Folsom

  “We like to encourage a general attitude of…”

  “Sex?” I offer.

  “Productivity.” She smiles.

  I shake my head not bothering to conceal my smirk. It is the same everywhere I go.

  “Your apartment,” she says, stopping at the only door.

  It’s a massive wooden structure that hints at the size of what lies behind it. Too much space…empty, lonely space. I would prefer to be somewhere small, but I am their hope, and they shower me with luxury.

  “I hope it’s suitable. The rest of your team will take smaller, practical apartments in the building. You’ll have two hours to rest from your journey before your arrival dinner,” she says, looking at her watch. “The Red Region is very excited to meet their End Man.”

  I don’t wait for her to dismiss me. I step into my mansion, flinging my sunglasses onto a table and kicking the door closed.

  “Welcome home,” I say to no one.

  THREE

  GWEN

  The music is so loud in the streets I want to cover my ears. Though if I do, I’ll get another scathing look from my mother and sister. I watch mutely from my tiny square of the sidewalk as the parade slowly moves by. I would rather be at work…or at home…or anywhere except here. It is day one of Phallus, the festival that celebrates the arrival of our new End Man: a tradition established by the Society when they stepped in to save humanity. By day, women paint their naked bodies and dance through the streets like they did in the ancient civilizations, crass and vulgar with gyrating hips and loose wild hair. They dance predominantly around penis statues, which could be made out of anything from grass to beaten metal. In the evenings, these same women slip on expensive silk dresses and sip gently on champagne at parties that play classical music and celebrate how refined we are.

  What I have learned in my lifetime of observing Phallus is that you can get really damn creative when you want to make a giant penis to worship. My favorite statue ever: a giant penis made out of thousands of tiny penes. Since I was a child, the festival has made me giggle uncontrollably. I make such a fool of myself at these things that my mother and sister have left me at home the last few years.

  But not today. Today, I am a modicum of maturity, a respectful penis worshipper with everyone else.

  When his car drives past, I stand on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the famous Folsom. Naturally his window is rolled down. He waves rather limply to the crowd, his mouth set in an unemotional line. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed, but they’re all waving back, screaming. My mother has a hand on each of her daughters’ backs. I step away from her touch, closer to the road and to Folsom. For a moment I think our eyes meet as his car edges by. He’s so close I can see the stubble on his cheeks, the dark sweep of eyelashes as he blinks. His features are hard, but his eyes are soft. I tilt my head trying to imagine what type of man lies underneath the skin. And then the car passes and I’m left staring after it.

  “Let’s go, Gwen.” My sister’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

  I glance wistfully toward the car as I follow them. I’ll know soon enough.

  The first social event of Phallus is the Red Ball, where we’re all required to wear the color of our Region. I choose something simple in a tomato red, with long sleeves and a Peter Pan collar; the hemline ends modestly right below my knees. There are no frills, or bows, or elaborate decoration. It’s desperately out of fashion, but I like the way I feel when I wear it. My older sister, Sophia, has chosen a deep red dress with a waterfall skirt. Blond hair piled on top of her head, she looks like a goddess. For the first time she offers no cutting remarks on what I’m wearing, she’s too focused on the night ahead of us.

  “Will we be able to talk to him?” Sophia asks my mother as she climbs into the car. “We should have priority since we have appointments with him.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works,” my mother says. “And I’m sure everyone will be fighting for his attention.” She sits in the middle and I scoot in after her.

  Folsom Donahue is the most prominent of the twelve End Men. The first. The other men treat him with respect, as do we. Images of the men are sent among the Regions and handled with reverence. As a young girl, I collected trading cards with their information written across the back. Folsom was always my favorite: serious looking; his eyebrows angled in such a way that made him look both angry and wounded; full lips that never smiled. Not all of the End Men appeal to me, but regardless, they are gods and everyone wants their attention.

  I want to tell Sophia that she probably won’t get a chance to talk to him tonight, but knowing Sophia, she will. I don’t want to dare her into something I’ll regret. My sister is both shallow and determined.

  To offset the color of the Region, the room where the Ball is held is entirely white: mother of pearl floors that swirl beneath your feet, walls cut from salt rock, and a ceiling of flecked snow. The overall effect of the white is dizzying; add a thousand women dressed in red and you have a slaughterhouse of silk and taffeta. I’ve joked before that every Ball looks like a murder scene, but no one finds it funny. We take ourselves very seriously in the Red Region.

  We walk into the Ball as the band is playing something slow—a love song, which is ironic since none of this is about love. My mother and sister flitter off to be social, leaving me standing awkwardly alone with a champagne flute in my hand. I look around for someone I know from work maybe, but everyone I know is as antisocial as I am. They’re probably all hiding in the bathroom. Good idea. I remember that the bathrooms are on the far wall, a trek away from where I’m standing. I’ll have to enter the sea of women to get there. I’m four steps into the throng of bodies when I remember that there’s a smaller bathroom on the second floor, one the staff uses on nights like tonight. I head there hoping it will be empty, but when I arrive, there is a sign on the door that says Out of Order. Glancing around, I make sure no one sees me before I push the door open and slip inside.

