Maybe Baby

by Tenaya Darlington

  Chapter 13

  A CHILD IS BORN

  When Judy arrived back at the hospital, the sun was just beginning to rise, a hot pink glow at the base of the horizon. She parked her car in the ramp, searching blindly for Rusty’s Wisconsin plates as she spiraled down to the lobby level, her heels clacking against the cement, a light sweater swinging over her arm. The lobby was quiet, though someone stood at the vending machine of flowers, pressing the button to make the vases of roses turn, shivering alongside the gears.

  “Mom?” It was Carson’s voice. “You got a quarter?”

  Judy stopped by a round industrial trash can, jarred. The lights flickered above her, the gray tile floor settling into a blur. She steadied herself by pressing a hip against the trash, one hand on her chest fluttering against the open collar of her blouse. The man in front of her looked unfamiliar, a long face framed by close-cut hair, so full of styling gel it looked like plastic blades of grass. Tiny gold hoops glittered in his ears, set off by blond sideburns that followed the line of his jaw, then bent abruptly into sharp points, like paring knives that tapered toward his mouth. Dark sunglasses, rimmed in gold, rested on the bridge of his sharp, freckled nose. He pushed them back onto his head and offered her a lopsided grin, stuffing fists into the pockets of his rumpled jeans.

  “A quarter?” Judy asked, dazed, her hand falling slowly to her purse. Without taking her eyes off him, she fished around in the satiny lining like a crab picking its way through litter. She sifted through gum wrappers, paper clips, crumpled tissues, matches, lipstick, hard candies, bullets.

  He was taller, more muscular than she might have imagined, remembering his adolescent body, how thin and hairless he had been, lying in his bed as a boy, waiting to kiss her good night. Now a navy blue V-neck stretched between his pecs, framing a tuft of downy chest hair. And street clothes! She had never pictured him in ordinary clothing—just the saffron robes he’d left in, although she’d heard he was different now, had become a theater teacher at an elite school just outside the city.

  “Here.” He laughed and stepped forward, not to hug her but to grab her purse. He frowned as he dredged the pockets. “What is all this shit?” he asked, then pulled out her tube of lipstick, squinted at the label, and said, “Christ, Judy, are you still wearing Cherry Fire? Girl, you need a makeover.”

  She laughed, a low hiccup of a laugh, almost a sob, then took her purse back, tucking it under an arm.

  “Ma, Ma.” Carson draped an arm over her shoulder. “Let’s have none of that.” He braced her firmly against his body, cupping her elbow in the palm of his hand.

  “My youngest son” was all Judy said, trying not to gulp, conscious suddenly of her car-rumpled skirt and blouse.

  He stepped back, delivering a soft punch to her arm. “Awww, you still call me that?”

  Judy cocked her head to the side and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “What do you mean? Of course I still call you that.”

  “Okay, whatever—you never call, you never write. You know, you Glides are odd folk.” He shrugged and spun around on a corduroy slipper, then crossed back to the flower machine, scrounging change from the depths of his pants pockets.

  “I’m sorry,” Judy said.

  “You should be,” Carson said without turning. He squatted to dig around in the vending machine’s hatch for his loot, then pulled out a single rose—deep red, encased in a tube of plastic.

  “Here,” he said, grabbing her hand, enveloping it with his strong fingers. “We’d better see what’s going on in room twelve twenty-four. Last time I checked, she was still pushing.” Judy let him lead her toward the elevator, feeling like a small child in his grasp, and when the doors closed she cried silently all the way to the twelfth floor, hoping he wouldn’t notice or mind too terribly much.

  She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but she hadn’t expected this—all of this, in one night. Now it was already a new day, the baby still on its way, and here she was cruising up in the elevator with her own longlost boy.

  In the waiting room, Sunny and Klaus were fast asleep, Klaus in his makeshift bed of chairs, Sunny curled up in a corner, still wearing her muumuu, head resting on her big gold leather purse.

  “God, who is that and what is she wearing?” asked Carson, giving a little snort. “Mom, don’t tell me you know these people.”

  “They’re the other grandparents,” she whispered, shaking her head.

