Baby Love (21 page)

The girl with the red car. What is she doing in that house all alone, listening to redneck music? If he had been this stoned when he got in her car yesterday, and they didn’t have Virgil along, he would’ve balled her. Sandy’s crazy friend Jill. There’s another one for you. Virgil told him one time they did it three times in a single afternoon.

Mark would screw her five times. She would be begging him to stop. “Can’t stop now,” he says. “I’m full of negative ions.”

Screwing Linda Ronstadt on top of Mount McKinley while the Dead play “Sugar Magnolia.” Is it cold in Alaska, even at summer solstice? They are wrapped in furs. They don’t even need to light up a joint; all you have to do is breathe.

Linda Ronstadt has never had a baby, for Christ’s sake. Why is everyone he knows having babies?

Wanda can’t stand it anymore, the way all Melissa does is sleep. If she would’ve cried, Wanda would’ve stopped sooner. What drives Wanda crazy is the way Melissa goes all limp and stares at her, like she is the mother and not the baby, and she’s saying: “Now don’t you feel guilty? See how I suffer? But do I object? Do I complain?”

She has got to get out of this apartment. No way is she going to Sandy’s party, with Melissa like this. She will step out for some air, maybe some French fries at Rocky’s. Melissa sure isn’t going anyplace.

“Long time no see.” It’s Ronnie Spaulding, leaning on the pinball machine. He didn’t act so buddy-buddy when he dropped her off the other night. Maybe he was just in a rush.

“Hi.”

“So where’ve you been keeping yourself? I was looking for you.”

She has a telephone. There is such a thing as knocking on the door.

“Want to take a drive?”

They will do just about as much driving as they did bowling. Wanda knows.

“My baby’s upstairs, sleeping.”

“So we’ll make it fast. The kid will sleep another twenty minutes, right?” He strokes her hair. Puts his head against hers. Sticks his tongue in her ear. He probably read about that somewhere.

Greg has never done a picture like this. It could almost go on the front of a Mother’s Day card. Actually, Greg isn’t drawing in a sentimental way. This is just what Tara looks like.

Since that first conversation they’ve said very little. She has just been sitting here with Sunshine in her arms and he’s standing at his worktable, sketching. Every once in a while he gets up to change the record. He has tried to pick music she would like, and although she has not said anything, he thinks she does like it. Sometimes she sings along with the chorus, very softly, once she’s learned it. All the lyrics have been sounding significant to her. Emmylou Harris, at the moment. “If I could only win your love.” Their eyes meet a lot.

She gets up to go to the bathroom. “Would you mind taking Sun?”

Of course not. He hopes she won’t cry. Not that it would bother him. He just wants Sunshine to like him.

She wrinkles her brow for a second, moves her mouth sort of like a guppy. She is looking for Tara’s nipple. She accepts that it’s not around.

Tara closes the door behind her. He can hear her peeing. Everything about her is dear to him.

Water running. She comes out with her arms wrapped around her breasts, the rest of her exposed. Pubic hair so pale it’s almost invisible. No bathing suit marks, no sign of last summer’s tan. (Does she know how to swim? He can teach her.) Bright red polish on her toenails. A small scar on her right knee, an old one. A little tuft of hair at the base of her spine. Just like the baby.

He had never thought to wonder before who the father is. He can’t picture Tara with anyone but him. He wants to ask her: What happened? Who was he? How could he ever leave you?

Carla hadn’t meant to walk so far. It was just so beautiful down by the river. Somebody should buy one of those old abandoned mills and restore it. You could turn it into a great restaurant. Or studios.

There’s a couple—the girl is naked—making out in a car parked outside one of the mills. A young guy sitting on the grass by the river, smoking a joint. She thinks of that painting by Manet.
Déjeuner sur l’herbe.
All that’s missing are the parasols.

She takes the stuffed seal out of the bag to look again. She puts it next to her cheek, trying to imagine what it feels like to be a baby. What it feels like to be a mother. Of course she will breast-feed. She will get some of those little Portuguese booties they sell in that shop in SoHo that look like Mary Janes with red-and-white-striped socks attached. Greg will do a painting that looks like mountains. Only it will be Carla. Her breasts, her belly.

