by Pete Fromm
Taz sits up, elbows on knees, blows out a breath. “What do you want, Rude?”
“I thought we were working today.”
“Soon,” Taz says. “Soon. It’s just, man, she never sleeps, and who’s going to look after her while we’re out there slicing and dicing?”
“You okay?” Rudy asks.
“Yes,” Taz says. “We’re okay. I wish people would stop asking that.”
Rudy walks into the kitchen. Taz hears the refrigerator open. “Rudy,” he calls.
But Rudy walks back through the living room, and heads out without a word, leaving the door open to the heat.
They’re both asleep, still on the floor, a changing and a feeding behind them, when Rudy walks back in, trundling in armloads of groceries.
Taz hears the whoosh of the gas, a pan dropped onto the burner. “Rude,” he shouts. “You? Cooking?” He looks at Midge, says, “The earth’s revolving backwards.”
“Get your party clothes on,” Rudy yells from the kitchen. “You might even consider a shower. We’re going out.”
He fries burgers, watches after Midge, makes Taz put on clean clothes.
“I’m guessing you’ve got a plan,” Taz finally says, pushing back from the table, dropping the plates onto the drainboard.
“Just the Club, nothing earth-shattering.”
“And what? We just leave her in front of the TV?”
“You don’t have a TV.”
Taz looks around. “So, she’s coming with?”
“She needs to get out some.”
“You want to take her to a bar?”
“She doesn’t have to order anything, but staying in here all the time, she’s going to grow up looking like one of those cave fish.”
Taz looks around the room as if there are options squatting in every corner.
“You might want to change her clothes, too, that shirt or whatever it is,” Rudy says. He gets up, opens the lid of the washer, peers in as if the inside is a brand-new wonder, but he twists the controls, says, “Soap?” and starts to pile in Taz’s laundry, Midge’s onesie going in on top. It’s all Taz can do not to stare.
The washer rumbling into its cycle, Rudy sweeps up Midge, and Taz follows out the door, pausing just long enough to grab the car seat. Rudy’s already headed around back for Taz’s truck. “I walked,” he calls.
“So, I’m driving? This explain your dating life?”
“It’s a work in progress,” Rudy says, then, “Heard anything from Mrs. H? She ask about me at all?” and Taz pushes him away from the truck an instant before he can climb in. He belts in Midge’s car seat, then belts her in, Rudy riveted, as if observing brain surgery.
Taz pulls out. “How long did it take you to come up with this plan?”
“Well, you know, sitting on your porch all month, I’ve had some time to cogitate.”
Taz takes his eyes off the road for a glance. “Did you just say cogitate?”
Rudy touches Midge’s palm, getting her to grab his finger. “But, you not finding enough reason to open the door, answer the phone, I figured I had to take action.”
As he parks, Rudy undoes the car seat, and Taz says, “We’re not staying long.”
“That a boy,” Rudy says, and pushes open the door.
They find a place, sit Midge in her seat on the table, her eyes wide, transported to this new universe, taking it all in. Rudy turns the car seat so she faces the bar. “This, Midge,” he says, “is the world.”
Taz looks. “What? Where?”
“Don’t listen to him. There’s more to it than your ceiling fan.”
“You’re killing me.”
Rudy pets Midge’s head, flattening, for a moment, the golden wisps. “Well, she’s already growing out her hair, planning on going all Rapunzel.”
Taz pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about the river, Rude? Any one of them. Or just a drive down south, the Bitterroots? Or north, the Missions. Bust it all out, we can take her to Glacier.”
Rudy turns back to him. “With the grizzlies?”
“They might be more Parenting magazine than the Club.”
“It’s not quite Sodom and Gomorrah,” Rudy says, but he’s looking around, scanning the place. “Service like this, I might as well go get us a couple.”
But, before he musters the energy, a girl starts toward the table, and Rudy holds up two fingers, not a word exchanged.
“Humor me, okay?” Rudy says. “Just a beer. Maybe it’ll clear your head. The cobwebs, whatever.”
