Baby Help

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Come on in,” he said. “My mom won’t be around for a while.”

  He took a package from the glove compartment and we went inside.

  “Sit by me,” he said, patting the spot next to him on the couch.

  I hesitated.

  “Come on, please, Melissa. Please, Missy.”

  I sat down and he pulled me to him. “God, Missy, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If you left me, my life wouldn’t be worth shit.”

  He kissed my forehead, then nestled his head against my neck and shoulder. I could feel the warm dampness of his tears against my neck. I reached up and dried his cheeks with my hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I love you so much. I’m so afraid of losing you.”

  He handed me the box he’d taken from his glove compart­ment. In it was a gold bracelet with a single charm—a heart.

  “This is to tell you I promise you, with all my heart, that I will never ever hit you again. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  I took the bracelet and he fastened the clasp for me. I had hope again that someone loved me, that I belonged to someone.

  In the past three years Rudy has hit me more times than I can count. I still wear the bracelet, but it doesn’t mean much to me anymore. Usually he only hits me if he’s been drinking, but lately he’s been drinking more than ever. I think if he’d just stop drink­ing we’d be fine together.

  Rudy’s mom says I’ve just got to learn when to keep my mouth shut, like it’s my fault when he hits me. I used to think that was right, but I’m beginning to think otherwise.

  “He’s like his father was,” she told me once. “I finally learned how to handle him. I just shut up and stayed out of his way when he was drinking. That’s all you have to do.”

  “Did you end up with a happy marriage?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say we were the picture of happiness, but at least he hardly ever beat the crap out of me after I learned to zip my lip. I guess we were happy enough, though. I missed him after he died.”

  I don’t know. Rudy says things will be better when we’re married. He won’t need to hit me anymore because he’ll know I’m all his. But what if things aren’t better when we get mar­ried. Then what? Sometimes, though, Rudy is really sweet to me. And I know he needs me. Not many people need me.

  Cheyenne’s bottle drops to the floor. I take her into our room and put her down in the crib. She stirs a bit, and opens her eyes.

  “Look at the birdies, Chey-Chey,” I say, twirling the birds on

  the mobile that’s attached to her crib.

  She loves to watch the birds. I think it relaxes her too, and helps her fall asleep.

  I tiptoe out of the room. Maybe now I can get some reading done. I’m behind in English and history. Sometimes I have a hard time keeping up. Not that I’m stupid, but there’s a lot to do, taking care of a baby and doing the housework and laundry for four people. Plus, I’ve got a lot on my mind.

  When Cheyenne wakes in the morning she is bright-eyed again. She stands in her crib, smiles, and says “Up?” just like always. I am relieved to see her feeling better.

  Rudy goes to lift her from the crib, but she starts saying, “Baby help! Baby help!” frowning and holding on to the crib slats. I go over and lower the side rail.

  “Let her climb out by herself,” I tell Rudy.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says, putting her down. “What’s with this kid, anyway?”

  “Nothing. She just wants to do it herself,” I say.

  “Well everything takes twice as long with this baby help crap.”

  “But she’s learning how to do things,” I say.

  “So?”

  “So, do you want coffee before you leave?” I ask, changing the subject.

  On Friday, the last day that Paula is going to be in Peer Counseling, she brings the director of a battered women’s shel­ter with her. This woman, Pam, tells us about the way they do things—how they protect women and their children from abu­sive husbands, how they help them find jobs and housing to get back on their feet. “It’s a six week program,” she says.

  I raise my hand and ask, “What happens after six weeks?”

  Leticia looks at me funny, I guess because I never ask ques­tions in class.

  “After six weeks they get settled in another place—their own apartment, or some kind of halfway place, sort of a group center.”

  “How much does it cost?” I ask.

  “No one is turned away because of money.”

  Pam says how hard it is for abused women to break away, and that some end up going back to their husbands or boyfriends.

  “Man, I’d never do that,” Leticia says. “A guy hits me once, that’d be it. Ancient history.”