  I only have to be here for two hours before I can leave, and I can kill at least twenty minutes in here. I plan on taking the longest pee of my life and then washing my hands fifty times, and maybe if I’m lucky this bathroom will have one of those sitting areas…

  I stop dead in my tracks. At first, I see only boots, large boots, too big for a woman. He hears me come in and perches forward on the sink to peer around the corner.

  “You can’t read or you don’t care?” he asks.

  I’m too shocked to know what he’s talking about, then I remember the Out of Order sign on the door.

  “I can’t read,” I say. “I’m just another stupid woman trying to have a baby.”

  He laughs. It bounces across the bathroom walls and hits me in the chest.

  “Well, at least you have a sense of humor, stupid woman.”

  I’m witnessing the very serious and stern Folsom Donahue laughing. I stand there staring at him, not knowing what to do.

  And then I ask, “Are you hiding, too?”

  “In plain sight,” he says. “Who are you hiding from?”

  “Everyone.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  I eye his casual stance, the large hands resting behind him on the sink, the crossed ankles. “Not well, since you’re here.”

  He laughs again, this time just a slow rumble while he watches my face.

  “I have to go,” he says, pushing away from the counter.

  He walks toward me, and my heart races. I’ve never been this close to a man. He’s just trying to get to the door, I tell myself. But, then he stops so he’s towering over me. I have to bend my head back to see his face.

  “Have a good night,” he says.

  And I learn for the first time what a smirk is. Full lips, teasing. I blink at him, my lips parting to answer, but then he’s gone and I’m not even sure it really happened.

  I watch from the balcony above as he flows into the sea of women. He’s fluid, a strong current. They have
him for a moment and then he’s gone. To have so many eyes and hands on you all the time…I shiver.

  I’d not expected him to be so…likeable? Enigmatic? Human, maybe. He is a character in the story of our country, a prop in the news. To see him in person makes him real. I am transfixed as he works the crowd. Women clamor for his attention. He’ll fuck them all, no doubt—they’ve paid for his services. I see my sister among them, her beauty only dimmed by her best friend, who pushes toward Folsom with determination. I feel a shelling of jealousy; I had him first. And then I laugh to myself. Stupid woman.

  FOUR

  GWEN

  A noise in the hallway interrupts my tossing and turning. I can’t believe I slept at all. I bolt upright in bed, staring at the door, trying to get my thoughts together. Today is my appointment with Folsom. I’ve been anticipating this day since my mother put the arrangements in motion when we found out that Folsom would be the next End Man sent to the Red. My treatments began weeks ago: booster shots, fertility drugs—all to increase my chances of conceiving. I was twelve when I had my first dream about a baby. I’d never seen one—I’ve still never held one—but my dream was vivid. I woke up and told my mother every detail.

  “We’ll make it happen.” She’d said it so matter-of-factly that I’d believed her.

  Sophia heard me talk incessantly about taking care of a baby and decided she wanted one too. Of course that’s what every girl wants nowadays, but Sophia didn’t catch the bug until I did.

  With the male population wiped out, we’ve been left with a society that has, for the most part, crumbled. It’s all I’ve ever known, but my mother still remembers what our world used to be. A baby is a luxury only the very wealthy can ever hope to attain, and even then, it’s more complicated than that. The End Men have been helping rebuild us, and their demand is something I can’t fathom. Relentlessly, they move across the twelve Regions under the control of the Society: a group formed to save humanity from extinction. There’s protocol to secure an End Man, and even after my mother became a representative for the Red Region, we weren’t sure how to bypass some of that to get an appointment before we’re grey. For that reason, my mother became Governor Petite’s lover. I’m still unsure of whether my mother has genuine feelings for her or if it’s still all a show. I have a feeling it’s the latter, but I don’t really want to know until this is over and I have a baby in my arms.

  Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll have two.

  My mother knocks twice and opens my door, holding a large breakfast tray.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t been up for hours,” she says, setting the tray down on the table and then moving to open the drapes. Sunlight streams in and I flinch against it.

  “Sophia’s already eaten. Well…she ate a grape, but I think that’s her usual breakfast. You better hurry or she’ll try to hog Folsom.”

  I laugh and step out of bed, making my way to the table. I take a sip of tea, scratching the back of my leg with my toenail.

  “As long as I get my chance with him, I don’t care who has him first,” I say, waving my mother off. “A dick is a dick.” I don’t mean it. Folsom has always been my favorite End Man.

  My mom pulls me from my thoughts when she sits beside me at the table. I can tell by her smirk that she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “You put this all in motion, you know,” she says. “Your dream begins today.” She laughs and leans over to kiss my cheek. “Now eat up and Phoebe will draw your bath.”

  “Will it hurt?” I call after her. I don’t know why I asked it, and my face grows hot as I wait for her to answer me.

  She presses her lips together and glances up at the ceiling as she considers this. I wait with my hands clasped in my lap, flexing nervously.

