Maybe Baby Read online

  On the pull-down screen in front of the chalkboard, small children danced delightedly around a new mother and her baby. A sperm, shot in close-up through a microscope, appeared briefly, its tail waving like the string of a balloon sent up on a windy day. An egg appeared, clear and round against a gray background, like a contact lens floating on water. Then a happy couple came into focus, seated on a couch. The camera panned their wedding rings. They kissed, smiling bright, overwhite smiles, and squeezed their hands together to imply excitement.

  By the time the pink diagram of the birth canal appeared on the screen, Judy’s cheeks were wet, her makeup smeared. It all came back to her now—the joy, the anticipation, the fear. Had she been able to imagine then the life she led now, she wondered how she might have acted differently. She peered over the projector at the room full of heads, boredly propped up by palms and elbows. If only they knew, she thought. But there was no way to tell them.

  Trembling, she stood, excused herself to use the restroom and did not come back. She stopped by the front office to let the secretary know she was inexplicably ill and went straight to the parking lot. All the way home, she held her hand to her breast.

  During this time, Rusty had spent the morning circling Fort Cloud in his Pontiac, observing work crews around the city as they installed new lampposts, men in hard hats digging holes along curbs and planting huge posts, silver and slender with fat round bases, each one like the leg of a supermodel with elephantiasis. The lamp at the top was bulbous with a flat sort of lid—a combination, Rusty thought, of something otherworldly and ultramodern. At the bank a few days before, he’d heard someone in line whispering about how some of the lights were rigged with cameras. A teller confided to a client that the new streetlight in front of her house made her feel as if there were a man outside her bathroom window.

  Later, Rusty stopped at a drive-through for a bag of fries and drove out on the highway toward the old rifle range he’d once haunted in his youth. The sign for the range was gone, the roof of the shelter sloped with rot, and the range itself was full of tall grasses and saplings. But off to the side, in what had once been a well-used parking lot, the old Sunbird Rusty had bought for Gretchen’s graduation was still there—the white paint now yellowish from pollen, the hood splattered with impressions of dead maple leaves, like faint handprints all over the body.

  Three tires were flat, the front lights were smashed, but the door to the backseat swung open, easy as pulling back a bird’s wing. And Rusty, impervious to bits of straw and chunks of yellow foam flecking the backseat, climbed in with his bag of French fries and drew the door closed with his feet.

  Inside, it smelled dank and beasty, of rain and mildew and body odor. There was a white nylon stocking on the floor mat, a neat pile of bobby pins arranged like a haystack on the back dash. Rusty reclined in his bathrobe, lying on his side, knees bent, eyes closed. Lips smacking, he reached into the greasy paper sack by his chest, savoring each salty bite. So much for lifting weights today.

  Despite the odor of decay, there was something comforting about the backseat. It reminded him of the time he’d taken his boys camping when they were young, how they’d set out with the station wagon full of tents and mats and sleeping bags—the boys so enamored with the idea of sleeping out under the stars—only to find them both curled up in the car come morning, all the doors locked for fear of bears. He had peered through the windows at them, feeling a sweetness wash over him, as if he were looking at small animals behind glass. He watched their shoulders rise and fall with each sleeping breath; he studied the hair pasted to their cheeks, and the way the piping along the backseat left long marks across their faces when they rolled over, so that his boys looked like newborns again—red and dew-soft looking—except for their long arms and big feet.

  For a long time, he’d watched them, sunlight catching in their hair as morning emerged from the pines. Finally, he’d opened the trunk, which they’d neglected to lock, and climbed in with them. Curling around them, he’d closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of their shallow breathing until a soft rain overtook them with quicker rhythms. Then, he too had lapsed into peaceful sleep.

  Now Rusty closed his eyes and let his body relax against the mildewed seat. He so rarely clambered into the back of any car these days, had done so maybe only a handful of times since that morning with his two sons. And here, in this quiet, lost place, he felt happy again, well hidden and between worlds.

