The Hunger Moon

by Suzanne Matson

  “Okay,”—he clapped, without waiting for the drummer— “let’s stretch, two, three, four …” The students joined in as he led them in a series of lunging walks, hip circles, neck and shoulder rolls, and the other usual warm-up moves, which he somehow managed to make seem original with his emphatic and playful style. The drummer had finished setting up and now sat on a stool, closing his eyes and rocking his barrel-shaped chest back and forth as his hands traveled over the skins of the drums. Now the air was electric with rhythm. Bruce’s warm-up started to be more complex, more dancelike. Without stopping, he shouted counts and directions as he milled among the eight students, correcting the position of a torso or the angle of a hip. He passed by June as she was holding an arabesque and said, “Good,” as he swept by her.

  Next they lined up and did some jumps across the room. With so few students, when you crossed the floor it was already your turn to reverse direction and go back; some students were panting after three or four trips. Max excelled here; June could see Richard’s eyes following him with interest every time it was his turn. “Nice work,” he said as Max crossed for the last time.

  Marco slowed the pace of the drumming down to a meditative beat. Bruce led them in an improv across the floor. June was rapt watching him move catlike, then freeze, drawing his body up into a pose that suddenly exploded in a leap, then finish before she knew it in a series of small running steps.

  They had several turns across the room, and June tried to change the mood of her improv at each crossing. Once he caught her eye afterward and nodded.

  Max’s improvisations, it seemed to June, always looked the same. He was the type of dancer who could interpret someone else’s choreography with power, but wasn’t too inventive himself. Even so, he was always impressive to watch, with his athletic sureness and the elevation he got on jumps, and June saw with a sinking feeling that Bruce Richard was visibly impressed with him.

  Richard took the last improv turn and treated them to a three-minute sequence that June suspected wasn’t so much improvisation as a set piece of signature moves that he used for classes like this. Still, the sheer professionalism of his execution took her bream away.

  After the cooling down he led the class in a round of applause, which the class swelled and prolonged in appreciation of him. They broke out of lines. June watched with excitement as Richard walked over to Max and talked to him for a couple of minutes. Then Max followed him over to his bag, and Richard fished out a card and handed it to him. The students were filing out of class. Max looked like he was about to levitate from happiness. He kept staring at the card and looking up and grinning into thin air.

  Richard was chatting with Mary Ann and Judith; he didn’t seem to be talking to any other students. June knew she hadn’t been singled out. Still, he was right here in this room. There was no law against asking him a question. June forced herself to walk over to him.

  “Excuse me. I’m June. I really enjoyed the class. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. You made some nice moves during improv.” The compliment was made dismissively, and June could already feel him turning away. She rushed to hold his attention.

  “Do you—does your company ever audition new people? As student dancers?”

  “Yes, we do.” He was looking at her now. Did he seem amused?

  “Well, I was just wondering if, um, if I came to New York this summer, do you mink I would have a chance? With your group?” He was just looking at her. “I really admire your work,” she said inanely.

  “Honey, let me save you some time. You’ve got nice moves and nice form—like a thousand other dancers who want to come to New York and audition. I’ve got twelve performing dancers, and five apprentice dancers, and that’s as big as I get. The short answer to your question? Forget New York. Stay in school, get an education, and try out for local companies. There’s lots of ways to be a dancer without going to New York and getting turned down every day.”

  Finished with this little speech—Why not take dance classes at the Y Junie?—Bruce Richard turned away, leaving June to arrange her face into a grateful smile as best she could.

  WHEN THEY DROVE UP TO HER BUILDING, Renata wanted Bill to drop her and leave, but he insisted on staying with her until they found out everything was okay. She really wanted him to go, because she didn’t have time to think about him or what they had done last night. But she also didn’t have time to argue with him, so she concentrated on getting to Charlie; Bill could do what he wanted. They didn’t speak during the ride up the elevator. Renata watched the numbers crawling by, feeling as though she might explode. She had her key ready in her hand when they finally reached the seventh floor, and she dashed to her door, Bill trailing along behind.

