The Thick and the Lean

1.

Beatrice Bolano looked down at her almost empty plate. She was still hungry. Hungry in the way they warned about in church, whispered about in the girls’ bathroom at school, scratched into the wall behind the Buff ’n’ Go. Beatrice was hungry for taste, texture, mouthfeel. Crispy, crunchy, silky, chewy. Beatrice was hungry for juxtaposition, and she would never tell anyone as long as she lived.

There was still a small mound of rice on her plate, and next to that an even smaller mound of celery and carrots cooked together in such a way that they resembled each other. Grayish, stringy, mushy. She ate the remaining rice with a bit of vegetable mush and imagined it overlaid with lemon, butter, salt. Beatrice was comfortable with this kind of game, even in front of her parents, injecting clean, modest meals with her secret perversity. While Beatrice chewed her bland food, imagining it improved, a litany of words floated through her mind: reduction, flambé, seared, marzipan.

Soon Mama would go into the living room and choose a television program for the evening while Papa cleaned out the cooking pot. Feigning a headache, Beatrice excused herself from her parents to retire early. She couldn’t concentrate, not on homework or television. Colors and scents and flavors she had never actually tasted, only imagined, danced through her mind. Words she knew from her secret hours lurking in chat rooms on her family computer.

Beatrice locked her bedroom door and lay down on her bed. Now that she had made her decision, she wanted to tease herself, to go slow and make it last as long as possible. It wouldn’t be like the other times. No one would ever know. As if it had never happened, only a dream. It wouldn’t be like that time she’d stood in the refrigerator light in Carrie Sutherland’s kitchen, stuffing her face with peas and rice gruel as Carrie’s mother walked in, horrified. Carrie, smirking, fist-deep into a jar of enriched vitamin syrup. Even when misbehaving, Carrie knew better than to let anyone outside her own family actually see her chew and swallow. The memory of that day still filled Beatrice with a cold, static dread every time she saw Mrs. Sutherland at church. Sometimes Beatrice felt her shame so palpably, she could almost taste it.

Her mouth watered. Her fingers twitched. Beatrice glanced at the door. The sounds of the television drifted up to her bedroom. A young man screamed out in pleasure and pain, the din interspersed with a woman’s throaty laughter. It was her parents’ favorite program of late, Boy Meat, where a gang of dominatrixes rode through the countryside on their motorcycles, torturing terrified young men. It was a city show, like most of the media they consumed. The people of Seagate enjoyed the outlandish outfits and dramatics, even though the formula of the show was tiresome. Beatrice mainly watched it for the exit interviews. The young man sat on the floor shiny with sweat and tears and body fluid, with his head resting on the lap of one of the toughest biker babes, his words dreamy and awed: It was an experience I’ll never forget—and I have the video to cherish forever!

Beatrice took out a small wooden box from under her bed. She slid off the lid to reveal parcels of individually wrapped tissue paper. Slowly, reverently, she unwrapped the treasures she’d been collecting. One small block of cheese, a jar containing half a preserved lemon, and her prize: a small flatbread, perfectly contained in her open palms.

She had made the food herself when she was alone in her family’s perfect, quiet house. Healthful, appropriate milk, strained through a fine cloth and set to curdle sinfully, the lemon pilfered from a neighbor’s tree. The bread was an approximation—cornmeal, water, and salt cooked in secret on the stove that heated her bedroom. Beatrice had borrowed a clean metal tray intended for mixing paints from Papa’s toolshed, his haven for endless home improvements. It had served nicely as her pan, a thick white towel stuffed in the crack of her door to muffle the aroma.

She leaned back to survey her meal.

It was all so very beautiful.

Beatrice glanced back at the door and felt the strange urge to cry. Then little Remus, her sugar glider, pressed his hot, fuzzy head into her shoulder, eyes blinking open from Beatrice’s handwoven neck pouch, waking from a long nap.

Beatrice tore off a bit of the flatbread and layered it with sour lemon and sweet cheese. Here, she whispered to the sugar glider, cupping the food in her open palm. Eat. There was no hesitation. The food, so lovingly prepared, was devoured without a thought, and then Remus yawned, settling back into his pouch for another nap. Beatrice wiped her hands on her skirt and sighed. She didn’t want to live like an animal, enslaved by mindless hunger. The church doctrine said holiness was like a ladder—or a circle, or an upward spiral, depending who was preaching. But one thing everyone agreed on was that eating pure helped you think pure, which in turn made you be pure.

