Highwire Moon

by Susan Straight

  A cricket heart, pulsing near her backbone. A baby curled around the sound. When the doctor lifted the stethoscope, Elvia felt a tremor. She looked at her blank doughy skin—the roof protected her, then this ceiling, then her skin, and the baby’s back, covering the heart.

  She couldn’t swallow, she was so afraid. The magazine picture—the reddish thin skin covering bones and heart like see-through cellophane. This is my baby. It can hear my heart. It has my blood inside its own heart.

  The doctor said, “We’ll do a few more things, but since we don’t have an estimate of due date, we need an ultrasound right away, to check the size, and other things. Now let’s do the important stuff to check on you, Elvia.”

  All the important stuff hurt. Blood tests, then Josefa’s hand inside her. Elvia squinted until she saw red, and Josefa said, “Relax, relax, we’ll have to teach you to relax.” Elvia felt something like soft foxtails brushing her forehead, and Sandy said, “It’s just me, getting you to focus on something else besides what’s scary. You’ll have to do this for the birth.”

  She reached up and moved Sandy’s fingers from her skin. I have to do this by myself, she thought. Josefa said, “No, no, loosen up.” Elvia saw a candle flame in her head. When she blew out the fire, the wick still glowed hot, and she was amazed at how much light surrounded the pinprick of red, how completely dark it was when it cooled.

  “Total would be better.” Sandy glanced at the Corn Pops in Elvia’s bowl. “Total has iron.”

  “I ate raisins. At the river.” Elvia took a spoonful of the big puffy kernels. The newly cold wind rattled the windows. Michael might be freezing somewhere, Hector, too, but up here—she and Rosalie and Jade used to stand outside and let this wind shove them like dolls, wanting the invisible force, knowing they’d hit the fence and not really blow across the groves.

  Sandy sat down with her tea and toast. “Raisins are good.”

  Elvia finished the last bite of cereal and put her head in her hands. The table was smooth. “I’m bad. I wanted to drink the medicine. Try to dream about my mother.”

  Sandy sighed. “But you didn’t.”

  Elvia buried her face in her arms then. “I knew the hot sand was bad, too. But for a while I wished the baby wasn’t there, so I could stay with Michael and dream like him.”

  “That’s what you feel worst about . . .” Sandy laid her hand on the table near Elvia’s fingers, but she didn’t touch her. “That you wished it would disappear? Oh, babe, you think you’re the first pregnant woman to wish for a while that you weren’t?”

  Elvia wouldn’t look at her. “You love kids.”

  “And when I was pregnant, sometimes I wished I wasn’t. Wished hard. Especially when my feet swelled up the size of Wonder Bread loaves.” Sandy poured more tea. “Elvia. Are you sure you want to be a mother now? To keep the baby?”

  Elvia frowned at the milk in her bowl. “What do you mean?”

  “You could still give the baby up for adoption.” Sandy stopped.

  Elvia felt the feet kicking Corn Pops around her hipbones.

  Sandy’s hands were still on the table, the thin skin covering raised veins like blue-green tributaries. Her own map. Elvia thought of Tina Marie and Callie. “My dad’s girlfriend has a son. But she gave her girl away. Everybody gives their kids away—to someone like you.”

  Sandy kept her voice even. “Did you like her son?”

  “Jeff.” Elvia thought hard, staring at the wood grain. “He’d be falling asleep next to me, and his hand would open up so slow. Like those flowers in the science movies. And I’d put my ear on his back—I could hear him breathe.”

  “Like a stethoscope.” Sandy nodded.

  “Yeah. I’d poke his arms and legs. Like—not wobbly fat, like a grownup’s.”

  “Thanks,” Sandy said, making a face.

  “No—I mean. You know. And it wasn’t muscle either. Baby rubber skin.”

  “Did you like him?” Sandy leaned forward, touching her fingers to the crumbs near her plate.

  She had—he was a human science project. She liked to observe him. She said hesitantly, “Jeff would ask for stuff all the time—juice, crackers, Honeycomb. Toys he saw on TV.” Elvia remembered the dark living room, the shuddering air conditioner, Callie on the phone or trying to watch TV. “His mom would always say, ‘You’re gonna have to wait’ The more he asked, the madder she got. Why didn’t she get the juice and crackers before her soap started? Or get up during the commercial? Because he was bugging her. He acted cool with me. I wasn’t his mom.” She looked down at her shirt. “I always thought, if you’re gonna be the mom, just do it right.”

