Intended for Harm

by C. S. Lakin

  Leah pushed away from the table, her plate of food mostly untouched. “Mrs. Abrams—”

  “Oh please, dear, just call me Rebecca!”

  Leah drew in a breath and pulled Reuben out of the high chair. “I appreciate you wanting to come out and spend time with Rube. It’s just that . . . well, I’m not the best company to be around. And I need my space, time to get ready for this next one. So, I don’t think—”

  A tinge of pain started in Jake’s gut. The look on Leah’s face put him on alert.

  Rebecca reached for Reuben, but Leah drew back, pulling her toddler close, over the mound of her stomach. “But I can help, don’t you see? I’d stay out of your way. I realize you two newlyweds need time to yourselves.”

  “It’s not that, Mom.” How could he explain? Leah’s need to withdraw into herself, go deep into her moods and privacy were not things his mother would understand; she’d consider them selfish indulgences.

  Rebecca turned a harsh look in Jake’s direction. “Then just what is it? Don’t I have any say in this?” She turned to Leah, who kept her head down, crooning to Reuben, who fussed in her arms. Jake noticed other lunch patrons following their drama with an askance attentiveness.

  Jake lowered his voice. “Maybe it would be better if you waited until after the birth. Give Leah a chance to adjust, feel back to normal.”

  “Normal?” Leah asked. “Like being pregnant isn’t normal?”

  Jake stiffened at her tone.

  Rebecca threw her hands in the air. “Jake, we’re here, now. We’ve driven a long way. And it’s been ages since your father and I have taken a vacation. Do you know how much prodding it took to get him—? Look, coming back later is ridiculous. Let me help you.” She turned to study Leah. “You could use some help.”

  Those words must have rippled under Leah’s radar with other permutations, triggering past criticisms. Leah’s face clouded, a storm portended. Jake wished Leah wasn’t so independent and headstrong. He knew they could use the help. The apartment looked like the aftermath of a category-five hurricane and his mother’s face had paled at the sight, standing in the surprise of the moment, expecting to be invited in. Laundry hadn’t been done for a couple of weeks. Jake was scrambling as fast as he could trying to fill his hours at the door shop and take care of most of the domestic duties. Leah barely got out to do any food shopping, claimed the stairs were too hard to navigate with holding Reuben and balancing her weight.

  But he didn’t dare disagree with her, not in front of his mother, not in public.

  “Mom, you just showed up out of the blue. Give me and Leah a chance to talk this over, figure out some compromise. Would that be—”

  “I’m going to walk home,” Leah announced.

  Jake and his mother fell quiet, looked at each other.

  “Babe, that’s over a mile away,” Jake said. “Let’s just ride back with my folks.”

  “I don’t want them over.”

  Jake’s jaw tightened. He felt his mother’s ire burn beside him like a fanned flame.

  Leah strapped Reuben into his snuggly and glared at Jake. “Don’t forget the car seat.” The new car seat that his mother had bought them this morning.

  All Jake could do was nod. His mother’s presence at his side felt ponderous and constricting. His father approached, turned to watch Leah walk out the courtyard to the street.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. Jake could tell he was reading into things he couldn’t quite see. Just like he himself was doing.

  Rebecca took her husband’s arm. “She doesn’t want us here.”

  Isaac looked back at his wife. “Well. Fine, then. I don’t want to be here either. This city’s filthy; the smog hurts my eyes. I know when I’m not welcome.”

  Rebecca started to say something, then clamped her mouth.

  “I’m going inside to pay. Meet me at the car.” Jake’s father turned, his face unreadable, unrippled.

  “Maybe you should catch up with her, help her.” His mother’s cool eyes belied the emotion tinging her voice. He knew she felt hurt and rejected. But what could he do?

  Jake nodded. “Call me later, okay? Maybe you and I could go out for a while, catch up on things. Take Reuben for a walk.” He knew his was a pathetic peace offering. Crumbs from the table.

