by K J Steele
“Oh! Oh, Vic! Thank you, it’s so sweet. And she looks beautiful in yellow.” Diana caressed the little sweater lovingly, as if it were the most splendid gift she’d ever received, and even though Victoria had knitted identical ones for each child.
“I hope it’ll still fit her. Do you think it will?” Victoria asked, suddenly seized by a desperate desire that it must fit. She fought against an impulse to wake the child right there and fill the empty yellow sweater with the soft plumpness of new life.
“Oh yes, it’ll still fit. Definitely,” Diana responded decisively, knowingly, as someone intimately aware of each square inch of her child’s flesh. “Here, want me to take her?”
Victoria looked at Diana’s face with some alarm. Had she done something wrong? Held the child too tightly? Had her face let slip the secrets of her mind? She responded carefully, hesitatingly.
“Do you mind if I hold her a little longer?”
“No, of course not. Hold her all day if you want,” Diana laughed. She knelt down, attempting a reorganization of her diaper bag to include one more item, happily chattering about one or the other, then eventually all of her children.
Victoria focused her attention on the baby, cradled it to her closer and felt the warmth of its sleeping body against her chest. Slowly she edged the blankets back to reveal the soft round forehead, the little flip nose and the gentle curve of black lashes protecting innocent eyes. She peeled the blanket back further to reveal a tiny white hand and traced it lightly with her own, marveling at the buttery softness of the fingers as Diana continued on below her, her voice a stream of words lost to the wind. Feeling inside the blankets, Victoria cupped each pudgy foot in the palm of her hand, watching the faint rise and fall of the blanket as a tiny heart beat next to her own. Emotion filled her thickly, and she wrapped herself even closer around the child, felt her breasts grow full and heavy as she began to sway with the innate rhythm of motherhood. She lightly touched the angel-kissed mouth with the tip of her pinkie and felt sure that all of life would stand corrected if she could just forever stay there and hold that child.
But life does not stand corrected. It simply makes its mistakes and moves on, and the moment was fractured by a frilly, high-pitched giggle. Their attentions were instantly diverted to a couple crossing toward them, completely oblivious to all but their own immediate world. Mark, dressed in his standard jeans and muscle-emphasizing T-shirt, led the conversation, which was occasionally punctuated by the girl’s giggles. He held one arm protectively around her as she shivered and shimmered beside him. Dressed for weather ten degrees warmer, she wore a dress made for someone two sizes smaller, revealing a bodacious cleavage that explained a great many things.
They sidled up together, Mark tossing out a hello while his girlfriend could only respond with a muffled giggle to their greetings as she buried her face into his bicep. Victoria judged her with an immediate and irrevocable dislike. Frivolous and stupid creature; even her blond curls seemed to giggle down her bare back. One look at Diana confirmed the verdict was unanimous. Victoria studied Mark as he whispered something into the girl’s ear, wondered, as she occasionally found herself doing, if it were at all possible that Bobby’s suspicions about being his father might indeed have had some chance at truth. Again assessing his dark curls and green eyes, she had to concede they were features that easily could be attributed to Bobby. But then again, they could easily be attributed to Diana as well, her and Bobby sharing enough similarities to pass as siblings, possibly even twins.
“I thought you were supposed to be working today,” Diana demanded in a voice Victoria could not readily connect to her, that seemed to come through somebody else.
“Nope. Called in sick.”
“Sick?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t exactly seem sick.”
“Am. Sick of work.” He grinned down at the girl, who failed to suppress a giggle then honored his wit with a quick kiss.
“Mark, I’ve told you a hundred times—”
“Hey! Save the lecture, maw. Ain’t got time today. Came out to see the town crazy con the village idiots . . . no offense, Mrs. Lackey. Hey, you ever get your hens laying?”
She avoided his eyes, nodded her head.
“New rooster?”
She nodded again, kept her eyes fixed on the sleeping baby as she felt his on her face.
“Yes! I knew it!” He punched the air with his free arm. “Damn, I’m good, hey?” he crowed, and was confirmed by a coy tiddle and a press of flesh against his side.
