A Mother's Love

by Mary Morris

  Luz tiptoed around me, whispering whenever she spoke, as if someone were asleep. When she touched the baby, he seemed to be crystal she was struggling not to drop. The woman from Brazil talked all day long, to me, and then to herself as I tried to work. Marisella worked with her Walkman on. Another was watching soap operas when I returned from the store. I was at the point of despair when I remembered that Mara had given me the phone number of a woman she knew. I found it still tucked under the plant where I’d put it the day Mara came over.

  The next day Viviana walked in. She wore a floral skirt and a neat white blouse, carried a dainty purse, and complained about her aching back and the thugs on the subways. She was a compact Jamaican woman whose hair was tinted pale green, and she had blue eyebrows to match. She looked at me and said, “You’re pale. You need to get out more.” She glanced around the apartment. “And I can only work nights.”

  “Nights?”

  “That’s right. My husband, he works days. I work nights. Keeps the marriage going,” she said with a cackle. “I can arrange to work days, but it will take some doing. For the moment I can work twelve hours, six to six if you want, but it’s not cheap and I never work weekends.”

  “I suppose nights would be all right for now …”

  “Maybe I could change to days down the road, but I’ve got to fix it with my husband. Because of the kids.”

  “How many kids do you have?” I asked.

  “A few more than you’ve got.”

  I nodded, feeling uncomfortable about hiring someone in the first place. “I can’t pay more than two hundred a week,” I said, hoping she’d leave. “Maybe two-fifty,” which was my week’s income if I worked full time for Mike—if he had the work for me.

  “I’m used to getting three hundred, sometimes more.” She frowned. “Who recommended me to you anyway?”

  “Mara Lange. She lives across the street. She’s a friend of …”

  “I know her.” Viviana was walking away. “Let’s see the baby.” She looked around the apartment, at the four crammed rooms, the studio by the window.

  “I’m not married,” I told her.

  “Doesn’t bother me.” She shrugged.

  “About the money …”

  “Don’t worry about the money now. Where’s the baby? Are you hiding him?”

  I pointed to the bedroom, where Bobby was lying in his crib. She touched his cheek. “Oh, he’s a cute little fella.” She cackled again as she picked him up. I expected Bobby to squirm, but he didn’t. She touched his cheek. “He’s got a rash. No big deal. Got some A and D ointment?”

  “A and D ointment?”

  “Just get some. Oh, he’s very cute. Nice. You and me, we’re going to get on just fine.” She tickled him until he laughed. Then she began taking his clothes out of the drawers of the changing table. “He can’t wear this anymore.” She held up a pair of small pajamas. “And he can’t wear this.” She rummaged through the other drawers. “I’ve got references if you want them.”

  “No,” I said, “that’s all right,” thinking she wouldn’t be with me long. Besides, Mara had recommended her.

  She looked at me, shaking her head. “It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll look for someone who can work days, but nights are fine for now.” Though the arrangement seemed a bit bizarre, I was used to working in the evening and at night. I could get a lot of work done then and sleep in the early hours while Viviana watched Bobby.

  “Whatever you want is fine with me.” Then, looking into the mirror, she apologized because her hair was turning green. “I told that woman not to use that strong rinse on me.” She said nothing about her blue eyebrows, though later when I commented she said, “Blue? Am I using blue?”

  The first night, Viviana sat in the living room, watching me paint. “I don’t feel comfortable,” I told her, “with you sitting there across from me.”

  “So I’ll go into the bedroom, but you got the baby sleeping in here and I’m supposed to watch the baby, right?”

  “Maybe you could just come when he cries.”

  Viviana snorted, put her hands on the portable crib, and pushed Bobby into the bedroom. “I’ll move him out later. Poor child.”

  “I’ve never done this before,” I said. “Hired someone to work for me. I don’t feel very good about it, I suppose.”

  “Look, you’ve got to work and I’ve got to work, so what difference does it make if I work for you?”

