Noah’s Ark

by Frances Augusta Hogg

 

Paul tried to concentrate on the task before him—to drill a tiny hole into the third phalange of a giant fruit bat.  Articulating skeletons was part of his job as Animal Exhibits Technician at the Museum of Natural History.  But the images crowding his mind affected his manual dexterity.  The rotary tool in his hands drilled through the slender bone, destroying it.  Damn.  He’d have to go into the vaults to find a replacement.

 

The boy was coming soon and Paul was excited.  Noah Saperstein was an odd child, with an obsession for the skulls and bones of animals that reminded Paul so much of himself as a boy.  Noah had started coming to the museum’s basement on Sunday mornings, four years ago.  Not many children were granted access to the facility’s secret places, but Noah’s father was enormously wealthy and a major donor to the museum.  And it seemed that ever since the boy’s mother had run away six months ago, his father went more and more out of his way to grant his son’s every wish.  For little Noah Saperstein, there was no such thing as a closed door.

 

Paul hurried through the dimly-lit subterranean hallway toward the storage area where an arrangement of towering shelving spread out like a rats’ maze.  He quickly located the drawer containing small Polynesian and Asiatic mammals and opened a mummy-like bundle labeled Acerondon jubatas.  This specimen was much smaller than the one he’d been articulating.  Oh well.  He’d have to make it work somehow.  Paul glanced down at his watch.  Any minute now.  A thrill ran through his body.

 

Paul hated that thrill.  As much as he hated the word, pedophile.  But it owned him.  He had felt the urges his entire life but he had always been able to control them physically, at least, until Dennis.  But then Dennis’ crack-head mother had gotten curious, and her curiosity about the relationship between her fifteen-year-old son and the middle-aged professor of natural sciences had cost Paul his ocean-side home and his beloved university job.  She’d blackmailed him and caused him to flee here to Chicago, where he had been forced to accept a less-prestigious position working for the city museum.  After that close shave Paul had lived a monk’s life.  He had not touched a boy for five years.  It was the safest way to live.

 

Noah Saperstein was Paul’s only weakness.  When he had first met him Paul had been struck by what an intelligent, driven, and beautiful child he was.  Paul always looked forward to their several hours a week together.  He enjoyed teaching Noah how to work with the bones, and he always tried to have a surprise on hand for the boy.  Something it might be difficult for the child to get his hands on, otherwise.  Something the museum wouldn’t miss from its massive collection.  Sometimes it was only a box of joint-stabilizing pins.  Other times, the remains of a horned-toad, a parrot, a small caiman, or the practically invisible bones of a tiny angel fish.  But today, Paul had a wonderful surprise for Noah.  A wombat.

 

Paul hurried back to his workroom, a dusty place with walls last painted pea-green in the 1960s.  Shelves stacked with papers and boxes stretched up toward the dark ceiling, while his work surface, containing the partially articulated bat, was flooded with light.  A dark-haired boy, wearing a navy-blue sweater and khaki shorts, sat on Paul’s stool and peered through the magnifying lens of a retractable lamp at the wired-together finger bones of the magnificent bat.

 

When he heard Paul enter, the boy spun around on his stool, and grinned.  “I know what it is!” he said.  “It’s endangered.  Almost extinct.  Found mainly on the Philippine islands of Borocay and Negros.  It’s the golden-capped fruit bat, also called the golden-crowned flying fox.  Am I right?”

 

Paul had to smile.  “Of course, you are.”

 

“I’ve just finished articulating a four-foot long rat snake” said Noah.

 

“I’m impressed!  A rat snake has more than 200 bones!”

 

Noah smiled.  “I cheated a little.  The one I got still had a lot of connective tissue left, so it wasn’t that much of a puzzle.”

 

“Still, Noah, that’s an accomplishment!  I’m really proud of you!”

 

“Your praise means a lot to me, Paul.”