  Sandy got up to put her cup in the sink. “Right. If the mom can. I guess you know how much work it is, then. It’s never over, either. Look at how old you are and I still . . .”

  “I’m not your daughter,” Elvia said, quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Why are you letting me stay?”

  Sandy leaned on the counter. “If you are going to stay, I have to be your legal guardian. Whether you keep the baby or not.”

  Elvia looked outside at the palm fronds blowing sideways, like giant toothbrushes planted all around the lemon groves. “What will Rosalie say? You’re getting a replacement kid?”

  Sandy didn’t answer for a long time. She washed out her cup, turned it upside down on the drainer’s white ridges. “You think I’m going to say something like, ‘You were always my favorite,’ or ‘I always loved you best.’” She stood near the window. “No. I loved all you kids. Rosalie, you, the one who just left. Not all exactly the same. I just—this is what I do. I wouldn’t mind helping you take care of the baby. I like talking to you and holding kids and cooking. I even like the laundry. When I’m in a really weird mood.” She laughed.

  “I don’t like laundry.” But she meant Callie’s clothes in the tub, not the moonlit laundry room here. “And I don’t want to go to pregnant high school. Continuation. They probably don’t have any science. They probably figure we learned enough biology on our own.”

  Sandy folded her arms. “School isn’t an option. Whether you keep the baby or not, school’s a requirement.”

  Elvia nodded. She washed the dishes, hearing the windows rattle again. Back then, when they were all lying in the bedroom, Jade would cry at the sound, and Rosalie would say, “It’s only the Santa Ana, dummy.” Jade would ask, “Is that a monster?” and everyone would laugh.

  She said, “When I first left, when my dad came, I was happy I wouldn’t have all those rules. Like yours. I could eat doughnuts for breakfast. Not Cheerios and orange juice.”

  Sandy said, “I know.”

  Elvia dried her hands. “Some days I missed the rules. And the pillow and the folding. Some days I didn’t.”

  Sandy said it again. “I know.”

  When she got out of the shower and dried herself, pieces of black bark clung to the towel. Frightened, she looked in the mirror. The three moths were still vivid, their yellow wings outlined in blue, the tiny red dots of antennae like pinpricks of blood.

  Back in Mecca, Tiny’s home was printed in cloudy blue letters on her belly so her kid could see where he was from before he was born. Michael isn’t even a name on my arm. Just a moth. She touched the moth wings. This has to be my place. My mother can stay here, on my shoulder.

  She heard a loud engine in the night, and she woke, startled, thinking it was her father.

  In the hallway, she heard Ray’s voice, and saw his arms around Sandy, who leaned back against the kitchen counter. She turned away, her face burning. Not at the thought of them doing anything, but at the way Sandy’s eyes had been closed, lavender like she hadn’t slept for days, and the way her mouth had been open like she couldn’t breathe. But she hadn’t been pushing him away. She held his back so tight his shirt was dimpled around each fingertip.

 
Elvia felt achy between her legs, where Josefa had put her fingers, where the baby would come out. That would hurt a lot worse. She lit a candle, but she didn’t pray. She just stared at the light, tested how close she could get her palm to it before it burned into a needle of hot.

  “Hey, the fathers don’t have to come here. They did it, too.”

  The other new girl, besides her, was Marisol, who tossed her tall bangs and sat down hard, her belly nearly touching the table. Marisol was mad that her boyfriend got to stay at Linda Vista High and she’d had to transfer to Jefferson Continuation.

  Elvia looked around the classroom. Fifteen pregnant girls. All colors, all sizes. Marisol said, “The guys here, they all got kicked out of school for fighting or drugs. So they’re all like, criminals, and we’re just pregnant, simon? Big deal.”

  “Simone?” A girl with blond hair streaked green and blue frowned. “Who’s that?”

  Marisol rolled her eyes and sighed. Elvia remembered Hector saying it was the cool way to say “yes” in Tijuana, or in Mecca. Sí. Simon que sí. Had he found a school? A good geography teacher? She could tell she wasn’t going to study rocks in here.

  The teacher smiled and said, “We have two new girls. Elvia Foley and Marisol Lopez. I’m Mrs. Hernandez. And Marisol’s got a point. You’re just as scary to some people as the gangbangers. So let’s talk about that.”

