The Taking of Belgium
Carl stood in the basement, between the washer and
dryer, separating out colors from whites and heaving
the whites in to spin. He measured out a half-cup of
pink detergent and poured it into the top- loader. He
closed the door and pressed the start button, and
missed the sound of footfalls on the basement stairs
as the machine bucked to life.
"Dad?"
He turned around quickly, startled. It was his five-
year-old son, inquisitive blue eyes peeking out from
under his tight blond curls. He seemed to have grown
another two inches that day, but that was nothing
unusual.
"Time for you to be in bed, son."
"Yeah. I know." He looked uncertain for a minute, his
expression gone awry in the way kid's faces do when
they're thinking about something else and their face
hasn't yet learned the trick of keeping itself
together. "You know, Dad, about the birds and the
bees..."
Uh-oh. Strange place for this conversation, or maybe
it wasn't. But he could always opt for evasive action.
"Good grasp of alliteration there, son."
"Allivera..."
"Alliteration."
His son frowned for a moment, but was not to be put
off. He soon remembered what he had come down to ask.
"Dad, where did I come from?"
*
She had been standing at the washing machine, tossing
in their clothes at random in the tiny basement of
their first apartment building in the middle of the
night.
They were both out of underwear.
They would have had enough to last them longer, but
Carl was hell on underwear. Especially women's.
She had poured in the detergent, closed the door, and
shoved in two quarters.
"What a fucking tightwad," she muttered to herself.
"The cheapest damn landlord on the South Side."
She pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
"Damn!"
"Something wrong, Janet?" Carl had just come down the
stairs with another bag of clothes and a bottle.
"Damn thing's broken."
"Figures. Shoddy American craftsmanship."
"Bastard." She grabbed him by the arm and looked
sternly into his eyes, as sternly as she could manage
on no sleep. "I happen to be a fine example of shoddy
American craftsmanship."
"Hah. Wir should have shtukkaed you ven ve had the
chance."
"I'll give you stukkas, you hulking Germanic galoot."
"You are my manifest destiny. I must have lebensraum.
I must have liebensraum." He ran his fingernails
roughly down her back.
"You fool. You will be strong in the beginning, but I
will overwhelm you with sheer industrial capacity."
She pinched his nipple, painfully.
"Hah. You are Poland. I will take you in the middle
of the night."
"Oh piss off. You cheated in Poland." She slipped her
right hand into his pants pocket. "Ah-HA! We have
located your secret laboratory. What sort of dia-
bolical Nazi experiments are you concocting now?"
"You are Belgium. I will run you through. Twice." He
loosed her shirt and thrust both hands underneath. One
traveled up, the other down.
"Hah! I am England! I'll pick you up on radar! You'll
never dare land on my shores!" She bit down hard on
his neck, humming "God Save the Queen" and stamping her
feet.
At that point they noticed, peripherally, that the
washing machine was not entirely broken.
Specifically, it was working well enough to do a re-
markable job of flooding the basement.
The drain, of course, had been clogged since 1922.
Neither of them particularly cared at this point.
"HAH! This time our leaders are not raving lunatics!
Even now my invincible Nazi armada sets sail!" He
kicked up a storm of water around them. "Ve vill take
you by STORM! Even now we are kicking-down-your-
door..." he pulled down her skirt with both hands and
attempted to pick her up and carry her off in triumph.
While she tickled his underarm.
"AIGGHGH! An unsuspected pocket of resistance!" They
fell over into what was now nearly two and a half feet
of water.
"We shall fight in the basements!" she cried as they
splashed down into the storm-tossed channel, legs
flailing.
"HEIL! HEIL! HEIL!" he gasped between ragged breaths.
*
"Well, Stevie," he said, after one of those long
fatherly pauses during which fathers seem to have put
their brains on hold, "your mother and I loved each
other very much."
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Second Thoughts
Margi opened her eyes and let them adjust to the dim room. As
the shadows became forms over the next minutes, she knew it was not her
room. A glance to her left revealed the form sleeping beside her. A few
moments of delving into the hazy fog of the
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"From Whose Bourne . Lilith"
Copyright 1999 by Trey Gallant and Homer Vargas. May
not be copied or posted without permission.
The following is the first of twin stories,
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