Maybe Baby

by Tenaya Darlington

  “Just cramps, bad stomach cramps,” Judy said.

  “Sick to your stomach?” He straightened up, his voice now officious. “I’ll just wash my hands, then we’ll have a look.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Judy’s voice was firm.

  “But we can’t have you in pain. After all, I’m a doctor.” He started for the sink, humming to himself quietly.

  Judy cleared her throat. “No checkup today, Klaus. I’d just like to get some sleep.”

  Klaus stepped back into the living room, his lips pursed. “Right, then,” he said after a moment, tipping an invisible hat. “You know where to reach me.” He stuffed his hands into pockets and quietly left the apartment.

  The light was on in the hall, but the apartment was still. Judy had time to slide the gun under the couch just before the bathroom door opened and Ray stepped out. He tiptoed down the hall in tie-dyed boxers and peered across the dark living room at Judy. “Henry called,” he said, scratching his chest. “He’s swinging back through in a couple days for a tour break.”

  Judy nodded. “Is Gretchen in bed?”

  “She and the baby are already asleep. Happy as rabbits,” Ray said with a smile.

  Judy lay awake, feeling alive. She put her arms over her head and sighed. Then she kicked her legs up into the air and scissored them a few times, letting her dress ride up around her thighs. She didn’t care. She got up, let herself out onto the stoop, and leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze in her hair. It smelled cool, of fall leaves and burrowing animals, of French fries and bus exhaust.

  A few streets over, she could hear the traffic whining and dogs barking and someone yelling to someone else that he ought to keep his mouth shut. She had grown up in this city and had left it young, but it all came back to her through its sounds, the rush of a place under siege by activity, industry, individuality.

  She remembered assisting her father at his store on weekends, helping to stock shoes in the back until she was old enough to assist on the floor, measuring feet and fetching fresh stockings. Customers of all colors and styles came in, and she watched her father, a peaceable man, extend a hand and a cordial smile to all of them.

  And sometimes people came in who couldn’t afford a thing; they came in just to put their feet into something warm and well made, and he treated them with dignity, letting them prance around on the fine carpet even when all the other salespeople looked on with raised eyebrows. He had been a good man, her father, a lover of people. He’d given everyone a chance, a good-hearted handshake.

  Judy laughed to herself and looked to the sky. She hadn’t thought of her father in a long time. It seemed like a lifetime ago since he walked the earth, visiting her in the hospital after Henry’s birth, shortly before his own death. “A grandchild—that’s a sign that there’s no such thing as an ending,” he’d said. “They change everything. You don’t think they will, but they do. They’re like a needle. Mends all the loose stitching.”

  There was a pack of cigarettes on the stoop, half hidden behind a pot of brown geraniums. American Spirits—the wrapper glistened in the moonlight, a pack of matches beside it. Judy picked the pack up, stuck her nose down into the paper, then removed a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked since the summer she and Rusty had dated, when he taught her to smoke and drive his little MG. She lit one now and let it burn down a bit, taking the smoke into her cheeks and exhaling a narrow cloud over her knees. It made her cough. She set it beside her on the step and watched it burn down, cinching up on itself, the orange tip like a taillight moving through the dark.

  After a while, she went back inside and sat on the couch, Indian-style, and looked out the window, letting the minutes pass, prepared for anything, wanting nothing. She leaned back and stared up at the painting over the couch, the gray orb floating against more grayness, buoyed by the moonlight that filtered through the windows. The painting struck her now as profound, like a meditation on floating, like a commentary on birth consciousness. Judy rested a hand along the waist of her black skirt and felt a brief memory flicker through her, a memory of lying next to Rusty, filled with light.

  Several times she got up to look down the hall. The baby woke and fussed, but all doors remained closed. Judy took turns pacing, then sitting, imagining how she’d slide the gun out from under the couch at the first hint of a door opening, how she’d poise herself by the bookshelf, where she could take easy aim if Sunny appeared to be sleepwalking. Sunny, she’d say, feeling very Annie Oakley, this time I’ve beat you at your game.