  “Let’s not,” said the rainbow-haired girl.

  Marisol said to her, “You looked scary before you were pregnant, huh?”

  Mrs. Hernandez shook her head. She turned to Elvia. “When’s your baby due?”

  Elvia felt everyone’s eyes on her. “Maybe January.”

  “And is the father still in school?” Mrs. Hernandez asked gently.

  Elvia shrugged. The rainbow girl said, “My baby’s dad is dead. Crashed his car. Asshole.”

  A girl with brown skin and gold-beaded braids said, “You shouldn’t say that. The baby can hear you.” She pointed to her belly. “Her daddy’s doing time at St. Jude’s, but I still love him.”

  Some girls had black lipstick and hickeys dark as plums. Three wore restaurant uniforms, and one had chapped lips like Sandy’s. Sandy had looked tired this morning, but all she’d said was, “Enchantee’s going to drop you at school. I’m trying to figure out . . .” Sandy had gone into the garage, and Elvia watched her rummage around for something until Enchantee honked the horn.

  Elvia began to fill out the paper Mrs. Hernandez had given her. “What do you want to do with your life? What kind of job do you dream about? Maybe not for next year, but for the future?”

  Elvia wrote,

  I always wanted to be a geologist. I collect rocks, and I have a book to identify them. In the desert, I’ve seen geologists working construction sites. They take samples of the soil and rock and make maps for the site. That would work for me.

  She handed in the paper. The girls talked about clothes and CDs and “my baby’s daddy.” A few said it over and over. “My baby’s daddy does this and he says that . . .”

  The guys weren’t husbands, or even boyfriends anymore. They were daddies, even if no one knew where they were. They still got to be daddies. It was just biology.

  “Where did you leave the truck?” Sandy asked, not raising her eyes from folding laundry.

  “At his last known whereabouts, okay?” Elvia looked up from her homework.

  “So I got these,” Sandy said, finally sitting down. She laid two driver handbooks on the table. “One for you, and one for me.” She shook her head. “I know it’s breaking the rules big-time, but I thought maybe you could teach me to drive. Out here, where I can’t hurt people.”

  Elvia laughed. “And what are we driving?”

  “I asked Ray to get me a car. A Honda or something reliable.”

  “Why didn’t you learn to drive?” Elvia said, serious then. “How could I teach you?”

  Sandy sighed. “Ray tried to teach me on a stick shift. He kept yelling every time I stalled the car out. So then I had Rosalie, and Ray drove us to the store or the doctor. Then you other girls came. I’d sit in the driveway, I’d see all your faces in the back seat and I swear I pictured you flying into the glass if I blew it. I just froze up. Ray took us on errands.”

  Elvia teased, “Learner’s permit means I drive with a licensed adult.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a license for foster care. Maybe that’ll have to do.”

  That afternoon, Stan the social worker came to talk about a boy named Shykim. From her room, Elvia heard him say, “What are you doing with this girl? You don’t have legal guardianship. No parents?”

  “She says her father took off.”

  “And you can’t find him? Employer, driver’s license, friends. Plenty of ways to find a dad.” Elvia heard Sandy say, “I have to let her figure it out. She’s fifteen, okay?”

  Stan’s voice was gentle. “It’s not like you, Sandy. Do you still want the shelters?”

  “Yes, I do. I do,” she said. “Just let me work this out.”

  Maybe she could find my dad, Elvia thought. Search the bars, look for Dually’s truck, go up to him with his venomous blue eyes and say, “Seen Larry? He’ll be a grandpa soon.”

  Did Sandy really want to be a grandmother? Even if the ultrasound showed a baby with no arms or a head like ET’s? From all the fumes and hunger? A baby with nubs for feet? Maybe she shouldn’t go to the appointment. Whatever was inside her was what she would get.

  At dusk, a silver Honda Accord pulled in to the driveway, and a red classic car parked on the street: bright hood, shining doors, a blond woman with black sunglasses at the wheel. Elvia watched from the screen door. Ray got out of the Honda and walked over to Sandy, who was sitting on the porch steps folding maternity clothes from Enchantee.

  “Laundry, huh?” he said, resting his foot on the bottom step. Elvia saw his tanned arms, his hair combed back carefully from his forehead. He looked good for an older man.

