I feel a vague shame and suppress it. I could have helped that woman, who surely won’t receive what she needs from the exhausted intern who will shortly examine her, but countersorcery generates something like a tornado in the m’doli, and the narrow end of that tornado would point directly at me. Sex strengthens the fana, as does happiness and contentment, and joy and anger, which is why I’m careful not to indulge in those things now. There is the child, and my love for her, of course, which must be generating a hot little blip in the old m’doli, if anyone’s looking, but I can’t do anything about that. Everyone’s fana is slightly different, like everyone’s smell. I never learned to distinguish at a grain that fine, but Ulune could, and I expect that nowadays my husband can too. Is he actively looking for me? My constant thought. I know he’d like to find me. He wanted us to be together, or so he said, the night before I sailed away. He wants me to watch him do his stuff.
I make my escape, find I’m trembling, and pause at the elevator to lean my forehead against the cool stainless steel of its door. Oh, the physical body, full of meat and juice, in this place regarded as merely a soup, requiring only a balancing of the ingredients and the stoppage of leaks to restore it to good order. The m’fon, as the Olo call this body, is the only one officially recognized by Jackson Memorial and the Western World, of which it is an atom. I want to believe in that pleasant notion: it’s just a soup of proteins and water and metallic compounds, and each of these is merely a soup of electrons and other subatomics, and those in turn, merely a soup of quarks. Oh, merely! How I wish, wish, wish, I could get back to merely! The Olo have no word for merely. They never learned the trick of dividing the world into the significant and the insignificant, which is one reason why there are only about twelve hundred of them left in the world and what they know will shortly vanish from the memory of mankind.
So nobody will ever go up to the intern who is perhaps now puzzling over that old Cuban lady’s symptoms and tell him his EKGs, and EEGs, and chem-sevens, and cancer panels, and sphygmomanometer readings, and tox screens are mere objectivity. In fact, the m’fon of the Cuban lady is more or less fine, except where it is destroying itself at the subtle urgings of her fana, which is not at all well.
I have to stop at the ladies’ room because of the Cuban woman. I have a sensitive digestion nowadays, another thing that keeps me cadaverous. When I was a kid, I ate like a wolverine; it was my sister who was the delicate eater. She used to pass me stuff she didn’t like at the dinner table, and sometimes we would switch plates when the parents weren’t watching, and I would get to eat her dinner too. I believe Mary was an anorexic in fact, rather than in fancy, as I am. A willowy beauty, often so described, often by my mother, also thin, who I believe was disappointed in me. I was more like my father, inheriting the long heavy bones, broad shoulders, and big hands and feet of the Doe family, a reversion to the original doughty fisherfolk stock. I had at one time photos of the two of us on our boat, dressed in slickers, grinning like fools as green water comes over the gunwales. Aside from our relative sizes, it’s hard to tell me from him. I guess my brother must have snapped them; he took all the family photographs, which is why there are almost no photographs of him. Yes, it would have been Josey, because I don’t recall my mom ever going out in weather, or Mary. That damn boat, Mom called it, although it was Kite, officially.
Mary took after our mother in a number of other ways, as well. The red-gold hair. The heart-shaped face. The thins. When I was small and just learning go fish, I thought the queen of diamonds in a deck of cards was a portrait of my mother. I had a photograph of Mary, she must have been nineteen or so, when she was being a model in New York, a candid shot, not professional, and in it she has a look on her face that I don’t imagine has ever been on mine, a look that says Oh, I’m so fucking terrific, don’t you wish you were me and doesn’t it just kill you that you’re not? The eyes are void of any inner life at all. She was calling herself Mariah Do then and was extremely hot. When I was in Paris, I once saw her picture on the cover of French Vogue. I told no one at the museum. There was no danger of anyone commenting that I resembled her.
Her mother’s girl, certainly, as I was Daddy’s. Families do split that way, although around the dinner table we were cordial enough, good manners being a family value at the Does’. Josey, being the child of Mom’s previous and never-to-be-mentioned marriage, did not have a horse in this race. Oddly, although he was a Mount, too, he looked rather more like us than he did like his mother or Mary. My dad tried to reach out to him, decent guy that he was, but Josey wasn’t buying it. Pride, I think. He had a terror of being beholden, something he certainly didn’t share with his mother, or other half sister. He wanted to be the one giving the gifts. Also, it was probably not much fun being Lily Mount Doe’s son. He left home early, which broke my heart. In my girlish dreams it was always the three of us, out on the boat, having adventures, learning stuff. Boy stuff, naturally. My mother gave up early trying to teach me girl stuff, especially as she had such an expert and willing pupil in Mary.
I am a little shaky in the pins on the way back to my post. Mrs. Waley looks meaningfully at her watch as I enter and exchanges some words with the filers. Smirks all around. It does Mrs. Waley good to note the deficiencies of her one white subordinate, and I don’t begrudge her that pleasure. I continue pulling files until lunchtime, which for me is one o’clock. Then I travel down dingy corridors to the cafeteria. Most of the time I go outside and find a patch of shade somewhere and eat alone, but today I am feeling too exhausted to make the trip. A spasm of nausea when the institutional food smell hits me. I pull a vanilla yogurt out of the cooler box.
I wish to be alone, but I’m spotted by two other medical recorders. Lulu waves me over to a table where she is sitting with Cleo. Dead Dolores, were she here, would be glad of company, and so I go also, doing this in her memory. They’re both eating salads from the bar, where you make them up and buy them by the ounce. They are both sturdy, round-bottomed and — breasted dark women with straightened hair, looking very much alike, although I do not think they are related. Both of them are American African Non-Americans, being naturalized immigrants from the island of Barbados.
Cleo makes a comment about my yogurt and they both chuckle engagingly. Both of them have acquired along with their citizenship the American body thing and wish to keep their size under control. They know that only the thin rise in America. They’re better educated than Mrs. Waley, and speak a more precise English. Both are enrolled at Miami-Dade, and will get their degrees and will ride their clipped imperial accents beyond even Billing, perhaps as far as Administration itself. Mrs. Waley regards them with suspicion; how can they, four shades darker than she, talk and act so white?