The Birthdays

by Heidi Pitlor

  Looking directly at him, Esther released a milky foam from her mouth. The cute-moment-to-vile-moment ratio for a baby was, what, one to eight or so? Maybe Brenda would eventually tire of their baby. And she would go through the motions—change the diapers, nurse, all the rest—like she had with Daniel a year and a half ago, when she was forced to participate in every detail of his disability, to help him stand, make himself a sandwich, figure out his catheter. But maybe a part of her would drift to a place less demanding than motherhood. She wouldn’t hear the crying after a minute or two because her mind would have traveled somewhere else. Next door, or across the street, across the globe, anywhere, and Daniel would find himself alone with the baby then, two people full of needs.

  He was sure he caught Esther sneering at him as Vanessa wiped her mouth with her shirt. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a curtain lowering in front of his field of vision. Daniel’s mother used to suggest that he visualize a black curtain blocking out all his bad thoughts when he couldn’t sleep as a child. When he was five, a rash of kidnappings spread through the neighboring towns and he lived in constant fear of being snatched off the street or from his home or bed. Posted on telephone poles and bulletin boards throughout his town were photos of the children who’d disappeared. He could still remember their names: Megan Clapham, Sarah Vincent, Edward Coombs. Adults walking alone became suspect to him, and soon his teachers, his neighbors, even his single uncle Norman who lived in the city and was unemployed began to seem sinister. And each night before bed, Daniel pleaded with his mother not to leave him alone. “We’re just down the hall, Danny, just a few feet away. Nothing is going to happen to you. The windows and doors are locked,” she’d say, but she could never fully convince him of his safety. “Think happy thoughts,” she said, but this never worked either, and thoughts of playing soccer in a field always turned to thoughts of a man grabbing him and dragging him into a dark forest. One night his mother suggested he picture this forest, and then a black curtain descending in front of it. “Just look at the curtain, nothing else. I’ll stay here,” she said, “until you fall asleep,” and for the first night in weeks the curtain separated him from his fear and allowed him to sleep. It was one of the many things his mother had given him.

  —

  Ellen and Joe stood in a bookstore watching the rain fire down outside. Jake hadn’t been at the ferry to pick them up—no one had. Ellen had sat on a bench near the ticket booth, Babe in his cage beside her, while Joe went to look for Jake, and then the horrible rain had come, and Joe ran back toward her but in slow motion, trying not to slip. Each step was a strained dance, the poor, clumsy man. He said, “I can’t find him anywhere,” and they rushed up the street to find somewhere drier to wait.

  And now they were stuck inside this bookstore that smelled of old coffee and unclean dogs. Joe wandered toward the bookshelves. Discordant music—a cello? viola?—filled the place. Where had Jake been? Ellen closed her eyes and felt herself spin a little. The medicine hadn’t done a blessed thing. The world was closing in on her and would press her flat, and in the end no medicine could help that. She thought of Mac-Neil’s spacious living room, its high ceiling, its shiny wood floors. She thought of the courtyard in the Gardner, airy and broad, where she would soon go with MacNeil. When she opened her eyes, she instinctively grabbed the hand next to hers. It was large and clammy, and its owner jumped a little. A look of confusion on his face, he was a young man who didn’t let go at first. Ellen finally dropped his hand and made her way to a phone booth in the corner of the store. She turned and eyed Joe, now sitting comfortably on a stool and flipping through a book. Why wasn’t he looking for her?

  A baby wailed, a book slammed to the floor. Ellen pressed her hands to her head and held it for a moment. Perhaps she would just collapse here and now, and that would be the end. Not only would she miss this weekend, but she’d miss the births, the grandchildren, she’d miss everything. She’d miss whatever would happen with MacNeil. She straightened her spine and breathed deeply into her stomach. She was all right, she was just fine and had endless life still in her and would go to the Gardner and walk along the Charles with MacNeil and drive back to his house afterward. Everything would be just fine. Everything would be wonderful.

