Her brother was reading on the blue couch in her mother's living room. She stood over him, watching him read. "I'm afraid now," Daisy said, but it wasn't her brothers face that looked back at her.

All right, then, Daisy thought. None of them are any help. It doesn't matter. I have come face to face with what I fear and what I love and they are the same thing.

"All right, then," Daisy said, and turned back to Ron. "I'd like to go for a ride. With the top down." She stopped and squinted up at him. "I love the sun," she said.

When he put his arm around her shoulder, she did not move away. His hand closed on her breast and he bent down to kiss her.

I used to write confessions stories with t.i.tles like "I Called for Help on My CB ... and Got a Rapist Instead." I have made various p.r.o.nouncements about this tawdry part of my past, calling the confessions a "quaint apprenticeship" and declaring that "I did them for the money," but the sordid truth is that I loved writing confessions, and whenever I can get away with it, I still do.

Mail-Order Clone

What throwed me off about this guy was the way he looked. I mean, I ain't no Burt Reynolds, but this guy was just plain ugly And little. He was wearing some of them fancy high-heeled boots, and he still didn't hardly come up to my armpit. He had on a fancy East Coast suit and one of them little bitty black mustaches that look like they been painted on.

"h.e.l.lo," he says, like I should know who he is.

"Yeah?"

He kind of laughs to himself, and then he says, "You don't recognize me, do you?"

I shake my head, wondering if now they are hiring midgets at Welfare, which would be a switch. Most of those guys are twice as big as me ever since the Mafia took over the department. If he is one of the Welfare guys I am sure as h.e.l.l not going to let him in. Last time they grabbed a six-pack of Coors and docked our check fifty bucks. They was looking at Marjean's love magazines, too. h.e.l.l, what good is all that money if they won't let you have no fun with it? Anyway, he can just stand outside till I figure out who he is.

"Don't you remember?" he says, still kind of laughing. "Twelve ninety-five postpaid. Delivery guaranteed in three weeks?"

I was right. They're on to Marjean's love books. Only how'd they find out about this deal? "I don't know nothing," I says.

He smiles real wide. "I'm your clone," clone," he says. he says.

Well, what do you know? "Marjean," I calls out, pretty c.o.c.kylike, "Marjean Ramona, you come on out here. I got something for you to see."

She comes sauntering out in her Indian nightgown which don't have no sides, just strings to hold it together, and which is open in the front just about down to kingdom come. She's got her hair up in braids, too. That means she's in one of her Indian moods, prancing around not letting me touch her 'cause she's got royal Kiowa blood.

I figure she'll be pretty mad when I tell her who this guy is, since she was the one who kept saying the ad was a fake, but she don't act mad at all. She just sort of smiles at the guy and pulls her nightgown together in the front. That don't do no good. She ends up showing more than ever. She flips them black braids at him and says, real breathy, "Hi. What's your name?"

"Marjean," I says before he can answer. "His name's the same as mine. He's my clone." clone."

She's not even listening to me. "Come on in," she says, and the guy sort of sc.r.a.pes past her into the house.

She starts right after him, but I got a hold of her arm. "That's the clone I sent for that you said was a fake."

"I know," she says in that dreamylike voice. "I wonder what his name is."

"I told you, Marjean. Same as mine. He's just like me." Marjean. Same as mine. He's just like me."

"Maybe," she says. She licks her lips with her tongue.

"You gotta be nice to him, Marjean," I says, wishing she would show some enthusiasm. "Get him one of them beers we got hid outback. And take off that nightgown. We got company."

She looks up at me with them big black eyes of hers and says, "Why, that's just what I had in mind."

Now I am not so dumb. Even though Marjean is hiding it pretty good, pretending she likes this guy and all, I can tell she is mad. She was dead sent against my sending for a clone.

"It's a fake," she says.

"How do you know that? You ain't even read the ad."

"The Kiowa know many things," she says real mysteriouslike. She pulls that Kiowa stuff whenever she don't have a good answer. She's no more Indian than them old hippies out on the edge of town. They got long hair and live in tepees, smoking mushrooms and talking a lot of gibberish, but they ain't Indians, and the Welfare guys know it. They don't get no Indian checks and neither does Marjean Ramona. So I don't put no faith in this Kiowa stuff.

"They can't make clones," Marjean says, "not for twelve ninety-five."

"Sure they can. You send in a piece of your hair or a fingernail, something that's got cells in it. And they put it in a test tube and there you are. One genuine clone."