  He licked his fingers, rolled onto his back with his knees up, and rested a hand on his belly for a nap. But instead of sleeping, he felt his stomach turn, his insides swirling and gurgling audibly. It sparked a memory of the dream he’d had the night before, a disturbing dream: He had been onstage before television cameras, sitting comfortably in a gray studio chair, the way he usually might, but when he caught sight of himself in the monitors, his own body shocked him. In his dream, he appeared on national TV, pregnant. What amazed audiences was that he was not part of a scientific experiment; he was simply, miraculously, with child. That’s why his stomach rumbled. That’s why he’d had to borrow an antacid from Celeste. There was a baby growing inside of him, and television audiences around the world were waiting, day by day, they were waiting, for Rusty to give birth. The question was simply, To what?

  Rusty crumpled the French fry bag and tossed it onto the back dash. Though Rusty was not the superstitious sort, the dream made him feel uneasy. More than uneasy—downright concerned, frightened that somehow it might hold some truth. When he looked down at his own stomach, bursting through the ties of his bathrobe, it startled him, not only in its size, but in the fact that he could feel something shifting around inside. Something or someone was trying to get out.

  Instead of taking a nap in the Sunbird, Rusty found himself clawing at the door handle. He purged himself at the base of a locust tree, holding onto the car’s bumper for stability, then stumbled, in a daze, back to his Pontiac to drive home.

  He came careening down Seeley Street just as Judy was turning onto the block ahead of him. He flashed his brights at her, but she did not raise her hand to wave as he expected. Instead, she slammed on her brakes, nearly causing their cars to collide. He rolled down his window to shout at her, his head still swimming, then noticed something ahead parked in the drive: a huge black bus—shiny, with dark, tinted windows and airbrushed stallions along the side.

  Chapter 7

  STRANGERS

  “Oh my gosh, oh my God,” Judy cried as she clambered out of her Datsun and started toward the drive. Rusty was behind her, slamming a car door, his slippers scuffing on the walk. She tossed a glance over her shoulder at him, rubbing smeared makeup away from her eyes so he wouldn’t know she’d been crying. He had one hand on his stomach, the other raised in the air. “What the hell is this? Someone tell me what’s going on!”

  Judy circled the front of the bus and cupped her face to peer in through the door, then rapped on the glass. No answer. She stepped back to study the airbrushed seascape, horses on a beach, their manes tossed back, their eyes full of red fire. “I don’t believe it,” she said, breathless. “Pinch me.”

  Rusty stood with his hands at his sides. “Who is it?”

  “What?” Judy turned to him.

  “A Volvo bus?” he hissed at her. “Who do we know that drives a Volvo bus with Texas plates?”

  “You’re a fool,” she said.

  Rusty was silent, his eyes cloudy. He rubbed his stomach, then followed her toward the front steps.

  They approached the house cautiously, as if it were no longer their house. The front door was open. The screen door, which did not quite fit the frame, was ajar, blowing open slightly, like a flap of skin. As she stood on the stoop, feet sinking into her own welcome mat, Judy paused. No noise came from within.

  In the kitchen, there was a bag of Corn Nuts on the counter and a large, thawing turkey. In the living room, a skinny stranger with neon yellow running tights was asleep in Rusty’s chair, eyes obscur
ed by large, mirrored shades. Creeping down the hall, her shoes in her hands, Judy found a second sleeper, slack-jawed and snoring in her bed, the face half obstructed by a matted-looking teddy bear. Farther down the hall, in Rusty’s bed, a set of callused feet stuck out from the foot of the mattress, the head covered by a sheet.

  Judy turned, moved back down the hall in slow motion, and stood near Rusty, who gaped in astonishment from the foyer.

  Behind the bathroom door, the toilet flushed, and when the door opened, Henry appeared bare-chested and bleary-eyed before them, barefoot in black vinyl pants. His dark hair, combed forward, fell in oily splinters across his forehead and along his sunken cheekbones. Around his neck, on a black leather cord, a single eyeball dangled in the crook of his sternum. He rubbed his eyes and regarded his parents with indifference.

