The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  Anne shrugged. “I didn’t. How much does it cost?”

  Fay scrolled down. “One thousand, six hundred twenty-five dollars.”

  “That’s pretty pricey.” Anne didn’t even have half that in savings.

  “I’ll loan you money if need be.” Fay clicked and found a more recent post. “Yes, you can get a paternity test while pregnant, and the safest way to do so is with a noninvasive prenatal paternity test (NIPP). This test requires only a blood sample from the mother and a simple cheek swab from the possible father and can be performed as early as eight weeks into pregnancy.”

  “Wow.” Anne was relieved she would be able to learn who the father was soon.

  Fay scrolled down the list of companies. “Here’s one: Who’s Your Daddy? It says here it’s the holy grail of paternity tests.”

  Anne and Fay both laughed.

  “Doesn’t sound very scientific. Let’s try another,” Anne said.

  Fay read, “‘Home DNA paternity test starting at one hundred ninety-nine dollars. Order online today.’”

  Now Anne really felt relieved. “Thank God the price has come down.”

  Quietly, they read more reviews.

  “Looks like a good one.”

  “Let’s get it.” Anne pulled her credit card from her backpack and handed it to Fay.

  “Now all you need to do is tell one of the guys you’re up the duff and get a sample.”

  “I don’t ever want to see that unhottie again.”

  “What’s his name, by the way?” Fay asked.

  “Barnaby.”

  Fay laughed.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You’ll need to ask Sergio, then.”

  Anne groaned. “But I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve been with someone else and he might not be the father.”

  “Girl, you’ve just gotta do it.”

  “Also, if he finds out he’s the father, he might bring up marriage again, when I’m just getting over him.”

  Fay raised her arms. “You aren’t over him. You just slept with him two months ago.”

  28

  Good morning!” Anne slipped into the conference room and sat across the table from the three committee members—Mr. Willingsby, Fredricka, and Priscilla—hoping they hadn’t noticed she was a few minutes late. She set her old-lady purse on the floor beside her and put the box of horseshoes on the table.

  “Morning,” Mr. Willingsby said. He wore a bolo tie with his gray suit.

  Fredricka smiled and fingered her necklace, filled with colorful Zuni animal fetishes. Fay had told Anne Fredricka had pledged another donation toward the program if she could sit in on the panel now.

  Priscilla had a bored expression on her face, tapped her pen on the table, pursed her red lips. She didn’t have on those big glasses. Maybe she’d gotten contacts.

  No one said anything, so Anne twisted the lucky key in her pants pocket and sat quietly, waiting for Priscilla to begin. Today, Anne had on the same outfit she’d worn to the previous interview but had looped a turquoise scarf around her neck instead of the pink. She felt woozy and put her hand on her stomach. The mint tea and saltines she’d had for breakfast didn’t seem to have worked.

  Mr. Willingsby and Fredricka glared at Priscilla. She stopped tapping the table but didn’t say anything.

  Let’s get this show on the road. Anne took the horseshoes from her box and lined them up in front of her. “My young artists created these using found objects. Mr. Willingsby, you’ll recognize the horseshoes.”

  “It’s fun to see what the students have done with these.”

  “Feel free to pass them around.”

  Mr. Willingsby and Fredricka reached for them.

  Priscilla pushed out her hands. “Stop.”

  Everyone froze.

  “Let’s wait until everyone’s here.”

  Who the heck else was coming? Have they found more committee members?

  Three minutes later, Karl sauntered in, sat beside her, and placed a shoebox of tinfoil sculptures on the table. Anne couldn’t believe he was here.

  Priscilla began, “We’re interviewing you together for simplicity’s sake. For a straight playing field.”

  Oh, for gosh sakes, this wasn’t a football game.

  “Karl. Show us your samples first.” Priscilla smiled at him.

  “When I subbed for Anne, the students made these self-portraits.” He held up each of the sculptures one at a time and placed them on the table.

  To Anne, they resembled RoboCops, not children.

