Western Swing (10 page)

One hand went to her hip. I'd seen that gesture before. “Heather's deaf, dummy.”

“Oh.” She didn't look deaf. “Can she read lips?”

“She's two years old.”

“Oh.” I slid Heather onto my lap and together we watched the end of
Petticoat Junction
. Three pretty girls named Betty Jo, Bobby Jo, and Billy Jo tried to pull Fred Ziffel's pig, Arnold, out of a bathtub while Uncle Joe stalled a couple of city-slicker guests downstairs. I imagined I was in the tub and Billy Jo found me alluring.

Just as I spun into a complex, group-sex fantasy, the woman and baby came through the apartment door. She was all apologies and reports on the baby's condition.

“Dr. Karnes says it'll pass right through, no problem. They X-rayed and you should see it, a little metal tube floating around in Buggie's tummy.”

“He'll dump a tube of Krazy Glue?”

“Probably not till tomorrow.”

Thamu Kamala ratted on me. “He let everyone sit in poop all afternoon.” I'd hate to marry Thamu Kamala someday.

“I'm sure Loren did just fine.” The woman swept around the room tossing toys and rags and general kid clutter into the cribs. She seemed small and efficient at what she did, like someone who'd carried a heavy burden so long she didn't know it was a burden and everyone else didn't have to carry it. I liked her lips. They were thin and plum-colored.

“What's your name?” I asked.

Her hand jumped to cover her mouth. “Oh God, I forgot, I mean, I told you the kids' names, but not mine.”

“You were in a hurry.”

She stepped forward with her hand out. “I'm Ann Smith and this is Buggie.”

“I'm Loren Paul.”

“I know, it's on your mailbox.” She looked straight at my eyes. “You're a student, aren't you? I've seen you come and go with big piles of books.”

I nodded. “I never met anyone really named Smith before.”

Ann laughed, a nice laugh—gentle, subdued. “There's plenty of us.” She broke the handshake. “I'm throwing together spaghetti later, you want some? The least I can do is feed you.”

I watched Buggie climb an orange baby bed. “Are you married?”

“No, what's that got to do with spaghetti?”

“I don't know. Sure, I'll come down. What time?”

We talked a couple of minutes, exchanging livelihoods and hometowns. Every now and then she pulled Buggie off something he was climbing or kept one of the little girls from beating up one of the little boys. Thamu Kamala kept interrupting to tell her about somebody's diaper. Ugly Jesse woke up and crawled into her lap and fell back asleep. I can't claim I was swept away by instant, undying love for Ann. I liked her, I liked her voice and the easy way she handled the kids. I liked her hands, but the liking was more on a possible-sex-object level than as a future partner.

Ann wasn't the kind of woman who knocks a man over and possesses his soul on the first meeting. She took her life seriously and expected more good to come of it than bad. I could see that much. Realistic optimism might be the term for Ann's attitude. I never believed much in realism or optimism myself, but I was depressed and Ann wasn't, so who was I to go judging attitudes?

When I stood to leave, Buggie crawled across the rug and looked up at me. He raised one hand to shoulder level and made a fist, then opened it, then made a fist again, gurgling something that might have been words.

Ann smiled proudly. “That's bye-bye in Buggie talk.”

I waved down to the little person on the floor. “Bye-bye, Buggie.”

• • •

You can always tell what a man expects from a relationship by the kind of condom he buys before the first date. Take a guy who sneaks into a PATRONS ONLY bathroom at a gas station and drops a quarter in the rainbow-colors, for-prevention-of-disease-only machine; that guy isn't expecting a whole lot. Mostly, he's arming himself against an “I can't go through with this, I have no protection” defense. Then there's the one who goes to a well-lit pharmacy and buys a box of three moderately priced, individually tested, rolled, and sealed, lubricated with a non-petroleum jelly condoms—which is what I did between the wineshop and Ann's apartment that night—this guy is thoughtful, yet practical, expectant, yet experienced. He doesn't run into the drugstore screaming, “I've got a hot date tonight. Gimme some insurance.” He cares about the woman and he cares about himself.

At the top extreme we have the overkill joker who gets himself fitted and pays eight dollars for two dozen all-natural lambskins with extra-large end reservoirs. He's probably gay.