  Judy stood frozen, staring at the figure a few feet from her with a combination of horror and pity. He was too skinny and tired-looking to be her son. His skin seemed almost yellow with fatigue. His eyes were much too far back, crouching in their sockets, pinkish and swollen-looking like the eyes of a sick rabbit. She was overwhelmed by the urge to feed him, to take her big, bony boy in her lap and nourish him back to health with a small eyedropper.

  Yet there was something disarming about him, the way he stood blinking at them, shifting his gaze from her to Rusty, the edges of his full lips turning slightly down. He regarded them with a steely look and scratched one of his nipples. Under his piercing gaze, Judy felt that her heels were sinking deeper and deeper into the carpet, and she remembered that when he left—now some nine years back—he had sworn to her that he would never return.

  “This is it, you’ll never see me again,” he’d cried over his shoulder as he crossed the lawn that summer evening, a duffel bag dangling from one arm, a guitar strapped to his back. In the driveway, friends waited for him in a rattling Nova. He had been nineteen then, and still Rusty would not let him drive the family car. Henry’s anger over this had filled the house with so many squealing guitar riffs and shrieking vocals that Judy had felt relief to see him go.

  She had stood on the stoop with her arms crossed, watching him storm away. Heat lightning had flashed in the distance. The air carried that pre-rain shower tension, all silence and unshaken ether. Partway across the front lawn, Henry turned suddenly, as if she’d called his name. For a moment, something passed between them. Empathy? Brief comfort? His friends called for him to hurry. She gave a little nod, a sort of last-resort gesture for the moment, a moment in which she felt too paralyzed to do otherwise. It was as if her arms would remain permanently folded, as if she might never leave the stoop. Henry had flashed her a quizzical look, raising his palms as if he might come toward her, return to her—at least for a hug, a kiss, if only she’d reciprocate in some way, urge him to stay. And yet she couldn’t. She couldn’t feel her feet. She couldn’t move her fingers. Her tongue felt as if it had dropped through her body and into her shoe. Henry had shaken his head at her, a resigned expression on his face, then lunged toward the idling car, tossing his things in the backseat ahead of him. She’d closed her eyes, waiting for the scrape of the front bumper on the drive and, soon, the sound of the rain. It was an hour or more before she was able to reenter the house.

  In the years following, she’d often remembered that day and yearned for him in a quiet way, roaming the house by herself, thinking of his voice, imagining she saw her tall boy in the door frame, both her tall boys, Carson too. She imagined how she would hold them if they ever returned. She would find herself, some mornings, with tired arms from clinging to her pillows at night, dreaming of their bodies. Her hunger for them would come in cycles, a week at a time, a day, when she seemed to see them everywhere, in crowds, a few seats ahead of her at a movie, a few doors down at a neighboring house, during a sports event on TV. She felt her heart race in those moments, bursting with joy and recognition, every one of her cells rising up to go meet them.

  Now she felt a shrinking, a quivering. Where do you start when you’ve spent so many years apart, in doubt, in frustration, full of anxiety and remorse? She faced a grown man now whom she knew she should recognize, embrace—yet nothing about his body seemed familiar. None of his gestures suggested kinship, affection. She was struck by the urge to turn away from him toward the wall, to wait for him to leave of his own accord. Yet she burned for something.

  She realized what it was. She burned to have birthed something different, someone she understood. This one did not fit the vision. There must have been some cosmic mix-up. Somewhere, she felt sure, a man who should have been her son was walking through a door toward an ill-matched mother, and that man would be grinning and tan and well heeled. She saw it play across her mind like a commercial. She yearned for that other son, like a shopper who, too late, realizes she has grabbed the wrong brand. Then immediately, thinking these thoughts, Judy felt her stomach turn.

  From the living room chair there came a cough, and that’s what set Rusty off. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded, stepping forward in his robe, his hair uncombed, his voice husky, as if he still were not quite part of the day.

  Henry ignored him, shifting his stance. He thrust a hip out and leaned his body against the bathroom doorjamb. To Judy he said, “I’m tired.”