Beatrice looked down at the food. For a moment, she was loath to eat at all. She knew it would feel so good, then worse than ever. She considered flushing the lot down the toilet, symbolically ridding herself of these desires so she could live a normal, productive life. Maybe if she just tried harder, it would eventually feel like she wasn’t trying at all. She would simply be better—happy, like everyone else.

Just one more time, she thought. As a purge. One more time, and then never again.

Hands trembling, she set upon her feast like a dog, like a thief, like a chef.

The first time Beatrice had experimented with cooking, she was fourteen years old, attending her first girl-boy sleepover at their church. The pastor, Father Alvarez, corralled the teenagers into a circle after a long evening of prayers and hymns alongside his upbeat acoustic guitar. The children sat on their sleeping bags on the wooden floor, cathedral windows flooded with light from the dual full moons. The church was handsome, well-built, and unadorned, like everything else in Seagate, the flagship community of the Stecopo Corporation. Every office building, street sign, school, house, and community park was perfectly curated by Stecopo. Her parents were pioneers—city folk who had devoted their lives to the company back when Seagate was just a glossy suburban dream. The visionary Rick Tenzo had dreamt of a place where people could live together harmoniously and healthfully, with each part of their lives streamlined, beautified, purified through the power of science married with religion. It was the only life that Beatrice had ever known.

In his everyday priest robes of white and yellow, Father Alvarez resembled a bird, his nose a sharp beak, his eyes bright and round. He gave a short sermon about Bremah, the celebration of the dual full moons Lluna and Ata. He spoke reverently of their ancestors finding their way here in hot air balloons, guided by the moonslight, to be welcomed by the Free-Wah people, who were native to these lands. Esther Sima, whose mother was Free-Wah, held up her hands, murmuring, Praise God! at the important bits. Lately Esther had made quite a show of being religious. She also had cut her hair into bangs, covering her Free-Wah forehead ridge. While she wasn’t fooling anyone, the bangs did look cute.

We call ourselves the ALGN people, but can anyone tell me what this really means? asked the pastor.

All Lands Gone Now, droned the youth group.

That’s right. We came here as weary travelers, in search of solid ground. Many peoples from many different lands, all washed away in the rising tides, following the promise of the Divine Mother, the original Flesh Martyr, who discovered this land and the people here. The Free-Wah king tried to destroy her, but the faithful always rise to serve another day! He gestured out the window to the bright circles in the sky. The festival of Bremah is a celebration, and a solemn reminder. One day, all lands will be gone. The beauty of our two moons does not soften the forces they wreak upon our planet—earthquakes, high waves, a steadily shrinking mass of habitable land. One day, Lluna and Ata will be drawn into each other’s orbits, raining destruction over us all. This could happen in a thousand years, or it could be tomorrow.

The youth group was very quiet.

That is the promise of the Divine Mother. Through our faith, no matter what comes, we will rise again to flourish in the Forever Palace, he continued softly. But tonight, we give thanks for this precious moment. We praise God with our bodies, with the gift of our holy love.

Then Sister Marita, a pretty young nun, gave her own speech about the privilege of them being alone together to explore sacred sex. She was hugely pregnant, and several of the boys (and some of the girls) could not stop looking at her smooth, shiny legs under her white shift. Everyone wore the same style of clothing in Seagate—loose, light fabrics, a few acceptable shades of white, yellow, and tan, the same fabrics cut into tunics, jumpsuits, shirts, and trousers. But a certain garment might look plain on one person and seem to shine on another, as if they were lit from within by a candle. Beatrice, being only fourteen, did not know if she was a candle person or not, but lately people had seemed to notice her. Mirrors were deceptive, and Mama always told her she was perfect, but Beatrice was beginning to suspect she was beautiful.

What do we say, friends? Sister Marita asked the youth group.

Our bodies are divine vessels, the teenagers said in flat unison.