  A silent apartment greeted her. Everything was in order, down to the carefully washed baby bottles drying on the counter, but the objects mocked her without June and without Charlie. The domestic ordinariness of the scene seemed impossibly surreal. She didn’t know where her baby was.

  “Renata, June left you a note,” Bill said. “It says, ‘Charlie is next door with Mrs. M.; I had to leave at six-thirty’” he read from the refrigerator.

  “Oh, God, that’s right.” Relief flooded her. “She had some special class to go to this morning. The baby’s with the next-door neighbor; I’ll be right back.”

  She left him in her apartment and went to knock on Eleanor’s door. When there was no answer, she rang the bell. She pressed her ear to the wood to listen for a television or radio. Silence. In desperation she rang the bell again and again.

  “She’s not there,” she said, reentering her apartment. “What should I do?” She was suddenly glad to have Bill with her. He was calm. He could think.

  “Check your answering machine,” he directed. The light was blinking with three messages.

  The first message was her own from last night. She cursed the voice that blithely told June she was going out for a drink with a “friend.” The second call was a hang-up; that, too, was Renata, from this morning. She must have called shortly after June left. Charlie hadn’t been too long over at Eleanor’s then. But where were they now?

  The third message was a familiar voice. “Renata, it’s me. I’ve been in town two days, trying to decide when and how to come see you. I’ve even been to Viva’s, but you didn’t see me. I was in the bar.” Renata looked up at Bill, who was watching her curiously. “Here’s the deal. I know about the baby. Rick told me, but I had already guessed it on my own, so don’t be mad at anyone. It’s Saturday morning, a little before seven, and I’ve decided to come over to talk to you. If you want me to turn around and go back to L.A., I will. But I want to see you, and I want to see the baby.” There was a brief pause. “Actually, I’ve already seen the two of you. I’ve been in the coffee shop across the street and watched when you’ve taken him for walks. Anyway, I won’t use up your message tape. We’ll talk soon. I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ll wait for you downstairs if you’re not home.”

  “You’re white as a ghost,” Bill said. “A voice from the old days?”

  Renata nodded.

  “The baby’s father?”

  She nodded again.

  “Let me go three for three. You never told him about the baby?”

  She stared at him mutely. She didn’t need to nod.

  “Wow.” Bill whistled and shook his head. “You know, I think I can guess which one he was at the bar. A guy by himself was in the last two nights, and just sort of sat there, not talking to anyone. Blond?”

  She nodded.

  “Drinks Coors?”

  “Sometimes,” she said dully.

  “Should I stay or go?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head hopelessly. “Stay.”

  RENATA DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO or whom to call. Bill convinced her that there was no reason to call the police, and of course he was right. If the police were to be called, she thought, it should probably be to report her for getting drunk and aband
oning her child while she went off to have sex with someone she barely knew. She became conscious of her breasts, which were painfully hard and engorged; the front of her shirt was soaked with leaking milk.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and went to the bathroom with her breast pump. When she saw the milk spurting into the storage bottle, milk that Charlie should be drinking right now, she started to weep again, so that her shirt soon became soaked with tears and milk mixed together.

  ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, MA’AM?”

  Eleanor was sitting on the curb, her back straight, the bundled baby crying in her arms.

  “Oh, Robert, thank God. Please, take the baby. It feels like I’ve been holding him for hours.”

  He took Peter from her and held him up.

  “He’s been crying like that for the longest time,” Eleanor said.

  “I think he’s cold. Let’s get you two in the car.” He held the baby tightly in the shawl and murmured to him. “Hi, little guy. Hey there. Don’t cry.”

  The baby stopped crying to stare at the new face. Then he began wailing again.

  “I think he’s hungry,” Eleanor said. “Let’s just go home, Robert, please.”