  “Sometimes, in spite of reality, it’s hard for women to give up on whatever dream they had of the man who’s beating them. These guys can be very charming.”

  I look at my bracelet, the heart gleaming with sunlight from the window behind me. Charming is right.

  A week before we’re scheduled to go to Las Vegas, Rudy comes home late. I smell beer on his breath when he kisses me, but he seems to be in a good mood.

  “C’mon, come listen to this.”

  I check on Cheyenne. She’s sound asleep, her arm thrown over “Mary,” her doll baby. I walk out to the car and sit in it. Rudy turns on the tape player. It’s a rap tape that he knows I don’t like, with the words over and over saying, “You’re my bitch, my bitch, my bitch.” He’s got it cranked up so loud it hurts my ears. I get out of the car and walk back into the house.

  “Hey, what’s with you?” he yells.

  “I hate that tape, and besides, I think you should have bought a muffler. We’re driving all the way to Las Vegas next week and your car sounds like it will barely make it around the comer.”

  Irma comes in and flashes me her shut-up look but I don’t

  care.

  “Oh, you don’t like my bitch tape, Bitch?” Rudy says, walk­ing over to where I’m standing.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, not backing away.

  “Rudy, honey, why don’t you come in the kitchen and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee,” Irma says. Rudy pays no attention.

  “And you don’t like how I spend my money, bitch? The money I work my butt off for?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I tell him. “I’m just worried about the car. I think it might not make it to Las Vegas.”

  “I told you. You think too much!” he yells.

  “You can’t tell me not to think, Rudy Whitman!”

  “I’ll tell you what to do, bitch!” he says. “And you better do it!”

  Then he does what I know he’s going to do. He hits me. Hard. In the face. I fall backward against the couch. He hits me again, harder. I cover my face with my arms, sobbing.

  “Rudy, stop,” Irma is saying. “Stop now.” She grabs his arm. He shakes her off and raises his fist again, then lowers it. He is red in the face, breathing hard. He spits at me, then goes to our bedroom, turns on the light, and starts rummaging through the drawer where he keeps the money he’s been saving for our Las Vegas trip.

  “Daddy?” Cheyenne says, waking.

  I go into the bedroom, half-covering my face. I don’t know how I look, but I’m sure it’s nothing I want Cheyenne to see. “Up?” Cheyenne says.

  Rudy walks over and picks her up.

  “Baby help,” she says, pounding her little fists against him. “Baby help,” she says, starting to cry.

  “Stop with that goddamned baby help crap!” he yells at her. He lifts her from the crib with a jerk. She’s screaming now. With a quick, rough movement, he shoves her back into her crib.

  “Shut up!” he yells, raising his hand as if to hit her.

  I rush to Cheyenne, and swoop her into my arms. Irma runs into the room.

  Rudy takes three quick steps toward me, stopping only inches away.

  “I’ve had all I can tak
e of this place—I think this and I think that. Who gives a fuck what you think! And this constant baby help crap! She’s as bad as you are!” he says, shoving Cheyenne, jarring her in my arms.

  “Rudy! Stop!” Irma yells. “Not the baby!”

  I spin away, leaving my back to Rudy, enveloping Cheyenne in my arms. He gives me another shove and walks away.

  “I’m outta this nut house,” he says.

  I turn in time to see him take the money from the drawer and walk out the door.

  I hold Cheyenne close, rocking her back and forth. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I tell her over and over again, but she cries harder and harder.

  Irma comes to Cheyenne, smooths her hair, wipes her face.

  “Ohhh, Gramma’s sweet baby. Daddy didn’t mean to scare you. Shhh. Shhh,” she croons softly.

  When she turns to me, her voice is not soft and crooning.

  “I’m telling you, Melissa, you’d better learn when to keep that mouth shut. You know better than to cross him when he’s been drinking . . . Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, gingerly touching my throbbing cheek.

  “Cheyenne’s okay,” Irma says, turning her attention back to the baby.

  “I don’t think he hurt her physically if that’s what you mean by okay,” I say.

