by Lexie Ray
“Oh, Blue,” she said, hugging me to her chest even as I struggled. “It’s going to be okay.”
I took deep breaths, drinking in her smell. I liked her perfume—petals and some kind of fruit. It suited her. I took deep breaths, smelling her a little creepily. The scent helped calm me, and I found my stomach stilling, my chest loosening. Finally, I hugged her back. I started shaking for a different reason.
Me. Blue. Sandra Webber, Webbed Feet, Weirdo, Dyke. Man eater. Me.
Crying. Crying over a little piss on a stick.
Crying over the most monumental thing that had ever happened to me.
“It’s okay,” she said, petting my hair. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll get it figured out.”
I took another deep breath and wiped my eyes and nose on my jacket.
“Thanks, baby,” I said, trying to smile at her. “Sorry for being such a drama queen. I get panic attacks sometimes. They’re not a huge deal.”
“I’d panic, too, if I’d just found out I’m pregnant,” she said softly.
“I might not be,” I said, forcing my voice to be cheerful. I grabbed the applicator and jammed it in my pocket as if it didn’t mean anything. “I’ve heard there are such things as false positives. I should probably go to a clinic. Get a real doctor—not some stick—to tell me for certain.”
“You definitely should,” Pumpkin said, nodding quickly. “That’s a good idea, Blue.”
I smiled at her sweetness and we both stood up. “I think Shimmy was on mop duty this week,” I said, trying to make a joke. “I don’t trust these floors.”
Pumpkin smiled, but it was a sad, small one. “What are you going to do, Blue?” she asked. “Are you going to call Jake?”
“Who says it’s Jake’s?” I asked, trying to sound rakish but failing miserably. “I’ll get it figured out, one way or another. Could you do me a favor, though?”
Pumpkin nodded, setting her jaw. “Anything.”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I touched the applicator through the material of my jacket. “I’m going to deal with this, but I don’t need everyone knowing.”
“I understand,” she said, nodding. “I won’t tell a soul.”
I crushed her to me, hugging her hard. “Thanks, baby,” I whispered.
I walked to my room, surprised I was able to still put one leg in front of the other, and picked up my cell phone.
Whatever happened, it was Jake’s right to have a say in it. This was his situation as well as mine.
I took a deep breath and pushed the button to his contact. It started ringing, and I sat down on the bed. He probably wouldn’t answer, I told myself. I could leave a message—that would be better. Maybe he’d —
“Hello?”
I covered my mouth in horror. He’d actually answered.
“Hello? Blue?”
“Hey, Jake,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “How’s it hanging?”
“A little perkier when I saw your number, I must confess.” There was shifting on the other end of the line, and a groan. I realized that I’d probably woken him up.
“I’ve got some news,” I said, plunging forward.
“Lay it on me,” Jake said.
I ignored the stab of anxiety in my stomach. “I’m pregnant. It’s yours. How do we proceed?”
His breathing was the only sound on the other end of the line for a full minute. Then there was nothing.
“Hello?” I said. “Jake?”
I pulled my cell phone away from my ear and peered at it. The call wasn’t connected anymore.
He’d hung up on me.
I gritted my teeth and dialed again, but it went straight to voicemail.
Feeling miserable, I put my face in my hands. Of all the reactions I thought he’d have, this was definitely not one of them. I wasn’t naïve enough to expect happiness from him, but silence was a completely different thing. He was ignoring me, turning his back on the problem.
On our problem. Our baby.
We’d talk about this, one way or another, I decided. If he wouldn’t talk to me on the phone, I’d talk to him when he came in this week to DJ. He’d hear me, come hell or high water. I’d climb on to the stage beside him if it came right down to it, and shout in his ear to be heard over his set.
Even if it was a small plan of action, it was a plan of action. It made me feel marginally better, even if I was carrying around something scary in my belly.
But on the night Jake was supposed to DJ, there was a different man preparing equipment on stage.
