The Mary Sue is pleased to present strange, beautiful new fiction from Apex Magazine each month. This monthās story, from Apex Magazineās current issue, is āTen Daysā Graceā by Foz Meadows. Take a lookā¦
“Ten Days Grace”
Foz Meadows
Julia Kettan first knew her husband was dead when she looked out the window and saw a car emblazoned with the crest of the Bureau of Family Affairs pull up in the driveway. Her legs went weak, though whether from relief or fear she couldnāt tell. Robert hadnāt come home the previous evening. Sheād phoned it in that morning to both the police and the Bureau, not wanting to risk a second major infraction under the Spousal Laws in case anything really had happened, despite being convinced that Robert had just drunk too much after work and decided to sleep at a friendās. Heād done that before, and each time sheād forced herself to let the Bureau know, just in case. And now it had actually happened. Robert was gone, and a man in a suit was walking solemnly towards her door ā she could see him through the kitchen window, pausing to straighten his tie, raising a hand for the buzzer ā and it took all her strength not to burst out into terrified, sobādrenched laughter. At least Lilyās at school, she told herself wildly, at least she doesnāt have to be here for this, the naked, ugly part of it all. Fingers shaking, she finished programming the cleanser, and then the buzz came; it was time, it was time, and the questions were already on her lips ā how did it happen? and what comes next?
The agent on the other side of the door was younger than heād seemed through the glass: not much older than her own thirtyāthree years, which was some relief. The patriarchs were the ones to watch out for. Julia made herself take in his brown eyes, cleanāshaven jaw and black hair with impartiality, trying to let nothing show in her face. But of course, she was an open book to him; even as he opened his mouth, she could tell he knew that she knew why heād come, and that he was unsurprised by her knowledge.
āMrs. Julia May Kettan, formerly Julia Mai Liu?ā
āYes.ā
āIām Agent Sora James with the Bureau of Family Affairs. May I come in?ā
She waved him through: no smile, no grief. As blank as blank. āOf course.ā
They sat in the lounge room, opposite one another. Agent James had a file under one arm, which he laid down on the coffee table before lacing his fingers together. Though clearly uncomfortable, he managed to meet her gaze.
āMrs. Kettan, at sevenāohāfive this morning you alerted us as to the possible disappearance of your husband, Mr. Robert Anthony Kettan. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your suspicions were correct; Mr. Kettan was involved in a traffic collision at approximately elevenāfifty last night, on the eastbound lane of Jury Road. His vehicle was clocked at almost double the speed limit; it seems likely that he was trying to reach home before curfew kicked in. From what we can gather, he lost control of the car at the Maven Street corner, skidded, and flipped. The accident was reported almost instantly by another motorist, but your husband was pronounced dead at the scene.ā He paused. āIām sorry for your loss.ā
Julia nodded. A numb feeling had started to spread through her stomach and up her throat. Sheād never loved Robert, but after twelve years together, heād become the devil she knew. Now, sheād have her pick of unfamiliar fiends. If you could call it a pick.
As Agent James reached for the file, she fixed her eyes on a distant corner of the room, unable to bear the innocuous tap of stylus on screen.
āYou have one child ā Lily Lian Kettan, born July 8 2048, now aged twelve years. Is that correct?ā
Her voice seemed to come from far away. āIt is.ā
āYou have no exigency partner registered with the Bureau under Spousal Law 5.14?ā
āNo.ā
āAnd have you attempted to register any such person in the past two to fourteen days?ā
āNo.ā
Agent James sighed. There was a faint clickāclick as he entered her responses. Routine, Julia told herself. Thatās what this is. A routine.
āAccording to our records, Robert was not Lilyās progenitor.ā
āNo. He wasnāt. Her father was already married.ā At Agent Jamesās raised eyebrow, she shook her head and corrected herself. āIām sorry. Her progenitor. Of course, Robert was her father.ā
āI see.ā
Falling pregnant with Lily had been her first infraction against the Spousal Laws. Like homosexuality and abortion, single parenthood had been illegal ever since the National Family Party came to power nearly three decades ago. As soon as the cause of Juliaās sudden nausea was correctly diagnosed, sheād been brought before the Bureau and called to account for the genesis of her notāallowedātoābeāillegitimate offspring. The childās progenitor, she told them, was her employer, Roy Sovas, a kind man some twenty years her senior whose wife had produced a single sickly daughter and a string of miscarriages. Divorce was impossible. Something had to be done.