I showed her the story that give me the idea in the first place, seens as how she is so crazy for them stories. "Mail-Order Family," it was called, all about this poor orphan girl who didn't have no family till she got a clone and then how they was just like twins and they both married brothers and everything, but it didn't do no good. She just never wants to send for nothing out of her love magazines. I tried to get her to send for one of them holographic nighties in the Fredericks of Hollywood ad, the ones that promise to show you all sides of the merchandise at once, but she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't even let me send for a box of lubricated bionic ripples, and they was only a dollar.

"I don't care what you say, Marjean," I says. "I am sending for this clone."

"You're wasting your money," she says, "and even if you had a clone, what would you do with it? What good is a clone anyway?"

"What about 'Mail-Order Family'? What about that, huh? A clone's good for lots of stuff, Marjean. Lots of stuff."

So now I got me a clone and I can tell you it is a good feeling to prove old high-and-mighty Marjean wrong for once. But after about two weeks of this guy, I figured Marjean was right about one thing. Clones may be good for lots of stuff, like I said, but I sure as h.e.l.l couldn't figure out what. When I asked him about getting a job, he just laughed. He said if he started working it would be like I started working and I'd be off the Welfare rolls like a shot. I figured at least he could go cash my check seens as how we both had the same signature and all. He seemed real willing, especially after he seen how big the check was. But then Marjean real fastlike grabs up both checks and says she wants to go. "You have to cash them at the post office," post office," she says to him real seriouslike, and he turns kind of green. After that I can't hardly even get him to go get us Coors at the Indian camp. she says to him real seriouslike, and he turns kind of green. After that I can't hardly even get him to go get us Coors at the Indian camp.

All he wanted to do was set at the kitchen table, talking to Marjean in her nightgown and eating and drinking up every d.a.m.n thing in the house through that froggy mustache of his. He still didn't look nothing like me. I spent about an hour looking in the mirror trying to imagine what I'd look like with one of them little black mustaches, but it didn't do no good. Marjean come and stood behind me. "I can see a big big resemblance," she said, smiling sort of slylike, and sauntered off to the bedroom. resemblance," she said, smiling sort of slylike, and sauntered off to the bedroom.

"Well, I sure as h.e.l.l can't." I said that pretty loud and I guess my clone heard me, 'cause he come and put his arm around me, pal-like, and says, "The lack of resemblance perplexes you, doesn't it?"

"Huh?"

"That we look so different. Clones are identical. That's what you've always heard, isn't it?"

That made me feel sort of ashamed. The poor guy can't help it he's so little and scrawny. But he didn't act upset. He just kind of laughed and motioned to me to set down at the table. Then he pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. I see the paper is one of them copy sheets and on it is the very same ad I sent in. Right there is my own name and address I wrote myself. This made me even more ashamed. To tell the truth, once or twice I have started to think things are not quite on the up-and-up, if you know what I mean.

He flipped the ad over and started drawing and talking real fast, a whole bunch of stuff about cells and chromosomes. I listened real hard, but it didn't make much sense. Just a bunch of lines and squiggles.

Then he pulls out a quarter and holds it up in front of me. "What do you see?" he says.

"A quarter."

"No. I mean, what do you see on on the quarter?" the quarter?"

There's some little words and a guy that looks kind of like Nixon only his hair is in a ponytail. "Some president," I say, figuring I am safe that way.

He turns it over. "Now what do you see?"

I recognize this one right off. "A bird," I say.

"George Washington," he says, and flips the quarter over. "An American eagle." Boy, am I glad I didn't go with Nixon. "They're nothing alike, are they?"

I am getting pretty nervous with all these questions. "No," I say, only kind of hesitantlike.

"Oh, but they are. They're two different sides of a quarter. Just as you and I are two different sides of a person." He flips the quarter over again. The bird is still there.

Well, that made a whole lot more sense than them squiggly chromosomes. I felt real relieved. I was going to ask him about the job thing again while he was in an explaining mood, but just then Marjean come out dressed up fit to kill and said they was going over to the Indian camp, so I didn't get to.

They was gone a long time. I did the quarter thing a couple more times, and it always worked, so I figured he must be telling the truth. Long about four I went out on the porch where I could see them coming. Not that I was worried or anything. We were two sides of a quarter, he said, and if you can't trust your flip side, you are in pretty bad shape.

They wasn't coming yet, but what was scared the pants off me. These two big government cars pulled up in front of the house and four guys got out and come over to the porch. Four guys! Welfare has never sent four before. They only do that when they're gonna beat the h.e.l.l out of you for violations.