  “Shit,” Carson said, grinning lopsidedly at her. “No wonder Dad begged me to come.”

  “He begged?” Judy asked, pulling aside two chairs for them by the window. Through the glass, the glow of a new dawn was be fore them, pink light resting on the treetops.

  “Well,” Carson sighed, “mainly there was a long pause, then he said, ‘Please.’”

  “And?” Judy pressed.

  “Then he apologized for not calling sooner and asked what I thought about meeting you down here at the hospital.”

  “I didn’t know he even had your number. Did he say where he was?”

  “I didn’t think to ask.” Carson shrugged, rocking back on the chair legs and wrapping his sunglasses around one thigh. “I was too stunned. But it sounded like people were moving around with dishes in the background.”

  “Hmm.” Judy gave a little shrug. “I’m sure he’ll be back here at some point.”

  “I doubt that,” Carson said.

  Judy eyed him, taking in his sideburns, his sharp profile, the way his bottom lip curled out, the same as Rusty’s.

  “I told Dad I’d only come if I didn’t have to see him,” Carson said flatly, fiddling with the Velcro strap of his watch.

  “Oh,” Judy said.

  “Henry’s on his way, too.”

  Judy tried to follow Carson’s eyes out the window, to see what he was looking at, but it was too hard for her to focus on anything. Her lids felt heavy, the back of her mouth cottony. “I need some shut-eye,” she said. “I’ve been through a trial you don’t know the half of.”

  He touched her shoulder. “I’m sure you have, Mom. I’m sure you have.”

  When she awoke, Judy sat up, dazed and sore from sleeping sideways in the chair with her head against a wall. She rubbed her eyes. Carson was thumbing through a magazine. It hadn’t been a dream. And there next to him, with his shirt off, was Henry, the eyeball pendant around his neck gleaming in the sunlight.

  “This is a historic event, man,” he was saying. “You’re lucky you get to be the one to document it.”

  A young man Judy had never seen sat next to Henry, scribbling intently on a notepad. He stopped to chew his pencil, then asked, “So, Ransom, how does it feel to be reunited with your brother here, Carson Glide?”

  “Rad, man,” Henry was saying. “This tops opening for Megadeth in eighty-seven.”

  Judy closed her eyes again. Sun from the window felt warm on her legs.

  “How does this affect the Brother of Carson Glide? The image? Your next tour?”

  “It’s going to change everything, man,” Judy could hear Henry saying. “Plus we got my sister’s little one on the way, and that’s way cool, too. We’re a family again, you know, and that changes you. It changes your core, man.”

  “And that’s your mother over there?”

  Judy felt a hand on her wrist. She opened her eyes as Henry stooped to wake her, a hank of dark hair obscuring half of his face. The eyeball around his throat glowered at her. “Ma,” he said. “Writer here from the Chicago Reader is doing a story on the band. You want to talk to him? We’re all here, we’re all together again.”

  Judy forced out a weak smile. “Hello,” she nodded to the writer, a short little man with no hair and glasses so tiny they looked like wings pressed to his nose. “Someone just tell me if I’m a grandmother yet.” She yawned, wrapping her arms around the purse in her lap. “Is it here? Did I miss it?”

  “Long road,” Carson piped up. “Nurse just came out and says it’s crowned.”

  “Crowned,”
Henry said slowly, reaching around to scratch his shoulder blade. “Good word, man.”

  “Can I get a shot of the two of you with your mother?” asked the journalist.

  “Group shot,” Carson sang. He and Henry crouched down beside Judy’s chair, their chins brushing her shoulders as the flash went off. Judy asked, “The nurses let everybody in here?”

  “It’s a hospital,” Carson said with a shrug. “They don’t care. It’s like a mall for the ill.”

  “Mall for the ill,” Henry repeated. “That sounds like a song.”

  The writer scribbled away, his pen audibly scratching against the page. Then he flipped his notepad over, recrossed his legs, and continued scribbling.

