Cover the dish with the lid and set in a dry, sunny place to gestate.
Norma covered the dish, set it on a windowsill that gets afternoon sunlight, and turned back to the instructions to see what would happen next, but that was it. There were no more instructions. There was no Soon you will notice, or Wait 24 hours, or If you encounter a problem, call. There was nothing more.
The following morning Norma had forgotten about her science project. Fixing herself a pot of coffee, she saw the red dish. It wasn’t where she’d left it on the sill. It was underneath their kitchen table. Someone had taken the top off and broken a bit of plastic off the side. Someone had ruined the whole damn thing. It must be the cat, Norma thought. I mean, if I had a cat.
Norma knows where Dirty Norma came from. She still has the package at home. The box is yellow and orange with a white starburst like a box of Tide. She hadn’t gotten it at Walmart. “You’re not much like me.”
“I’m exactly like you. Maybe you just don’t like who you are.” She rubs her back against the wall, an animal scratching. “Let’s go look at the notebook. I’m worried about Mrs. Eddell.”
Norma hadn’t realized that Norma knew about Mrs. Eddell. “Whose notebook is that anyway?” Norma asks.
Dirty Norma turns once, flirting badly, a prostitute, paid to be there. She gives Norma a coy look. Norma follows her down the hall.
Norma was fired from her job at the Third United City Bank because she told a customer she’d be better off keeping her money at home in a coffee can hidden beneath her porch or bed, because sometimes the bank made “mistakes” and the mistakes were always in the bank’s favor. She’d used air quotes. “Keep it at home,” Norma whispered. “I do.”
Norma’s confidante was an older woman. That was why Norma had decided to reveal such a secret. She felt sorry for the older woman, wanted to help her. The woman turned out to somehow be related to the bank president, so Norma was let go, fired. She didn’t make a scene as she had dreamed of doing. She didn’t grab all the hundred-dollar bills from her drawer and spray them in a wild frenzy through the crowded lobby. Norma went quietly. She’d behaved like a sane person. Where had that gotten her?
Recently unemployed, Norma’s still adjusting to the new schedule. She takes midafternoon naps. She’s sleepy all the time. Even now, here at the Institute with Dirty Norma. She lies back on the horribly stained bed, thinking, Just a short nap, but Dirty Norma won’t have it.
“Come on. Let’s read the notebook.”
“You go ahead. I’m really sleepy all of a sudden.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No. Come on. We have to read it together.” She tugs at Norma’s arm, lifting her up into a seated position.
The suitcase is a small one, an older model, a hard-shell brown Samsonite with a leather edge, probably from the 1930s or 1940s. Just below the handle on the case is a simple golden latch and a monogram that is all but rubbed off. Thumbing the square of brass, Norma slides the catch to the left and pops the suitcase’s lock. The inside is lined with forgotten pink taffeta.
She picks up the book and both Normas start to read from the stenographer’s pad.
In a coffee shop off Dead Elm Street, Norma scrapes up the last bits of her tapioca pudding, certain that Damica won’t try to stick Norma, unemployed Norma, with the bill for their lunch if she only eats dessert.
“If it’s all the same to you I’ll—”
“Haven’t you noticed, Damica, that it’s never all the same? It changes a little tiny bit each time!” Norma screeches.
The Baby sits up quickly and draws its eyes wide open, staring across the table at Norma, as if pixies had just whispered some surprising secret about her into The Baby’s ear. The Baby stares and Norma stares back. “God, it’s so creepy the way he just stares at me.”
Damica says nothing.
Norma takes today’s paper from her purse and opens it up to block out The Baby’s stares. Bypassing the front page’s headlines, Norma flips to page eleven, where her favorite column regularly appears.
EDDELL’S SAD END
Drake and Kanakas Back in Court
The body of Marguerite Eddell was found last night, the victim of an apparent suicide. A note with the body claimed she couldn’t bear “new developments,” perhaps referring to a backroom deal that allowed Mr. Drake to purchase the House of Mufflers from the Third United City Bank for a price considered far below market value. “It was all I had left of my husband and now that it is gone, so am I,” the note read.
Mr. Drake now owns six local businesses.
Kanakas and Drake found themselves back in court yesterday beginning proceedings against Tom Best Cadillacs for use of the word “best” in his advertising. Mr. Best claims, “It’s not copyright infringement, it’s my last name.” To which Ms. Kanakas responded, “Too bad his parents didn’t purchase the trademark.”
“I have to go,” Damica says. “Will you hold The Baby for a second?”
Norma looks over the edge of the paper. Norma folds the paper and slides out of their booth without saying anything.
The stalls of the ladies’ room are made of cool aluminum. Norma dials frantically in the locked stall.
“Hello. You’ve reached 1-800-DUBL-INC. Doubles Incorporated, providing goods and services for the Procreation by Division Industries. How may I direct your call?”
“Customer service.”
“One moment please.”
“Hello. Customer service. How may I help you?”
“Umm. I think it happened.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“I bought your Procreation by Division for Morons and I, um, I think it happened.”
“Mazel tov! Mazel tov!”
“Thank you?”
“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“Yes. I think something is wrong. I mean, I think something horrible is happening.”
“What’s that?”
“It seems like the world is splitting in two, or three. My husband is cheating on me.”
“Yes?”
Norma fumbles a moment. “I thought procreation by division would be a good idea, but I changed my mind. Mrs. Eddell is dead, and with Mr. Drake owning everything, the more we get the less we have somehow. I mean, I wanted something, but then when I got it, it wasn’t at all what I had wanted.” She exhales, exasperated, into the receiver. “I mean, it’s like when you eat too much of that kind of bread that expands like fog in your stomach?” Her voice is gaining speed. “I mean, how can there become more of something but it feels like it’s less and less? I mean—” Norma takes a deep breath. “I mean—”
“You’re not making any sense. Could be the Genomic Discordance.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s kind of like what happens to purebreds. You know, how their eyelashes start growing on the inside of their eyes or their hips get hobbled and then they can no longer walk. Thoroughbreds and corporate offices. Stuff like that.”
“Is there any way to stop it?”
“Yes, but it’s a bit complicated.”