They already seen me so there was no use pretending n.o.body was home, and anyway they were wearing suits and didn't look nearly as big as the Welfare guys usually look, so I stayed on the porch. But I kept a sharp eye peeled for Marjean and my clone. I sure as h.e.l.l wished they would get home.

Two of the guys stand back with their arms folded and the other two come up on the porch. One of them hands me a piece of paper and says, "Have you seen this ad before?"

Well, h.e.l.l, it's that ad my clone had the copy of scribbling on not two hours ago. It is probably still setting there on the kitchen table. Anyway there is my name and address in my own writing, which is on file down at Welfare. They have got me dead to rights. "Marjean made me send for it," I says, "but she didn't know it was against the rules. It ain't listed in the Welfare book. Honest. Anyway, she don't read too good."

The two guys in the back whisper to the other two and the two on the porch reach into their pockets. I practically have a heart attack before I see it's just little cards they're reaching for. They hold them out to me. "United States Post Office," one of them says. "Mail fraud division. Did you send for the clone advertised in this ad?"

I read the card to make sure, but I knew they wasn't Welfare guys all along. "Sure," I says, "I sent for one of them clones."

"You sent in twelve ninety-five with your order?"

"Yeah. And a lock of my hair so's they could make it."

"How long ago was that?"

I think about how long it took to get him and how long he's been setting at that kitchen table. "Two months about."

"This mail-order clone scheme you invested in is one of several mail frauds currently under investigation by our department. Indictments have been issued against Clones, Inc., president Conrad C. Conrad, whereabouts unknown. Claims against Clones, Inc., for the return of your money can be filed by the individual with our department."

"Well, I don't know," I say I mean, sure, I have lots of reasons to complain about the guy, but it don't seem right getting my money back. I did get my clone and everything.

They hand me a form to fill out about eight pages long. "Just take the completed form to the local post office. You will be informed by mail of the priority of your claim. Our toll-free number is at the top. We'd like you to call it in case Conrad C. Conrad tries to get in touch with you."

So far they are real businesslike. But then one of the guys who hasn't said nothing so far comes up to me, flashes a badge that sure don't say United States Post Office on it, and starts asking questions real fastlike.

"Did you send for a clone as per this ad? Is this your handwriting? Is this the money order you enclosed with your order?"

I just say yeah to all of it till he gets to this real funny question.

"Do you know Conrad C. Conrad?"

Now, how would I know the president of a big company? "Nope," I say.

"Have you seen anyone of the following description: five foot four, brown eyes, black hair, black mustache."

I don't pay much attention to this part 'cause just then I think I see Marjean and my clone coming. Anyway, I ain't seen n.o.body but them two in two months. "Nope," I say.

"We have reason to believe Conrad is in this area, probably under an a.s.sumed name."

The first mail guy turns to the other one, and says, whisperinglike, "Another a.s.sumed name. The guy's as slippery as an eel. They don't even have a picture of him. He's such a smooth talker he's probably convinced one of his dumb-bunny customers he's a clone and moved in with them." The cop shoots him a dirty look.

"Are you sure you've had no communication with Mr. Conrad or with Clones, Inc?"

"Nope. All I got was my clone."

All four guys lean forward. "You received the doll advertised in the magazine?"

"Doll?" I said. I was gonna say, h.e.l.l, no, I wish it hadda been a doll and not some big good-for-nothing guy. Only just then I saw for sure it was Marjean and the big good-for-nothing. They was both bombed out of their minds. I could tell 'cause they was sort of weaving down the road, but that ain't what gets me. Right in the middle of the road my clone stops and plants a big old kiss on Marjean. He's got his hands where they got no business being either. And old Marjean is eating it up.

"Did you or did you not receive a clone as ordered?" the cop guy says, annoyedlike.

"I want to file a complaint," I says, real mad.

They give me a number to call if I see that Conrad guy, and then they go off in their big cars. They drive right past Marjean and the clone guy, who are still feeling each other up. They don't pay no attention, and that makes me know for sure they are not Welfare guys. Those guys don't let you do nothing. nothing.

I stand there on the porch, just watching them and thinking. I think about the post office guys and the cop. And then I think about Marjean and how that guy don't look nothing like me even when he's feeling up my wife and pretty soon I get an idea. I am not so dumb.