  She imagined Sunny’s narrow eyes, then Gretchen’s stunned face as she drifted into the hall with the baby. Judy chuckled to herself. She still had a few secrets on them.

  Eventually, the sun began to rise. Judy was still sitting upright, thanks to her double latte, but her eyes were beginning to softly close as she lingered at the edge of sleep, then opening again. The first glow, a clean slice of white light, took to the edge of the sky, then moved forward over the trees, rising up over rooftops and the sides of buildings until it came right into the room and sat at her feet. It moved up her legs, up her torso, then into her eyes until she had to close them for good. And there, inside herself, she felt as if she had been given a new body, as if she had been anointed by the spirit of life.

  Judy was just dozing off when Carson knocked. Only Ray was moving, walking the baby around the room in front of the window so Gretchen could continue to sleep. Judy could hear the two men whispering. “I’m still awake,” she managed to say from the couch. “Don’t whisper on my account.”

  She heard them pull chairs out, sit down at the table.

  “You’re a performance artist, right?” Carson asked.

  “Yes,” Ray said.

  “Actually, I caught your last show, the one about vegetables,” Carson went on. “I thought it was brilliant.”

  “You were at that? The one two years ago?”

  “Yeah. I thought you were so in tune with the tomato. That was really something.”

  Judy smiled to herself. Here was one she hadn’t heard.

  “You’re into that sort of thing, then? You see a lot of shows in the city?” Ray’s voice got higher as he got more excited.

  “My partner, Ben, and I try to see as much as we can. I teach theater. Ben’s mainly into drag.” Carson’s laugh rumbled.

  “Fantastic,” Ray was saying. “You do some acting yourself?”

  “Here and there. I like musicals. Loved Hairspray.”

  “A classic,” Ray said.

  “But I’m willing to do anything. I mean, you’re talking to a guy who used to dress up in his mother’s clothes when she wasn’t home and lip-synch to Donna Summer.” Carson let out a briny cackle.

  “That’s fabulous.”

  “You knew that, right, Ma?” Carson called over to Judy on the couch. “I used to run wild in your turquoise nightie? I used to romp around in your high heels?”

  Judy let out a whispery snore. She was completely out.

  Chapter 18

  RAY’S SHOW

  At the end of the weekend, when some of the excitement had died down, Judy drove home to Fort Cloud. She was glad to pull onto Seeley Street, glad to be returning to her own house, her world quiet again. As she neared the driveway, she saw someone bent over in her front yard. It was Celeste. She sat back on her heels and waved a pale blue glove as Judy pulled up. When Judy got out, she saw that Donald’s signs from the shower were both planted in the front yard. IT’S A GIRL right next to IT’S A BOY. Celeste said, “I just decided to come over here and plant some bulbs as a little surprise.”

  Judy smiled. “I thought I might find the house egged after that news van was here last week.”

  “Oh, goodness, no.” Celeste smiled. “When have we ever had a news van pull up to this street? Everyone’s excited about the baby. Does it have a name yet?”

  “Yep,” Judy said. “Only I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Oh, that can’t be,” Celeste pushed a lock of blond
hair back with her wrist.

  “That’s the way they want it,” she said. “Ray wants to save it for his show.”

  “The suspense is killing me,” Celeste said. “I’ve already started a little scrapbook. And”—she grimaced—“I’m making some black onesies for our Maggie. Did I tell you she’s expecting again?”

  “That so?” Judy asked. “Grandchildren are just wonderful.”

  “Aren’t they, though?” Celeste stood, shaking her head, both hands on her hips. “Such a joy, and they really are like little mysteries. There’s no telling who they’ll be.”

  “Nope.” Judy gazed out across the well-raked yards with a feeling of satisfaction.

  “I’ll leave you be,” Celeste said. “And if you know where we can get tickets to Ray’s show, well, Donald and I and some of the neighbors—we’d like to go.”