“Who’s that?” I asked Shimmy, lifting my chin toward the stranger.
She shrugged. “Never seen him before,” she said, continuing to put out silverware on the tables.
“You got a minute, Blue?”
I turned to see Mama, looking at me coolly, her hands on her hips. She was all business, despite the stink of liquor.
“I’ve still got some things to do before we open, Mama,” I said.
“They’ll wait, or the other girls will take care of them,” Mama said, her face implacable. “Let’s chat in my office.”
My mind cycled through what could possibly be the issue as I followed her, unable to say no. Maybe she knew about me cutting the amount of tip money I gave her each night. If that was the issue, I was in danger. Then again, maybe she’d put me out of my misery. Jake was missing in action and I was carrying his love child. It would be an act of mercy, really.
“Sit down, child,” Mama said, pointing at the lone chair in front of her desk. I took a seat, trying to swallow the panic threatening to rise in my throat. Mama perched on the edge of her desk, her hair beautifully done for the night to come and her makeup perfect. She was more put together than usual, but that didn’t relieve any of my fears.
“What’s shakin’, bacon?” I joked, trying to keep it light.
“You got anything you want to tell me?” she asked, crossing her arms over her enormous breasts, barely contained in her dress.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Mama sighed. “I know I haven’t exactly been there for you girls recently,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of things on my mind, to tell you the truth. But I hope you know that you can come to me with anything.”
“I know that, Mama,” I lied. I almost preferred her scary drunk. I knew how to deal with that type of drunk. This Mama in front of me, tipsy, trying to be my friend, scared me more than usual.
“Jake Fraser canceled on us tonight,” she said, looking carefully at my face. “He said that he couldn’t DJ here anymore.”
I tried to swallow, but choked on it. “Is that so?” I rasped politely, coughing.
“That is so,” Mama said, uncrossing her arms. “I asked him why, and he said you’re trying to pin a pregnancy on him. Is that true?”
“Pin a pregnancy on him?” I repeated, leveling a stare at her. “Is that really what he said?”
“In as many words,” Mama answered.
“There’s no pinning to be done,” I said incredulously. “I am pregnant. It is his. I was never with anyone—customers or otherwise—after the time he paid for me.”
Mama stroked her chin, her sparkly manicure glittering in the lights.
“What are you planning to do about it?” she asked me.
“Well, I’d been planning on talking to him about it,” I said, “since it’s his baby. But that seems to be out of the question, now. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.”
I hated the angry tears that stung my eyes, and I wrapped my arms around myself. I flinched when Mama rose from the edge of her desk and enveloped me in a too-sweet, too-warm hug. I had to convince myself not to push her away, keeping my arms carefully around myself.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said, but I found her a lot harder to believe than Pumpkin. She released me and sat back down on the edge of her desk. “I know a place that doesn’t ask many questions. It’s safe, clean, and not too expensive. You have the money to do it. I�
��ll make an exception on the hundred-dollar rule. I’ll give you as much money as you need to get this taken care of.”
“You mean getting rid of it,” I said. “Abortion.”
“Are you religious?” Mama asked, peering at me curiously.
“Not particularly,” I admitted.
“Well, then it’s the smartest decision,” she said. “You can’t take care of a baby here. It just wouldn’t work.”
“I could so take care of a baby,” I argued. “I took care of my little brothers and sisters my whole childhood. I’d make a hell of a mother. I’d make sure the baby was clean, and fed, and I’d be with it all day. Babies sleep through the night, for the most part, once they’re old enough. I’d run up and check on it a couple times. It’d be easy.”
My words rang hollowly in the office, and I knew how stupid they sounded. Of course I couldn’t have a baby here. I’d have to leave Mama’s nightclub to have this baby—this fatherless baby—and go to God knows where, jobless, to keep it.
Mama watched my face and leaned back, satisfied when I knew how futile my argument had been.
