The Parallel Apartments by Bill Cotter

Author:Bill Cotter [Cotter, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Literary, Fiction
ISBN: 9781940450315
Google: Kx7mBQAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00IC8WE38
Barnesnoble: B00IC8WE38
Goodreads: 18114470
Publisher: McSweeney's
Published: 2013-01-01T11:00:00+00:00

Lou pleaded guilty to all charges, including five counts of vehicular homicide, and one count of abuse of a corpse. (It was not illegal to kill a dog in Texas.) Though the jury’s recommendation had been “forever,” Lou was sentenced to twenty-two years of sober, hard labor, to be served at the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola.

XII

May 2004

Driving home from Planned Parenthood, where she went at least once a week for a proper pregnancy test—fuck that e.p.t. noise—April Carole rolled down the window of the black Mini Cooper once owned by her now-dead sister, Bryce, and shouted at the scudding-by world, “I wonder who it was!”

There were a dozen or so possibilities, given the window of time during which conception might’ve occurred. It could’ve been the short guy who resembled Tom Hulce. He had been able to achieve the male’s goal thrice, without withdrawing, in less than ten minutes, every second of which April admitted to both herself and to him (as a rule she did not compliment her lover’s performances or moan overmuch during them) that she enjoyed quite a bit, particularly the unexpected basal flares and unusually brisk thunder that his weird barley-twist penis had been capable of provoking.

Twinges and twangs, and occasionally thoomps, constituted April’s principal sexual jolts, and were really the only things she was able to enjoy during her swiving marathon, except for Scrabble-ating every single one of her conquests, which caused many of them to want to show her a thing or two about dominance. April, and probably all the men, bandied dominance and virility.

Or it might have been the too-tall guy with the graying, moustacheless beard whose semen production, though dispensed only in a single dose, was delivered with substantial volume and muzzle velocity, and somehow felt on target.

Or it had been the predictable, almost-forgettable guy she’d met on Atlanta Craigslist who arrived at her apartment to find that April had inked superb drawings of raspberries and stinging nettle and red clover all over her pelvic region in red and green ballpoint because she had been wondering whether renditions of the so-called fertility herbs would have more of an influence than the plants themselves, which had, so far, proved powerless.

Or maybe it was the Russian exchange student, a basso profundo with exactly the same hair as April’s, whom she’d cornered at one of the UT practice rooms and who claimed to have once paid a disbarred surgeon to open him up while a local tattooer inked his liver with a likeness of Maria Callas. He showed April the scar. She thought she would like to have a child with Veniamin. She liked him. She’d swallowed her very last tiny egg just as he came.

Or it could have been one of the five nearly identical sailors who drank every beer in the refrigerator and wouldn’t leave until April’d cherry-popped their one reluctant comrade, Morris, who, as it turned out, happened to be in control of a very sweet kissing style that April might’ve come to like had she not been on a mission.

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