“Mark, ssht! You’ll wake the baby. Here, see what Mrs. Lackey made for her. Isn’t it adorable?” Diana asked as she unearthed the sweater from the diaper bag, spilling the rest of its contents onto the ground.
“Yeah. Nice,” he replied as he ran his hand down the girl’s chirpy behind until she blushed and slapped it away.
“You had one just like this,” Diana continued after cooling the girl with a disapproving glare. “Except blue. And Jamie’s was green, and Lily’s and Amy’s were pink and peach. She’s made one for each of you kids. Isn’t that special?” She asked the question in that simple, plaintive tone one reserves for talking to the very young, the very old, or the very stupid.
“Made one for me?” He raised his eyebrows with genuine surprise, paused to consider then laughed out loud, startling the baby awake. “Damn, that’s twisted!”
Victoria instantly began to bounce and rock as if by bouncing and rocking she could juggle the child back into sleep. She twinged self-consciously as Mark’s words hung over them, and she hoped Diana was too preoccupied by the commotion of the baby to question their meaning.
Diana had already moved forward to take the child and restore order to the situation but in the same moment the child’s fist found Victoria’s finger and pulled it eagerly to its mouth, slobbering profusely on her knuckle. Victoria relaxed for a second; the child’s agitation seemed to disappear as it attempted to latch on, then returned with a vengeance when no milk was forthcoming. Quickly she yanked her hand from its mouth, and the tiny face that was but a second before the epitome of angelhood, now contorted, and reddened and began to shriek in protest.
Not knowing what else to do, Victoria looked up at Diana, the panic that filled her body spreading rapidly across her face. Diana smiled calmly and looked at Mark.
“Mark, could you help Mrs. Lackey with the baby for a second? I just have to get this diaper bag back together.”
Mark shrugged and unhitched his arm from around his girlfriend, who instantly sprouted a pouty lip as he stepped closer to Victoria than was necessary. He ran his eyes purposefully across her own as he leaned over her, trying to distract the child. But as he cooed and kissed and whistled a hairsbreadth from her breast, the only one distracted was Victoria, and she wished the child would shut up before she became completely unglued. Realizing he was having no effect whatsoever on the child, he straightened up and amused himself in Victoria’s embarrassment as the little head, triggered by an ancient response, twisted toward her breasts, its hot, red mouth open in a frantic search for sustenance. Holding the fussing bundle awkwardly away from her, she looked helplessly at Mark who leered into her, grinned and tossed a suggestion to his mother.
“Looks like you gotta handle this one, Mom. She needs some tit—”
“Mark! I’ve asked you not to use that word.”
“Oh, come on maw. Tit, breast, boob . . . all the same to me. All the same to her too, long as they got lunch in 'em.”
“Well, just a sec’. I’m just about done. Could you take her for a minute, Mark?” Diana asked, looking up now and seeing the rising panic inflicting Victoria’s face. Mark’s hand slid between Victoria and the baby, lingered unnecessarily then lifted the child easily into the crook of his arm where, as if on cue, the screaming ceased and shifted to happy smiles instead.
A cheer broke out across the field. They turned to see hats being thrown into the air and backs being slapped as the crowd congra
tulated itself on a successful witching. Gavin Hackett was already strutting defensively back toward the trailer, the bark of the willow ripped and shredded as it had twisted violently toward the pull of water. Bobby, flanked by the boys, lumbered along at his side, arguing vehemently that something was unfair. As they drew closer, she caught enough to understand that although water had been found, and quickly, it was so far from the trailer that it would take them two years’ worth of saving just to run the pipes. Bobby demanded a refund. Gavin Hackett resolutely declared he’d said what he could find, not where and a refund would not be forthcoming. Perhaps Bobby should have read the fine print he suggested, which was as ludicrous as the rest of the act. There had been no written contract to begin with. Bobby looked around him and saw the sentiment of the group fell with Gavin, who had delivered a spirited if somewhat limited show. And, after all, water theoretically had been found. Feeling beaten, Bobby ordered Peter to give the cheat a ride home.
