Free Aftershock & Others by F. Paul Wilson

actually say the word: foetal .
    “Now…what may I show you?”
    “May I browse a little?”
    “ Mais oui . Take your time.”
    Denise wandered the pair of aisles, inspecting the tiers of shelves and all the varied items they carried. She noticed something: Almost everything was black or very dark.
    “The bag my friend showed me was a lighter color.”
    “Ah, yes. I’m sorry, but we’re out of white. That goes first, you know.”
    “No, this wasn’t white. It was more of a pale, golden brown.”
    “Yes. We call that white. After all, it’s made from white hide. It’s relatively rare.”
    “‘Hide’?”
    He smiled. “Yes. That’s what we call the…material.”
    The material : white fetal skin.
    “Do you have any pieces without all the stitching? Something with a smoother look?”
    “I’m afraid not. I mean, you must understand, we’re forced by the very nature of the source of the material to work with little pieces.” He gestured around. “Notice too that there are no gloves. None of the manufacturers wants to be accused of making kid gloves.”
    Rolf smiled. Denise could only stare at him.
    He cleared his throat. “Trade humor.”
    Little pieces.
    Hide.
    Kid gloves.
    Suddenly she wanted to run, but she held on. The urge passed.
    Rolf lifted a handbag from atop a nearby display case. It was a lighter brown than the others, but still considerably darker than Helene’s.
    “A lot of people are going for this shade. It’s reasonably priced. Imported from India.”
    “Imported? I’d have thought there’d be plenty to go around just from the U.S.”
    He sighed. “There would be if people weren’t so provincial in their attitudes about giving up the hides. The tanneries are offering a good price. I don’t understand some people. Anyway, we have to import from the Third World. India is a great source.”
    Denise picked up another, smaller bag of a similar shade. So soft, so smooth, just like Helene’s.
    “Indian, too?”
    “Yes, but that’s a little more expensive. That’s male.”
    She looked at him questioningly.
    His eyes did a tiny roll. “They hardly ever abort males in India. Only females. Two thousand to one.”
    Denise put it down and picked up a similar model, glossy, ink black. This would be a perfect accent to so many of her ensembles.
    “Now that’s—”
    She held up her free hand. “Please don’t tell me anything about it. Just the price.”
    He told her. She repressed a gasp. That would just about empty her account of the money she’d put aside for all her fashion bargains. On one item. Was it worth it?
    She reached into her old pocketbook, the now dowdy-looking Fendi, and pulled out her gold MasterCard. Rolf smiled and lifted it from her fingers.
    Minutes later she was back among the hoi polloi in the main shopping area, but she wasn’t one of them. She’d been where they couldn’t go, and that gave her a special feeling.
    Before leaving Blume’s, Denise put her Fendi in the store bag and hung the new foet bag over her arm. The doorman gave her a big smile as he passed her through to the sidewalk.
    A cold wind had sprung up in the dying afternoon. She stood in the fading light with the breeze cutting her like an icy knife and suddenly felt horrible.
    I’m toting a bag made from the skin of an unborn child.
    Why? Why had she bought it? What had possessed her to spend that kind of money on such a ghoulish… artifact? Because that was just what it was—not an accessory, an artifact.
    She opened the store bag and reached in to switch the new foet for her trusty Fendi. She didn’t want to be seen with it.
    And Brian! Good God, how was she going to tell Brian?
     
    “What?”
    Brian never talked with food in his mouth. He had better manners than that. But Denise had just told him about Helene’s bag and at the moment his mouth, full of sautéed spinach, hung open as he stared at her with wide eyes.
    “Brian, please close your mouth.”
    He swallowed. “ Helene? Helene