  Fredricka squinted, leaned to the side, and examined the sculptures at eye level. Mr. Willingsby picked up one by its head and rotated the piece.

  Anne couldn’t tell whether they were impressed or not.

  Karl placed one on Priscilla’s open palm. She gazed at it as if it were a stunning Degas ballerina. “Very nice.” She raised her brows at Karl. “How did you come up with the idea for these?”

  He paused. “I use this technique to create preliminary drafts of my own sculptures.”

  “What foundry casts your work? What galleries represent you?” Fredricka asked, holding up one of the pieces.

  Karl grinned at her. “I work only in wood, so I don’t need a foundry. Right now, I’m saving my pieces for a solo exhibit. Do you have any interest in showing them at the Noir?” He laughed as if he was teasing, but Anne could tell he was serious.

  “I don’t think they’d fit our profile.” Fredricka put down the piece and played with her necklace again.

  “What are the three most important things you’d like to get out of the residency?” Priscilla asked.

  The pants man shot the committee his biggest smile. “I’m going to demonstrate to museum guests the beauty of sculpture and how difficult it is to create. Perhaps sell some pieces and even receive some new commissions. I’m looking forward to having a large studio to work in. I need a lot of space.”

  He talked as if he already had the position. That was more than three things, buster.

  “Any other questions?” Priscilla asked.

  Mr. Willingsby asked, “Karl, do you have any thoughts about improving our arts programming?”

  “Yes: a bigger budget.”

  Priscilla laughed. What was going on with those two?

  Mr. Willingsby and Fredricka sat stone-faced.

  “It’s your turn. Show us the shoes.” Priscilla tilted her head at Anne.

  Anne’s heart sped up, and she slid the horseshoes toward the panel.

  As Mr. Willingsby picked up Penny’s horseshoe, the button popped off onto the table and some seed beads sprinkled on the floor.

  “Oops! Sorry,” he said.

  “No problem. That happens all the time.” Anne couldn’t believe she’d just said that. She should have shaken them upside down in the classroom to make sure all the loose materials had fallen off.

  “What adhesives do you use?” Fredricka asked, as she ran her finger gently over Hugh’s purple earring.

  “Weldbond. Like Tacky Glue, but stronger. Mosaic artists use it these days. For the bigger objects, like that metal rose there, we used E6000.” Anne pointed at Cindy’s horseshoe.

  “Isn’t that toxic?” Karl asked.

  Oh. Karl gets to ask questions? If Anne had known that, she would have asked him a few. “We used only a tad, under my supervision.”

  Priscilla sat back and crossed her arms. “Anne. How about you? What are three things you hope to get out of the residency?”

  Anne took a breath and began. She’d practiced this one. “I’d like to welcome museum guests not just as observers but as artists. I believe the best way for patrons to appreciate and learn about art is by doing it themselves. I’ll provide hands-on materials so they can do that.”

  She paused. Was that three things?

  “Go on,” Fredricka encouraged.

  Anne heard her voice strengthen as she went on, “For instance, I’ll be bringing in a large mosaic. Guests will put chipped plat
es and tiles in a paper bag and break them with a hammer.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Karl asked.

  Anne wanted to kick him under the table. “I’ve used this technique for years and will make sure they’re safe.”

  “You’d better make sure you have plenty of Band-Aids available.” He laughed, and so did Priscilla.

  Anne continued, “I’ll encourage guests to choose pieces that appeal to them and adhere those pieces to the mosaics themselves.”

  Priscilla stood. “Yes, well. Thank you both for coming.”

  Everyone else stood also.

  They hadn’t asked Anne about ideas for improving the program, and she had so many. “Wait. I have something else to add.”

  Mr. Willingsby and Fredricka sat down again. “Go on,” Fredricka said.

  Anne began again: “I’d like to see us offer classes to children whose families can’t afford to pay for them. Maybe do some outreach in the community with seniors or even the homeless.”