  “Great,” Judy said. She watched Celeste cross the lawn over to her garage, her garden clogs leaving temporary ovals in the short, dry grass. Next door, Donald was pounding away at something, probably a bird feeder, Judy guessed, or a chair for his newest impending grandchild. Judy made a mental note to pop a box of bootees into the mail for Celeste’s Maggie, then thought better of it.

  She lifted her duffel out of the trunk and hoisted her cello case over a shoulder. Inside, the house felt cool, empty. Somewhere a door blew shut in the wind. Judy stood surveying the olive cupboards in the kitchen, then pressed her ear to the door that led to the garage. She cracked it and peered out into the dark cavern. Empty, just as she’d expected, the air still saturated with the smell of cigars. She sighed and pressed the button on the wall to raise the garage door, let the wind clean it out.

  Then she went down the walk and called up to Donald in his garage. “You want that old brown chair of Rusty’s?”

  He stopped what he was pounding and came around some sawhorses, taking his gloves off. “What’s that?”

  “Would you help me move something?” she asked. “I’m set on rearranging a few things in the house.”

  “Sure,” said Donald, stuffing his gloves into the back pocket of his work jeans. “You want to do it now?” He was already across the lawn.

  Back inside the house, Judy explained to Donald that she wanted to replace the old recliner with a rocker, and he said that he thought that was a good idea, so they dragged the old brown chair to the curb, where it sat for a few minutes until Donald said he’d go ahead and put it in his garage. “You ever want to sit in it, you just come right over.” Donald thumbed his chin. “What else you want moved?”

  “Maybe our old bed,” Judy said. “Then that’ll be it for now.”

  Halfway across the country, Rusty opened his right eye. His body was floating. There was a bright light overhead, the sun against a pure background of white cloud cover. Then a deep voice spoke. “See if he’ll eat something.” Rusty closed his right eye and wondered if he was in heaven or hell, and guessed he’d be able to tell by the rations.

  “Sir.” Someone touched his arm. He opened an eye again, expecting to see a man in robes. Instead he saw a boyish face in blue scrubs, and when he raised his other lid he realized the sky was only ceiling, the sun only an overhead light. He was alive, and there was no pain anywhere in his body.

  “I’m in a hospital?” Rusty looked around in awe.

  “Well, yeah.” The boyish face grinned. “You just had your gallbladder taken out.”

  “My gallbladder?” whispered Rusty.

  “Yep, that’s what it says here.” The orderly tapped at a clipboard.

  “Was that all they took out?”

  There was a laugh. “Were you expecting something else?”

  “Oh, no,” Rusty murmured, closing his eyes, thinking of his dreams—nightmares, really—and feeling relief flood from his shoulders to his feet. “No, no.”

  Near the bed, the orderly pointed out a phone and tapped a finger against Rusty’s wallet. He said, “You remember what happened out there on the side of the road? You were lucky somebody brought you in.”

  “Oh?” Rusty scratched his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “We checked your wallet for a driver’s license, but there was nothing but an expired library card,” the orderly said. “Did you have money in there?”

  “I don’t remember,” Rusty said. “I didn’t expect to come back.”

  “You had a car, though, I assume.”

  “I don’t remember that either,” Rusty lied. “I’m just glad to be alive right now.”

  “Sure.” The orderly rested a hand on Rusty’s arm. “Sure. I’ll check on you again in an hour. You’re in Scranton, just so you know, in case you want to call someone around to get you.”

  Rusty blinked at the spackled ceiling for a while and touched his face with his hands. Everything there seemed to be accounted for. Then he touched his stomach and felt the bandage along his abdomen. “Gallbladder,” he said once aloud, as if he were settling on it as an entrée at a restaurant.

  After a bit, he pulled the phone closer to his bed and set it on his chest so he could dial without sitting up. He wasn’t sure where to begin. How many days had passed? Had Gretchen delivered? Maybe no one wanted to hear from him. He looped the cord around his thumb and rested his head back against the pillow, reopening his mind to the fact that he was still alive. In truth, he believed he must have died and that for some reason he’d been spared, brought back to finish something. God only knew why.

