Read The Canal for Free Online Page B

that she had recognized early in Alan -- the
planning, the fastidiousness, the inability to leave anything to
chance. Truthfully, it's what had made him most attractive to her.
She saw how it drove him, and ultimately, how it would push him to
excel. Although it tortured him too, at times. Most women, they
would probably have a hard time dealing with someone like Alan. But
not Susan. She appreciated his quirks, because in the end, they
made Alan predictable. And what was predictable could be
manipulated. She needed that.
    Susan began clearing the table, putting the
uneaten chicken back into the bag. She'd give it to the old man,
Mr. Zarella. Zarella was a project of hers, a lonely, destitute
gentleman that she tended to worry about -- he was so skinny, his
clothes so dirty, his hair so unwashed. Zarella lived alone on one
of the bad streets by the river. She went there sometimes to give
leftovers to some of the unfortunates who slept in doorways. Mr.
Zarella was her favorite -- he at least had a home, although he
didn't seem any better off for it.
    She collected the Lawnhill pamphlet and threw
it in the trash. She wasn't seriously considering Lawnhill (she'd
already picked Most Holy); she just wanted to remind Alan that he
needed to take the dangers of his situation seriously. Not so much
his situation, as in, he had a potentially dangerous job. But more
so his overall situation as a man. Men were die'ers, plain and
simple. When they weren't killing themselves they were killing each
other, and being shrill about it. Men reminded Susan of certain
attention-grabbing flowers that bloom for a week and then turn
black overnight -- they serve their purpose, draw a crowd, and then
are gone. Women were much more patient. Women were much more in
league with life. And if you wanted to reduce it to something like
childbirth, go ahead -- men with their negligible and superfluous
seed, their role reduced to a selfish reflex, a seconds-long spasm,
with a few cursory chromosomes being the grand result. Can you
blame them for feeling inadequate? So of course it's men who wage
war, with so little else to show for themselves. Now compare that
to a mother's experience. We're talking a nine-month magnum opus, a
hormone intensive evolutionary epic. She creates a child from her
very own physical fabric. Talk about making your mark -- women knew
a success that transcended time, that bridged eons, that tapped
into the very lifeblood of the species itself.
    So women, they were life givers. Men were a
means. And violent death was their destiny.
    It seemed hard for Alan to grasp this, to
understand the inevitable crash and burn that was male-dom, one
that was waiting for him despite all his manic effort. In fact, he
seemed to confuse death with a promotion. They could be like that
sometimes, men. So misguidedly confident, so blindly boastful. In
fact, men were the biggest boasters around. Read some history --
men have packed it full of themselves. And what's history if not
one big boast? The joke being that history is universal and
accurate, when in fact it's little more than a neurotically
documented experiment in testosterone.
    Susan uprooted Eugene from his chair
    "Does Eugene want to play?" she cooed. "Want
to play with mah-mah? Mah-mah?"
    Recognition flickered in the child's eyes.
She carried him into the living room and walked to the sliding
glass door. The heat stunned back yard lay beyond. Eugene began to
squirm, reaching dainty fingers toward the window. There was
nothing her son loved more than being outdoors. Susan indulged him
with morning and evening excursions, sometimes letting him stay
outside the entire day when the weather was cooler.
    She kissed him on the nape of his neck and
slid the door open. Stifling air seeped inside. Eugene burbled an
excited string of gibberish, sounding like a drowning telephone.
Bbbbblllinnng.
    "Eugene wants to go outside!"
    On the patio Eugene began to struggle in
Susan's arms, frantically hammering at her