Most men, of course, don't buy anything. They either don't care or don't dream. Or else they use the same superstitious logic that makes a fisherman go fishing without a stringer and women stop wearing underwear when their period is overdue.

Nineteen out of twenty rubbers I ever bought stayed in the sterile packets. Broken down statistically: Eighteen times I struck out, my one winner was with a woman on the pill, and the last date before Ann, this young-to-the-point-of-statutory girl begged me to unroll it on my finger because she said she'd never seen one. When I did, she laughed hysterically, jumped from the car, and disappeared out of my life forever.

I kept walking into drugstores and buying the things anyway. No one can call me an irresponsible lay.

• • •

Ann met me at the door with Buggie propped in his usual right hip position. Buggie had on blue overalls buttoned up the inseam and a red pullover jersey. Ann wore a long flowered skirt with a rose-colored ruffly top. She looked dressed up, as if she'd thought about what to wear and decided on something nice. Her hair was pulled back behind her ears.

“How's Buggie?” I asked.

“No Krazy Glue tube yet,” she said. “I wonder if it'll hurt when he poops it.” How about that? I was on a date with a woman who called shit poop.

We stood around the doorway a moment, imagining what it would feel like to pass a tube. I imagined it coming out sideways and she imagined it coming out end to end, which shows a basic difference between the ways Ann and I planned our futures.

“The spaghetti's about ready,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink? Buggie has apple juice and I'm sipping wine in the kitchen.”

I held out my bottle of Blue Nun. I know wine connoisseurs think you're a tasteless chump for drinking white wine with spaghetti, but I generally bought Blue Nun no matter what was for dinner because it complemented pot so well.

“Let's finish my bottle first, then go on to yours,” Ann said.

“Sounds fine to me.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with a glass of rosé. Tasted like Mateus, but I'm not certain.

“You and Buggie get acquainted while I work on supper. There's appetizers on the TV table.” Ann's eyes held a gleam I hadn't noticed in the afternoon. They sparkled with little brown flecks that seemed to travel around the center of the whitest eye-whites I've ever seen. She looked cheerful and pretty. I was almost certain Ann had expectations of the evening—you don't look cheerful without expectations—but I wasn't sure what the expectations involved.

Buggie sat next to me on the couch while I looked over a plate of bite-sized chunks of cauliflower, broccoli, and fresh mushrooms. I dunked a cauliflower into the creamy dip and held it for Buggie to lick. Instead, he reached for my glasses and almost pulled them off before I caught his little hand.

Buggie's brow puckered up, his eyes watered, and he let out a howl.

Ann's voice came from the kitchen. “Throw him in a crib if he bothers you.”

“We're just playing. He's having a great time.” Buggie howled louder. “Which crib is his?”

“Any that you can find the bottom.”

Facing Buggie, I made a duck sound I'd learned in grade school and hadn't practiced since. The sound involves loading saliva under your tongue and then squishing it out the sides while you talk. This takes some skill and not everyone can do it.

With one sniff, Buggie stopped crying. He grabbed my lower lip and pulled.

“
Awoww.”
Buggie pulled me down to his level and stared into my eyes. His pupils were darker and deeper than Ann's—fiercer. He stared at me with this look, I swear it was a threat. A mess-with-my-mama-and-you'll-answer-to-me threat. He meant it too.

Possibly Buggie didn't threaten me at all. He was only a kid. Possibly I saw in his eyes what I thought I deserved. Every time a new woman enters my life, my first reaction is confusion and guilt. I doubt my motives. Do I really like the woman or have I staked her out as someone to sleep with? Am I okay or a selfish jerk? Would I want to get involved with me if I was her? The answer to that last one is, hell, no.

Looking up, I saw Ann watching us from the kitchen doorway. She held a large wooden bowl with both hands. I doubt if Ann saw the threat or the guilt, whichever it was, because her face still glowed with cheerful expectations. I decided right then to love her.

“You mind Roquefort dressing?” she asked.

“It's my favorite, that or blue cheese,” I said as best I could with Buggie pulling on my lip. “How do I get him to let go?”

“You say, ‘Let go, Buggie.' I did and it worked. Ann set the salad down. “He can be a nuisance if you let him, but we get along, don't we, shortcake?” She poked him in the belly and Buggie gurgled again, just like in the afternoon.