  She found Jake’s phone number on a slip of paper in her wallet and dialed. She let five, six, seven rings pass, hung up, checked the number and dialed again. Five, six, seven. Perhaps both Jake and Liz had come to pick them up. Perhaps they were now driving around in the rain and looking for them. Ellen hung up and went to Joe. “They’re not home.”

  “Oh?” He didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “I called Jake’s house and no one answered. What do you want to do now?”

  He slipped a finger between the pages of the book he’d been reading and lowered it to his lap. “I guess all we can do is wait.”

  “For what?”

  “Maybe they’ll find us here. I don’t know. Just try to be patient,” he said. “Let’s wait until the rain stops and then I’ll go back out to look for them.” He flattened his mouth into a sad smile and held the book above his stomach, clearly unsure whether she’d find it acceptable for him to continue reading. “You want to go buy a book?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, and rested her head against the stucco wall beside her. She felt the hard little peaks poke her head and catch on her hair. “Not right now.”

  “All right,” he said. He lifted the book an inch.

  Go ahead, I’ll entertain myself in this crowded, uncomfortable place, she could have said. Predictably, he reached down to check on Babe.

  “He’s fine,” she said.

  Joe looked at her as if to say, What, now you’re going to take this away from me? Without Babe and my books, what is there?

  There’s me, she might say. The person directly in front of you whom you no longer see. She felt wounded and childish, worn so thin as to be translucent. “Go ahead, read.”

  He froze.

  “Go on ahead,” she said, and he lifted the book to his face. Just as she turned to walk away, she heard him say, “They’ll show up eventually. We’ll find them.”

  She’d been too hard on him. He was just trying to calm her.

  And what if in fact Jake never came? She pictured herself and Joe curled up on the floor of this bookstore later that night, trying to sleep, Babe beside them, the thin green rug as hard as cement beneath her hip. She imagined slipping off to sleep and never waking, and this, this irrelevant little store being the last place on earth she’d lay eyes on. Her mind went to absurd places.

  She left Joe and wandered past shelves of novels and poetry, memoirs and biographies and spied a tiny Isabella Gardner—the Zorn painting, it was—on the spine of a book. Ellen immediately slid it toward her. It was not a biography, rather a book of the Gardner’s art, and why was such a thing necessary here, in a bookstore on an island in Maine? It was some sort of sign, she thought, some sort of lovely sign—perhaps a nod to her plan. The book heavy in her hands, she flipped to the first painting, Sargent’s El Jaleo. The Gypsy woman danced with her head thrown back, the men on chairs behind her playing guitars as other women watched and laughed. It was the first painting to be seen on entering the museum, and it hung at the end of a hallway, shrouded in small lights, amid Egyptian wood carvings, Turkish tile and the Moorish arch supported by the Italian columns. Sargent had loved Gypsy music, dance and costumes, and the wide horizontal painting was meant to simulate their stage spaces. He’d later sketched, in hard, fast lines, a Spanish woman dancing, her arms vamping, her eyes closed. He’d done a series that he’d included in an album for Isabella.

  Ellen felt refreshed, like she were returning from a better place, as she walked back to Joe. “You’re still here?” she said to him. “You haven’t moved an inch.”

  He slowly lifted his eyes to her, puzzled.

  “Hello, husband.”

  “Hi, love. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the la
rge book in her hands.

  “Art,” she said.

  “Ah.” He resumed his reading. He had no idea what significance was held within the pages in her hands.

  Across the room a boy hollered and a door slammed. Ellen looked around the place and saw next to a table, someone, yes, her daughter it was, Hilary, whom she hadn’t seen in four years, and Ellen thought at first she was mistaken, for this girl was quite thick around the middle, and had tousled, shoulder-length black hair rather than the short blond hair she’d had before. It couldn’t have been her, though the resemblance in the face was uncanny and there was that blessed tattoo of ivy around her wrist and as Ellen stepped closer she saw the nose ring. “Hilary!” Ellen said, and rushed toward her daughter. “Hilary! You’re here!”

  The girl turned and, yes, it was definitely Hilary, and her face brightened. “Mom.”