  I had seen the baby sitters lined up in front of schools or on park benches—the blacks, the Hispanics, the European au pairs. I had watched them chattering among themselves with varying degrees of attention and caring toward the children. Some were loving; others seemed indifferent. I had a friend whose daughter spoke with a slight West Indian accent, the result of spending more time with her nanny than with her parents. Once I saw a nanny slap a child in a sandbox and I wondered what would happen if the mother knew.

  But most of the nannies with whom white New York women involved themselves in this neocolonial relationship simply had their own children to support. I’d read that the infants of wet nurses often starved to death in England, because their mothers gave all their milk to the children of the rich.

  On a trip out west with Matthew we observed a herd of buffalo grazing. Apart from the herd, off to the side, was a small contingent of sleeping baby buffalos and two or three grownups—what appeared to be an aged female and two pregnant females—watching over them during their nap. A day care center, it looked like. Even animals must find the way to watch over their young. I read an interview once with the wife of a Mormon polygamist; she said that polygamy was the perfect arrangement for a working mother because there were so many potential caretakers.

  So I too found myself forced into this symbiosis. I hired Viviana because I liked her and it seemed clear that she would do her job, albeit at night, and not mince any words. That evening I nursed Bobby and went to my work table while Viviana sat in the light of the bedroom, her green hair shimmering like the harvest moon.

  Despite my desire to be up by seven, I woke at almost nine o’clock to the smell of coffee brewing. I wandered through the tiny rooms of my apartment and saw that all of Bobby’s clothes had been washed and were hanging up to dry. Bobby was asleep, swaddled and clean in his crib, and Viviana was putting on her coat to leave.

  “You did all that wash while I slept?”

  “That and more,” she said. “He should sleep for at least two hours. See you tonight.”

  She came each night, and when I woke in the morning the chores were done, the house spotless, Bobby was clean, and I could work for a few hours before he rose from his morning nap. She would wake him at about six and keep him up for a few hours until he got his bottle and morning nap. I was able to work until midmorning. I began to feel like a person again. “Viviana,” I said to her one night, “I don’t know how long I can afford to keep you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Keep me as long as you can,” she said, pulling at a strand in the mirror. “God, my hair sure is green.”

  One morning I woke to a pouring rain. A deluge of biblical proportions. I crawled out of bed and saw Viviana holding Bobby up to the window. “Look at that rain, young man,” Viviana said to my four-month-old son in her hands. “You’d better cancel all your appointments.”

  “Viviana,” I said, sitting on the arm of a chair in my nightgown, “can we talk?”

  “Sure, we can talk. What do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to talk about days. I’d like you to work for me days.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Arnold won’t like it.”

  “Look, I need to go back to work. I can get a full-time job and I’ll be able to pay you a little more. I want you to stay with us.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  The following week Viviana began work at nine in the morning. I called Mike and said I needed a full-time job. “I have a baby sitter, so I can put in more hours. I need to
make some money.”

  That morning I got up early and showered. When Viviana arrived, I was supposed to head out the door. Instead, I found myself straightening up, sorting through papers. I kissed my son, hugged him, played with him until Viviana said, “Why don’t you go to work?”

  “Will you be all right? Look, here’s the number. Call me if there’s anything at all. Do you think he’ll be all right? Do you have enough milk?”

  Viviana looked at me harshly and said, “One of us is walking out that door, and it’s either you or me, so you decide.”

  I left with a sense that I’d forgotten something I needed to do. But what it was eluded me. Emergency numbers were taped to the wall; the bottles were all prepared. Viviana had keys and knew where to reach me. Yet as I walked toward the subway I wondered whether I had interviewed Viviana enough. I had, after all, never before left her alone with Bobby. I had hardly left anyone alone with him. What would happen to Bobby while I was gone? I had left him with someone I hardly knew. A person who came into my life and began to care for my child. But what did I know about her, really?

  I arrived at Mike’s, said hello to Alma and Suzette. “So how’s the little man?” Alma said.