The storm had proven somewhat bogus as well, fizzling out by the end of the show; a stroke of blue was beginning to split the cantankerous sky. Stripping off her parka, Victoria walked with Diana back to the vehicles, noticing as she passed Bobby’s truck that the effigy of Billy Bassman had been removed. She scoured the line of vehicles already making a slow exit down the driveway, squinting to focus on the figures bouncing roughly along in the backs of the trucks. Unable to accurately pick out his grizzled form, she could only hope he’d passed out somewhere else, and someone would haul him back into town.
She stood and watched with amazement as Diana gathered her children and somehow shuffled them all back into the car. Waving them goodbye, she turned to find Rose sitting on the trailer step, secretively waving her over.
“You okay?” she asked, walking over to join Rose.
“Oh yes. Of course. Just a scratch, really. But it could have been worse. I’m just glad she didn’t hurt the baby.”
Victoria nodded, thinking about how truly disastrous the situation could have been.
“What painting was she talking about?”
Victoria braced herself. “No idea.”
“I’d forgot about that.”
“What?”
“That she used to clean the hotel. Pearl told me sometimes they find her in there at night wandering around.”
Victoria shook her head, her thoughts on the unnecessary stress and conflict the old woman’s actions had inflicted on herself and Elliot.
“What?”
“Umm . . . nothing. It’s just sad, right?”
Rose eyed her a question, then let it go.
“He’s gone you know.”
“Who’s gone? Bassman?”
“Bassman? Who gives a shit about Bassman?” She flicked his name away from her like a squashed fly. “Elliot. He’s gone. Did you know?”
“Gone? No. What do you mean, gone?”
“Dog to neighbor left, cat to neighbor right, exit center stage . . . gone. Just like I said. Didn’t you know?”
“No. I didn’t hear anything. When?”
“Couple months ago. Just after that big blowup between him and Bobby out at the sale.”
“Are you sure, Rose?”
“Well, I’m sure Millie’s watching his house till it sells, and I’m sure she said it was going to be almost impossible to keep in contact with him because he just stuck a pin in the map to decide where he was going to. Have you ever heard of anything so bizarre? Didn’t he even call you? Least he could’ve done. Knew he was too good to be true. They always are.”
“Shit. I can’t believe it.” She sat down absently on a rotting stair. “He didn’t even say . . . unless.” She stopped, looked as if someone had reached down her throat and crushed her heart.
“What? Unless what, Vic?”
“I got a call a while ago . . . two of them, actually, but they were different somehow.”
“Same guy?”
“Yeah. But it was different. He said some things—”
“You think it was him? Elliot?”
“I didn’t, no. Not really. But he said a couple of things the one time, and that was unusual because usually he doesn’t say much at all. And then the last call he didn’t say anything. Just listened like maybe he was waiting for something.” She flushed as she remembered the intimacies she’d laid out before him.
“Vic!” Rose demanded. “What did he say? Tell me!”
“Well, it’s hard to be sure. The line is always bad, static-y, and he speaks so seldom I’m never prepared for it and then I always have to try and fit the pieces together.”
“Why don’t you just ask him to repeat himself?”
“He won’t. I’ve tried. I guess he knows I would be listening then and maybe I’d recognize his voice. He never repeats himself.”
“Never?”
“No. Except for that one call. He did just once.”
“What did he say?”
“Not sure. The damn line is always so broke up.”
“Well, what do you think he said?”
“Well, we were just kind of talking about whatever, or I was anyhow, and all of a sudden he says—” She hesitated, the unexpected words still flooding her with hot emotion.
“What? Said what?” Rose prodded impatiently.
“He said . . . or I thought he said . . . that he wanted me—”
“Whoo . . . you little sexpot you. You were probably driving him bonkers. No wonder he had to leave.”
“Rose,” Victoria turned to her serious, tears rising in her eyes. “Rose, what if he was asking me to go with him? What if he’d said that he wanted me to come with him and I just didn’t hear him because of all the static?”
“Come on, Vic. Assuming it was him, if that was what he had wanted, wouldn’t he just come straight out and ask you?”