I looked in his eyes one last time. The kid and I understood each other, we'd made a connection.

The spaghetti turned out great. Ann had tossed some sliced mushrooms into the sauce right before pulling it off the heat, so they weren't quite soft. That impressed me. The spaghetti itself was a touch overboiled, but, Lord knows, the dinner beat the oranges, grapes, Cheetos, and coffee diet I was used to.

Ann bounced up and down about eight times while we ate, going after Parmesan and more wine and napkins to wipe Buggie's face. She anticipated everything either one of us wanted, and some things I didn't want. I doubt if Ann was accustomed to adult company, so she tried especially hard to please me. Someone wishing to please me was a new concept, but I adjusted in about three minutes.

All through the meal Buggie was the model of babyhood, happy, laughing, playful when I wanted playful, quiet when I wanted quiet. Ann gave him a bowl of spaghetti and sauce which he turned into the most endearing mess I ever saw. You'd think he was a trained boy.

“Is Buggie his real name?”

“Fred.”

“Fred?”

“Fred Blue Smith.”

“No wonder you call him Buggie. How old is he?”

“A year next week. The day-care kids are giving him a party, aren't they, my little Bugaroo?” Buggie slapped his hand into the spaghetti bowl.

I drank some wine, wondering how I got so far into life without seeing this side of things. They seemed to fit so easily and comfortably together, playing at eating, watching each other for signs of mood. Will he eat another bite if I pretend the spoon is an airplane? Will she be mad if I throw my cup overboard?

• • •

We talked about Denver and my school and her day care and what Krazy Glue does if you eat it. She told me she'd never married Buggie's father. Never even thought about it. I told her I was going to write a book someday. We finished her bottle and opened mine. For once, I found a woman I could relax around without worrying whether or not she wanted to be somewhere else. Ann seemed content to sit at the table drinking wine and talking.

After supper, Buggie and I went back to the couch to play funny sounds while Ann cleared the dishes.

“I'll just soak them,” she said. “I don't feel like washing right now.”

“I never feel like washing dishes.”

Ann put a Joni Mitchell album on the cheap stereo and we sat on the couch, holding hands, while Buggie crawled around, exploring under all the cribs and baby beds.

“You want to smoke a joint?” I asked.

“Wine's fine for me, but you go ahead.”

“That's okay, I'll drink and sit here with you.”

“Don't let me stop you.”

We talked some more and I found myself explaining why John Steinbeck wrote good books on the West Coast and bad books on the East Coast. The theory was pretty weak and I don't know how I got started on it, but Ann acted interested. At least she nodded her head at pertinent points and asked reasonable questions. I talked a good deal more than I generally do, but even as I raved on like an imbecile, I was thinking that anyone interested in this drivel must be my perfect match. Or so starved for human contact she'd listen to anything. Right in the middle of my comparison of
The Winter of Our Discontent
to
Of Mice and Men,
Ann leaned over and kissed me.

“What's that for?”

“You had it coming.”

Buggie crawled over and up on Ann's lap, where he collapsed. One second he was reaching for her wineglass, gurgling his little heart out, the next second he nestled into her breasts and fell asleep. I followed Ann to one of the cribs, where she lay Buggie down and undressed him like a rag doll. Ann stuck her finger in his diaper. “You sure are cooperating tonight,” she said to the sleeping Buggie.

“No Krazy Glue?”

“No nothing. Dry as the desert.”

She pulled a blue blanket up to Buggie's chin, then stood back to admire her creation. I put my arm around her and together we watched him sleep. With Ann so small against me, I felt protective—as if I was a piece of something that mattered. There's nothing more emotional than a sleeping child being watched by his mother.

Ann turned over the Joni Mitchell and we retired to the couch, where I kissed her. “That feels nice,” she murmured, kissing back. The kissing and hugging felt natural, not frenzied, nobody pushed the ritual or turned animal or anything. We held each other awhile, then kissed awhile, then lay back to relax and think about it awhile. The best thing was the lack of paranoia. Am I getting into something I can't handle? Does she want what I want? Will there be aftereffects? None of that meant anything compared to feeling good with Ann on the couch.