  “Friday night car show, huh?” Sandy said back, her voice light as flying leaves. “Bonnie looks fresh from the salon.”

  Ray glanced at the clothes. “How’s Rosalie? She hasn’t called me for a few weeks. I know those dresses aren’t for her. Our tomboy vet who only wears jeans.”

  “Rosalie’s fine. She’s coming home for Thanksgiving. These are for Elvia.”

  “Elvia?” Ray said. “I remember her. Her dad had that . . .” Then Elvia saw him nod. “That was his ’62 Ford over here. Great truck.”

  “Yeah. The Honda’s for her. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, it was nice to see you the other night,” Ray said softly. “I’m glad you called me.”

  “But I’m not Bonnie. I’d rather paint quarters than my fingernails.”

  “What? I thought maybe you needed the car cause you were getting a job.”

  Sandy kept folding, but her shoulder blades moved in irritation. “I had a job, all this time. I taught kids to talk, okay?” Sandy glanced at the idling car. “Rosalie, all of them. Right here on the damn steps. Hours of sitting here listening to them babble. Doggie. Moon. Big truck. Daddy. Somebody has to talk back. Kids don’t just pop out, open a beer, and read car manuals.”

  Sandy put the pile into the basket. “While you were in the garage, I taught them to cross the street without getting hit. We looked at dead animals down on Topaz Street. I taught kids not to be road kill.” She stood up. “No big deal, not like selling cars or building freeways, huh?”

  “Sandy,” Ray said. “I know all the stuff you did. I’m just saying Rosalie was grown and gone, and I wanted to do something different.” He tossed the keys into the basket. “Enjoy the Honda, babe.”

  Elvia watched Ray get into the car. Sandy said loudly, “And I tried to teach them to be honest so they wouldn’t steal your damn cars. That takes forever. And nobody notices.”

  Ray
and Bonnie made a U-turn at the dead end and cruised down the street, Ray’s hand rising above the roof to salute. Elvia opened the screen door and said, “Was some of that for me, too?”

  Sandy clenched her fists on her hips, wetness remaining on her cheeks after she’d wiped her face. “Yeah. Just so you know.”

  Elvia’s candles had burned so long that the glass cylinders were blackened. Veladoras. Tía Dolores had these in Tijuana. Lena had them in Mecca. And the date workers had them in Tourmaline. She touched the prayers printed in Spanish and English: MERCIFUL VIRGIN MARY OF GUADALUPE, SHOW CLEMENCY, LOVE, AND COMPASSION TO THOSE WHO LOVE YOU AND FLY TO YOUR PROTECTION.

  Clemency. She looked up the word in Sandy’s dictionary, the same one she and her sisters had used in elementary school. “Clemency: mildness in judging; mercy.” Judging? Who knew what her mother had been afraid of? Whom she’d loved? Elvia remembered the clicking sound of beans, falling from her mother’s fingers into a bowl. She knew she’d heard that.

  In the kitchen, she opened the cupboard where Sandy kept dry pinto beans in a Tupperware container. Sandy didn’t cook them often; she used them for school projects and teaching kids to count. Elvia poured them through her fingers, listened to them nestle into the pot. My mother never taught me to make beans. But Hector showed me, at the river. Maybe Tía Dolores taught him. Elvia added chili powder in the same fingerfuls he had, and garlic, and water.

  She cleaned the floor and washed the towels. After two hours, she ladled out a spoonful of the plump, muddy-brown beans. They seemed soft, so she brought her face closer to the spoon and blew to cool them. They seemed to breathe, their inner flesh expanding out of the petal-thin outer hull. She pulled away and they shrank back, the hulls closing again.

  She tasted one bean, curled on her palm. The baby will be Michael’s brown and my brown, his hair and my hair, his blood and my blood. Cahuilla and Mexican, Mexican and white. I can’t give it to someone else. What if it’s a girl, and white kids call her beañorita? I have to be around, tell her who her parents are, her grandparents. “You’re a California baby,” I’ll tell her. Yeah. Mexican and Indian and desert-tanned white. Beañoritas don’t pick grapes. People like me and maybe your grandma pick them. Indians don’t all wear feathers and skins like in the movies. Indians like your dad live right up there on the mountain. Your grandpa does. Your other grandpa lives in the desert. Maybe you can meet him someday.