  “Oh, fine, fine.” I sat down to work—a pin that needed to be reset. But it was an ugly, foolish piece and I couldn’t imagine who would wear such a thing. Someone who had to have things they didn’t really want or need. The pin would probably just go back into the jewelry box, never to be worn again. As I worked, my mind wandered. Did Viviana look both ways before crossing the street? Would she go down the wrong street and get caught in crossfire? Perhaps I should have checked her out further. Blood test. Police record. She could just walk out the door and disappear. I had no home address for her. I had no way of finding her.

  I picked up the phone and dialed but there was no answer. I waited a few moments and tried again. Then I phoned Mara, thinking I could ask her more about Viviana, but she wasn’t home. Mike came into the workroom and saw me on the phone. “Ivy,” he said, “it’s a beautiful day. They’ve gone for a walk. Anybody in her right mind would.”

  “Of course,” I said, knowing he was right. Smiling, I settled back to work. The pin was a circle of diamonds and sapphires with a ruby center. Past its prime, if it ever had a prime. I envisioned it worn by someone’s great-grandmother, a frigid, meddling woman who damaged all who came within her grasp.

  Picking at the setting, I contemplated the properties of stones. Diamonds and sapphires, purple onyx and mother-of-pearl. The ancients believed that some could cast a spell and others, like crystal, could heal. Ruby cured inflammation and flatulence; yellow sapphire was an antidote to poison. For Emerson the ruby was a drop of frozen wine. The Holy Grail was carved from emerald. Emeralds predict the future; diamonds protect against evil. It’s not for nothing that they’re a girl’s best friend.

  What you look for in a diamond is clarity. The hardest mineral of all, unlike gold, which is the most pliable yet the strongest. Only a diamond can cut itself. So how did the first carver cut the first diamond, I wondered. In the refractions of diamonds I’ve seen the faces of the miners who pull them from the earth. I cannot work with these stones and not think of the men’s toil. In books I’ve seen the dark, despairing faces of the men of South Africa, men who often die—if not in the mines then in riots outside the mines. They riot because the conditions they live in are horrible and because they are separated from family and home. When they go to see their children, they are docked their pay. I wish I had another way of earning a living.

  I went to the phone again, but there was still no answer. Even though it was a beautiful spring day, shouldn’t they be home by now, getting ready for a nap or a bath? Where could they have gone for so long? I wish I had checked her references. She’d offered them to me, but I had refused. I’d just believed what she told me. But I didn’t know her at all; she was a complete stranger. I had entrusted my flesh and blood to a stranger. I told Mike I had to go. I had an emergency. I had been there only three hours, but already I was out the door.

  I raced home and walked into an empty apartment. It was neat, the dishes put away. Everything smelled fresh and clean; the bed was made, the laundry done. But there was no sign of them. I have been here before, I told myself. This isn’t the first time I’ve come home and found everything gone. I rushed back into the street and walked up and down the block, wondering whom I could turn to, whom I could call. Mara had recommended Viviana, but, then, how well did I know Mara? And how well had she known Viviana? I walked across the street and buzzed Mara, but she still wasn’t home. I headed over to Riverside Park, where I could clear my head and think. I’d figure out what to do.

  In the park the dogwood was in bloom. Pink-and-white blossoms fluttered down. First I walked north, toward 116th Street. The park was full of joggers, prams, dog walkers. But Viviana and Bobby were nowhere to be seen. When I got farther north than I thought they’d be, I turned south. I passed the same joggers, the same prams, the same dog walkers. Still no sign of them. How far could she have gone? I began to think about how I’d track Viviana down. Mara would give me the name of the friend for whom Viviana had worked, and she’d know how to locate her. Eventually I would find them.

  I was approaching Ninety-sixth Street when I saw a bench lined with nannies. There sat Viviana in the shade with Bobby. He had balloons tied to his stroller and was laughing. Viviana was singing to him. She looked up and saw me standing there. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I called. There was no answer. I got worried. I came home.”