  “You should eat something.” As she spoke, she felt a sudden surge of happiness at the thought of rustling about in the kitchen for him. She would prepare a huge meal for everyone, could instantly see the table laid out with her good dishes, steaming bowls of potatoes and carrots and gravy.

  “Naw.” Henry yawned, running a hand over his hair. “Got to keep my figure for the fans.”

  “You look famished.” Judy pursed her lips. “When was the last time you ate a home-cooked meal?”

  Henry dug in one ear with his pinkie nail. He squinted. “I found an English muffin with some peanut butter by the record player,” he said flatly. “It hit the spot.”

  Judy suppressed a sigh. “Let me make a big dinner. I could invite some neighbors.”

  “Oh, God.” Henry turned, revealing a great eagle tattoo on his back, the wings open across his shoulder blades. A blonde hung from its beak, wearing a torn red dress that exposed one of her breasts. Her legs ran the length of Henry’s spine, cutting off her feet just below the line of his pants.

  “Oh!” Judy gasped, reaching to touch it. “Is that real?”

  Henry didn’t turn to answer. “Doesn’t it look real?” Then, starting toward the living room, he sent a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “We head out in the morning.”

  Judy tried to muster her enthusiasm. There would be time to do a big family supper. She would call Celeste, get her to come help. She would call down to Ray, see if there were any new leads on Gretchen. Warmth began rising up through her chest. She had her Henry back. After dinner, there would be time to catch up, maybe break out a game of Monopoly—no, cards! Henry had always liked cards, had been an expert shuffler as a boy. Memories shot through her mind like stars.

  Rusty, who had maintained his silence and composure near the entryway, now began to grumble as Henry lumbered past him, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Wait a second.” Rusty lunged forward, sputtering, “Now wait just one second. No one said you could stay.”

  Henry stopped, tapped the pack of cigarettes on his palm, and, towering over his father, said, “Can you keep it down? People are sleeping.” Henry produced a lighter, flipped his hair back with great fanfare, and lit himself a cigarette in Rusty’s face.

  “I’ll call the police,” Rusty said, hands moving to his hips. “This is breaking and entering. Judy!” His voice was advancing to a roar. “I think we’ve found our burglars.”

  Judy closed her eyes, shook her head. She had no energy left for this.

  “Everybody out,” Rusty bellowed, pushing past her now down the hall. His arms flapped wildly. He shook the house with his stomping feet, his voice echoing off the bare walls, caustic-sounding. Deranged, Judy
thought. He’s deranged.

  Bodies staggered into doorways. Long-haired heads turned, thin arms clutching small piles of clothing. There were more of them than Judy had realized, five, six—scraggly and disheveled. These are rock stars, Judy thought. They pressed past her, groggy, cursing, scratching themselves.

  “What’s happening?” asked a bearded man in nothing but underwear and boots. He groped toward the living room, cradling a bottle of whiskey. “So much for the zzz’s,” he said, brushing past Judy.

  Henry had on motorcycle boots now, spurs that rattled as he rounded up his crew. He gave Judy a pained look and tossed her a T-shirt. She could feel herself beginning to deflate. She caught the shirt and started after Rusty, who was knocking around the living room. “They just need a place to sleep, Russ,” she said.

  But Rusty was on a crusade. “How’d you get in?” he was demanding to know. “Crawl through a window in the basement? Pop the lock off the sliding door?” He stood shaking by the kitchen, shooing them out with his hands, the belt on his robe coming loose, revealing a fat man in frayed boxers. The slumped figures filed out, some flashing Judy a sad smile, a peace sign.

  They left nothing behind but the smell of smoke. They took their Corn Nuts, even the turkey, leaving a wet pool on the counter, bodily imprints in the beds. Judy roamed between the rooms in a daze, touching where they had slept, running her hands across the dents their heads had left in her feather pillows.

  The house felt different. She couldn’t put her finger on what had changed. She wanted to touch everything, things she hadn’t touched in years. She opened closets, let her index finger trace down the old linens, the Sesame Street bedsheets she still kept there, board games, boxes of Easter ornaments, and old summer hats.