  Mr. Willingsby nodded, and Fredricka smiled. Priscilla just stared. What was wrong with that woman?

  “We’ll make a decision within a few days,” Priscilla said.

  Feeling like a broken plate herself, Anne shook hands with the committee members and left the room as Karl continued to chat it up with his smarmy grin.

  Too tired, queasy, and depressed to walk to Planned Parenthood, Anne ordered a Lyft. She checked in at reception and sat in the waiting room among other women of all shapes and sizes. Anne wondered which other ones were pregnant.

  She skimmed an article in Natural Parent magazine about the dangers of good child syndrome until she was called fifteen minutes later.

  Lying on the exam table in the paper gown and drape, she was freezing. Why did they have the air conditioner up so high? Didn’t they know naked women were in these rooms? And the decor . . . If it were up to her, she’d repaint these sickly green walls Fairy Wings pink.

  The door opened, and a large woman with wavy red hair entered and shook Anne’s hand. “I’m the midwife, Lori. How are you feeling today?”

  “Nauseated.” Anne yawned.

  Lori looked at the chart. “Yes, your urine test confirms you’re pregnant. Almost nine weeks.” She looked at Anne with large, kind eyes. “You should start to feel better soon.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Me too. Do you want a prescription?”

  “No, it’s not that bad. I’ll be fine.” Anne hated to take meds. They couldn’t be good for the baby anyway.

  “Let’s hear what we’ve got.” Lori lifted the paper gown, put her stethoscope to Anne’s bloated stomach, and listened. “I can hear a healthy, steady heartbeat. Do you want to hear?”

  If she heard it, she might be swayed to make a bad decision. “What if . . . What if . . .”

  “What if what?” Lori looked at her sympathetically.

  Anne couldn’t ask about ending the pregnancy. She wished her mom were here. Maybe she should have let Fay come with her.

  “I’m going to draw some blood to make sure you’re healthy.” Lori put the drape back over Anne and picked up a syringe. “This might prick.”

  Anne felt the pinch and turned her head. “Can you tell the sex of the baby?” she asked, feeling faint as she watched Lori put the vial on the table.

  “Not yet. We can when you have your eighteen-week ultrasound. Any more questions?”

  “Is there a way I can have some of that blood?”

  “What? Why?”

  Anne swallowed. “I ordered a paternity kit online.”

  Lori didn’t even flinch. “I see. You’ll need the form for that. Make an appointment, and we’ll be happy to draw blood for you then.”

  She handed Anne some prescriptions and brochures, including one about terminations. “Read these over and e-mail me if you have any additional questions.”

  29

  Even though it had been only two days since she’d ordered it, Anne opened her mailbox, hoping the kit had arrived. Thai purred like a motor and zigzagged around her feet as she flipped through the junk mail, then bent down and petted the cat’s silver-gray fur coat.

  “What happened to that little-ball-of-sweetness sister of yours?” Anne asked Thai, and looked over at Mrs. Landenheim’s door. Thai hissed and sprinted away.

  She hoped the kit would fit in her thin mailbox. If it had to go in the open bin below, someone might see it. She had once caught Mrs. Landenheim picking up packages and looking at labels. Anne hoped the DNA company would be discreet.

  She ran up the stairs, Thai on her heels. Anne’s phone rang. Priscilla. That was fast. The interview had been only a few hours earlier. Anne sat on the daybed and braced herself, with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Thai curled up in a corner of the apartment and looked at her with crossed eyes.

  “Anne, I have good news and bad news.” Priscilla’s shrill voice was grating. “Against my better judgment, we’d like to offer you the residency. The bad news is, you and Karl will both be residents.”

  Anne’s heart plummeted. “What does that mean?”

  “The stipend will be split in half. You’ll be sharing the studio space with him.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but many artists collaborate.”

  “It’s not that.” Anne paused a few seconds to gather her next words. “We just aren’t very good friends.”

  No way was she going to tell Priscilla that a few years earlier, she’d dated him without realizing he was married. Anne didn’t want to throw him under the bus like he had with her. Karma and all that.