Armed with her testimony, the Bureau took a DNA sample from Roy and used it to prove paternity, although he, to his lasting credit, had already confessed to the affair. For his part in their joint violation of theĀ Spousal Laws, Roy received a docked salary, a black mark on his citizenship record and a formal reminder that he was forbidden from contacting either Julia or their child for the next eighteen years, until the zygote who was to become Lily had reached its majority. For her part, Julia was given a choice: either give birth and then surrender her newborn to an adoptive couple, or take a husband. There was also the matter of finding a new job and a black mark similar to Royās, but compared to the choice of abandoning her child or raising it with a man she didnāt love, such trifles paled into insignificance.
In the end, sheād opted for marriage. She knew of no suitable candidates, but then, if she had the affair with Roy would hardly have been necessary. Fortunately, the Bureau was wellāversed in human weakness, and kept a roster of available men ā and women, should the need arise, although it much less frequently did ā who were willing to marry such as her. That exercise, at least, contained some element of choice, albeit a meagre one. Robert had seemed the lesser of several evils. They met twice, agreed to marry, and then it was done: Lilyās existence was legitimised by this faƧade of wedded parentage. Love didnāt enter into it, or competence, or care, or even genetics: every child, the National Family Party said, should have both a father and mother, come what may. And as Lily was still years from her majority, the fact of Robertās death didnāt matter, either. Once again, the choice was Juliaās ā either give her daughter away, or marry another man to ensure Lilyās proximity to an official fatherāfigure.
Sheād been silent for a long time, pretending this notāquiteāconversation with Agent James was heading in a different direction. She looked at him, hoping she might somehow have slipped backwards in time, to an era when this sort of thing didnāt happen, but still the stylus stabbed inexorably downwards.
Tap. Tap.
āYou understand,ā said Agent James, āthat the Bureauās concern is only for Lilyās wellābeing. A child raised by only one gender, no matter how lovingly, cannot ever be more than a halfābeing.ā
āI understand,ā croaked Julia, although she did not, could not, never had, never would; least of all now, when Robert, whose existence should have protected her from this eventuality, was gone, and how was she to feel about that, anyway?
āYou do not have to decide just yet,ā said Agent James, so gently that Julia found herself hating him. āFirst, there is the funeral to attend to. Afterwards, however āā
āYes,ā she said bitterly, āI remember. Ten daysā grace in which to find a husband.ā
āTen daysā grace,ā said Agent James, nodding his head. āShall I bring you the list of candidates, once things are sorted?ā
Fuck your candidates, Julia wanted to scream at him.
āYes,ā she said.
Ā§
Telling Lily was hard, but not because of Robert. All the grief her daughter felt at his death was warped ā subsumed, even ā by fear of what came next. Who would this stranger be, this sudden, unfamiliar man whose presence would be a daily reminder of what was lost, an intrusion into matters of which he could have no possible conception? Even at the level of words, something was being imposed and taken away: in memory, Robert would become a caregiver, and father no more ā that title now belonged to a foreign successor, in law if not in Lilyās heart. Julia held her girl close, putting one arm around those slender ribs, that sweet childāspine not yet straightened with the confidence of breasts nor hunched with the burden of them, and let the snotāsobs soak into her jumper. Lily knew whose biological offspring she was and wasnāt ā that honesty, at least, had been dealt with years ago ā but for all that Robert had been far from Juliaās ideal, he had at least cared for their daughter. TheirĀ daughter: Julia rolled the phrase through her brain, and decided it was as accurate as any; or, if there were a more suitable naming, she couldnāt think of it.
āWhy canāt it just be us?ā Lily cried. āWhy canāt they leave us alone?ā
Julia made no answer. She had seen her daughterās reports for the mandatory class called Civics and Virtue, even taken perverse pride in the quantity of glowing grades they earned. Lily knew why this was happening, but knowing why and feeling why are two different things: that was her current lesson.
By comparison, the funeral was easy. Closed casket ā sheād asked Lily whether she wanted to see Robert again or not, a request which elicited yet more tears and a tightly shaken head ā and a minimum of religion. Robert would have wanted more pomp: like many who signed up to marry the unwed mothers, heād been a true believer. But Julia had no stomach for priests and their moralism, and forbade the single church official from saying anything more than the basic deathāgrace. Robertās male relatives kept their condolences to a minimum; all except Orson, his younger brother, whose clammy hands on hers proved as slippery and unwelcome as his effusive condolences, greasing her ears like so much wax.