  Ellen went to hug her—she was so large and soft in her arms that Ellen had to restrain herself from squeezing too hard. “Oh, is it good to see you! You look so healthy, just look at you!” And Hilary did, though when she looked closer Ellen saw that fatigue shadowed the rims of her eyes and that she had put on a good deal of weight.

  “What are you doing here? Where is everyone?” Hilary asked. “I went to Jake’s house and no one was there.” And Ellen explained the crowded ferry, all the screaming children and irritable parents, the delay, their finally reaching the island, Joe looking for Jake everywhere, the rain, their coming here to this bookstore, and where on earth were Jake and Liz? As she spoke, Hilary rubbed her fingers together the way she had as a girl when she was growing impatient. The gesture always looked to Ellen as if her daughter were trying to start a fire with her fingers. But Hilary was not a young girl anymore. She was a woman. An incredibly large woman. Ellen suddenly couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter’s stomach.

  “So, what do you think?” Hilary finally said.

  “Is that what I’m guessing it is?” Ellen swallowed, and swallowed again.

  Hilary nodded.

  Ellen looked around for a man. Had Hilary gotten married? But of course she hadn’t—she would have told them that, at least. Or would she have?

  “I think it’s probably obvious to these other people. You don’t need to worry about them.” She gestured behind her.

  “I wasn’t—I just—”

  “I’m due in three months. And since I’m sure you’re wondering, no, there’s no father. Well, of course there is biologically, but he’s not going to be a part of things. I’m going to raise the baby on my own.”

  Ellen seemed to lose her ability to speak or even think coherently. Pregnant. She had collided with a brick wall, and no father; now she had barreled into another. “Dad is over there,” she finally managed after a moment. “Come say hello.”

  “Congratulations, this is wonderful news! I’m so happy for you!” Hilary said in a mock chirp as she followed Ellen. “How has your pregnancy been? Is there anything you need from us? I know you’re probably nervous about doing this on your own, but everything will work out just fine. And if you need help, your dad and I will be there for you.”

  “Oh, Hilary, stop it, would you? I’m just digesting it all. You could have told us. You could have prepared us, for God’s sake.”

  Hilary sulked as they approached Joe. “He brought the turtle?”

  “Babe, remember? His name is Babe.”

  Joe looked up and his eyes lit.

  “Hi there,” Hilary said.

  “You’re pregnant?” he almost yelled.

  “Joe!” Ellen said. But why not just come right out with it?

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Hilary said, and went to hug her father. She explained what she’d just explained to Ellen and he reacted with unmitigated pleasure (although Ellen swore she caught a flash of concern when Hilary explained the single parent part). A feeling of sickness settled over Ellen as she thought of her daughter raising a child all on her own. And with what money? Did she still have that temp job, even?

  Joe and Hilary chatted casually and it seemed for a moment to Ellen as if she’d seen her daughter several times over the past four years, as if they spoke regularly, not only a few times a year. It seemed as if Hilary didn’t live across the country and switch jobs every couple of months and keep the rest of her life a mystery. Ellen tried to think of a way to ask who the father of the baby was, but came up empty.

  “I’m going to try Jake again,” she finally said, and headed back to the phone. Once more she considered calling MacNeil (she would tell him about Hilary, and she would tell him that they were stranded in this bookstore and that her son was missing). But he was not at home, she reminded herself. He was in San Francisco visiting his daughter, residing in the large part of his life that had nothing to do with Ellen. Perhaps she should call his machine just to hear his voice. Like a schoolgirl, she was. Like a ridiculous girl, and when she reached the phone, she picked up the receiver and dialed Jake’s number again. Still there was no answer. Where was he? This sort of thing was uncharacteristic of him, and Ellen wondered if she’d gotten the date wrong, but no, of course not, it was Joe’s birthday on Sunday and anyway Hilary was here. The rain pounded outside, hadn’t slowed down a bit, and Ellen worried (and why hadn’t she thought of this before?) that something might have happened to Jake. Perhaps he’d been driving to the ferry and his car had hydroplaned and skidded off the road. Perhaps he and Liz were lying beneath a pile of metal in a ditch. She rushed to Joe and Hilary and said, “Do you think something terrible has happened to them?”