  “Good, now go back to work.” She spoke with annoyance. “Haven’t you got better things to do?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  MY MOTHER took a job at the At First Sight marriage chapel. It wasn’t on the Strip, where the rows of marriage chapels were like the Hitching Post and Cupid’s Arrow. The At First Sight was located a little way outside of town, along the desert road coming into Vegas on a dry dusty lot surrounded by scrub cactus and piñon. It took me a while to understand that the name didn’t have anything to do with the fact that the chapel was one of the first things you saw when you entered the Valley of Fire.

  My mother got mostly the in-transit trade. The ones who on impulse zipped off the highway, got married, gambled away what they had in their pockets, and hopped back into the car. Nine out of ten times, she said, they were heading west. Not many people heading back east stopped to get married. People heading east, my mother said, had no more illusions.

  Business was very good when she went to work there because of the nuclear tests at Yucca Flats. Often the tests were delayed due to weather, and the soldiers, dying of boredom, came into Vegas, met some girls at the casinos, and got married, just like that. At times I suspected that my mother herself left town with one of these men.

  Getting married on the Strip was more exciting than painting rocks—an assignment one of their commanding officers had conceived for them, one of the soldiers told my mother on a day when I was there, helping her fold bows. The officer had them paint the rocks brilliant shades of glacier blue, autumn bronze, and harvest gold. Make the desert beautiful, he said. One of the soldiers complained to my mother that Korea had been more interesting than this.

  But the nuclear tests were good for business. The town went all out. There were atomic hairdos (beehives for women), atomic burgers served with lots of mushrooms, mushroom cakes, swimming pools filled with mushrooms. Miss Atomic Blast was crowned. Couples liked to be married during the blasts. They liked the light. They’d stand outside and at the exact moment of the explosion, the minister declared them man and wife. I assisted at such weddings. We watched the great glare go up in the sky and I’d be momentarily blinded. Then my mother would nudge me to toss the rice.

  My mother was a dour woman when she went to work at the marriage chapel, bitter with her lot. She might have done better directing a funeral home. But she liked her job. It gave her something to
do. She talked to me about the couples who came to her. She had a lot of responsibility there. She made the arrangements for the flowers, procured licenses, and even helped trembling lovers who were running away, or who had met only the night before, write their own service.

  On days off from school or on weekends, she made me come with her. She worked the midday shift, and I hated to go because it meant I couldn’t go with my father when he drove for Lucky Cab. I sat all day long in this dry patch at the edge of the desert and watched couples come and go. She assigned me tasks. I folded colored ribbons for the bouquets and lined them up on a rack like a rainbow; I made sure that the green Tupperware pitcher that read RICE wasn’t empty; I dusted and vacuumed, though this was pointless in such an arid place. Then we’d sit and wait for a couple to show up.

  Sometimes two drunk people who’d been gambling staggered in and, even though we knew they’d probably just met, my mother made the arrangements. I used to wonder—as she showed couples floral displays or musical arrangements—why they didn’t run screaming into the desert. But they always seemed relieved inside the cool chapel with the soft yellow walls, and for a few moments they were at peace while the minister, the Reverend Remlow Blevins, performed the ceremony. Sometimes Indians stopped. We had a special outdoor chapel for them, complete with a painting of the sky and a wooden eagle with chipped beak and broken wing. At other times a couple clutching a small baby would come in, looking weary and blank. And when the ceremony was done, I’d toss rice and shout congratulations as the dumbstruck pair got back in their car and headed west at breakneck speed.

  I would watch as the Reverend Remlow Blevins married people in his perfunctory, dispassionate way, and I thought to myself even then that he knew something about life that I didn’t know. He knew how it could lead you astray, how a mistake could throw you off for a lifetime. He was a pasty-faced man with slicked-back hair and dead gray eyes, and it was hard to believe that he lived in this heat; his complexion was more like that of a shut-in than a man who baked in a marriage chapel in the middle of the Mojave. I wondered why he didn’t terrify his clients, as he liked to call them, with those dead eyes.