The pint glasses clonk on the wooden table; salvage wood, rough-cut buried under layers of acrylic. The car seat rocks as Midge kicks, squawks something. Taz watches frost slide down the side of his glass, pool on the plastic, barely hears the “Cute kid” the girl says as she turns away.
Before even reaching for his beer, Rudy says, “Oh my god.”
Taz looks up.
“She speaks.”
Taz slides his finger along the glass, squeegeeing away the frost.
Rudy nods toward the bartender. “It’s not quite the first time, but, close enough.”
Taz follows Rudy’s gaze. She dips pint glasses like she’s been doing it her whole life, brings them up soapy, back down into the rinse.
“But, the Rude has patience,” Rudy says. “As evidenced by my sojourn on your porch.”
“Sojourn?”
“Not to say that it hasn’t been a thrill ride,” Rudy says, reaching for his glass. He lifts it to clink, says, “But now that I’ve got you out, let’s try it just a bit more often. You know, open the door, walk down the steps?” Taz gives a whatever, but just before looking away from the bar, he catches the bartender peek over, straight to Midge, the tiny crack of a tinier smile, and he gets it, Rudy’s plan to get some girl’s attention. He touches his glass to Rudy’s. “You’re a genius, Rude. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
“So, tomorrow,” Rudy says, and he plans out a whole new life, rejoining the world, and Taz sips, thinking how Marnie would love this, Rudy his life advisor. He waits and waits, but she has nothing to say, and the next morning Rudy, as planned, watches Midge long enough for Taz to get the door pieces cut, planed, milled.
DAY 44
The screen swings open, as quiet as Rudy can get, and then he’s in, whispering Taz’s name, plodding across the living room, down the hallway, as if he owns the place. He glances into their bedroom, then steps down toward Midge’s, maybe kind of trying to tiptoe. Taz watches from the rocker, Midge across his legs, arms sprawled to her sides. He gives a tiny shake of his head, and Rudy reels himself in, backstrokes down the hallway, stopping just before sliding into the living room.
Taz keeps up his rocking, slow and easy, a metronome. He tries to remember the night, wonders if she’s not due up any second anyway. He slows the rocking, decelerating, hoping the heat shields hold through reentry. Trying to stay with the rocking, he rolls forward, lifting her from his lap, his forearms scooping in between her and his legs. He gets her into the air, rocking just a little as she starts, eyes still closed.
Down into the crib, the touchdown fraught with danger, but she stays down, out. He edges the blanket over, steps back once, twice. Starts to turn, keeping his feet on the floor, minimizing the squeaks. He makes the bedroom door and steps through, just one tiny glance back, nearly awestruck that she’s still there, eyes still closed, breathing just as quick and steady.
Rudy stands in the living room, halfway to the front door. He raises his finger to his lips.
“You know,” Taz says, “maybe knocking isn’t such a terrible idea.”
“You never answer.”
“Then I guess I’m busy, or she’s asleep, or—”
“Or you’re just not answering.”
“Yeah, or that.”
“Well, how’m I going to know if you’re home?”
“We don’t really go a lot of places. Remember?”
Rudy dips a whatever shoulder. “Well, I had to see if you were
really here.”
“Why?”
“No reason, really. Just, you know. . .”
“But you just said, you had to see.”
“Well, not had so much.”
Then he hears Marko, the headers, blatting his way up the street, pulling into his drive. Rudy doesn’t look at him. Taz says, “You know about this?”
Rudy says, “I might have kind of called him, yeah.”
The truck shuts off, the door slams.
Taz says, “So this is what, some kind of intervention?”
A second later, Marko’s at the door. He taps a knuckle instead of ringing, then pushes the door open a few inches, peers in, just the one eye in the crack of the door.
Rudy jumps, swings the door the rest of the way in. “Hey, Marko. Was just heading out. Good seeing you.” He’s by him like he’s greased, like he was never there at all.
Marko watches him a second, then turns back to Taz. “So, you’re here.” He steps in, one clomp of his boots on the hardwood. “You okay?” he says.
