AffectionAires Read online

CHAPTER II

  A condensed, seemingly malicious but woefully accurate chronicle of Dilly’s young years

  Irwin Ekes never wanted children; the world was too nasty. Nasty was what Mrs. Ekes called her own father; when he died, she used to say, her own life began. She yearned for a baby girl.

  The obstetrician, an old family friend, put his ear to her belly and announced, early on, that she was pregnant with a boy. At first she thought it a cruel joke and wept; then the doctor admitted, of course he didn’t know, but could test for sex if she so chose. No, fate would never abandon her; it would be a lovely girl.

  Cornelius was born: a betrayal, a grisly mistake. She was meant to have a daughter and she meant to hate her son but he was a handsome charmer from the first moment, as soon as she deigned to look at him: her brow, her eyes, her chin.

  Five years later, Mrs. Ekes was pregnant again.

  Edified human apologist scholars acknowledge that every conception engenders twins, that a struggle of opposites occurs in utero. It was a complicated pregnancy, as Mrs. Ekes described the quickening to Irwin, more kicks, twists and tumbles than ever with Cornelius.

  Indisputably, Dilly Calput attempted to cut her sister’s cord with her elegant fetal fingernails, but as nature reigned then (and no longer), a pair of living girls was born to Mrs. Ekes.

  The firstborn screamed like crazy; the second, Dilly, was wily enough to coo. Her faithful doctor-friend worried that Mrs. Ekes, a nervous, fearful woman already hampered with a growing son, would be short on everything, including affection, for two girls at once. So he threw the screamer away.

  Most babies are born head first; the head and its affixed face make bold impressions as the child is beckoned into this world. However, due to quirks of fetal compass, some youngsters misconstrue direction and travel the famous canal by extemporaneous means, resulting in debuts of elbows, knees, shoulders and behinds.

  Dilly entered the world feet first, making a vile impression indeed. From behind his mask, her deliverer whispered to the attending, the attending to the nurse, that no one had ever seen an infant with such ugly, albeit passably human, feet. The nurse whispered back, “Was there anything in the prenatal history that the obstetrician had failed to recognize, or mention, or record? Nothing in the mother’s chart had prepared them for anything as horrible as this!” But the colleagues held back, supposing they would face fickle Dr. Birth together thousands of times in their careers at Treatment, and congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Ekes. Now sweet Cornelius would have a sister who would love him, whom he would love, family after parents were gone, a companion to share memories of childhood.

  When Dilly finally cried, they handed her to Mom, who cuddled, soothed her and kissed her beautiful hands. At last she had a daughter. And tiny Dilly, in memoriam to her discarded sister, appropriated what certain experts dub ‘acquired characteristic,’ her sister’s voice, and thereafter screamed for two.

  Twice proud father despite misgivings, Irwin coached his son about the homecoming, love and babies, and introduced him to the pink-wrapped bundle in the crib. Cornelius peeked. Dilly shrieked her warning.

  At five years and eight months, Cornelius was a humble, peaceable little man, but a whiff of something unsettling had come from that crib. Instinctively, he made his move. That evening at dinner, said Cornelius, “There’s black bugs on my chicken and yucky brown stuff in the carrots.”

  Irwin explored his son’s meal with a fork. “Nope. Nothing but your nice supper.”

  Mrs. Ekes affirmed Daddy’s conclusion, adding that smart boys know that mommies never serve bugs.

  Cornelius checked again. “Bugs.”

  Irwin implored, pointing out (with the same fork) to his precious boy who was ordinarily a hearty eater that his hands and feet were growing like a puppy’s. “You’ll be tall like Daddy some day if you finish your supper.”

  Puppy wasn’t hungry. Mommy suggested that for tonight, a special night, he could skip his chicken leg and have two desserts. Cornelius examined his yummy sugared rice pudding; it looked safe; he picked up his spoon. Daddy nodded with admiration and relief at Mommy.

  Dilly screeched.

  “The baby!” cried Mommy, and ran to her daughter. Cornelius reassessed his pudding and released his spoon.

  “What now?” asked Irwin.

  White worms hiding in his rice, creepy green spiders with squishy eyes diving in his chocolate milk.

  Please eat. Eat!

  No.

  Dilly grew, Cornelius didn’t. She was taller before her seventh birthday. But Mommy and Daddy bothered so much about too short Cornelius. Poor boy, supervised by dieticians, scolded by child psychologists, bribed by Daddy, he refused each morsel, tidbit, crumb. He won’t survive. Poor boy! Don’t worry. Once hormones surge, he’ll gorge on anything he can push down his stubborn throat.

  At twelve, misshapen by resolve, Cornelius was “simply ungrown,” Irwin said, he only appeared short. His head, hands and feet were enormous; he might grow yet. Girls ignored him or giggled; some boys joined the girls; some big boys approached with offers he soon understood and ultimately declined.

  Both parents pitied him all the time. Dilly had heard enough; she tried not to eat, but lacked her brother’s gift for sustained expedient suffering; and therein, alas, lurked the source of all of hers.

  In bed, Dilly looked up at Ernest while he looked back at her toe. She hung her right foot over the edge of the mattress.

  “It’s out of your way. Don’t worry about my toe.”

  He tried to pay attention, but looked back again.

  “She’s out of our way. Don’t worry about Oca. And don’t waste time.”