The chaperoned portion of the evening was beginning to wrap up. Beatrice could feel the eager anticipation in the air. Sister Marita warned the children to stick to outercourse instead of innercourse, as that was the road to becoming good lovers. Remember, the better you get at outer sex, developing a relationship with your body, the more enjoyable inner sex will be in the future. Don’t skip steps! Most of the teens nodded seriously, but Mina Ido and Melis Peltzman looked at the ground. Everyone knew they had been having inner sex for at least four months—it was all anyone could talk about. But Sister Marita had no clue.

Then, before the pastor and Sister Marita left, Danny Walton and Michael Rodriguez began tickling each other and rolling on the floor, giggling rebelliously.

Stick to outercourse, Danny! called Ezra Allen, poking fun at the rolling boys. The other kids shoved and hushed them.

Boys, Father Alvarez warned.

Are you ready to control yourselves? asked Sister Marita.

You’re making us wait longer! complained Mina.

Young ones, the pastor began slowly. Animals cannot make love. The teenagers quieted and settled in. This was his sermon voice, with its storyteller rhythm. All they could do now was relax and listen up. They engage in intercourse mindlessly, driven by biology. Gorillas, our closest kin, mate for one to two minutes. The females lie down and are penetrated from behind. They signal their interest in sex two to three days out of the month when they are ovulating. These same animals use tools and care for their young. They even form social circles, friendships, and hierarchies. But they do not make love. To give and receive pleasure outside of procreation is the most human act possible.

Suddenly his handsome, hawklike face looked sad. Likewise, many animals, observed in captivity, will eat until it harms them. Some animals will gorge themselves until they die.

He winced at the moons outside, as if blanching before a judgmental God. To be holy, you must live in a holy manner. This is our sacred task as human beings. Animal bodies with angelic souls. He gazed at them gently. You are young and hungry to experience, to enjoy, to learn and feel it all. But be soft with yourselves and each other. Only with restraint and purity can we glimpse God.

Sister Marita touched him on the shoulder.

Okay, that’s all—we promise! We’ll be upstairs if anyone needs help. Father Alvarez and Sister Marita stood up.

One more very, very important thing, Father Alvarez said sternly, wagging his flashlight at them. Have fun! Then they turned off the overhead lights, chuckling, and left.

The evening started off just like all the other boy-girl parties, with all the normal games: Wobbly Bottles, Truth or Consequences, Nuns in the Bell Tower. Flora Bitman told a particularly gruesome version of the old Night Witch story, flashlight pointed up on her chin when the Night Witch lured the children into her cottage, cleaving their body parts and stirring them into her noxious brews. Eventually the boys and girls moved toward those they found attractive and split off in couples or small groups. Beatrice zeroed in on Leroy Kim. He was tall, all lanky arms and legs, and seemed to be growing faster than his mothers could keep him in new pants. Leroy was given an extra carton of milk at mealtimes to account for his raging metabolism, but Beatrice suspected that it wasn’t enough.

The boy was hungry.

Leroy, Beatrice said, pushing out her chest. Would you like to go somewhere more private with me?

Leroy’s brown eyes grew as wide as those of a cat on the hunt. He nodded. Beatrice took him by his long, bony hand and led him away from the group.

They walked silently down a dark hallway, past the Sunday school classroom to a door painted the purest white. She pushed it open into a dark room where metal objects gleamed silver. Beatrice held a finger to her lips and turned on the light. She was surprised she didn’t feel guilty about doing this in a church. But then again, she never felt bad before doing it, just after. She looked around; the kitchen was larger than she had expected. Its industrial oven shone with a kind of sacred internal purpose, like a potter’s kiln or a surgeon’s instruments. She looked down at her hands.

I’m going to make something, she thought as Leroy’s wet, round mouth careened into her neck.

Leroy spoke quickly into her hair. Do you want to be my girlfriend?

Yes, she murmured into his chest before gently pulling herself away. Leroy, you look hungry. Can I feed you?

Um, he said, looking at the tiled floor. I’ve only ever had my family’s cooking. That and the nutrition packets they give us at school.

I know that.

But why would you want to cook?

She groped for the words. This is how I can show you that I like you.