  Priscilla’s pen clicked on her desk. “I’m not asking you to be beasties.”

  “Do you mean besties?” Anne held back a snicker.

  “Whatever.”

  “Would I need to be in the studio at the same time he’s there?”

  “Yes, the committee felt it would be more interesting for the museum guests to observe two artists working instead of just one.”

  “Just like monkeys at the zoo?” Anne couldn’t believe she’d blurted that out.

  “It isn’t like that at all. Think about it, and let me know by the end of the week.” Priscilla sounded like she didn’t want Anne to take it. Why had she turned against her?

  “When would the residency begin?”

  “In a month.”

  A month. Well, by then Anne should have made a decision about the baby. Her gut instinct told her to say no to Priscilla, but she decided to wait. “I’ll let you know.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice when she said thank you.

  “And you need to get your little artists under control and keep the work spaces neat.”

  “Alexa, play The Pretenders,” Anne ordered after she hung up. She seized a plate from her stack on an art-supply shelf, put it in a paper bag, broke it with a hammer, and shook the shards into a box. Thai skittered across the room and hid under the bed.

  Anne seized another plate, put it in a paper bag, broke it with a hammer, and shook it into the box. Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

  She sang along to “Precious” with Chrissie Hynde.

  The music and smashing worked their magic. Anne considered the hubcap leaning on the floor but instead chose a wide white wooden bowl and laid it on her kitchenette table. She pranced over to her found objects lined up on the shelf, selected a Goodwill Our Lady of Guadalupe statue, and glued it in the bowl’s center. There, that felt good.

  She dumped a Tupperware of found objects on the table, chose pieces that called to her, and adhered them around the statue.

  Out of breath, Anne lay on the bed. “Alexa, off.” She tried to get Thai to come out from under the bed, but to no avail, and soon Anne fell asleep.

  It was dark by the time Thai’s nails scratching on the door woke Anne. She let the cat out and studied the piece she’d made. Not bad, if she said so herself.

  In her journal, she listed the assortment of earrings, pins
, and other found objects she’d used and what they might signify.

  Silver spoon = born with riches

  Sun = good weather

  Umbrella = rain

  Airplane pin = safe travels

  Heart = love

  “Mother” charm = a mom

  Chicken and grapes = food

  A watch = more time

  Assorted coins = money

  Caesar’s Palace chit = win big in Vegas

  Flowers = environment

  Fish = clean ocean

  Lamppost = to see the light

  She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, in and out. What did all these objects have in common? After a few moments, it came to her.

  She wrote, Things People Pray For.

  That was the mosaic’s title. Anne loved that she didn’t need to think about titles for her pieces but let her intuition tell her. She studied the piece again. No baby. No baby symbols. Where’s the baby? Don’t people pray for babies? She put her hand on her stomach. She certainly hadn’t. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have this one. Or maybe she should start praying for a healthy baby.

  She searched the tray of objects until she found it. She glued the tiny pink rattle onto the mosaic. With a paintbrush, she spread glue in the crevices between the objects and sprinkled safety glass from a broken windshield for grout.

  She looked around her cramped, crowded, messy apartment and thought about having access to half that big museum studio and the giant project she had always dreamed of making. Come on. She was a professional. Even if she had to share the space with a jerk, and pregnant or not, she could do it. She’d show them!

  Anne googled “discipline for art teachers.” She followed the list to a blog called Creatubbles and read:

  Art Room Discipline

  Whether it’s roughhousing, using crayons as missiles, not cleaning up, or general back talk, there’s not a teacher on Earth who doesn’t have issues with discipline. If you’re looking for ways to handle an unruly class, read on. . . .

  She felt like the writer knew what she was up against. Anne continued reading:

  Don’t take it personally, scold, or raise your voice when the class is misbehaving. Kids have an inherent sense of fairness, and most of your class will welcome your restoring an atmosphere of calm. Develop a plan with rules and consequences.