As for the women ā well. They were older. They remembered the roaring twenties and shining tens, years before Juliaās predicament was ever etched into law. She was only a child when it happened, lacking the power to prevent the present day, but perhaps they might have changed things, if theyād tried. Perhaps, perhaps. They patted her softly, and clucked, and looked away. Lily stood like a reed, fists clenched, and did not cry. Julia felt proud of her for that. Under the weight of so much pity, tears were to have been expected. But she had already cried, at length, in private: such tender emotions were not for public display, and by law, in any case, these people were no longer her relatives.
Juliaās mother had died of cancer before Lilyās third birthday; her father was still alive, but in some ways, attending would have been more painful for him than anyone. To be bricked in by the solid, livingāandābreathing proof of what the law had done to his daughter ā a thing that had grieved her mother enough in life, sapping comfort from those final years ā would be unendurable. She had phoned instead; they talked, though it was a conversation more composed of silences than speech, and that was enough for either of them.
As Julia hung up, she heard him weeping.
The wake passed in a blur. She moved through her house, touching what was hers, as though trying to draw strength from it, and watching as Robertās relatives took away those things which had belonged to him alone. Her new husband would not want them, she assumed; certainly, she did not. Throughout it all, she drew herself up and moved, cleanālimbed and steady, like the most perfect clockwork woman ever built, like a computer simulation of herself, like a ghost whose feet did not quite touch the ground. And then, just as suddenly as it had filled, her house was empty again, the sudden absence of Robertās things balanced out by a newfound profusion of saladābearing Tupperware containers, crockery smeared with pieārind, plates covered with uneaten meat, and a litter of plastic cups. Lily went upstairs to weep again in private, but it wasnāt until Julia heard her daughterās door slam shut that she let herself drop, spraddleākneed on the carpet, and cry with the silent experience of a mother who cannot ā must not ā be overheard.
Ā§
Agent James returned the following day. Had she in any way wanted to see him, Julia might have called it a courtesy visit. He neednāt have bothered; the candidate files were digital, after all. Her first instinct was to stop him at the threshold, but the habit of hospitality was too deeply ingrained to ignore. Instead, she invited him in and made tea, which they both drank, before stylusāclicking her way through the list of available men. Agent James sat opposite and watched her, silent as still water.
āThereās a reason Iāve come in person,ā he said finally, when she was done pretending to form meaningful opinions about a group of strangers.
āOh?ā
āA Mr. Orson Wallace Kettan has petitioned for consideration as your husband.ā
Julia felt her blood run cold. āHe wants to marry me?ā
āHe was your husbandās brother. That holds a lot of weight with the Bureau.ā
āWeight,ā echoed Julia.
Agent James closed his eyes, recalling words from memory. āāWhen brothers live together and one of them dies and has no son, the wife of the deceased shall not be married outside the family to a strange man. Her husbandās brother shall go in to her and take her to himself as wife and perform the duty of a husbandās brother to her.āā His eyes snapped open, brown as wet earth. āDeuteronomy 25:5. A favourite verse, for some. I am instructed to inform you that, should none of our candidates rouse in you any strong preference, Mr. Orson Kettan would be looked on as a more than favourable alternative. In point of fact, were you desirous of removing the black mark from your citizenship record ā and, by extension, from Lilyās ā such a match would, Iām told, hold great sway with our records division.ā
For a long moment, Julia stared at Agent James, sifting through the balance of his words, looking for some sign or other that the sarcasm she would swear to having heard was genuine, and not just a product of her own shock. Sure enough, one corner of his mouth was twisted upwards like the tail of an italicised serif. Julia sucked in a breath.
āAnd why the fuck should I care about your records division?ā
Agent James grinned. āYou shouldnāt. I certainly donāt.ā One hand reached inside his jacket. āMind if I smoke?ā
āPlease,ā said Julia, too startled by her own boldness and the reaction it had generated to form the usual protests. She watched as Agent James withdrew a polished cigarette case and a matching silver lighter from his pocket. He set these accoutrements down beside the file as though they were not completely incongruous in the context ā or anachronistic, even, especially the case, from which he extracted not one, but two slim cigarettes, wrapped in white and gold paper. Julia had never smoked before in her life, but now she took the proffered tobacco in hand, pressing one end softly to her lips as the lighter sparked up. She inhaled, watching as the fire took, and felt her lungs seize with smoke. She coughed and coughed, which Agent James ignored. He lit his own cigarette and sucked on it, the slender cylinder strangely effeminate between his long, squareānailed fingers.
There was no ashtray, and Julia felt too rooted to the spot to fetch one. Instead, she tapped the grey leavings of this unfamiliar vice onto the tabletop, a sign for her guest to do likewise.