“But maybe he thought he did, Rose. Twice. He said it twice. And he’s never done that before. Never. Maybe that’s why he phoned back, to hear what my answer was—”
“Oh.” Rose laid a warm hand over her friend’s cold one. “But that wouldn’t have been fair. How the hell could he expect you to know who was phoning? Could have been anyone asking you to run off. Even Bassman, for all you knew.”
“No. I told him that I knew who he was.”
“You did?”
Victoria nodded.
“Did you?”
“No. Not really. Well, kinda. It just didn’t seem important anymore.” Her voice fell off to a whisper. She didn’t want to talk. She felt utterly defeated. How could things always turn out so wrong for her? It was as if life itself held her a grudge.
“Maybe it wasn’t even him, Vic. Maybe it’ll turn out to be someone else after all. Someone who just doesn’t up and leave without even saying good-bye.”
“No. It was him, Rose. It was Elliot.”
“How do you know? You can’t be certain.”
Her silence affirmed she could be.
“How?”
“He hasn’t called, Rose. He hasn’t called since spring.”
Perceiving the anguish in her voice, Rose swung an arm around Victoria’s shoulders and rocked her gently. “Shh. It’s okay, Vic. It’ll be okay.”
“What am I going to do, Rose? Everything is such a mess.”
“Come on now, Vic. It’s not all bad. You still have Bobby, your place.”
“I don’t want Bobby, Rose. And I hate this place . . . hate it. At least when I had the studio I had something to look forward to every week. Now he’s taken that away from me too.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to leave then.”
Victoria shook her head despondently.
“Well, why not? If you hate it here that much, why stay?”
“What choice do I have, Rose?”
“As much choice as anyone does.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“Oh, come on, Vic. You think he’d actually do it?”
“Don’t y
ou?”
“Well, maybe you guys can get some help, try to work things out.”
“There’s nothing left to work out. He doesn’t even like me anymore, much less love me.”
“That’s not true.” Rose pulled a package of tissue from her pocket and offered them to Victoria. “Not true at all, Vic. He does love you . . . he does.”
“Well, he has a crappy way of showing it.”
“I know. You’re right. He does, but it’s because he’s worried about you. Scared he’ll lose you.”
“Rose—” Victoria objected.
“It’s true, Vic. He told me so himself.”
“He told you? When?”
“Oh, we talk sometimes.”
This caught Victoria completely blind side, and she turned to assess Rose’s face, her own a page full of questions.
“You do? When?”
“Oh, just the odd time we bump into each other around town. Relax, Vic. I’m not after your husband. Just trying to help out. Give me a little credit, will you?”
They laughed politely to erase the suggestion, and then Rose turned serious again. “Vic, you don’t have to worry about him on that end.”
“I don’t?”
Rose shook her head.
“But, I thought you said he was—”
“Bobby? I didn’t say that. When did I say that?”
Victoria’s mind raced to bring back the conversation, but she couldn’t hold the thoughts as they raced past her and all she could snap were remnants of what she’d assumed Rose had been alluding to.
“I thought you said . . . I guess I . . . shit, I don’t even remember why I thought that you said that.”
“Vic, listen to me. I mean obviously Bobby’s got his things, right? But, if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that your husband is faithful to you and will be as long as you live under his roof. You’re lucky that way, you know. The man is faithful to a fault.”
Victoria laid her fingers against her temples and pressed hard to slow the tornado spinning in her mind. How could her timing be so completely wretched? Discovering it had been none other than crazy old Mrs. Spiller who had destroyed their painting was a giant swath of bittersweet relief. Although she was ecstatic to know their secret was safe, the knowledge had come far too late. Suddenly it all fell clear in front of her. It became obvious to her that Elliot had been on the other end of those calls. She’d told him things about herself he shouldn’t know, and it had poisoned his opinion of her. Of course it had. Who would want someone who was willing to deceive their own husband by getting married when they were pregnant with Bassman’s bastard child? Someone who wished her own husband dead? She’d thought, carelessly, that somehow he would understand. But he hadn’t. Who could? She’d been a fool to think such a possibility could exist.