  “I think you’re thinking of someone else, ma’am. I’m not Robert. But I’ll be happy to take you home.”

  As Robert drove, Eleanor had a nauseated feeling in her stomach; she thought she might be sick. She couldn’t imagine why she had started out for the grocery store like that. What had she been doing, anyway? Going for cereal. Rice cereal. For this baby, who—it suddenly occurred to her—wasn’t Peter. Something cleared in her head. She felt her vision change, though she still had a pounding headache. Things became sharply outlined and familiar. She was on Washington Street, nowhere near Rosewood Avenue. This baby was Charlie, Renata’s boy.

  “I don’t know you, do I?” said Eleanor suddenly, turning toward the man driving her.

  “No, ma’am, we’ve never met. My name is Bryan Harmon. I saw you leave your apartment building, and I got a little worried about you because it seemed you had to rest a lot, carrying the baby. I got in my car and followed you,” he said.

  “Now, why would you do a thing like that?” Eleanor asked suspiciously.

  “Because I was worried about the baby. And you,” he added.

  “Do you know this baby?”

  Bryan laughed. “Yes, and no. This is Renata Rivera’s baby, right?”

  Eleanor hesitated. “Yes. I’m baby-sitting.”

  “Well, I know Renata Rivera. And I’ve heard about the baby. I was waiting for Renata when you came out. I heard you call him Charlie. I didn’t think there would be too many babies that age named Charlie in your building. Of course, I could have been wrong.”

  “You weren’t wrong.” Eleanor was silent, trying to puzzle things out. “It’s kind of you to give us a lift home,” she said finally.

  Charlie seemed to have given up on getting food for the moment. From his position in Eleanor’s arms he stared up at the man driving, who also kept glancing down at him. For her part, Eleanor furtively studied Bryan Harmon’s face, which seemed vaguely familiar. Then she looked down and examined Charlie, until things finally fit.

  “Are you a relation, Mr. Harmon?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Does Renata expect you?”

  “She has a message waiting from me. But before that, no, she didn’t expect to see me.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know yet. To visit.”

  Eleanor reflected on that. Then she nodded. “You know, Renata’s never talked about family. I never asked, although, of course, I haven’t known her very long.”

  “I don’t think anyone has known Renata very long,” Bryan said.

  “What a strange thing to say,” Eleanor said. They sat in silence for a moment. “After all, Charlie has known her his whole life,” she continued, cradling him. His eyes were now focused on her face, but the lids were fluttering closed, soothed by the warmth and the motion of the car.

  Bryan laughed. “Well, yes. I see what you mean.”

  WHEN THEY GOT BACK TO THE BUILDING, Bryan offered to carry the baby.

  “Have you ever held a baby, Mr. Harmon?”

  “I’ve held this one—a few minutes ago, when I found you two. I think he likes me.”

  When I found you two. Where had she been? Eleanor knew she had better sit down, the sooner the better. The nausea was welling up again.

  “Well, go ahead. My arms are aching. I’ll follow along right behind you.” Eleanor nodded to the young man at the front desk and Bryan accompanied her up to her floor, holding the baby. She rang Renata ‘s doorbell and waited.

  When the door opened, Renata stood there, with puffy eyes and a pale face. Her gaze flew down to Charlie, then went from Eleanor’s face to Bryan’s, who was standing there holding the sleeping Charlie.

  “Renata, we’ll talk later,” Eleanor said. “I don’t feel at all well right now and I’m going to my apartment to rest. Thank goodness for this young man; he appeared like my guardian angel when Charlie and I needed him.”

  AFTER LEAVING THE STUDIO, June talked to Max briefly in the hall, and tried to look as though she shared his excitement.

  “He said I have to try out, like everyone else,” Max said, his voice lilting with exhilaration. “And I have to pay my own expenses to New York for the audition. But if I make it, I get free room and board with the other apprentice dancers, and a small stipend. By the end of the summer, they’ll tell me if I get to participate in the year-long program, which would put me on deck to be performing. There are a lot of odds to beat, but I’ve got a shot.”