“I’ll go with you, if you want,” she said, opening the safe and counting out the money. “Or you can take Shimmy. I know you two are close. But the sooner you take care of this, the better. Believe me. This isn’t the first time that this has happened here, to one of my girls, and it won’t be the last. But you can’t have a baby here, child. I know you know that.”
“I know that,” I agreed tiredly, taking the stack of cash she offered me and sticking it in the pocket of my skirt. I felt exhausted, used, and so stupid that I could’ve vomited with disgust.
Of course Mama’s nightclub wasn’t a good place to have a baby. I knew that. I was just being an idiot. If I wanted to keep my job here, I was going to have to give up my baby.
Mama dropped one of her big hands on my shoulder. “Why don’t you take the night off, Blue?” she suggested, her face kind. “You have some things to think about, and I think it’ll be hard for you to serve with your usual smile.”
I had to bite my tongue at that. Mama might fool you into thinking that she cared about you, but it was really about the success of a nightclub. A bartender whose smile faltered at the thought of extinguishing the light growing inside of her might discourage people from buying more alcohol.
It was always about the money with Mama. I was a fool to think she cared about anything else.
“Okay,” I said dully. “I’ll go on back upstairs.”
“Good girl,” she said. “I’ll tell the other bartenders you’re feeling sick.”
I had to admit it was a relief to not have to pretend that everything was all right. A couple of girls shot me curious stares as I walked across the nightclub floor and back up the stairs to the boarding house, but I didn’t feel like explaining myself.
Pumpkin’s look lingered the longest.
I tried to call Jake in a terrible fit of desperation when I got back up to my room, but it still went straight to voicemail. Throwing myself down on my bed and setting my jaw, I waited until the message beeped.
“I would really like to talk to you about something extremely important,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Please get a hold of me as soon as you can.”
I didn’t have an iota of hope of hearing from him again. I knew that. I just wished I had realized it sooner: Jake was a player, and he was in no way ready to be a father.
And maybe I wasn’t ready to be a mother, either.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remembered was a knocking at my door.
“Come in,” I called blearily. The light from the hallway made me squint as my door opened. I realized I was still wearing my work uniform—and still had the money Mama had given me for the clinic stuffed in my pocket.
“How are you doing?”
Pumpkin came in and sat down on the edge of my bed.
“I took a nap,” I croaked, still feeling groggy. “Did we close already?”
“Yep,” Pumpkin said. “You slept through everything.”
I sighed. “Are you doing anything tomorrow morning?” I asked. “I’m going to go to the clinic.”
I couldn’t make out Pumpkin’s expression in the darkness of the room. I was kind of glad for that—it meant she couldn’t see my face, either.
“Is that what Mama was talking to you about?” she asked. “Taking care of the problem?”
“Pretty much.”
“And what do you want to do?” Pumpkin asked.
“Go back in time,” I said, not caring if it sounded petulant.
“So you wouldn’t ever have hooked up with Jake?”
No, I wanted to say. I’d turn back time all the way back to my high school years. I’d call Child Protective Services years before I did, and get myself and my siblings the help and support we needed and deserved. I would’ve figured out how to go to college—netting more scholarships and grants or taking out a loan, and I would’ve seized my future. I never would’ve learned how to mix a drink, never would’ve worked behind a bar, and never would’ve met Jake, who had abandoned me at the news that I was carrying his child.
“Something like that,” I said finally.
“I’ll go with you,” Pumpkin said. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to do it alone.”
“Thanks, Pumpkin,” I said. “Sorry to be so weird about all of this.”
“You’re allowed to be weird about it,” she said. “It’s a little person growing inside of you.”
She left, closing the door behind her, and I put my hand on my stomach. A little person. Half me, and half Jake.
I stared into the dark for a long time before I was able to sleep again.
Chapter Five
The next morning, I told Pumpkin to forget about going to the clinic with me—at least that morning. I was bone tired and didn’t feel like having doctors poke or prod at me.