  “Depends on his size,” she finally says. She seems content with her own answer because she leaves me alone then with my very conflicted thoughts.

  I’m twenty-five and have never had sex, not even with a woman. I want a baby, and while all kinds of research and progress is being made in the Red Region, we still need a man to make a baby. The sperm banks dwindled long ago and our technology isn’t as advanced as it used to be. Science took a backseat to war. We’re doing the best we can with what we have left.

  Phoebe comes in and applies a softening mask over my entire body. I try to relax, but I keep thinking of our exchange in the bathroom. It’s been two weeks, but I can still remember how nervous I felt being so close to him. I wonder what he’s like, what he cares about…

  My skin is softer than velvet after the mask is thoroughly rinsed off. I put on a dress, nothing new and fancy like Sophia, who had hers made just for the occasion. But, it’s attractive on me, hugging all of the right parts. Phoebe arranges a few sprigs of gardenia in my long, wavy hair. I’ll take them out right before I see him, just to leave the impression of the scent.

  And then I wait for what seems to be forever, but every time I check the clock only ten minutes have passed. Finally, after an eternity, my mother peeks into my room.

  “He’s driving through the gate now.”

  I walk to the window and see a dark car coming down our tree-lined drive. It’s too far to see him right away, but I watch as it inches toward our estate. The driver gets out and smooths her hair before opening the door for Folsom. Resting my elbows on the sill, I watch with interest, as two long legs appear then the top of his dark head. He looks around, light glinting off of his sunglasses. When his head turns up toward my window, I duck out of the way so he can’t see me.

  I laugh at myself. “Stop it,” I say out loud. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  I step away from the window and yank the gardenia from my hair, tossing the white blooms in the trash before walking toward the stairs. My mother is waiting. She puts her hands on each shoulder and looks me over.

  “You’re beautiful. He may have had many, but he’s never met anyone like you.”

  I smile at her gratefully, knowing she’s supposed to say that. I have a great mother.

  “Would you like to meet him in the foyer? Or shall I bring him up here?” she asks.

  I don’t know why I haven’t told her we met at the Ball. I liked tucking away that moment with him and keeping it to myself. I wonder if he’ll remember.

  “The foyer,” I say, decidedly. I want to greet him head-on, as an equal, not be a simpering girl stretched out on a bed.

  We go down the stairs together. Sophia is already downstairs and ready to answer the door. The oldest and always letting me know it—I should’ve known she’d want to make sure he saw her first. Sophia is far more beautiful than I am with her high cheekbones, thick, blond hair that reaches her waist, and the legs that most describe as “endless.” I see that her dress is tight and short. I try not to hold her body against her. She looks like an angel, but I’m not sure angels feel the endless need to compete as she does.

  Mother puts one hand on Sophia’s back and the other on the door. “Allow me,” she says.

  I laugh to myself. Until the day I die, my mother will be trying to practice fairness with her girls. I’ve tried to tell her it’s a waste of time—I don’t care. Sophia obviously does; let her win these small victories. Mother just shakes her head and forces equality between us. It’s probably lost on both of us.

  When the door opens and he’s standing there, his hulking frame filling the space, I begin to rethink everything. How did I think I could go through with this? He’s so much more…of everything. Introductions are made. His dark eyes do a silent assessment of my mother, move on to my sister, and then land on me. I start to shake all over and feel the heat rise to my face. And what he sees in me seems to amuse him. The corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s suppressing a smile.

  Great. Nothing like mortification when you want to appear sexy. Then I catch sight of his boots, and I’m completely distracted.

  His voice is like raspy sandpaper dipped in whisky. It feels indulgent just to listen to him speak, though I don’t
know what he’s saying because I’m still looking at his boots. And then I realize he was speaking to me.

  His lips—oh his lips—curve up and he laughs. I feel the sound in my gut and drop my hand, teetering between laughing and crying. Normally the calm, laid-back sister, I’ve clearly lost it.

  Sophia steps up to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. His laugh dies down and he slowly looks away from me, toward her. I feel the loss acutely and it unsteadies me. I back into the wall as Sophia runs her hands over his arm.

  FIVE

  FOLSOM

  It’s the little one who interests me, her hair more tangled than her sister’s, like she didn’t bother with it at all. I’m pleased it’s her, a familiar face. Her eyes are curious and wild: brown, common and yet uncommon in the way they slant upward at the outside corners. She stands in the foyer, her hands clasped at her waist, but instead of studying my body like most women do, her head is tilted to the side, eyes fixed on my boots. I clear my throat to get her attention and she drags her eyes away from my feet and back to my face. She frowns and shakes her head like she’s just realizing where she is.

  “Your boots are beautiful,” she finally says. From somewhere beside me her sister groans and her mother lets out what I take as an embarrassed laugh.

  “Thank you,” I say, unable to keep the humor from my voice. “I designed them myself.” I don’t usually tell people that, but she seems genuinely interested.

  “You design clothes?” she asks, surprised.

  “You’re surprised that I’m good at something other than fucking?”

  Her mother makes a choking noise, but we both ignore it, our attention solely focused.