T
HIS TIME
R
ONNIE WANTED
Wanda to take all her clothes off. She was a little embarrassed, on account of not having started her diet yet, but she’s also pleased, that he would be interested. And he has parked the car way out behind one of the mills that was closed down ages ago. No one will see.

He wanted her on top. He said “Press your ass up against the window. Let me see your boobs.” He is not even trying to get inside. He just wants her to do all this stuff.

He has checked his watch three times. He must be worried that Melissa might wake up and need her. Wanda knows Melissa won’t wake up for a long time yet. “Suck my cock,” he says. Well, O.K.

Two-thirty. Ronnie checks his wrist again to make sure. That was when the dame was supposed to be here.

A real space shot. Bright-orange hair and one earring. She was carrying this bag full of yarn, with one piece hanging down and dragging along the ground. Called him young man. Said just a minute there young man. I would like a word with you.

Crazy talk, that she needs pictures of this particular slut spreading her legs, due to pending litigation. Something about Dustin Hoffman. I think you know the particular slut to whom I refer. I need Polaroids of her disgusting body committing sexual acts.

He said, “I’m not a photographer. I don’t even have a camera.”

“Not to worry,” she said. “Just be there at two-thirty and make sure she comes up right next to the window.”

You can’t argue with eighteen hundred and twenty-six bucks.

C
ARLA ARRIVES AT
S
ANDY’S
apartment forty-five minutes late. She hopes she hasn’t missed the cake. She would like to see the looks on all the babies’ faces when Sandy lights the candles.

It’s a minute before Sandy comes to the door. She has been crying. Over her shoulder Carla can see the table, the hats, the balloons, the streamers. No one else is here.

Ann is hoeing up squash hills. She works one shovelful of the cow manure Reg brought her into each hill. It smells good to her. Anything smells good, compared to those bags of bat droppings Reg has been loading onto his truck all morning. He keeps sneezing. She had to get out in the fresh air.

She bought flats of zucchini and acorn squash down at the feed store. They are about two inches high, with three leaves apiece. She sets each one in its hole very gently, so she won’t disturb the roots. She pats down the soil and sprinkles water over every plant. She thinks of a recipe she saw once for deep-fried squash blossoms. She’ll make that.

She has not even remembered about the card she sent, the ad in the personals column. So she’s not prepared when the phone rings. She’s out of breath, because she had to run all the way in from the garden and she was afraid that the person might hang up.

“Hello, Ann.”

She has to catch her breath. “Is this the exterminator?”

Laughter. There is a lot of laughter on the other end of the line.

“I’m the man from the newspaper. I got your note.”

He got her number from Information, of course. She’s still gasping for breath.

“I want to thank you,” he says. He has a deep voice, like a disk jockey. Only without the jokes. “I could tell right away you understand. You knew what I was talking about.”

She’s going to tell him that note was a mistake. She’s glad he feels that way. But she didn’t mean to start anything. This is not her kind of thing. She was just in a strange mood.

“And I think I understand quite a bit about you too,” he says. “For instance, I know that you’re in great pain.”

She can’t say anything. She just stands there, holding the phone.

“You’re all alone, aren’t you? And that’s such a waste. There was a man and he hurt you very badly. You think you will never get over it.”

She had not given up hope, that’s why she gave her name. She keeps hoping that maybe there is a prince out there to rescue her. She was asking for this call.

“I would never hurt you. I would never let anyone hurt you. I would keep you safe in a room. Safe in my arms. I would never let you go. You would never even have to buy sanitary napkins.”

She screams. She drops the receiver and runs, with her hands over her face so it won’t get her. Another bat.

Of course Charles is supposed to monitor all inmate calls. Forensics in particular. You have to make sure they don’t ask for weapons. You’re also supposed to be on the alert for statements indicating a suicidal mood. This is a little hard to determine. Most of the conversations he monitors are pretty depressing. At what point does depressed turn into suicidal? He is a little vague on that.

Most of the time this job is boring. A lot of complaints that so-and-so is trying to kill me. They are putting something in my food. As soon as I get out of this place. That type of thing.