But, he protested, we have to eat clean to be clean. To be more like the angels, who don’t need to eat and are never distracted from God.

She gave him a timid kiss on the lips. Leroy, we’re together now, she said. Maybe, someday, if we stay together, you’ll come to my house for a family dinner.

He sighed, squeezing her hips. I would be so honored, Beatrice.

She looked up at him. But then, why wait? Aren’t you hungry?

He looked down at her bright, determined face, a half-smile playing on his lips. Yes, he whispered.

She began riffling through the church’s cabinets. All the usual suspects were here: rice, oat bran, bags of dried beans. Her hands trembled as she opened the pantry door and saw a bag of carrots, a sack of potatoes, cans of peas. Food for the pious, food for people who could not afford (or did not believe in) the tidiness of meal supplements.

Then she opened the fridge and saw it. A small drawer, hidden behind drums of powdered milk. Beatrice opened it and gasped. Two sticks of real butter, a hard wedge of yellow cheese wrapped in parchment paper, six brown eggs, and a basket of little tomatoes. Oh, bloody hell! Beatrice exclaimed, covering her mouth.

Shhh, said Leroy, laughing.

She sliced off a stocky knob of butter, then ran her greasy finger across her lips. They watched together as the yellow-white wedge began to pool and heat in the skillet.

Is this food blessed? Who do you think it belongs to? He inhaled deeply. What is that smell?

We could bless it ourselves, said Beatrice softly. This is our first meal of our own, after all.

It’s like we’re husband and wife.

They looked down at the miracle happening in the skillet. How could such a little thing, butter over a low flame, fill the room with such a scent? Leroy tentatively put a hand on her waist as he watched her spread more butter on two thick slices of bread, then layer on many slivers of hard cheese. She placed the sandwich in the pan of heated butter, and it began to sizzle.

Is it supposed to make that sound?

Just wait and see, said Beatrice confidently, but it was all bluster. She didn’t know if she was burning the food; she’d never imagined it would make any kind of noise. After what felt like ages, she took a big breath and flipped the sandwich. The side was golden with butter and seared from the fire, the melted cheese crackling out of the edges onto the hot pan below. The range of colors on the toasted bread—deep, golden tan, creamy white, nutty flecks of brown… It was more luscious and dynamic than Beatrice’s wildest imaginings.

It’s beautiful, she breathed.

You are, Leroy said, planting another kiss on her cheek and then lingering, breath hot in her ear.

Leroy was still holding her as she sliced the sandwich in half. Bright-yellow cheese oozed out vulgarly as she pulled the halves apart. It was even more obscene than she had anticipated. She couldn’t wait to take a bite.

Oh, Lord! Leroy licked his lips. What do we do now?

They joined hands. God, said Beatrice solemnly, bless this food and our bodies. That we might eat to serve you another day. And please, forgive me.

At first bite, they moaned. It was so much better than the descriptions she had read on those late-night message boards. The playful balance of textures—the crunchy, fried exterior of the bread giving way to pillowy, internal softness. They consumed her creation within seconds. But instead of the elation she expected, Beatrice felt a deep sadness overtake her.

Oh no, said Leroy, thumbing away her tears. Don’t cry. He kissed the tip of her nose. You were right, he whispered. It was so, so good.

She kissed him again, more firmly this time, wrapping her arms around him. She wanted to ask, How could something so good be wrong? But words were too small, too bare, to contain the range of feelings ricocheting inside of her. He kissed away her tears, until her sadness was replaced by a greater longing. Leroy’s mouth was nourishing, like sweet, clean water.

There was a sound at the door. Leroy and Beatrice looked at each other, filled with the same terrible thought. They did not have time to conceal what they had done.

Father Alvarez stood in the doorway in a dull white sleeping tunic, his brown hair rumpled with sleep. His usual soft, gentle expression was replaced by a look of holy rage as he stared at the stick of butter melting on the counter, the half-used block of cheese, the opened loaf of bread. Leroy dropped her from his embrace. She wrapped her arms around herself, cold.