  Her voice choked up but she kept a stalwart expression pinned on her face. “Jake, why?” she whispered. “Why did you rush into marriage? What were you thinking? And now, with two babies—two! How will you ever finish school?”

  “I’ll manage.” He swallowed other words he knew would only turn and bite him.

  “Manage?” she hissed. “You’re throwing your life away; you have a future ahead of you and this . . . girl, well—”

  “Mom! This girl is my wife. I love her. She’s just having a hard time; give her a break.”

  His mother pressed her lips shut. No doubt she too held back words that longed to lash out. He felt eyes upon him, but when he looked around the other diners were intent on eating and holding their own intimate conversations.

  Rebecca stood facing him, unblinking. Her hurt seeped out unimpeded. “We want to leave you the Plymouth when we head back home. We’ll fly back to Denver.”

  “Mom, we don’t need a car—”

  “You can’t rely on taxis and buses when you have small children. Jake, what would you do in an emergency? How do you shop?”

  “We’re a block from Ralph’s. We can have things delivered. We really don’t—”

  “Jake!” Rebecca grasped his wrist a bit forcefully. “Let me do something to help. I know you want to be independent, but we’re family. Just—take the car, please.”

  “Okay.” Jake sighed. His mother scowled. “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I can tell. You didn’t mean it. Any of this.” He knew exactly what she was implying. She could always read him, no matter how deep he tried to submerge his feelings. And she knew he knew.

  “Just go,” she said, pointing down the street. “Catch your wife.”

  Jake hesitated, saturated with guilt and misery. If I can.

  He was already gone before he took a step.

  1974

  Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me

  I can’t light no more of your darkness

  All my pictures seem to fade to black and white

  I’m growing tired and time stands still before me

  Frozen here on the ladder of my life

  Too late to save myself from falling

  I took a chance and changed your way of life

  But you misread my meaning when I met you

  Closed the door and left me blinded by the light

  Don’t let the sun go down on me

  Although I search myself, it’s always someone else I see

  I’d just allow a fragment of your life to wander free

  But losing everything is like the sun going down on me

  —Elton John

  Through her stupor, she thought she heard crying. The green glow of the nightlight displaced her until she realized she was in the boys’ room, curled up on the floor. The boxes stacked against the wall jiggled her memory. They had just moved to a two-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, where the rents were cheaper. And closer to Jake’s job. Leah snorted and held a hand to her pounding head. A stupid job, cleaning real estate offices after hours. And nowhere near the beach. What time was it anyway?

  She glanced around and remembered they hadn’t put any clocks on the walls yet. As Leah struggled to her feet, her toes stubbed against the empty scotch bottle. She stared in confusion. Had she polished the whole thing off last night? Was it still night? Squinting, she made for the window and looked out at the row of lit streetlamps and the cars parked as if in slumber alongside the curbs. The outer world lay draped in quiet, but her inner one screamed in her head.

  Looking through the window, she noticed their car gone. Jake was still out. She reached down and picked up the bottle
; her head protested in a throb of pain. She should eat something but the thought of food turned her stomach. Simon let out a high-pitched wail. Reuben, on a twin mattress on the floor next to the crib, tossed in his blanket but didn’t waken. He always slept hard, always a serious expression on his little face, brows furrowed. He looked so much like Jake—fair skinned, chocolate eyes, nimble fingers. But Simon—even at six months he was her replica. Brooding green eyes, thick black hair, fiery temper always on the verge of erupting, reaching—ever reaching for what was beyond his grasp.

  Leah stood and watched Simon flail a moment in his crib, working up to a heated, desperate cry for food. After stuffing the scotch bottle under the bulk of the trash in the kitchen can, she reached over the wooden rails and lifted her son, her Simon. From the moment he came out of her womb, he had clung to her. With Reuben she always sensed his separateness. His stretch for independence. But not this one.