Marjean knows it, too. When she comes in, smelling like beer and pot, she is pretty sa.s.sy, but she ain't sa.s.sy now. I heard them talking at the kitchen table yesterday and she says, "He's figured it out," and the clone guy kind of laughs, but not too loud, and says, "Him? He couldn't figure his way out of a paper bag." But he don't sound real convinced.

I been pretty busy. First thing I done I read all of Marjean's love magazines. I found some good stories like "I Killed My Wife's Lover" and "A Husband's Revenge" and I put them real casual-like on the kitchen table open to that page like I been reading them. Then I real casual-like cut out one of them ads for a laser gun. That disappears like sixty and when I check the other magazines I see she's cut out every gun and knife ad and thrown them all away I keep suggesting she take my clone over to the Indian camp, but she won't go nowhere. All she does is sit at that kitchen table reading stories and biting her fingernails till there ain't nothing left just like I planned. Pretty soon I will leave that complaint form around where the clone guy can see it. Then he will know I am not so dumb. But I think I will wait on that.

See, while I'm standing there on that porch I figure out I have been looking at this clone thing all wrong. That story about the orphan girl throwed me off, the twin stuff and all. That ain't what clones are for. And any way you look at it, that guy don't look nothing like me at all. So what I figure is, a clone of Marjean's won't look nothing like her neither. It'd be all round and soft and curly blond hair maybe. Not so high-and-mighty neither. I know just what Marjean's clone'd be good for. And I am all set. I got twelve ninety-five and a envelope full of Marjean's chewed-off fingernails and I am sending it in. I am not so dumb.

Some of the stories in the Bible are really old. Bible scholars think parts of Genesis date back to the Bronze Age, but I think they may be far older than that. Consider the tale of Esau and Jacob: Isaac, old and blind, wanted to pa.s.s on his inheritance and his blessing to Esau, his firstborn, who is described as being "red, all over like an hairy garment." But his younger brother, Jacob, "a smooth man, But his younger brother, Jacob, "a smooth man," cheated Esau of his father's blessing by putting goatskins "upon his hands and upon the smooth of his neck" and so fooling the blind old man. cheated Esau of his father's blessing by putting goatskins "upon his hands and upon the smooth of his neck" and so fooling the blind old man.

Jacob of course sounds uncomfortably like us, but who is this red and hairy brother we have stolen our inheritance from? And will he forgive us?

Samaritan

The people of the Countrie, when they traoaile in in the Woods, make fires where they sleepe the Woods, make fires where they sleepe in in the night; and in the morning, when they are gone, the Pongoes [orangutans] will come and sit about the fire, till it goeth out: for they have the night; and in the morning, when they are gone, the Pongoes [orangutans] will come and sit about the fire, till it goeth out: for they have no no understanding to lay the wood together. understanding to lay the wood together.-ANDREW BATIELL, 1625 Reverend Hoyt knew immediately what Natalie wanted. His a.s.sistant pastor knocked on the half-open door of his study and then sailed in, dragging Esau by one hand behind her. The triumphant smile on her face was proof enough of what she was going to say.

"Reverend Hoyt, Esau has something he wants to tell you." She turned to the orangutan. He was standing up straight, something Reverend Hoyt knew was hard for him to do. He came almost to Natalie's shoulder. His thick, squat body was covered almost entirely with long, neatly brushed auburn hair. He had only a little hair on top of his head. He had slicked it down with water. His wide face, inset and shadowed by his cheek flaps, was as impa.s.sive as ever.

Natalie signed something to him. He stood silent, his long arms hanging limply at his sides. She turned back to Reverend Hoyt. "He wants to be baptized! Isn't that wonderful? Tell him, Esau."

He had seen it coming. The Reverend Natalie Abreu, twenty-two and only one year out of Princeton, was one enthusiasm after another. She had vamped the Sunday school, taken over the grief counseling department, and initiated a standard of priestly attire that outraged Reverend Hoyt's Presbyterian soul. Today she had on a trailing ca.s.sock with a red-and-gold-embroidered stole edged with fringe. It must be Pentecost. She was short and had close-cropped brown hair. She flew about her official duties like a misplaced choirboy in her ridiculous robes and surplices and chasubles. She had taken over Esau, too.

She had not known how to use American Sign Language when she came. Reverend Hoyt knew only the bare minimum of signs himself, "yes" and "no" and "come here." The jobs he wanted Esau to do he had acted out mostly in pantomime. He had asked Natalie to learn a basic vocabulary so they could communicate better with the orang. She had memorized the entire Ameslan handbook. She rattled on to Esau for hours at a time, her fingers flying, telling him Bible stories and helping him with his reading.