  Maybe this was his chance to make good, find a new beginning—the way each of his children had. For the first time, he appreciated the act of disappearing, and he felt that in some small way he understood their sudden departures, the urge to go in search of renewal, refreshment—rebirth.

  Judy answered on the first ring. Something about her “hello” sounded different; her voice seemed brighter, yet more serene. “Jude,” Rusty said, a name he hadn’t called her in years.

  Silence. Then, “Where are you?”

  Rusty explained what had happened. He could imagine Judy shaking her head, envision her narrow feet on the wine-colored carpet, her earrings dangling just below the line of her hair. She laughed, a low, sweet laugh, and he could see her lips, as red as brake lights, hear her breath moving over the small rows of her teeth. When he closed his eyes for a moment, he remembered the smell of the sweat behind her ears; it evoked a vibrant fern green color in his mind.

  “Sunny gave you her Xanax instead of the vitamins,” Judy said. “Did you take them?”

  “Didn’t think to,” Rusty said. “I went out for a burger after I left the hospital.”

  There was a long pause. “I got rid of your old chair,” Judy said quietly then, “and our old bed. I’m going to paint the cupboards in the kitchen off-white and get new carpet in the living room, maybe a pale blue-gray or beige.” Then she added, “I was hoping you might clean out the garage. That old Christmas tree is still in there.” And Rusty knew this was about the closest thing to an invitation home he was going to hear.

  “Done,” he said.

  The question then was just how Rusty would get home. He had no money, was in no shape to drive. Ordinarily, he’d thumb a ride, but in his condition, he wasn’t sure he could stand much more adventure. “I might need your help,” he said, “if I’m going to get back to Fort Cloud.”

  “Wait,” Judy said. “I’ll call you right back.” And when she did, she told him that Henry was out in New York and heading back through Chicago sometime soon. Gretchen had told her he had a show in Philadelphia that night.

  “Philadelphia?” he said. “Any idea where in Philadelphia?”

  “Gretchen’s going to try to find out.”

  “All right, then, Jude,” Rusty said. “I’ll be home soon.” He paused, then asked, “So we’re grandparents then?”

  “Mmm.” Judy purred. “He/she is lovely.”

  The young orderly knew of the Brother of Carson Glide. “Oh, sure,” he said with a laugh, popping his knuckles, “I like that new song of theirs.�
�� Rusty promised the boy an autograph if he could scare up some information about the band’s next show. And when Rusty finally got through to the ticket desk and then to the box office manager, explaining over and over who he was and answering a million trivia questions about his son, he finally got through to Henry’s tour manager and eventually to Henry, who had just been apprised of the situation.

  “You going to behave if we come pick you up? It’s a little out of our way, you know.” Henry’s voice was sleepy.

  “Behave? Heck, I’ll drive,” Rusty volunteered.

  “Now, Dad, we don’t need you to do that. I just don’t want you to . . .”

  Rusty scrambled to fill in the words, but all he could think to say was “I’ve got a grandbaby to see.”

  Henry agreed, but before Rusty would let him hang up, Rusty asked, “You’re playing Philly tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you do me a huge favor?”

  Henry sighed audibly, then was quiet. Rusty reached out for his wallet on the bedside. Inside, deep in a leathery corner, there was a piece of photo paper folded twice into a square. He unfolded it on his lap and looked at the face of a boy with freckles and dark hair and even darker eyes. There was a name on the back: Joe Byrd, age 4.

  Rusty licked his lips. “Would you dedicate a song to a guy back there named Joe Byrd?” he asked quietly.

  “Joe who?”

  “Byrd,” Rusty said. “Joe Byrd.”

  “Uh, okay. This an army buddy or something?”

  “No,” Rusty said. “Just somebody, somebody I owe the first of many apologies to. I’ll tell you about it sometime when I feel better.”

  “Joe Byrd,” Rusty heard Henry call over his shoulder into the background. “Everybody hear that? We’re sending out a song to a guy by the name of Joe Byrd.”

  “Okay,” Henry said.