  At 1:17 PM, Ray appeared in the door of the waiting room, ashen and elated-looking, the veins in his neck and forehead throbbing visibly. Henry and Carson had ventured down to the cafeteria to scrounge up some lunch. Klaus and Sunny had disappeared, maybe in search of the doctor, or maybe they’d gone home to shower and change clothes. Judy was the only one left in the waiting room, leafing through a dog-eared copy of Newsweek.

  “He/ she’s here,” Ray said, closing his eyes dramatically. “Mother and baby are fine.” He put his feet together and bowed to her from the doorway.

  Judy felt a wave of relief. “Oh,” she cried, “can I hold it?”

  “Absolutely. Gretchen’s just finished nursing.”

  Judy’s legs wobbled as she rose, following Ray down the hall and into the dim cocoon of the birthing room, where two corner lamps were on low, only the tiniest rays of sunlight seeping in around the curtains. A nurse was packing up an IV. Gretchen was sitting up before a lunch tray, hungrily wolfing down what looked like green Jell-O. And there, in her other arm, was something wrapped in a black blanket.

  Speechless, Judy kissed her daughter’s cheek and peered around her shoulder at the little face. “Who is this?” she asked, her voice suddenly high. “Who is this precious bundle?” Even in its scrunched state, she saw something she recognized. The baby had Ray’s dark hair, a shock of it that formed a widow’s peak, and when Gretchen unwrapped its hands from the blankets, Judy saw tiny versions of Gretchen’s long, delicate fingers.

  Gretchen beamed, wan though she was, and passed the baby from her arms to Judy’s. “Here’s your granny,” she whispered, then looked up at her mother with a wide smile. Judy cradled the baby in her arms and roamed slowly around the room, cooing.

  “We’re going to wait a few days to name him/ her,” Ray said, padding over to Judy. “We’re pooped. I can’t even think straight.”

  “Sure,” said Judy, “sure.”

  She gazed lovingly down at the face, the puckered eyelids, the milky dark eyes, the tiny lump of a nose, and faint eyebrows. “He/ she’s lovely,” Judy said, just as she’d practiced. She caught Gretchen and Ray exchanging smiles. “I love whatever it is.”

  “Not an ‘it,’ Mother,” Gretchen said.

  “Sure,” said Judy. “Sure.”

  “Where’s Dad?” asked Gretchen between sips of orange juice. “Where are Sunny and Klaus?”

  “It’s been a crazy night,” Judy wanted to say, but instead she said, “I imagine they’ll be by soon.”

  Judy was still holding the baby when Henry and Carson knocked, sticking their heads in around the door. “Is this the magical suite?” asked Carson, grimacing. “Is there room for two weeping uncles bearing roses?”

  Judy saw Gretchen’s eyes light up. “You came,” she said from the bed.

  Ray, who had sprawled out on the couch, raised one lid, then shut it again.

  The brothers gathered around Judy’s shoulders, looking down at the sleeping face, at the dark hair trimmed by the black blanket.

  “It looks like a little comma,” Carson remarked, slipping away to kiss Gretchen on the forehead and setting the roses by her bedside. “Nice work,” he said, taking both her hands in his.

  Judy could feel Henry’s breath on her neck. She turned to look at him. “You want a turn holding?” she asked.

  Without looking at her, he nodded. He’d put his shirt back on. It even looked as if he’d brushed his hair. It was swept back, resting in neat black wings at his temples. The bracelets on his wrist rattled gently as he took the baby from his mother, holding it closely to his chest. He stepped softly away from Judy in his black leather boots and held the baby awkwardly, both elbows cocked out, as he put his lips to its forehead.

  Judy sank into the easy chair by the window and watched her children move about the room. How easily they conversed with one another. It was as if they were right in her living room; it was as if they had never stopped speaking to one another. And maybe they hadn’t. She had never dared ask Gretchen what she knew and whom she talked to. Until recently, she had been too numb to want to know.

  Now their conversation moved over Judy like a soothing tide, then washed away in a comfortable silence. Her mind felt cleansed, eased of worry and wondering. She sat sipping a soda—legs crossed, eyes watching—and just was. As the new baby passed from one set of arms to another, she felt that they were passing a new openness. The future itself. And she was glad no one had put a name to it yet. It was still only to be imagined.