  I walk into the bathroom and start the water in the tub. I check my face in the mirror. It’s already starting to swell. I take off Cheyenne’s clothes and my own and we get into the soothing warm water. I check out her legs and butt, stand her up, turn her around, have her lift first one leg, then the other, checking her over.

  “It’s okay, Baby, you’re okay,” I tell her. Slowly, as I wash her all over with the soft washcloth and soap, her sobs subside. But even after she stops crying, her little face looks tight and worried. I wash my own face now, very gently. Irma comes in with an ice pack.

  “This will help the swelling,” she says, then leaves.

  After our bath I take Cheyenne back to her crib. I give her a bottle, to soothe her, and I crawl into bed, too. I don’t think Rudy will be back tonight. Usually when he leaves like that he stays away for a day or so.

  I’m awake most of the night, tossing, turning, thinking. The left side of my face throbs. I refill the ice bag and take some aspirin and try to sleep.

  In the morning, I am awakened by Cheyenne’s voice calling, “Up?”

  I go to the crib and lower the rail so she can climb out. She holds her arms out to me.

  “Baby help?” I say to her.

  She leans closer to me, frowning. “No baby help. No,” she whispers.

  I reach for Cheyenne and pick her up, then set her gently on the floor by the crib. I watch her as she stands quietly, as if she is unsure what to do next. I lift her back into the crib.

  “Up?” she says, holding her arms out to me.

  “Baby help?” I say, wanting so much to see her determined struggle to climb out of the crib by herself.

  “No baby help. No,” she says, reaching for me.

  Again I lift her from the crib. In my head I hear Rudy’s furi­ous scream of “Stop with that goddamned baby help crap!” and suddenly the white hot anger I’ve not felt for myself starts in my belly and moves through my body, filling me from head to toe with a fiery rage, clearing my brain, showing me the way.

  I’m getting out of here. I’m getting Cheyenne out of here. Maybe he could break my spirit. Maybe I didn’t have much spirit to begin with. But he won’t break Cheyenne. I shove as many clothes into her and my backpacks as I can. Her favorite blanket and her favorite book go into her pack, too. I change and feed her. Irma comes into the kitchen and asks how I am.

  “Good,” I say. “Really good.”

  She looks at me as if I’m crazy, but the truth is, for the first time in three years, I’m sane.

  “You just be careful what you say when he gets home, and everything will be okay.”

  “I’ll say what I want,” I tell her. “I’ll think what I want. And so will Cheyenne.”

  “You’re asking for trouble,” Irma says.

  “I’m asking for a life,” I say.

  I wipe Cheyenne’s face and take the tray off so she can climb from the high chair. She holds her arms out to me.

  “Baby help?” I ask.

  Still, she holds her arms up, waiting. I take her from the chair, get our backpacks and my notebook, and walk out the door. Halfway to the bus stop, Rudy drives up. He looks at my face.

  “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry,” he says. “Get in the car. Let’s go talk.”

  “I’ve got to get to school, Rudy,” I say. “We’ll talk tonight. Don’t worry.”

  “You can’t go to school with that face,” he says. “What’ll you tell people?”

  “I’ll make up a good story,” I say. “I’ve got a lot of them.”

  “Jesus, Missy,” he says, looking as if he will cry. Then he looks at Cheyenne.

  “Hi, Baby,” he says. She hides her face in my shoulder. “Oh, God,” he says.

  “Go home, Rudy. Get some sleep. We’ll talk this evening.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  I don’t feel sorry about making a promise I know I won’t keep. I undo the latch on my gold bracelet and let it fall to the gutter.

  At the Infant Center I ask to use the phone. I take the number from my Peer Counseling notebook and call. Six weeks. That’s not long to try to figure out a new life for me and Cheyenne. But I’ve got to try.

  After I make the phone call, I explain to Bergie what I’m doing, and that someone from the shelter will come to get me and the baby around noon.

  “You’re doing absolutely the right thing,” she says, giving me a long hug. “I’ve been worried about you. Light poles seemed to be getting in your way more and more often.”

