Lupe heard all this on the car radio on her way back from Baltimore, where she had spent the previous day with her mother who was in considerable discomfort but not seriously injured. The break was clean and would heal. Lupe had been greatly relieved about this, though her relief was short-lived. No sooner had she put down her worries about Mama than she had been seized with new concerns about By. Though she had called repeatedly, she had been unable to reach him. She had been trying since Friday night, and he did not answer the phone. On Saturday evening, she had gone so far as to call one of his aides and ask the aide to check the hospitals for possible accident victims. The aide had, instead, checked the house and found the car in the drive, which he had duly reported to Lupe along with his conjecture that By was probably spending the weekend with a golfing buddy.
By played golf rarely and without enthusiasm, and Lupe was unaware that he had any golfing buddies. He did, however, enjoy sailing and he had a few sailing friends. It was possible that with her gone, he might have gone to the shore for the weekend. One thing was certain: he would most annoyed if she raised a fuss trying to find him.
When Lupe heard about the Inkleozese, however, she knew at once that Byron was exactly the kind of person the ET’s were selecting. Outspokenly opposed to reproductive choice. Healthy. Of a good size. Of middle age, not too young (too many hormones) or too old (insufficient hormones). She knew in her heart that Byron was one of the selectees, he had to be, and that’s why she hadn’t been able to reach him!
She also knew, as probably the Inkleozese did not, that Byron was almost psychotic on the subject of pregnancy. If anyone could be said to be phobic about anything, By Morse was phobic about parturition. Not just his bad experiences with Janet, but something that had happened to him in childhood, something he would not talk about.
She got home around noon. Normally By would have been up by now, maybe even have left to have lunch. He wasn’t downstairs, however, and his car was still in the drive. She found him still in bed, very soundly asleep. She shook him, and he came groggily out of his doze.
“Ah, Lupe. You back already?”
“It’s Sunday noon. I said I’d be back today.”
“Sunday? Can’t be. What happened to Saturday?”
“It was yesterday. What’s . . . what’s the matter? What time did you get to bed Friday night? Did you have … ah, bad dreams? Something like that?”
“Had a hell of a nightmare,” he responded. “That’s probably why I overslept. Hey, be a sweetheart and bring me a cup of coffee, will you? I can’t get the cobwebs out!”
He went to the shower, pausing to glance at himself in the mirror. He seemed to remember . . . some kind of an injury? No, no injury. A tiny little bruise next to his ribs, with a pimple of scab at its middle. He had probably bumped into something, the car door maybe. He turned on the shower, letting the hot water pour soothingly over him. The bathroom door opened, and Lupe brought him coffee, setting it on the vanity while he dried himself off. The towel wrapped around him, he turned to pick up the cup. She was watching him warily, her eyes roving over him, settling on the little bruise.
“What’s that?” she asked, leaning forward to touch it.
The ceiling fell on him. He screamed, threw the coffee cup at her and cowered away from her as though she had been a monster. Scalded, she shrieked back at him as she turned on the cold water and thrust her reddened arms into the flow. Luckily, he’d missed her face.
“What in the hell is the matter with you?” she cried, knowing with sick certainly what was the matter with him.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” he gabbled, slowly pulling himself upright. “When you touched me, the pain went through me like . . . like a knife.”