Page 13 of The Delivery

It steps forward into the light. Smooth features, average build. It—he? —is well endowed but not grotesquely so. The only thing grotesque is the flagrant sight of his nakedness. His parts seem nonoperational, statuesque, in the image of man rather than man himself. He is not bald so much as hairless. Smooth limbs, no eyelashes, twinning ridges of—flesh? latex?— above each eye in place of brows.

Somehow in the midst of all this, Rebecca finds time to marvel that the grayish shade of his skin seems engineered to inoculate against any sensitive issues around race.

The form-thing-man gets down on all fours and begins mopping up the goo footprints with the bath towel. “ Don’t worry ,” he says, “ this will wash out of the bath sheet .” His voice is flat but not robot flat; there is a soothing human inflection to it. “ What would you like to call me? ”

Mark and Rebecca exchange an anxious glance.

Mark manages to respond: “I . . . don’t know.”

“ I will wear clothing for your and Maddy’s comfort ,” the thing-man says. “I fit the same size of clothes that Mark wears. The T-shirt pack you bought at Costco last week is fine. Same with the sweatpants you ordered from Amazon and a pair of the 501s purchased on June 13 from Levi.com.”

Mark manages to say “Right.” He clears his throat and clears it again. “How about . . . footwear?”

“I don’t wear shoes. Being barefoot provides better sensory input for balance and coordination.”

Mark nods several times rapidly, processing, and then takes a step toward the door.

Rebecca grabs his arm. “I’ll get the clothes. Why don’t you wait here.” It is not a question.

Moving swiftly, she fetches the items, rushing between rooms, breath hammering in her throat.

When she returns, Mark is precisely where she left him. The thing-man is standing, the sodden towel neatly folded at his feet along with two others from the bathroom.

“ I can put this in the laundry ,” he says as he gets dressed. “I’ll do colors and whites tomorrow so the dryer won’t wake Maddy up.”

“Mommy?”

Maddy stands in the doorway, holding her stuffty fennec fox by his oversize ears. In keeping with her unvarying system of nomenclature, he is named Mr. Fox.

Maddy’s left shoulder is shrugged up as if to block her ear, a premonition of sensory overload. She blinks wide eyed at the scene before her.

Mark and Rebecca are voiceless, caught completely off guard.

The thing-man lowers himself to one knee, making himself small, unthreatening. “How nice to meet you, young lady. Is that Mr. Fox?”

Maddy hugs the fox tight to her chest and rocks back and forth.

“Did you know that the ears of a fennec fox are the largest relative to body size of anyone in the dog family?”

Maddy’s face explodes in a smile. “Six inches!” she says. “They grow up to six inches.”

“Do you know what they are used for?”

“Radiators!” Maddy says. “Cuz it’s hot in the desert, so they have to regulate their body temperature.”

She pronounces regulate like reg-goo-late, and Rebecca feels a surge of unadulterated love for this pure, pure child. And the first premonition of appreciation for whatever this thing is in their nursery.

“ I’ve been wondering ,” the thing-man says, “ are fennec foxes diurnal? Or nocturnal? ”

“Nocturnal,” Maddy says, a touch shyly.

“Ah. That makes sense. Thank you . ”

“Welcome.”

Mark and Rebecca have been watching the exchange like idiot spectators at a tennis match.

“May I call you Maddy?” the thing-man asks. “Or do you prefer Madeleine?”