Crossing the Line

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “We are publishing people,” Dodo said, going all haughty again. “I suppose we must do things more artistically than you bureaucratic types.”

  Oddly enough, the situation had become so absurd that Stephen Triplecorn, not knowing what to do, did nothing for the moment. In fact, the poor man looked positively deflated.

  “And now that your pathologically lying cousin has tried to ruin the life of another worker here, a costume-happy worker, what do you intend to do about it?”

  “I’m going to keep her,” said Dodo. “After all, she is family.”

  Emma could drink from a cup independently, she could stand alone momentarily, she could respond to a one-step command from me with gestures (“give that to me,” with hand out, the bloody book sometimes making me feel as though I were a dog trainer) and she’d added to her game-playing repertoire (after months of bringing balls to playgroup, she liked to “play ball” now, rolling the ball back to whoever would roll it to her). In fact, “ball” was her first word other than “mama” or “dada.”

  And, the nugget I’d been waiting to tell you: she’d begun saying “dada” and “mama” with discrimination. The latter was always me, of course (thank God!), the former was now always Tolkien.

  October, the tenth month

  Even though I’d told my mother I’d be going back to her church—for Christmas and Easter, at least—I knew that wasn’t the place for me or Em. Maybe Emma could have stuck it with those hats, but I certainly couldn’t.

  At any rate, the hats at Mother’s church had thrown me so much, I was determined to try Mary Jr.’s church instead. And, for good measure, I asked David to join us, figuring that two fish out of water were better than one.

  So there we were, back at the Shakespeare Baptist Revival Church, and there were…

  “More hats,” I hissed at David as we walked down the aisle.

  It turned out, though, that David, at least, had come prepared. As we sat down in the pew next to Mary Jr. and the rest of the Johnson family, he whipped out a yarmulke, put it on.

  “I’ve never seen you wear one of those before.”

  He shrugged. “You’ve never seen me go to the bathroom before either. Doesn’t mean I don’t do it.”

  “You do realize,” I said, “that this religion isn’t that religion?”

  He looked at the crucifix on the altar.

  “I did realize that,” he said. “But so? I always put on a yarmulke whenever I go into a house of worship.”

  “Even when it’s not your house of worship?”

  He shrugged again. “I’ll close my eyes and pretend.”

  Emma didn’t seem to have any problem with fidgeting in church at all, but I was certainly fidgety.

  “I should have worn a hat,” I muttered.

  “Why do the hats bother you so much?” he asked.

  I looked around me at the sea of color and I realized suddenly that the hats here didn’t bother me, not in the way they had at my mother’s church.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I just feel like the odd man out.”

  And of course I was the odd man out. Correction, we were the odd duo out, at any rate, hatless me and my yarmulke-wearing escort. Emma, on the other hand, was right at home.

  Everyone who passed her smiled, despite her odd companions. And she didn’t at all elicit the kind of reactions you expect from a crowd of adults gathered to do something solemn; you know, the looks that say, “Oh God no—not a baby! It will be so loud! It will do smelly things at inopportune moments!” On the contrary, the congregation seemed very welcoming of her and she was very happy there, particularly since Mary Jr. had baby Martha with her.

  I leaned over to David to whisper, “I think I’d just feel better if—”

  But then the preacher took his place on the altar and I figured it was time to shut up as the solemnities were about to begin. Time to hear all about going to Hell.

  But it wasn’t like that at all!

  There was a choir and singing and hand-clapping. Before I knew it, I was up on my feet with the rest of them, Emma bouncing in my arms, as David and I shouted along to “Praise the Lord!” There were lots of “Hallelujahs” too.

  I was enchanted, and I grabbed on to Mary Jr.’s arm to tell her so.

  “This is so…this is so…happy-clappy!!!”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, and I saw the look on Mary Jr.’s face, I felt like the biggest jerk who ever lived—or like Constance with one of her “brilliant!” sputterings, at any rate.

  Mary Jr.’s voice was quiet as she spoke. “We don’t call it that.”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that—”

  “We’re not a spectacle, you know?” she said. “We’re just people.” As she turned her attention back to the reverend I poked David in the ribs.

  “Do something!” I begged.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know! But something. I’ve offended her.”

  He leaned across me and gently tapped Mary Jr. on the arm.

  “If I promise to make Jane wear a hat,” he said, “can we come back here again?”

  Mary Jr. just smiled.

  It was amazing how much forgiveness one could find in a smile and it occurred to me that, ever since I’d met her, Mary Jr. had been all about forgiveness. She’d been the first to extend a warm hand of welcome to me at her mother’s funeral. She’d allowed me to invite my way into her playgroup, and whenever I’d say something stupid or unintentionally insensitive (and, God knows, I did that many times!) she’d find a way to smooth it over, make everything okay again. Maybe, I thought, her instincts were better than mine? Maybe she was better able to, for whatever reason, empathize. Maybe she knew that were the situation somehow reversed, were she to find herself among my odd assortment of family and friends—and, knowing me and having met David, she had good reason to assume we were all bonkers—she knew that the best she could hope for would be a friendly smile from someone who held a map to the lay of the land.

