City of Truth by James Morrow Page A

breasts seem like two adjacent spinnakers puffed full of wind.
    Franz tipped his hat and ducked out of the room.
    "Let's get your mind off your deconditioning." Martina hopped onto the table, stretched out. She looked like a relief map of some particularly mountainous nation.
    "Lie down next to me."
    "Not a good idea," I said. True: a roll on the felt wasn't going to solve my problems. I should be pumping Martina's mind and no other part of her; I should be trying to learn how she herself had managed the crucial transition from Veritasian to liar.
    She said, "You don't want to?"
    I gulped loudly. "No, I don't." My blood lurched toward the temperature of Sartirevian snow.
    "No?"
    "I'm married , remember? I don't want to have sex with you." I did, of course. In my heart of hearts, I did — and now came the correlative of my desire, drawing both Martina's attention and my own.
    I don't want to have sex with you , I'd said.
    Yet here was the resolute little hero, shaping the crotch of my overalls into a denim sculpture.
    So I'd lied! For the first time since my brainburn, I'd lied!
    I pulled off my tunic, slipped out of my overalls. "I hide my wings inside my soul," I quoted, climbing atop Martina.
    Deftly she removed my undershorts; my erection broke free, a priapic jailbreak. I'd done it, by damn. I might have a Veritasian penis, but I'd finally acquired a Satirevian tongue.
    "Their feathers soft and dry!" I cried, shucking off Martina's skirt.
    "And when the world's not looking," she whooped.
    "I take them out and fly!"
    * * *
    I had to apply the brakes on my Plymouth Adequate almost a dozen times as I descended the southern face of Mount Prosaic and headed into the lush green valley below. Cabin after cabin, hut after hut, Camp Ditch-the-Kids was strung along a strip of pine barren midway between the swiftly flowing Wishywashy and a placid oxbow lake. For the first time, it occurred to me that Toby might not like the idea of leaving two days early. With its fearsome dedication to frivolity, its endless amusements and diversions, Ditch-the-Kids was the sort of place a seven-year-old could easily imagine living in forever.
    As I pulled up behind the administration building, a gang of preadolescent children in Ditch-the-Kids T-shirts marched by clutching fishing rods. Their counselor explained that acid rain was sterilizing Lake Commonplace, so it really didn't matter how much they caught, the fish were all doomed anyway. I entered the building, a slapdash pile of tar paper and cedar shingles. A grizzled man with a three-day beard sat behind the desk, reading the August issue of Beatoff .
    "I'm Toby Sperry's father," I said. "Are you're—?"
    "Ralph Kitto." The camp director eyed me suspiciously. "Look, Mr. Sperry, there's no question we were pretty irresponsible, leaving that rat trap out in the open as we did, but I doubt you have a criminal case against us."
    "It's not my intention to sue you," I told him, savoring the spectacle of joy and relief blossoming on his face. Little did he know I could've been lying.
    "Will Toby be okay? I've been feeling a certain amount of guilt about this matter. Nothing I can't handle, but—"
    "I'm here to bring him home," I said. "He's going into the hospital tomorrow."
    "Life is a tough business, isn't it?" Ralph Kitto fanned himself with Beatoff .
    "Take me, for example. Sure wish I could find a better line of work."
    "I imagine these kids drive you crazy — figuratively crazy."
    "Vodka helps. I get drunk frequently."
    Kitto consulted his master schedule and told me Toby was probably still on the archery field, a half mile south down the Wishywashy. I paid the balance due on my son's tuition, thanked the director for his willingness to take on such an unrewarding job, and set out along the river.
    When I arrived, my son had just missed the bull's-eye by less than an inch.
    "Nice shooting, Toby, old buddy!"
    He maintained his bowman's stance, frozen in astonishment at hearing my