 

It had taken a long time for Paul to convince Noah to call him by his first name, rather than “Dr. Martin.”  Now the boy returned to his inspection of the bat skeleton, and for a wink, Paul was swept away by the sight of the downy hairs at the base of the boy’s neck.  He had to stop himself from thinking about kissing Noah there.

 

Paul forced himself to remember the time he had careless.  That time with Dennis when they had nearly been caught by that janitor.  Thank God he had heard the man’s clumsy approach, and they had time to zip zippers and button buttons before the oafish man arrived and asked, “What are you two up to?”  Paul had been convinced it had been a gift from God.  A “pass,” as they called it.  But if he had been caught then—what?  And now, any disclosure or hint of his obsession with young boys could cause the loss of his job and his cramped workspace here in the basement of the museum. He knew it would be the end of his life.  If revelation of his secret didn’t kill him, he would have to kill himself.

 

“I have a gift for you,” he told the boy. “An actual wombat!”

 

Noah turned to him, a frown marring the beauty of his perfect face.  “I’ve already got a wombat.”

 

“You’re kidding!”

 

“No, Paul.  You really ought to see my collection some day.”

 

“I’d love to,” said Paul.

 

“Why not now, then?” said Noah.  “Dad’s in Toronto today and there’s nobody home.”

 

Paul wondered, was this a come-on?  It reminded him so much of when Dennis had said that.  When Dennis made the suggestion that they go to a place “Where we can be alone.”  Noah was fourteen, now.  Nearly as old as Dennis, when their relationship had taken that next step.  Old enough to know what he wanted.  Old enough to know that their "special friendship" must be a secret, kept from parents.

 

“We can take a cab,” said Noah.

 

Paul’s head spun.  How much clearer could the boy’s intention be?  But the curious light in the corner of Noah’s eye was inscrutable.

 

They took a taxi to Saperstein Tower.  Like an international spy, the young boy directed the cabbie to drive past the guarded entrance and let them off at the alley.  “I don’t want the doorman to see us together.  He might have questions later.”

 

This made Paul’s heart sing.  It couldn't solely be his imagination!  This was an invitation from Noah.  An invitation the boy knew was not one that was acceptable to most people.  To people who couldn’t understand the love that could exist between and older man and a young boy.

 

“My dad owns the building,” said Noah. “I have all the keys.”

 

They exited the taxi and walked a short way down the alley to a back door.  Noah opened it and they slipped into a labyrinth of hallways that serviced the apartments above.  They reached a door, lit dimly by overhead pot lights, with a doorplate that read, “Noah’s Ark.”

 

Noah fitted the key into the lock and pushed the door open.  “After you, Paul,” he said.

 

Expecting a skeleton-assembly workroom like his own, Paul was surprised to find himself in what appeared to be a high-end cocktail lounge.  Gray sofas stood against walls set with glass display cases that contained fantastic things.  Twin rhinoceros skeletons.  Tigers.  A pair of Brazilian tree sloths.  All beautifully lit and displayed.

 

“Where’d you get these?” Paul asked.

 

“Dad imports them from a guy in China.  They’re all illegal.  Dad brings his business contacts here.  It’s very hush-hush, and they feel special.  He brags about how much the specimins cost.”

 

Paul wandered around the space in a daze.

 

Noah stood before an unmarked door.  “Here’s the best part.  Dad never comes in here, because it stinks so bad.”

 

Paul nodded.  No matter how you tried, the processes of softening and removing fibrous tendons and oily residue from bones was always unpleasant.  Both the natural processes of rotting or using biologic agents and the chemical processes of acetone, ammonia and muriatic acid baths, smelled terrible.

 

Noah unlocked the door and they stepped inside.  To Paul, the room resembled the mad-scientist labs that James Bond was always finding himself in.  There were stainless-steel catwalks and pipes and large glass tanks full of mysteries.