  Joe said, “They probably just got the time wrong or something. They’ll find us. Or we’ll find them.”

  Hilary rubbed her fingers together.

  Babe clicked about in his cage.

  “Here, sit,” Joe said, and stood to offer Ellen his stool. She took it and tried to quiet her mind again. She asked Hilary the innocuous questions she obviously wanted to hear: how was she feeling, did she have any morning sickness, any unusual symptoms, any trouble sleeping? Each question was an attempt to avoid the real one that itched at her more and more—Who exactly was it that impregnated you, dear? The closest Ellen came was, in a moment of boldness, asking Hilary why he, this mysterious man, wouldn’t be involved, and Hilary just shrugged and said, “Because he wouldn’t be the right person.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, no.”

  There had to be a reason Hilary wouldn’t reveal the identity of the father. Perhaps he was in prison. Ellen shuddered. But was this even a logistical possibility? Prison did seem extreme, even for Hilary. Maybe he was married. Married. As Hilary stretched her back and thrust out her belly, she began to assume a dangerous air, tough and wild and willful. It gave Ellen a shiver. Her daughter was someone’s mistress.

  Ellen remembered the tiny Hilary—and she was tiny as a child, rail thin with long brown braids and freckles. Her lips had always chapped, and she suffered perpetual rashes, and later eczema on her elbows and knees. Ellen tried to visualize this innocent, adorable girl standing next to the adult Hilary, who was now fanning through a guidebook to the Maine islands. A little Hilary, pouting and chewing her thumbnails, rubbing her fingertips together beside her mother, secretly too insecure to join the other children. Was it insecurity that had driven her to a married man? Was she afraid to let herself be loved by a more available candidate? Perhaps she didn’t think she was worthy. Perhaps the tiny Hilary had needed to be drawn out and nurtured more, and shown that she deserved good, old-fashioned love. After all, she had a lot to offer—she could be witty and adventurous. When she cared about someone (Daniel came to mind), she’d move the world for that person. She had the most beautiful hazel eyes. Whatever would have drawn her to a married man?

  Ellen thought of the Gardner, where the other week she and MacNeil had made their way through each room—past the Little Salon, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Tapestry Room, stopping at every piece of art: the Venetian mirrors, the Belgian tapestries depicting
the lives of Abraham and Cyrus the Great, the candelabra, the Jacobean dresser. Every item in Isabella’s house was art. Soon they found themselves alone in the Dutch Room, alone save a portly bald guard holding his hands firmly across his girth. He nodded when they came in but held his gaze just above their heads. She and MacNeil stood side by side, and for the first time she thought about what it might be like to kiss him. What if they had been alone? Would MacNeil have moved closer to her? Might something have happened between them? The room was cold and drafty and Ellen wondered if it had felt this way when Isabella had lived here. Ellen imagined she’d kept the place comfortable, for what was the point of collecting so much beauty without presenting it in a comfortable environment? A voice behind her said, “That’s where the Rembrandts were,” and she realized she was standing between two empty frames, a small plaque with the artist’s name beneath one of them. She remembered hearing about the theft years earlier. “It was an absolute tragedy,” MacNeil said, and she was glad for his words, for she was sure they would have sounded overwrought coming from her. The guard explained why the frames were kept empty—in her will, Isabella had insisted that every item in the house, every piece of art and furniture, every rug and table and frame remain exactly as it had been before she died. The guard spoke without feeling about the dates of the theft and the few breaks in the case since then—perhaps just to keep himself awake on this slow day—and his nonchalant manner made her think of Joe. She shuffled beneath her skin and considered hurrying out of the Dutch Room and back down the flight of stairs to the courtyard, where the light was brighter and the air warmer.

  She had not transgressed. She reminded herself: she had never transgressed.

  “You’ve chosen the hospital?” she asked Hilary. “You’ve got a good doctor?”

  “No, Mom, I’m going to squat in the woods alone and have the baby there.”