  Forgiveness was an amazing grace, I thought, as I happy-clapped along with everybody else.

  I blame it all on Stephen Spielberg.

  To be more specific, I blame it on E. T.

  Prior to that film’s release, sure, we’d celebrated Halloween, but nothing like it since. Halloween was originally Scottish, the jack-o’-lanterns carved out of turnips, then it went to the United States with the immigrants, who eventually re-exported it back across the water. There are those who claim the whole “pay up or we’ll trash your house” theme (i.e., the trick being the flip side of the treat coin) is a folk memory of the pagan holiday of the night before Samhain, November 1, which was the first day of winter in the Celtic calendar.

  As I say, though, the celebration here had been rather tepid before E. T.

  Prior to finding Emma, my own Halloweens had been restricted to eating sweets as a child and, as an adult, going to costume parties where the sole purpose was to get drunk. Or laid. Or both.

  But a baby changes everything, they say, and they for once were right. Now, I had Emma, and I wanted us to join in the festivities in a big way. Naturally, she had to have the most perfect costume there ever was, since she was the most perfect child there ever was.

  Wrack my brain as I might, I couldn’t figure out what that costume should be.

  Once I’d exhausted all of my ideas, I started polling people.

  Constance: “She could be a tiny little tarot-card reading midwife. I’ll bet no one else will think to be that.”

  Me: “She’s. Just. A. Baby.”

  Stan: “What about having her go as one of those Aussie guys from that video she likes so much? All you need is a yellow, blue, purple or red shirt and black pants, and you’re all set.”

  Me: “Over my dead body.”

  Mother: “She should be a pumpkin.”

  Me: “Too traditional.”

  Sophie: “She could be Tweedled
ee to Baby Jack’s Tweedledum.”

  Me: “No one will know what she is and we’ll only have to keep telling them.”

  David: “I honestly don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

  The effect of his words was like plate glass crashing to the floor. “It’s her first Halloween!”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And I want it to be bloody special!”

  “I can understand that. But you do realize, that whatever you put her in, she’ll still be the cutest thing out there, don’t you? Because she is.”

  “But it’s her first Halloween!”

  “So? There will be others.”

  “But it’s her first Halloween!”

  Christ! How many times was I going to have to say that?

  And so we went, round and round.

  Finally, David suggested I call Dodo, who’d been out of the office when I’d quizzed everyone else.

  Dodo (dreamily): “A fairy princess.”

  Me: “That’s an awful idea.”

  Dodo: “Why?”

  Me: “Because she’s too small. Make a baby a fairy princess and, before long, some witch’ll come along and place a spell on her. No, I’m afraid that won’t do at all.”

  I also rejected further suggestions of a ghost (too obvious), a beadle (too British) and Minnie Mouse (too Disney).

  Minerva from Publicity took one final stab at it: “Why not dress her up as a miniature editor?”

  I just glared at her.

  Apparently, I glared too long, because she came up with an alternate idea.

  “I know!” she said with glee. “Why not dress her up as an editor impersonating a pregnant woman?”

  Oh, these people were just sooooo much help.

  Even Kick the Cat let me down.

  Kick: “Meow!”

  Me: “No, she can’t be a cat.”

  Kick: “Meow!”

  Me: “Because you’re the cat.”

  Kick: “Meow!”

  Me: “Oh, come on now. There’s no reason to go off all offended.”

  I’d been spending the whole first three weeks of October doing this. Now, with just a little over a week left until Halloween, I had the most beautiful baby in all of London and no costume to put her in. It was like being at the ball with just one shoe. How the hell were you supposed to be the belle, when you kept hobbling along on one stiletto and a sock? It may not sound like exactly the same thing, but I can assure you, it was.

  I sat on the floor in the outer office of Churchill & Stewart, dejected, back against the wall.

  “That’s not very professional, you know.” This from Hilda, who hadn’t even bothered to look up from her typing, as she clipped along at her trillion-word-a-minute pace.

  “Perhaps not,” I conceded, “but I’m tired.”

  “Well, do it somewhere else. Can’t you see I’m trying to run a business here?”

  “You’re trying to—?” I stopped myself. Good God. Another one who thought she owned the place. And I’d thought there was only room for one of those—me—around here.

  Still not bothering to look up, she asked, “What is your problem, Jane?”

  Lacking the required oomph to make the obvious comeback of “you,” I told her.

  Finally she said, halting the typing, “You’re sitting here on the floor of the office, dejected, with your back against the wall, because you can’t come up with the perfect costume for your foundling daughter to wear for Halloween?”

  When she put it like that, it did have that small-in-the-greater-scheme-of-things ring to it, not quite up there with peace in the Middle East or whether to vote for Blair again next go-round.

  I realized there was nothing I could say that would make it seem bigger, plus I was tired, so I merely shrugged.

  “God!” she said in disgust, finally looking up. “What is wrong with you people?”

  “Excuse me? Which people?”

  “I’m talking about you people. I’m talking about mothers.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What’s wrong with us?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You all get flummoxed by the simplest decisions. Baby with a high fever? Train speeding down the tracks? You all know what to do. But the little things? Like soccer v. ballet or what to wear for some stupid holiday? You’re bloody useless!”

