles' smile faltered, but he apparently decided Larry was joking and laughed.

"This is serious business, Charles. Either I'm the victim of random neural firing, or I'm trying to tell myself that our collaboration has reached its end."

"Random neural firing," Charles said, looking serious again, as well he should.

"You really aren't interested in my work."

"No."

"No," Larry nodded, relieved to have that out in the open.

"No, I'm not--I don't--I don't share your excitement about it, Larry, but--"

"But--"

"I'm interested in you."

"Oh. That's...."

"I mean that I--" Charles shook his head and then brushed his curls back from his forehead and pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, rubbing there.

"Headache?"

"Yes, Larry, you really are."

"Need I remind you that you always have the option of finding someone else to--"

"Impregnate?"

"I was going to say someone else to have lunch with."

Charles was staring at him again, and didn't notice Amita walk up to their table. Larry hardly noticed her either.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Charles blinked but didn't look up at her right away, even as he said, "We eat here every day."

"Creatures of habit," Amita said.

Charles nodded, and there was a pause that some might call pregnant, before Charles smiled up at her, even as Larry suddenly felt Charles' hand come to rest on his right knee. The cafeteria had no tablecloths, and Larry wondered if Charles was aware of that, if he cared, or if Amita would notice, and what she might do. He wasn't sure what he would do about it, though before he had time to consider reacting, the pressure on his knee was gone, and he was just starting to think he'd imagined it when Charles kicked his shoe.

"Larry, are you with me?" Charles reached across the table and patted the top of his hand, then took it in his own, squeezing it briefly before letting go. "Fleinhardt."

"Oh. Yes, I'm... I'm with you." He stood up and followed Charles and Amita from the cafeteria and back to his own office, the strange fluttering beneath his ribs growing more insistent when Charles stopped just inside his office door to pat him on the belly, his hand lingering there possessively for just long enough to raise a questioning look from Amita that Larry knew neither of them was ready to answer.

—FIN—

 

© 2006

 

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