Now Wayne, he provides some entertainment. Charles wishes he was that smart. Also that good-looking. The Burt Reynolds type.

Charles has heard that Wayne kept this one woman hypnotized by his powers for three and a half years. A sexual slave, that’s what one of the other orderlies said. In the end he murdered her, and he was so smart he got off on insanity. There’s nothing insane about that guy. You should see him play chess. Three games at once.

Here’s another example. Wayne needs barbiturates. Five, six pills a day. And he doesn’t have any money on the outside, and even if he did they wouldn’t give him more than a cigarette allowance. So what does he do? He finds himself a real muffin head, a doper, and tells him the uppers Charles sells are laced with a powder that makes you impotent. The guy won’t go near Charles now. Only buys from Wayne, at a one hundred percent markup. Wayne finances his habit on the profits.

Now he’s making a phone call. Asked the operator to charge this to another number. Probably President Carter. Or Dr. McAlister, the head of the hospital. That’s the kind of thing Wayne does.

Wayne’s side of the conversation sounds pretty average. Although he’s making his voice a little deeper than normal.

Sanitary napkins. What was that about sanitary napkins?

Donahue’s guest this afternoon is Dr. Benjamin Spock. Doris wishes it was tomorrow, when Marabel Morgan is scheduled to talk about how cooking can spice up a marriage. She would rather listen to a show about incest or sexual surrogates or elderly abuse even. These political guests are so boring.

“Scientific evidence has shown that watching violence on film and television brutalizes everyone, children and adults alike,” says Dr. Spock. “Participation in war does the same thing.”

She actually bought his book. Kept it on the shelf by the stove, right next to Betty Crocker, so it would always be handy. Tried to follow everything he said with Timmy and Jill. She could probably recite the chapter on toilet training. Then it turned out he was a leftist. Then he divorced his wife of thirty years and married some thirty-five-year-old divorcee. No wonder Jill is having problems now. That’s the last time Doris will believe what some book tells her, unless it’s the Bible. Although Marabel Morgan does make pretty good sense.

Doris is worried about Jill. She has not got out of bed all day, except to go to the bathroom. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and she’s just lying there listening to the radio through an earphone. Doris almost wishes she could hear that Rod Stewart music blaring through the house, like normal. Jill’s room is so quiet it’s scary.

Now Dr. Spock is talking about the need for men to share fully in housework and child care. Sure, and Doris and Jill will go out in the woods with chain saws and change the tires on the truck. Next thing you know, everyone will be in one bathroom together. She turns off the set.

Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches—Jill always liked those. Doris takes down a jar of Jif and gets out the bread. She will make up a tray. Bring Jill a cup of hot liquid Jell-O. That used to be her special treat when she was little and she had measles or something.

“Honey?” Jill rolls over to face Doris. “I thought you might like a snack.”

“Thanks,” says Jill. She doesn’t look at the tray. Her eyes are all red.

Doris wishes she was better at mother-daughter talks. Like the mother on
Family.
Kristy McNichol tells her everything. What would Kate Lawrence say now?

“Is it that time of the month?” says Doris.

Jill begins to cry. That was not the right thing after all.

“You know what I just realized?” says Doris. “I just realized your prom must be coming up. I was thinking, with my Avon money and all, we could go to the mall, shopping. Maybe get you a store-bought gown for a change.” What is she saying? The Avon money is for groceries. What with these prices.

Jill brightens a little. “You mean you’d give me some money? Like fifty dollars?” She has lifted herself a few inches off the pillow.

“Well, we could see how much they cost.”

Jill says she already knows a place. She would need fifty dollars and she will have to borrow the car. She would rather go alone.

Doris puts her hand, which was resting a little uncomfortably on Jill’s shoulder, back into her apron pocket. This didn’t turn out the way she meant. She has just offered her daughter fifty dollars that she can’t afford, and she doesn’t feel their relationship is any closer than before. She still doesn’t understand Jill’s mental problem. She will just have to hope that a new dress does the trick.

Fifty dollars. Doris never spent so much on a dress in her whole life. These kids today, they’re spoiled.