Her father picked her up from the church sleepover in his pajamas. The walk home was very quiet. Without the usual sounds of children playing or the hum of airships, Beatrice could hear the waves below, crashing against the huge cement platform that held the Valley aloft over the water, its ingenious design keeping its citizens safe from the dangerous swells of an increasingly tempestuous sea. Their founder, Rick Tenzo, was consumed by his next big project—Seagate colonies in outer space, a dream that would take decades to realize. Walking back through this beautifully designed community, the hardworking people all asleep in their beds, made Beatrice feel even more ashamed. As if Mr. Tenzo himself were looking down from space, judging her.

In the living room, Mama sat in her bathrobe, ready with a full pot of herbal tea and three cups. After tearfully apologizing for her behavior, Beatrice curled up in her mother’s lap on the couch, letting her stroke her hair. It can be difficult, in its own way, not to have anything to rebel against, said Mama gently.

Beatrice felt lower than the ground. She could have been having fun with the other teenagers. Instead, she’d managed to get herself sent home.

You learned an important lesson tonight, said Papa. Keep that lesson and let the rest go.

Beatrice sat up, sniffling, and wiped her eyes. But I feel awful!

Did you take your pills today? asked Papa.

Mama stood up. I’ll go check.

Alone on the couch with her father, Beatrice felt shy. I’ll never do that again. I promise.

He waved his hand, as if pushing the thought away. It’s in the past, Beatrice. Guilt is a useless emotion.

Mama came back with a glass of water, Beatrice’s pillbox, and what looked like a jewelry box, only a bit larger than Beatrice’s own palm. No wonder you’re feeling bad!

Beatrice took the small handful of pills and gulped at the water.

Now. I was going to give this to you on your birthday, said Mama, holding out the second box. But I think this is the perfect time.

Beatrice opened it to reveal her mother’s gleaming opalescent necklace, a double moonstone she had admired ever since she could remember, on a delicate silver chain.

The women in my family have worn this necklace for generations, said Mama. And now it’s your turn.

Papa beamed as Mama clasped the necklace around Beatrice’s neck.

Keep it under your clothes, darling, said Papa. Don’t gloat or show off what our neighbors don’t have. One day, you’ll give it to your daughter.

The necklace felt cold and heavy on her chest. I’ll wear it and make you proud.

Our gorgeous girl, said her mother simply. We are already proud.

The private meetings she was made to attend with Father Alvarez were similarly benign. First they would sit together in quiet contemplation. After about twenty minutes, he would begin to speak, gently, like softly falling rain. God is like the sky, God is like a river. God is big and God is small, God is inside us and always around us. God is in everything, God exists everywhere. On and on and on and on. Sometimes she thought about his hypotonic, quiet sermons when she couldn’t sleep. After their session, she’d go with a nun to sweat it out in the sauna or bounce out her feelings at the trampoline park. No one expected teenagers to do penance the way adults did, cheerfully carrying buckets of water or going on long runs with the pastor at night instead of sleeping. The young hadn’t joined the community as adults and couldn’t be held to the same standards.

Over the next year, Leroy would disappear for various lengths of time: a week, a handful of days, once a whole month. Of course, Beatrice had seen this happen to others before. If a classmate was slow to lose their baby fat as a teenager, they were sent on a spiritual retreat. They would come back thin, with a zealous gleam in their eyes. Some of the newly religious teenagers would talk about actually becoming Flesh Martyrs, about abstaining from food until you were taken by God back to heaven. But no one ever did it—it was all just talk. There were rumors that in the big city, wealthy families designated one of their many children to become a Flesh Martyr at birth, as a sacrifice to prove their piety. Still, these were only urban legends, like the Night Witch who stole little children for her toxic brews, or restaurants for cannibals.

One day Beatrice heard that Leroy and his moms had actually left Seagate for good. Their beautiful house was now empty, their wide, lush lawn pristine, awaiting some other lucky family to take the Kims’ place.

When she turned sixteen, Beatrice explicitly lied to her parents for the first time. She told them that she was going to have a sleepover with her sometimes-lover Jaimes. Beatrice had no intention of ever spending the night with Jaimes (though he had often asked). Everyone knew the most effective way to feel the depth of God’s divine love was to fall in love, as relationships were containers for spiritual development. Yet Beatrice had never felt anything close to love. She had sex as casually as if grabbing a snack—a little bit to tide her over, then off to think about other things.