  “I’m sorry, Hilda.” I wasn’t really sure why I should be sorry, but feeling as though an apology from someone was required, given her level of distress. “I’m sorry the mothers of England have let you down so.”

  “I suppose that’s all right then,” she said, un-huffing herself. “Just don’t let Emma down.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “It’s simple, really.” She folded her arms across her chest, the very picture of A Challenge. “What’s Emma’s favorite thing in the world?”

  “Me,” I said. There was no contest and I wasn’t being immodest.

  “Besides you!” She was clearly exasperated. “And anyway, you already rejected Minerva’s suggestion that she go out as Mummy.”

  “I did?”

  “Of course. What do you think Minerva meant when she suggested you dress your baby as a pregnancy-faking editor?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “I thought maybe it was one of those sick ideas, like when rugby players dress up as tampons or something.”

  “Gross!”

  I shrugged. “Hey, I never did that.”

  “Think,” she prompted. “Besides you, what’s Emma’s favorite thing in the whole world? Not person. Thing.”

  Well, that one was easy too. “Fuzzy bunny!” I shouted, jumping up.

  “Perfect!” shouted Hilda, also excited, having solved my dilemma. “Now, then, who’s fuzzy bunny?”

  I explained it to her.

  “Well, there you’ve got it,” she said. “Dress your baby up as something she really loves—this fuzzy thing—and you’ll be happy because in later years, when you look at the snaps, you’ll remember why she was dressed like that. And she’ll be so much happier herself, dressing up as one of her personal gods, than she ever would have been dressed up in some stupid costume that makes no sense to her.”

  “Thanks, Hilda,” I said, and I meant it.

  “No problem.” She shrugged it off. “Anyway, I blame E.T.”

  “You too?” I was shocked at having found common ground.

  “Yeah, once you let the Americans in, things get altogether too cute or too violent by half.”

  “Indeed,” I said, just to be agreeable. “Be that as it may, I’m off to find a fabric shop.”

  “A fabric shop? Whatever for?”

  “You don’t think I’m going to buy Emma’s costume for her very first Halloween ever, do you?”

  “You’re good with a needle, are you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve never sewn a thing in my life.” Well, there was that one time I’d sewn extra cloth onto my cloth baby so my fake-pregnancy tummy would grow bigger, but there was no point in bringing that whole thing up again. “How hard can it be?”

  Making a costume that would look like fuzzy bunny proved harder than one would imagine, and I was in my office, trying to get the sleeve right as opposed to editing anything, when Hilda buzzed me to say that Simon Smock was there for a surprise visit and that he’d brought with him the Author Formerly Known As Gayla Gladstone.

  “Oh, God!” I muttered, shoving costume, needle and thread into the first drawer I could get open. You’d think they could have given me some warning.

  “She’s wearing a whole forest full of foxes,” Hilda whispered.

  “I’ll try to make her stop,” I whispered back.

  I greeted them at the door. “Please sit down.” I indicated the chairs. Then I looked at my new author in all her gold lamé glory and more pointedly at her controversial coat. “Perhaps you’d care to…”

  “This?” she asked belligerently. Okay, I admit to being reluctant to use her name. Let’s try that again. “This?
” Candy Likme asked belligerently.

  “Er, yes,” I said, unsure why I was feeling sheepish.

  She removed it, then tossed it over the back of her chair as Simon leaned his cane against my desk.

  “You don’t like it, do you?” she accused.

  “It’s, um, very pretty in its own way,” I said. “If only it weren’t made up of—”

  “What?” she demanded. “You don’t think it’s real, do you?”

  “I’ve always assumed that with the way you’re always defending your right to wear it in the press…that, yes, it is.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “No? Then why ever do you go through all the trouble of arguing about it, of letting everybody get angry with you about it?”

  “Because I get tired of the hypocrisy. If it’s wrong, make it illegal. It’s like Americans with all of their anti-smoking nonsense. Say it’s okay or declare it illegal, but don’t demonize people for doing something that’s not breaking any laws.”

  “So you think people should shut up about furs?”

  “God no!” She looked at me as though she were having second thoughts about whether or not I was smart enough to edit her. “I think they should make it illegal, and fast, because it’s damned hot in this thing!” She gave her fake fur an angry flick.

  “And you think smoking should be illegal too, then?”

  “God no,” she said again, rooting around in her gold bag and coming up with a smoke. “Can I light this in here?”

  “Afraid not,” I said. “We’re owned by an American.”

  As Candy Likme dejectedly put her cigarette back in her purse, Simon withdrew something from his satchel.

  “We came by today,” he said, “because Candy has finished her drawings for the cover art and she was eager to share them with you.”

  He laid them out before me on my desk.

  There were four of them and, unlike my previous suspicions, there wasn’t a stick figure in sight. Rather, each was a variation on a Georgia O’Keefe theme. Maybe if the book hadn’t been called Slit, maybe if its author wasn’t Candy Likme, it would have all been somehow okay. As it were…

  “Don’t you think these are all, er, rather labial?” I asked.