  She sat cross-legged on the mattress with her back against the wall, scooted Reuben a bit with her foot to make room. As Simon nursed, his eyes bore into hers, searching for an anchor to grasp, a safe place to lock on to, shelter, refuge to claim as his own. Each time she nursed him, he rejoined her and they became one once more. When she wasn’t holding him she ached for him. Her milk swelled and leaked at the sound of his voice, her breasts yearning for his mouth.

  His body felt hot against her chest, hot face, hot fingers tugging at her hair, wanting more of her, as much of her as he could take. She couldn’t give him enough to cool his fiery need for touch, for milk, for intimacy. She’d never felt so absorbed by another in her life. Simon drank from her and of her, and the more she emptied, the more she was filled and sated. The paradoxical image compelled her to find her journal, to pen another poem, but she had no idea which box held her personal things. She would just have to inscribe the lines in her memory to write down later.

  He slurped noisily, greedily. Knowing he coveted her every moment, her every attention, filled her with contentment. Jake didn’t need her; he rarely held her anymore. As if his arms had forgotten how to draw her to him. He waited, like a man on the sidelines, expecting her to ask, to voice her needs. He should know by now. What words to say, how to touch her to call her back to him. But he never did. All his movements perfunctory, helpful, calculated. She missed the spontaneity they once had. Missed the playful teasing, the sparking of passion. Having children had turned Jake serious, more serious than he had been before. She rarely saw him smile, dragging himself into the house after working late hours, rushing off to class—the few he could fit into his schedule. His workload was a heavy burden on his spirit.

  She felt bad about that, but it wasn’t her fault her parents had cut off her monthly allowance. She never expected they’d get a notice from school of her drop-out status. When the last two months’ checks failed to show up in her mailbox, she swallowed hard and called home. She tried to be civil but ended up yelling at her mother through the receiver, told her she was only taking a hiatus from her classes. “Well, when you’ve finished wasting time in those damn protest marches and we have proof you’ve reenrolled, we’ll reinstate your monthly stipend.” Never mind the war was over—at least for the US. Her mother probably hadn’t even noticed in the midst of her important litigious life. Leah had told her mother where she could shove her said stipend. As if her daughter was some kind of charity case that needed elevating from her lowly status in society. Please! And no way was she going to tell her mother about her marriage or her kids. She could just hear the recriminations that news would unleash. Especially when Mrs. Sacks, hotshot attorney, learned her daughter had applied for welfare and food stamps. Her mom would probably have a cow.

  From where she sat on the bed the nighttime rumble of traffic from Melrose Avenue sounded like the muted roar of an approaching earthquake. She recalled that big one back a few years ago, when still at college. She’d been sleeping in her dorm room and when it hit, she watched the windows crack, the noise sounding like sheets of ice breaking apart. Like icebergs calving and falling in pieces into the sea. She now felt another kind of earthquake rumbling into her life, threatening to shatter more than a few windows.

  She stared out at the street as Simon sighed, collapsed into a sated sleep in her arms. She’d really like another drink—even a glass of red wine would suffice, but doubted she’d find anything in the apartment. There was a liquor store a few blocks away, but would it be open this late? And she didn’t want to take the chance Jake would walk in and find her drinking. He’d already lectured her enough—like the alcohol would really pass through her milk and make Simon drunk! He was becoming critical and stodgy like her father.

  Her scowl shifted into a frown. She touched her cheek and realized it was wet from tears. She knew why Jake had moved them this far away—the cheap rent was just an excuse. He didn’t want her hanging out at the club; that was the real reason. He resented her friendships, her late nights out. No doubt he took that cleaning job just to force her to stay home nights.

  Leah, propelled by a sudden rush of anger, set Simon down in his crib and paced the box-strewn room. Well, she would figure out a way. She could find a babysitter, some student needing a few bucks. Did Jake expect her to while away her time the way he whittled at wood, a little chunk here and there, just diddling at his craft, his calling, halfhearted, uncommitted? That was not how she wanted her life to end up—in concession and compromise. She was still young, only twenty-four. She had a lot of party left in her. She didn’t want her boys to grow up sour-faced and serious like Jake. Life was meant to be an immersion in experience and experimentation. How had she forgotten?