 

“I’ve got a Dermestes maculatus colony,” Noah bragged, and he pointed to a large glass case.  In it, the corpus of an Alaskan elk lay, crumpled, while swarms of narrow, reddish-brown hide beetles ran riot over it, crawling in and out of its eye sockets, even devouring the downy covering of its antlers.  “And after that," Noah continued, "the bones go into a protease enzyme bath.  I wanted to ask you, Paul, do you have a preference?  I’ve read good things about Ecover, but my dad got me Biotex.  What do you think?”

 

All Paul could think about was how stupid he felt.  Here he had proudly presented pilfered squirrel and snake bones to this precocious boy, while this Noah might already own pandas or coelacanths, for all he knew.  He felt deeply ashamed, but only for a moment.  The fact hit him like a hammer.  Until today, until the wombat, Noah had never rejected one of his gifts.  He had never said, “A snowy owl?  I’ve already got one of those.”  So it had to mean something.  It had to mean that Noah was signaling Paul that he was ready for a change.  That he wanted a different relationship than tutor, mentor.  Didn’t it?

 

Noah continued.  “I’m collecting a male and female of each species.  The animals my dad buys for me are usually already cleaned and articulated, but I like to do the work myself.  So Otto, our doorman—he lives upstate somewhere—he brings me road kill.  Deer and raccoons and stuff like that.  I practice on them.”

 

“Your equipment is fabulous, Noah!  State-of-the art!” said Paul.

 

“Dad gets me anything I ask for.  Especially after what happened with my mom.  I think he buys me things to make me feel better about it.”

 

Paul moved from the busy beetles to a cylindrical glass tower, where minute air bubbles ran up the sides of the glass, obfuscating whatever creature boiled in the soup within.

 

“An aerated peroxide-wash tank!  I’ve been trying to get the museum to invest in one of these for years!” Paul exclaimed.

 

“Kept at a constant 60 degrees Celsius,” said the boy.  “We can get a better look from up there.”  He started up a stainless-steel mesh staircase.  Paul followed him.

 

“All of the vats operate hydraulically,” said Noah.  He pushed a red button on a control panel on the wall, and with a whoosh, the heavy, hinged lid of a vat opened.  Paul was immediately struck by the acrid smell of chlorine dioxide.

 

“Noah!  For God’s sake!  The fumes of these chemicals are extremely toxic, especially in combination with one another!  You have to be very careful!  You could be unconscious and dead within minutes!”

 

The boy closed the vat. “I know, I know!  Don’t worry!  Dad’s made sure I’ve got all the latest safety technology.  I have a bio-protection suit, a respirator, and an emergency chemical-splash and eye-wash station.  My Dad even bought me a fume trap, that collects all of the effluence from my acetone tank, the ammonia tank, and the peroxide tank.”

 

“Unbelievable,” said Paul.

 

“Here.  Take a look at my bubbler in action.”  The boy pressed a button and the top of the peroxide tank slid open.  Paul knelt on the mesh grid floor and peered down into the murky pink depths of the chemical bath.  The bubbler function caused the pile of bones at the bottom of the tank to wobble.  He made out the form of the skull, and gasped as it turned slowly upward to face him.  The large ocular orbits were unmistakable.

 

“Oh, my God, Noah! Is that really a—”

 

“Yeah,” said Noah. “It’s my mom.”

 

The boy’s voice sounded strange to Paul.  Muffled.  Somehow distant.  Paul pulled himself back from the vat and onto his elbows.  He rolled himself over with surprising difficulty, and craned his neck upward to meet the curious sight of a huge silver insect with large reflective eyes and a wagging proboscis.  A species he could not recognize.

 

It was not until the insect spoke again that Paul's muddled, fume-affected brain realized that it was Noah, in the chemo-suit.  Noah, wearing a gas mask.  Noah, standing before the open door of the fume trap, while tendrils of yellow smoke twisted from it like the gnarled hands of mummies, forming fists that pounded at the ceiling as if trying to escape from a sarcophagus.  Paul felt his vision dimming.

 

“My plan, you see, is eventually to have two of every species in my collection.  Male and female.  Like Noah in the Bible,” Noah said, but Paul could no longer hear him.