It was even easier to not go the next morning. And the next. If I didn’t see any changes in myself, the fact that I was carrying a child was easy to ignore.
The fact that I actually was pregnant hit me hard after I missed my third period since the fateful test. I was having more and more trouble wearing my skirt for work, the buttons and zipper squeezing me. I’d taken to just leaving the button open and pulling my work blouse down over it.
It wasn’t a true baby bump. It was more like I’d been stuffing my face full of fast food and never exercising. Nobody said anything, but I got a girdle all the same. It wasn’t something I wanted Mama knowing, especially since I’d taken the money she’d given me for the abortion and stashed it with the rest of the cash I’d been saving.
At four months pregnant, I knew I was past the point of return. What had been a gut turned into a full-fledged baby bump. The future wasn’t my endgame; it was just getting past the challenges of my everyday existence. I purchased a larger blouse to help me conceal the bump, and I stopped sauntering down the hallway naked after taking a shower—my usual way of getting laughs from the other girls. I withdrew into myself and my room, thankful for the first time that I didn’t have a roommate to share the space with. I kept my door closed, looking at my belly in the mirror, and trying on clothes to see if I had anything that still fit.
Everyone knew something was wrong with me, but only Pumpkin—and Mama—knew the details. Pumpkin gave me my space, but I ran into Mama when I was in just a bathrobe—and girdle-less—downstairs in the kitchen one morning.
I was currently undergoing a wicked craving for a hotdog. It’d bounced me out of bed earlier than I was used to getting up and kicked my ass right down the stairs. It had to be a big hotdog, slathered in mustard and relish. That’s what I wanted—no, needed.
I was rooting around in the refrigerator in the kitchen with more seriousness than I’d shown most pursuits in my life when I heard the door open.
“Morning,” Mama said, her voice bleary. I stiffened, thinking of the cash I hadn’t used on an abortion, a
nd looked at the package of hotdogs I was clutching. This looked exactly like it was—a pregnant woman succumbing to a vicious craving at an ungodly hour.
I turned, carefully pointing my bump inside the fridge.
“Morning,” I returned, trying not to sound suspicious. “Did we do good last night?”
“You know we did,” Mama said. She’d coated her face in a green mask of some sort, and her hair was in a shower cap. I could smell her hangover from where I was standing, and it made my stomach turn precariously.
“That’s good,” I said, swallowing a gag. With no small amount of regret, I replaced the hotdogs and took out the orange juice. Still keeping my front away from Mama’s view, I got a glass and poured the juice into it.
“Can you pour one for me, too, child?” Mama asked. “And would it be too much trouble if we went to the bar to splash some vodka in it? I need a hair of the dog.”
At the word “vodka,” I did gag, but was able to cover it with a cough. Terrible cravings and now a horrible aversion to alcohol? Life was getting interesting.
“Sure thing,” I said, pouring Mama’s glass and walking past her as casually as I could. I was going to have to start wearing the girdle everywhere I went, I realized, pushing out the door, Mama on my heels.
“I don’t want to get too personal, because I know you’re private with your life, Blue,” Mama said, as I slipped behind the bar, thankful for the cover it gave my bump. “But did you take care of that thing that we talked about?”
For a woman as ruthless as Mama could be, I found her euphemisms laughable.
“Yes,” I said, unscrewing the bottle of vodka and trying to keep it as far away from my nose as possible. If I sniffed just one tiny waft of the alcohol, I’d probably vomit all over Mama.
“And are you doing okay?” she asked. “It’s not an easy thing to do, I’m told.”
Inspiration struck at the strangest moments, but strike me it did, right as I capped the vodka and pushed Mama’s doctored drink toward her.
“I’ve been sad,” I said, “and I think I’ve been eating too much. I’m getting kind of fat.” I took a chance and patted my bump through my bathrobe.