  Finally Gretchen sank back into her pillow, eyes glossed over with sleeplessness, and said, “I don’t have the energy for another word.” She closed her eyes. Henry set the sleeping newborn in the bassinet, giving its forehead one final stroke of affection. Judy smiled to see her eldest son so tender. He even made sure the chain on his wallet didn’t hit the side of the bassinet and wake the baby as he turned to go.

  As she closed the door to the room, Judy took one final look at Ray curled up on the couch like a snail, at Gretchen on the thin bed, her face serene, her lips slightly parted, her short hair giving off a radiant glow against the white linens. Judy blew a kiss and made sure the door latched with only the quietest of clicks.

  In the hallway, she expected to see Sunny and Klaus come barreling around a corner, maybe even Rusty rushing in on his soft loafers, but there was only the man from the Reader, flipping through his notes.

  “Can I get a quote from you?” he asked Judy as she lifted her sweater off the back of a chair and prepared to go.

  “No,” she said. “I’m speechless.”

  Chapter 14

  GENTLEMAN CALLERS

  It was raining when Judy finally pulled into her driveway and started up the front walk, stepping gingerly around the earthworms in her heels. She unlocked the front door and sniffed at the foyer, wondering if Rusty would be inside or if he was out tinkering in the garage. She considered not checking, just to have the day stretch out in uninterrupted peace, a perfect breath of a day.

  The air in the house smelled stale. Someone had closed all the windows during the rain. He had been here. She dropped her bags in the living room, then checked the bedrooms. All empty.

  “Rusty?” she called, wanting him there suddenly, wanting to tell him about the birth and even to thank him—to thank him for bringing her children together.

  She crossed the kitchen to the garage door, thinking, Let him be there. I want to climb into the passenger side and sleep on his shoulder. But the door opened to emptiness, oil spots on the concrete, a Ping-Pong ball hanging in breezeless space.

  She shut the door and went back to his bedroom closet. It was just as she knew it would be. Empty. A single black tie on the floor, like a river fluke. Then she went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, as if this were one last way to make sure. There stood his toothbrush, but all his other things were gone—razors, comb, even his cologne. Even the soap dish sat empty except for a pool of cloudy blue water.

  There was a knock at the front door. Judy ran to it and opened it without even looking through the peephole as usual. Donald stood on the stoop, his green feed cap in his hands, his face drawn.

  “Ma’am,” he said, as if he were addressing someone he did not know. “I tried to stop him.” He shook his head, a swath of
ice white hair swinging loose from his neatly gelled swoop.

  Judy looked down at his square-toed boots and told him to come in. Donald bowed and stepped inside, standing awkwardly in the entryway with his shoulders hunched as if the ceiling might come down. Judy motioned him into the kitchen and pulled out a chair from the table, but Donald raised a hand. He licked his lips and tugged at an ear. “I don’t aim to stay. I don’t want to be a bother. I told him to at least leave a note.” Donald rubbed his hands together. “But he seemed hell-bent to go. I am truly sorry.”

  Judy went over to the sink and filled the kettle with water. “Donald,” she said, looking not at him but out the window to where the feeders swung empty from the boughs of the oak. “I’ve never been a neighbor to ask much, but I’m asking you now, please stay and have a cup of coffee with me. It’s all I ask.”

  Donald accepted her offer by pulling out a chair and sitting down with his elbows on the table. Judy lit the stove and set the kettle to boil, then lifted two mugs from their hooks under the cupboard and measured tablespoons of crystallized coffee into each one.

  “Gretchen had a healthy baby this afternoon,” Judy said softly as she set the mugs on the table. She pulled out a chair for herself and ran her hands along the underside of her thighs as she sat down.

  “Aw, now that’s some good news,” Donald said. She could hear something catch in his throat, a question he was about to ask but then swallowed. “I’m real happy to hear that.”

  “And my boys came back,” she said. “Carson and Henry, they were both there.”

  Donald raised his eyebrows and stuck out his lower lip. “Well, how ’bout that. How are they doing?”