Jesus, thought Frank, walking heavily up the steps. How the hell did he end up buying a flying rodent from what now appeared to be an underage girl in the Bronx? What was so wrong with a fucking fish, anyway? He shook his head as he rang the bell. He was the only person he knew who could get himself into a situation like this. Except, perhaps, Eleanor. He smiled to himself at the thought of her. She, he was sure, was capable of anything.
The woman who opened the door was large, at least three times the width of Frank, and, if he had to estimate, in her late forties. She wore a lilac sweatshirt with a faded logo of Mickey Mouse on the front and a pair of thinned, bleach-stained leggings. Her skin was dark and smooth and poreless. Frank searched her face for signs that this was the voice who had spoken to him on the phone. Her eyes were mahogany brown, lined by short, tightly curled lashes, and focused just past Frank with disconcerting intensity. Her full cheeks and heavy chin had a mournful quality, but her glossy lips were faintly upturned. There was not a straight line anywhere on her face or body.
“Are you Frank?”
There it was, that silky voice. Frank nodded, temporarily dumbfounded.
“Come in.” She beckoned for him to pass her. “We gotta be quick. My mom finishes work soon, and she doesn’t like it when I let people come to the house.”
The smell of sawdust, damp, and an unnamable sour odor Frank instinctively knew to be human greeted him as he walked through the door. Piles of clothes littered the living area she led him to. A large plasma screen covered one of the walls.
“You don’t have cats, right?” she asked.
Frank shook his head.
“Good, because cats kill the babies. I’ll go get you one.”
The woman disappeared up the unlit stairs. He looked around the room, which was illuminated by a single buzzing overhead light. Among the mounds of clothes were plastic shopping bags, all ostensibly filled with more clothes. Frank perched on the arm of the large sofa next to him, then stood up again. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. The woman returned with her hands cupped in front of her. He kept trying to decipher her age. She certainly couldn’t have been younger than forty. Her thinning black hair was streaked with white. But she lived with her mother? The whole thing unnerved him.
“Okay, you ready?” she purred. “This one’s a boy. I just woke him up. Let’s hope he likes you.”
She motioned for him to put out his hands and Frank did so. Very gently, she tipped the contents of hers into his. He felt the light, warm pressure of a living body and the tickle of fur against his skin. She pulled her hands away, and Frank saw for a moment a small gray creature crouched on his palm. Before Frank could look closer, it sprung into the air, pinged off the window blinds behind him, bounced off the sofa, and dove into a heap of clothes a few feet away.
“Oh no,” she moaned softly. “He didn’t like you. You wanna try another?”
“Jesus,” said Frank. “You tell me.”
He took a step toward the mound of shirts, which did not appear to be clean. This whole exercise was proving to be insane, as he should have known it would be. But he was committed now. He was going to get a sugar glider to like him.
“Should I …，” said Frank. “Try to retrieve him?”
“That’s okay,” she said lightly. “He’ll come out when he’s ready. I’ll go get you another.”
She disappeared back up the stairs, and Frank stared dubiously at the mound of clothes concealing the creature. It did not stir.
“You sure about that?” he mumbled to himself.
The woman returned, and Frank dutifully put out his hands.
“This one’s a baby girl,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re better with girls.”
A tumble of fur slipped from her hands to his, and there, sitting placidly in the center of his palm, was the baby girl sugar glider. She looked up at Frank. She was the palest gray, almost lilac, with a dark stripe down her forehead and back, reaching to the tip of her tail, which looked like it had been dipped in ink. Between her feet and hands was a fold of fur, ruffled like the underside of a mushroom. Her wings. Huge black eyes, wet, as if from crying. Petal-pink nose and pink-tipped fingers. Now she was lifting a hand to wrap it nimbly, monkey-like, around his thumb. She was soft as dandelion seeds.
“Oh,” said Frank.
“You want her?”
“I want her.”
“Yippee,” said the woman and clapped her palms together. “Shall I go get another girl for you?”