  Max didn’t seem to notice June’s stretched, false smile as she nodded. Envy consumed her. She didn’t begrudge Max his chance, but why didn’t she deserve hers, too? She hated Richard for speaking to her so patronizingly—Honey, let me save you some time. She wasn’t like a thousand other aspiring dancers. Maybe if you put her and Max side by side he looked flashier, more athletic, but he didn’t have her intuitions, or her sensitivity. Why couldn’t Bruce Richard see her for the dancer she was?

  She fought off the invisible feeling that she used to get when her father arrived home after work and made a martini before dialing his first call of the evening. Every night her father returned from a day of business only to conduct still more business over the phone, sometimes even ignoring dinner on the table while June and her mother finally sat down. June remembered practicing her dancing in the living room in front of him as he talked interest rates and building permits and partnership shares. As a girl she would pirouette before him wearing her special pink tutu that was really supposed to be saved just for performances. She would keep her back straight and point her toes and hold an imaginary pear in each hand just as the teacher had instructed, and he never once saw her. If she spun all night in front of him, frozen in place like the plastic ballerina that rose smiling and perfect every time she lifted the lid of her jewelry box, her father would still see beyond her to the door, as if he were already planning his exit.

  She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to crawl off into a hole somewhere and be by herself, or talk to someone, although she didn’t know to whom. She couldn’t think of anyone who understood. Neither Mrs. M. nor Renata had a clue about dance, not really. She suddenly remembered the way she had rushed out and left Mrs. MacGregor with a hungry baby—and for what? So she could be insulted by some rude egomaniac.

  SHE DIALED MRS. MACGREGOR’S NUMBER and listened to it ring. Mrs. M. wouldn’t be going anywhere yet, would she? It was only ten-thirty, and her children weren’t due in until later. June had gotten her all the food she needed from the store yesterday. She tried Renata ‘s number and got the machine. Worry began gnawing again; what if Renata had never come home? Charlie would be beside himself by now, and Mrs. M. would have no choice but to go to the store to buy him some baby formula or cereal. She could never manage to carry Charlie the whole way and shop as well.


  Without bothering to change out of her leotard and Indian skirt, June threw on her peacoat and hopped on the T to Washington Street. For her two jobs she had a key to both Eleanor’s apartment and Renata’s. As the train stopped practically every block to let people off and on along the B.U. area, June grew more and more impatient. She really had been selfish to make Mrs. MacGregor take over her duties like that. Even if Mrs. M. had told her to go ahead and go to her class, what choice had June left her, standing there practically begging?

  It was almost eleven o’clock when she let herself into the apartment building; she dashed through the lobby and took the elevator to the seventh floor. Mrs. MacGregor wasn’t answering the doorbell. Before she used her key, she decided to check next door; maybe Renata was home and could tell her Mrs. M.’s whereabouts. No one answered there either. Alarmed, June let herself into Renata’s apartment to see if she had been home. Someone had been, clearly. There were dishes in the sink, and half-filled coffee cups on the living-room table. June’s note was on the kitchen table, instead of the refrigerator, where she had pinned it up with magnets. And when she went into the nursery, she saw that the sleeper Charlie had been wearing when June left had been balled up and tossed in the hamper. All was well. Renata had come home and taken Charlie from Mrs. MacGregor, and Mrs. MacGregor was now probably with one of her children. Maybe Janice drove over to get her early. At any rate, Renata was working again tonight, so June could see both of them and hear the details when she came to baby-sit.

  Reassured, June locked Renata’s door and took the elevator to the lobby. She had forgotten the humiliation of the morning for a moment. Now it came back to her full force.

  ELEANOR WAS GONE BEFORE RENATA could even apologize or thank her. The sight of Charlie, rosy and sleeping, filled her eyes again with tears. She couldn’t speak to Bryan yet. He handed the baby to her wordlessly.