intoxication.” Reese felt himself becoming distraught over this information but Avril Leblanc calmly advised the potential donor — and incidentally Reese — to avoid being “reactive” to such items in the newspaper, that perhaps reading the newspaper less frequently would reduce stress in the potential donor’s life. Unconvinced, the potential donor — a retired veterinarian — asked if Avril had read about the Iranian man cutting off his seven-year-old daughter’s head after suspecting that she had been raped by her uncle. Avril said that she’d made it a policy not to read newspapers and that this had improved her meditation practice enormously. “A post-mortem,” the retired veterinarian persisted, “showed that the girl was still a virgin.” Reese had to disconnect at this point, feeling much too reactive. He reached for his Evian bottle, for the first time perceiving it as an instrument of torture. He thought of children everywhere, beyond the ones making headlines, suffering, and as always he could not understand why.
Peggy and Scott have invited a woman to dinner. As she and Reese are the only guests this can only mean they are intended to mate, which means that Peggy and Scott believe that his marriage is over. Over wine and hors d’oeuvres, they do not ask about Roberta or the children, but speak humorously of Reese’s determination to “save the planet” and warn the woman, whose name is Wilda Mims, not to let him catch her idling.
Feeling misled and misunderstood, Reese tries to clarify the situation by mentioning the cruise.
“That was some pricey swan song, Reesie,” Peggy says. “Whose idea was that anyway?”
“Oh, I love cruises,” Wilda Mims says. “I’d like to go to Alaska. I’ve always wanted to see the aurora borealis.” She speaks very quietly, smiling frequently, revealing multiple mercury amalgams. Peggy shepherds them into the living room then hurries back to her convection oven. Although Reese has absorbed that Wilda Mims is a probation officer, he is having difficulty hearing further details of her conversation and says “pardon” several times. He searches for the volume control on the stereo until Scott appears with more wine, enthusing about his state-of-the-art sound and theatre system, then returning to the wine cellar. Wilda Mims resumes speaking words Reese can’t hear as he fumbles again to find the volume control. He smiles when she smiles, nodding periodically, acutely aware of his body language, determined to present himself as a happily married man. He notes that Wilda has muscular arms, which suggests that she works out. Reese imagines her smiling as the convicted swear that they are going to rehabilitate themselves, then heading to the gym to pump iron and bat around balls. Her mouth stops moving and she doesn’t smile, and Reese realizes that it’s his turn to speak.
“Do you believe that pedophiles can be cured?” he almost shouts. Wilda looks very solemn before saying something Reese can’t hear, then she smiles. He smiles back.
Conversation over dinner is easier, further from the stereo. They discuss blogs, YouTube, iPhones, personal listening devices, and PCs. Scott wants to upgrade again but Peggy says he’s being a booboo pants, they upgraded less than six months ago. “What are you using these days, Reese?” Scott asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. I listen to birds.”
“And they say I’m a radical,” Wilda says. Reese can’t imagine anyone saying that Wilda Mims is a radical.
“So how are people supposed to get in touch with you?” Scott asks.
“I have a phone plugged into a wall,” Reese says. “Or they could always write me a letter.”
“You know what, this might be the new thing,” Wilda suggests. “I was reading somewhere that people are spending more time alone, and that even when they’re together they’re alone because they’re watching TV or checking e-mails or surfing or something. My sister’s typical. When she’s making dinner she’s talking on her cell to somebody on the school council or something. Meanwhile Jud is checking his e-mails and the kids are either watching TV or doing homework with headphones on. It’s pretty sad.”
“Sad,” Reese agrees.
“What a pair of whiners,” Scott says. “Any information I want is at my fingertips.”
“Too much useless information,” Reese suggests.
“Too many penises,” Wilda says, “and vaginas and breasts. Who needs that with your cup of coffee?”
“All Scott does,” Peggy says with unexpected disdain, “is look for deals on eBay. Isn’t that right, Lulu?” she asks the cat. Peggy and Scott don’t have children, just two cats to whom they speak in baby voices. Lulu does not answer Peggy, leaving a yawning chasm in the flow of chitchat. Roberta has often complained of Reese’s dinner conversation, that he will slip into his environmental “rant” unless reined in. As they nibble on an assortment of cheeses, Reese tries to think of some benign dinner conversation. “Good cheese,” he says.
“Tell them about Bovine Growth Hormone,” Mrs. Ranty urges, digging her heels into his kidneys. “Tell them the cows live two years. They used to live for fifteen!” Sesame seeds from the crackers lodge between Reese’s molars. “It’s killing them,” Mrs. Ranty snorts. “What d’you think it’s doing to you, dullards?” Reese tries to discreetly dislodge the sesame seeds with a fingernail.
“The poor cows are consstantly zseeck,” another voice in his head adds, “masstitiss, eendigesstion, diarrhea, cysstic ovariess, utereene problemss, reduced pregnancy ratess, shorter pregnanciess, lower birth weightss.” To his dismay, Reese realizes that the voice belongs to his Polish Scout Leader, Igor, who washed Reese’s mouth out with soap when he said “clitoris.” Igor survived concentration camps and building a plumbing business in Etobicoke. He had no time for “no-goodniks,” of which Reese was one. Igor’s sibilant “Ss” won him the codename “the Boa” among the no-goodniks.
“You lossers,” Igor scoffs, “drink the milk zsucked off thesse zsick, drugged cowss!”
“What was that?” Wilda Mims asks, looking at Reese.
“What was what?” Reese shoves another cracker in his mouth. It concerns him that he is hearing voices in his head, but doesn’t everybody? He passes the cheese to Wilda.
“Well,” Wilda Mims says, “aren’t we a chatty group?”
Reese swishes wine around in his mouth to loosen the seeds. “There’s pus in the milk,” he blurts.
“What milk?” Peggy asks.
“Pus?” Wilda asks.
All three of them look at him as though he has made a rude noise. “I was just thinking about mastitis,” he explains. “In cows. The ones given growth hormones. The pus isn’t visible, meaning we drink it. Along with the antibiotics plugged into the cows to treat it.”
“Oh, Reesie,” Peggy says, “don’t be such a booboo pants, we’re trying to enjoy ourselves here.”
Is this where mankind has gone wrong? The pursuit of happiness as a state of being that requires no effort or thought?
Peggy offers more genetically modified crudités. Scott heads for the cellar to scout for more wine.
“I don’t usually eat dairy anyway,” Wilda admits. “It makes me feel bloated.” She smears more brie on a cracker.
“We had brown water at work today,” Peggy says. “It creeped everybody out. They couldn’t wash their hands or make coffee or anything.”
“Why was it brown?” Wilda asks.
“The super said it was something in the pipes. They were working on the pipes or something.”
Third World children crowd into Reese’s mind. He sees the brown water they drink daily, and the severely malnourished seventeen-month-old North Korean who was on the reverse side of Pamela Anderson’s props. The baby’s eyes were half closed; his irises