People will never stop asking. “It’s just—” he starts, but can’t come up with another word. “Just been busy. Taking care of her. Figuring out how to.”
Marko walks to the couch, the crunch of the couch springs, the bristle of old mohair against canvas pants.
“I got a little tired calling,” Marko says.
“I know. Lost the phone. It’s—”
Marko points with one thick finger. “Might try your pocket.”
Taz pats it. “Damn,” he says. “No guess why you’re the boss.”
“I’m holding on for you,” Marko says. “But, I’m starting to ask around. These people can’t wait forever. Won’t.”
“I know. I’m just, it’s a time thing.”
“People get day care, Taz. Almost every day. We did it.” He stares him down for a moment, then looks away. “I need you back, or I need someone else. No other way I can say it.”
Taz, finally looking right at him, sees the roll of plans pinched in Marko’s ham of a fist. Marko gives it a shake.
“We’ll see,” Taz says. And though she never liked Marko, Marn gives him a nudge. You can do this, she says.
Marko rolls the first set of plans open on the table. “These folks don’t want somebody else. They want you.” He points. “When did you build your last Murphy bed?”
“I’ve never built a Murphy bed.”
“I found a place I can get the hardware. Already got it ordered.”
Taz listens for Midge, who isn’t awake, just when he needs her to be. He takes a step toward the plans.
DAY 47
Taz puts Midge into the car seat, lifts it up onto the saw table. He lowered the blade first, then took it off completely, knowing he’d edged beyond ridiculous. But he narrates his every move as he assembles the door pieces; the dry fit, making sure, then the glue, the clamping, checking and rechecking for square, for flat. She watches, he thinks, and he says, “So, you’ll have a trade, at least, if maybe not some huge trust fund.”
Rudy goes missing for days after siccing Marko on him. So Taz does the finishing with Midge, too, outside, setting her upwind for every step of it, the wood filler, the stain, the poly. He’s got to break off once or twice for feeding, changing, naps, but it works, pretty much, and he calls Ron, lets him know he can do the install, but he’ll have to bring the baby. Ron says his wife will love it.
And she does, except for the screaming every time Taz steps out of sight. She says, “Separation anxiety,” and they learn, working with it, Nancy following Taz as he moves from door to door to outside, where he’s set up the sawhorses, mortises in the hinges. But by the end of it, as much as they love the doors, as much as they pad the check, Taz can tell she’s done, that half a day of tending the feral child clinging to her more feral dad has taken the charm off having a stand-in grandchild.
It’s another few days before Rudy creeps back up onto the porch, stalling at the edge of the step. He turns when Taz cracks open the screen, scraping at the corners of his eyes, patting down his hair a little. Scratching at it more like.
“Am I a dead man?” Rudy asks.
“Thought that was me,” Taz says, and walks back in. “I’ll get coffee going.”
Rudy follows him. “No, I’m okay,” he whispers, then, “Where’s herself?”
Taz reaches the kitchen, and slumps into the chair, rubbing at his face. He waves toward the bedroom. “Asleep.”
Rudy stops dead. “Midge?”
“Only up once last night. Wasn’t even shrieking. Ate, conked. I kept checking to see if she was still breathing. To see if she was still Midge.”
“And you? You just woke up? This isn’t the awake-all-night you?”
“Not really sure.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t seem much different.”
Taz extends his middle finger, leans back in his chair, starts picking at a splinter. Rudy sets about building coffee.
Once it starts perking, Rudy nods toward his splinter work. “So, you back in the world of the employed?”
“Finished those doors, got them in,” Taz says, and Rudy says, “Well, check you out. All on your own?”
Taz eyeballs him. “And there’s Marko now, too,” he says. “So, yeah, a working man again.”
Rudy pours coffee, sets a cup in front of Taz. “This might help you join the world of the living, too.” He pulls out his own chair, sits down with the cup he always uses. He takes one sip, swears, spits into his hands, then shakes them, the coffee flying. Leaning back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the cup, he says, “Hot,” and wipes at his mouth, huffing air out over his tongue. “Why the hell do you use that thing? I mean, you steal it from some museum?”