  A surge of energy prompted her to her feet. She reached for the nearest box and opened it. Clothes went into drawers and closets. Books filled the bookcases. She fingered her necklaces and bracelets in the jewelry box, remembering the feel of silver against her skin. When she found the box with her skirts and dresses, she shimmied out of her nightgown and tried on long-forgotten outfits, glad to find they still fit. All her pregnancy weight had melted off her, from Simon’s enthusiastic nursing, from her lack of appetite. She luxuriated in the feel of silk and satin against flesh, which rekindled her tactile senses. A faint scent of rose and patchouli teased her nose, and she buried her face in a bundle of memories and breathed deeply, feeling oddly reawakened from years of sleepwalking.

  Tomorrow first thing she would scope out the neighborhood. Find someone to babysit on the nights Jake worked. He didn’t have to know; she could set the minutes by his clockwork schedule. And if he did find out, well, so what? He didn’t own her. This was her life. She needed some freedom, some space to spread her wings and fly. She needed an ocean—unmarred by the storms and turbulence hitting the coastline—to soar over, and a bright warming sun under which to dream. If Jake wouldn’t move her to Hawaii or some other place away from this drab, suffocating city, she would have to find her own way to escape. Before her wings melted, before she sank under the waves and drowned.

  She kissed Simon’s hot little forehead and placed him gently back in his crib. Giddiness lightened her step and music played in her head. She went into the kitchen to get a drink of water from the sink and noticed the tiny clock inset on the stove. One-thirty. Still early. Jake wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. She glanced at the door—the door calling her to freedom . . . and the liquor store down the street.

  After scrounging in her purse and finding the twenty-dollar bill Jake had given her for groceries, she slipped on her black slinky dress, feeling a little like an escaping convict, and headed out into the night, shutting the door and her responsible life quietly behind her.

  Jake sat in the dark. Reuben had already called him twice, wanting a glass of water. Jake’d had to steady his son’s hand as he gulped from the tippy cup, then took him to the bathroom before changing his training pants that were a bit damp. He was such a good boy. Alert, eager to listen. Rarely ever threw a tantrum. Weren’t the twos supposed to be terrible?
He didn’t recall Reuben getting into as much mischief as Simon did. Barely over a year, his younger son was already walking—no, running—around the apartment, ready to tear out the door the second it opened. Quick to cry or fuss if ignored for any length of time.

  Jake blew out a breath. He checked his watch. He’d spent nearly a half hour filling his mind with calming thoughts instead of mulling over the caustic ones eating away like acid at his stomach. He had nearly jumped when he unlocked the door and a young Hispanic girl leapt off the couch to her feet. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, then realized he had frightened her more than she him. At first he didn’t understand her answer, partly due to her poor grasp of English and the fact that he was slamming questions at her at top speed. When he began to piece together her presence there as a babysitter, and the understanding that she’d been coming to his apartment for months now, his mind went silent. He watched her gather her sweater and purse, with her gesturing in apology. He wasn’t sure either of them fathomed the situation.

  What he failed to uncover was where his wife had gone. Where she’d been sneaking to—did she go out all five nights a week?—these last months. Now that he thought about it, he had noticed a recent change in Leah’s temperament. She seemed to sleep harder and longer, sluggish in the mornings but not as grumpy as she had been. He still smelled smoke on her. And sometimes liquor. He knew she drank. And they’d had plenty of arguments about that. His greatest fear was that she’d get inebriated and hurt their children—either accidently or through neglect. She was forgetful enough as it was. He’d never been around people who drank too much, didn’t know what the warning signs were. So far, he couldn’t pin any missteps on her indulgences.