āWhat do you want?ā she whispered.
By way of answer, Agent James tossed her the lighter. Julia barely managed to catch it without dropping her cigarette. Confused, she looked to him for explanation, but none was forthcoming. She stroked the lighter with her thumb. It was filigreed rather than flat, embossed with subtle designs. Daring another suck of tobacco ā it burned her throat and lungs, but the motion was soothing ā she held up the object and stared at it, looking for clues.
She didnāt have to look hard. Though some of the detail had been worn away with use, the filigreed images were still visible: a series of pairs of naked men, twined and grasping as they fucked one another. Not contraband all by itself, but if the vice pages could be believed, people had been arrested for less, or for as much. Julia shoved the lighter back on the table and stared at the man across from her: Agent Sora James, of the Bureau of Family Affairs, who had as good as admitted to the crime of being homosexual.
āThere are more of us than youād think,ā he said softly, taking another long breath of his cigarette. āIn government, that is. Even the Bureau admits its working hours are inimical to the maintenance of a healthy family life. Of course, theyāll still refuse promotion past a certain point if you donāt exhibit your normalcy through wedded bliss, the idea being that, above a certain salary range, the problem takes care of itself. But weāre still there. Donāt ask, donāt tell.ā
He looked at her, long and steady. āI hate the logic of what we do. I want to change it. But so long as Iām single, theyāll never let me near enough the law to matter.ā
It wasnāt quite a proposal. Even so, the question hung in the air.
āWhy me?ā asked Julia.
āYou have a black mark on your file,ā said Agent Sora James. āYouāve disobeyed before. And youāre not a believer. That might make you lessā¦ inimical, to someone like me. You have a daughter, which works out for both of us. Fatherhood is valuable. And having met you, I donāt believe you want to choose between that āā he stabbed his cigarette towards the file, āā and the devout brother Orson. Consider me a third alternative.ā
If one argument in particular could be said to have blighted Julia and Robertās relationship, it was his constant desire to impregnate her with a child of his own blood: to be progenitor and father both. Julia had never said as much, but her suspicion had always been that, had she acquiesced, Lily would not have received nearly half so much love from Robert as she had. Why waste energy on a child that wasnāt his, whose status was already tainted by her motherās decision to sleep with a married man? Robert had arguedĀ with her ā pleaded, even ā but though she bent towards him in all other ways, on this one thing Julia had remained firm. She would not produce a child that further tied her to a man she didnāt love, when their marriage had only ever been a legal convenience. But there had still been sex: awkward at first, then more a matter of habit, but always unpleasant when compared to her memories of Lilyās conception.
āYou haveā¦ lovers?ā She faltered on the question, unsure of the right terminology.
āYes,ā said Sora James, who had suddenly stopped being Agent in her thoughts. āI take lovers. My interests do not run to women, and never have. On that count, I will not bother you.ā
āCould I āā She stopped, unable to get the question out. How did one ask permission for infidelity? Still he grinned, despite her hesitance.
āYou may.ā
A great rush of breath escaped her. Julia stared at the cigarette in her hand, which was mostly ash by now, and let it fall on the table. There were worse alternatives, and within her allotted ten daysā grace, the notion of finding a more meaningful offer was absurd. At least sheād met this man; at least he, too, was taking a risk. She picked up the lighter from where it had sat on the table, forced herself to contemplate its images anew. Then she gripped it, brief and tight, and threw the silver box to Sora, who caught it skilfully.
āCall it in,ā she said.
āENDā
Please visit Apex Magazine (www.apex-magazine.com) to read more great science fiction, fantasy, and horror.
This story is from issue 63 (August, 2014). The issue also features fiction by Amanda Forrest (āSister of Mercyā), John Moran (āThe Sandbirds of Mirelleā), Nene Ormes (āThe Good Matterā), and Erik Amundsen (āJupiter and Gentianā), poetry by Bogi TakĆ”cs (āA User Guide to the Application of Gem-Flowersā) and Alvaro ZinosāAmaro (āConservation of Energyā), author interview with John Moran and cover artist interview with Cyril Rolando, and nonfiction by Duane de Four (āThe Testosterone Injection That Could Ruin Orphan Blackā¦ And How To Make Sure It Doesnātā)
Each issue is free on our website, but Apex sells nicely formatted eBook editions for $2.99 that contains exclusive content.
- Sympathetic Characters: Gender Bias, Villains, & Orphan Black
- The Mary Sue Presents: āSoul of Soup Bonesā
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Published: Aug 5, 2014 07:55 pm