Taz starts to smile, and suddenly Rudy breaks into his huge grin, says, “So, work.”
“Marko was pretty persuasive.”
“And it’s Nanny Rude time.”
Taz shakes his head. “Can’t do that to you, Rude.”
Rudy drops his chair legs back to the floor. “For real?”
“I called some day care places. This woman. She seemed nice.”
“Some stranger? You know, right, that I can do it? Not a problem.”
Taz blows across his coffee, takes a tentative sip, then looks over at Rudy. “I got to get things straightened out, Rude. Like for real, not just a fallback position.”
“Fallback?”
“What, you’re going into day care full time?”
“Maybe it’s just the opportunity that’s been waiting for me. Think of all the moms.”
“Rudy, you can’t—”
“She at least knows me.”
“She loves you, Rude, but still.”
Rudy stands up, dumps his coffee into the sink. “So when’s this all start?”
Taz glances at his watch.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Meeting Marko at eight. Up at the site. Drop her at seven thirty.”
“Today?”
Taz says, “I should probably get into the shower.”
“Man, back to work. Feel like I should pack you a lunch, an apple, first-day-of-school pictures.”
Taz stands up. “Maybe that coffee’s cooled down enough for you by now.”
“Still be poisonous,” he mutters.
Midge is awake when Taz comes out of the shower, Rudy sitting with her, still on the construction-zone, throwaway couch. She finishes her bottle, and Rudy stands up, goes by Taz to the bathroom, says, “She needs changing.”
Taz reaches, but Rudy’s already past. Over his shoulder, he says, “Get your tools. I got her.”
Taz stands a second, watches Rudy lay Midge down on the counter, whispering something to her, and then stands there longer, watching history in the making, until finally Rudy glances over his shoulder, says, “You’re going to be late.”
DAY 48
Day care, the drop-off, is like being drawn and quartered. He’s shaking when he leaves, listening to her s
cream, the woman assuring him it’s okay, totally natural, when he can think of nothing in the world less natural. Marnie walks him back to the truck, keeps whispering, She’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.
He staggers through work, not knowing if it’s the time off, or exhaustion. He can barely stand by the end of it, everything hurting, but when he picks Midge up she’s asleep and she sleeps through being put in the car seat, being put into the truck, being carried back inside her own home. He takes the chance and does laundry, everything in the house, the first loads since her mother left, or Rudy’s one load, or did he just dream that? She sleeps through his Hamburger Helper, though he wolfs it anyway, getting ready, and he’s wondering what they’ve done to her, what they’ve given her to make her sleep as she never has in her life.
She sleeps almost all the way until dark. And then, the sleeping is over. Till one, or two, Taz can’t say for sure. He wonders about torture. Sleep deprivation. If last night was just a teaser, a reminder of what his life had been, if, long enough in, he will lose his mind.
At last she gives out, stays out when he lays her into the crib, even when he steps back to her big-girl bed. He lies there, eyes open, strung tight as a guywire, listening to the magic of her tiny breaths. He’s not even sure if he’s fallen asleep when she cries out again, but just once, a whimper, some odd burbling noise, then she settles, on her own. Already up on an elbow, Taz stares at the ceiling. Hardly daring to believe, he sinks back down, raises an arm up over his eyes. Dreams of sleeping.
No three S’s, when she wakes next she launches straight to infinity. Taz jerks up, adrenaline kicked in, heart racing. The nightlight flashes on, and he looks at this watch, the clock. He can no longer say when he’s last been up, last warmed the bottle, rocked her back down. He says, “You can’t be hungry.”
He’d tossed even the boxers he was wearing into the laundry and now he stands naked before the crib, her screwed-up, shrieking face. “What?” he says.
He touches her head. She twists away. Not hot.
He slips a finger inside the leg of the diaper. Soaking. The rash. She’d been bone-dry when he checked before. He thinks he checked.