Things she was definitely not supposed to be thinking about.

The walk to her destination was an hour long, but the night was fine. Tonight Beatrice was going for the first time beyond the edge of town to the borderlands, where some people lived quietly sinful lives. Her only map was a crumb of a clue from a seedy chat room, given to her by an anonymous avatar.

As she approached the end of her town, the buildings grew shabby, their appearances random—a tall, dark-gray building next to a squat white one, brown stucco next to a spire. Paint peeled, cement cracked—a stark contrast to the cheerful, unified design of Seagate.

Then she saw it. The bookstore was sandwiched between a shabby-looking traveler’s motel and a pharmacy that appeared to be out of business. She could have walked by this place a million times and never glanced back at it.

It was already proper nighttime, with both moons stark in the sky, yet she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. She looked up. Lluna was almost full, while Ata was a waning sliver. The next double full moon wouldn’t be for years to come. Would she be in the Valley for the next full moon festival, working for Stecopo middle management like both her parents? Beatrice knew it was what she was supposed to want, but she just couldn’t picture it. The moons appeared to be steady, but Beatrice knew this was an illusion—the heavenly bodies were rotating closer and closer. One day, as certain as the sun, the two would be drawn together. After millennia of courtship, Lluna and Ata would finally kiss. But only destruction would come from that lovers’ embrace. One day, everything on this planet would be washed away in giant waves or shattered by falling chunks of moon dust. Nothing was permanent, not even the sky. Beatrice steeled herself and opened the door to the bookstore.

Inside, as these things so often are, was rather disappointing.

The store was musty and brightly lit, shocking in its ordinariness: protein powders, vitamin drinks, green juices that came dry, to be mixed with water. Nothing was fresh. By the front door, an old fridge hummed, filled with a variety of drinks and a few endurance gels. Beatrice had seen nicer versions of this type of shop in the Valley—they had smoothie bars, freshwater infusions that boasted specific pH levels or caffeine. This store was a hodgepodge of things that mimicked what people might want, but on closer inspection, every item was a cheap facsimile. Rows of sex toys of assorted shapes, colors, and sizes, but all the flimsy, synthetic kind, not the nice ones made of real leather or glass. There were rows of paperback books with lascivious covers, pulpy romances with thin plots, mysteries with more sex than intrigue, like the ones her mother read then gave away, so as to not clutter up the house. The back wall was easy-to-use bondage gear, the sort that one could set up in less than ten minutes with very little training. None of the products were particularly nice or specialized; one could find them at any drugstore. And every single object was covered with a fine film of dust.

There was someone at the counter, an unremarkable-looking older woman with sallow skin, long gray hair, and cheap wire-frame glasses. So much for closer to angels than animals, Beatrice thought. She had pictured a man in charge of such a place—a rakish, burly man who could not control his appetites, a scoundrel or a creep, not a lady who like herself would fit in better at a church service than the black market. One of the movies from the Orgasm Wars franchise was playing on a high, small television, but the woman at the counter wasn’t watching. She was thumbing through a thick book, its cover obscured.

Beatrice tried coughing to get the woman’s attention, but she never looked up from her book. She held up lingerie to her body, pretending to eye it for size. Soon another woman, closer to her own mother’s age, walked in. Beatrice couldn’t be sure if she recognized her—she was wearing a large, floppy hat and sunglasses. The woman at the counter looked up from her book, and then back meaningfully toward Beatrice. The customer sputtered out something about needing lubricant. She bought the smallest amount available and left. Beatrice felt an expansive tenderness toward the woman, who probably had kids at home around the same age as Beatrice. Certainly, if she did, they went to her school and Beatrice at least knew their names. Maybe she was a recruiter for Seagate, like Mama, or in advertising, spreading the good word of Stecopo products, like Papa.

Curious, Beatrice picked up a chilled bottle of electrolyte-infused water and glanced at the bottom. It had passed its sell-by date two years ago. At this, the woman behind the counter raised her head.

Uh… started Beatrice, unsure how to proceed. Do you have anything to go with this water? She looked at her meaningfully. The woman rolled her eyes and went back to her book.

Frustrated but undeterred, Beatrice took a pile of books from the back wall and settled