  “I loved him so much,” I say, feeling my throat tighten. “I thought we could make a life. I tried so hard.”

  Bergie pulls me to her and holds me while I cry, the way I’ve seen her hold the toddlers.

  “He can be so nice. But then he can be so mean.”

  “Nice doesn’t make up for what he’s done to your face,” she says, handing me a tissue. “You’ve got to go to a safe place, and Cheyenne needs a safe place, too. Even if he never touches her, if she grows up seeing you pushed around, that’s tremendously damaging.”

  “Will it be bad for her not to be with her father?”

  “Not as bad as it would be to grow up around someone who beats on her mother.”

  I get our file from the top drawer of the metal cabinet and make copies of everything the woman from the shelter has asked for—Cheyenne’s medical records, our birth certificates and social security cards. Luckily it’s all there so I don’t have to go back to Rudy’s for it. I put the copies in a folder, stash it in my backpack, and put the original file back where I found it.

  Cheyenne, who has been sitting in a high chair eating gra­ham crackers, calls to me, “Mommy. Up?”

  I go over and take the tray off, waiting to see what she’ll do. She just sits. I lean over to pick her up. She pushes me away.

  “No. Baby help,” she says softly, climbing down from the chair.

  I smile with relief, a smile as big as it can stretch in my hurt face. “Baby help,” I say.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I sit waiting in a booth at the back of Maxwell’s Cafeteria. Cheyenne is in one of those high chairs on wheels, sitting next to me at the end of the table. It is 11:50. In ten more minutes my whole life will change—Cheyenne’s, too. My stomach feels fluttery, the way it gets when I know Rudy is getting madder and madder, when I know he’s about to hit me. This time, though, my stomach is fluttery because of what I don’t know. Like, where will Cheyenne and I be sleeping tonight? Will we find nice people where we’re going?

  “Mama! Yo-yo,” Cheyenne says, pointing to a shimmery dish of red jello on a woman’s tray.

  “Peas!” Cheyenne says,
meaning please can she have some jello.

  Four dollars and seventy-six cents is all the money I have and I can see from here that a small jello is eighty-five cents. How will I get my next welfare check if I’m not at Irma’s to pick up the mail? I wonder if there’ll ever be a time in my life when I don’t have to worry about money.

  “Come on,” I say, rolling Cheyenne away from the table.

  We go over to the pay phone in the waiting area. I’m sure both Rudy and Irma are at work. If anyone answers I’ll just hang up. Luckily, I get the answering machine. It’s my own voice.

  “You’ve reached the home of Rudy and Irma Whitman, and Melissa and Cheyenne Fisher. Please leave a message.”

  “Rudy and Irma,” I say, my voice shaking with an awareness that I’m taking a huge step. “Cheyenne and I are going to a safe place, where no one will hit me, or frighten her. I can’t take the hitting and yelling and name-calling anymore.”

  I hang up and wheel Cheyenne over to the cafeteria line.

  The woman who is picking me up wanted to be sure we didn’t meet at a kids’ hang-out, where we’d see anyone who knew me or Rudy. This place is definitely not a kids’ hangout. It looks to me as if Cheyenne and I are the only ones under seventy in the whole place. There are more canes and walkers here than I’ve ever seen in one place before, even when it was Senior Citizen Day at the racetrack.

  I take a dish of jello and a small carton of milk for Cheyenne, and a banana to share. As I walk past the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, my mouth waters big time.

  It’s funny how a lot of people have favorite meals that their mom or grandma fixed. Rudy loves the tamales his mom fixes at Christmas-time, and her fried chicken. Better than the Colonel’s he always says. But for me, I love meatloaf because it was always my favorite meal at the employee cafeteria at Santa Anita and Del Mar and Bay Meadows. Every racetrack had a good meatloaf.

  “This is Bangle Beads,” Sean would tease me, pretending we were eating a horse that had run last in a big race. I wish I had enough money for meatloaf, and more than that, I wish I could talk to Sean again.