Then, just before lunch on Friday, the last official day of Cherry’s suspension, Ardelia called. Cherry was in the Spider, driving back from BJ’s Wholesale with a pallet of Chunky Chicken Noodle and a five-pound tub of peanut butter. Being suspended, Cherry was living in a weird dimension populated by housewives and old people. It was strange how the world just kept going during school hours, with cheaper movie tickets and early bird specials and all the super-shiny chatty daytime TV. Cherry felt like the youngest, newest member of a secret club: the Daytime Ladies.
Her cell jingled Ardelia’s special ring: “Rich” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. She hesitated, cradling the cell to her ear. The light turned green, and Cherry accelerated onto busy Sturbridge Street. Maybe with her new paycheck she could buy a headset.
“Hello?”
“Hello! Hi. So, you mentioned you run.” Ardelia sounded breathless, like she’d just been working out. “My usual running buddy’s twisted her ankle, and, good Lord, in every scene they’ve got me eating petits fours or tea sandwiches, or today it was wedding cake. Wedding cake! Six takes! I feel like an orca.”
Cherry changed lanes, switched the phone to her other ear. She didn’t ask the obvious question, which was, Don’t you have anyone else?
“Uh, sure.”
“Fabulous! What are you doing right now?”
Red and blue lights throbbed in the rearview. A siren squawked. “Right now? Getting pulled over for talking on my cell.”
“Oh, no! Call me back!”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll see you in a few hours!”
“Wait —!” The line went dead. Cherry pulled over.
The cop took his sweet time. Finally he sidled up to her window, knocked on the glass.
“This your car?”
“Believe it or not.”
“Bet you get a lot of tickets in this baby.”
“First one,” said Cherry through clenched teeth. The cop handed her the cell-phone violation. Half a week’s pay. Gone. Poof.
Two hours later, Cherry found herself running her usual loop with Ardelia. It was odd to see this route after sunrise. In the light of day, everything seemed cheap and colorized, saturated and filthy. It all seemed so . . . impoverished — a word she’d only ever heard in social studies, usually coupled with nations. At least it all seemed that way compared to Ardelia, who, in her running gear, was like a visitor from a cleaner, more advanced planet. While Cherry ran in sneakers, track shorts, and a tattered SpongeBob T-shirt, Ardelia sported a matching jet-black tank and shorts, sleek white running shoes, a baseball cap, wraparound sunglasses, a pulse monitor, and a hip clip for her BlackBerry. She even had a silver water bottle on a lanyard to “keep hydrated,” which was ridiculous, since they were just running a few miles and for God’s sake, they could just have a drink when they got back.
“How much does all that stuff cost?”
Ardelia shrugged. “You don’t know how good it feels to get away from the set,” she said, her chatter punctuated by their footfalls. “I. Just. Love. It.”
They jogged up Route 9, the least-attractive stretch, the trucks belching fumes and tossing dust. Workers from the bottling plant waited in line at the food cart and ate their lunches at plastic tables. They looked harried, wrapping themselves around their limp sandwiches and $2.99 empanadas.
“I love this time of year,” Ardelia went on. “I want my baby born in spring. They say spring babies are happier.”
They came to the bridge over Sweet Creek, just beyond the trailer park. Per tradition, Cherry paused to look over the water. She leaned against the cement barrier, stretching out her calves.
“Why do you want a baby?” Cherry asked. The question had been riding her for days. She hadn’t asked because she assumed the answer should be obvious. But it wasn’t.
Ardelia was quiet.
“I mean, you don’t have a boyfriend, which I guess means you don’t want one. But you do want a baby. Around here, being a single mom is something girls try to avoid, you know? Around here, being a mom is tied up with, I don’t know, husbands and houses and cars and groceries and a whole life. But that’s not what you’re looking for, I don’t think.”
Ardelia gazed over the water the way she had stared at the painting in Maxwell’s hotel room. She took a long breath, as if testing the flavor of her words before sharing them.
“I have a theory. Certain things are easy to like. Like candy.” She smiled, seizing an example they both could relate to. “It’s sweet. It’s available. Who doesn’t like candy? But you don’t meet many people who love candy. I mean, are passionate about candy. Would actually truly die for it.”
“No, I guess not,” said Cherry, not sure where this was going.
“The things that you love — well, they’re not always something you like at first. I mean, take this film I’m in. It’s based on this big, thick, heavy book that takes forever to get started, and the characters are cruel, and all the sentences are ten pages long. It’s not very likable. But”— her face softened —“I love it, Cherry. I think it’s beautiful. It took me a while, but the more time I spend with it, the more I love it.”
“Okay.” Cherry wasn’t sure she could think of an example in her own life of something unlikable that she loved. She loved Lucas, and Lucas was very likable.
“I guess what I’m saying is, I am like candy. I’m nice, I’m rich, I’m famous, and I’m not . . . bad-looking.” She shrugged. “It’s easy to like me. But I don’t think anybody loves me. I don’t think anybody could.”
“Jesus,” said Cherry. “That’s a terrible thing to feel.”
“I want to be important to someone,” Ardelia said, turning her eyes to the lake. “I want to be meaningful to someone. Not just sweet.”
“You want to be a mom.”
“Exactly.”
“And you really can’t have a baby yourself?”
Ardelia smiled sadly.
A duck settled on the pond. It ruffled its feathers, poked its beak into the dead, sweet water, saw there was nothing to eat, and took off again.
No, Cherry didn’t believe that it was hard to love what you liked, or like what you loved. She loved and liked this pond, her family, her friends, her Lucas. And suddenly it hit her — there were things Cherry had in abundance that Ardelia didn’t even know she was missing. And all at once, Cherry felt that maybe she actually did know a thing or two that Ardelia Deen didn’t.
She put her hand on Ardelia’s tummy. “What’s the deal, womb? Huh? Stop being so lame.”
Ardelia laughed, sounding relieved. “So, you’ll help me?”
“I said I would.”
“Yes, but you were still thinking about it.”
She had been thinking about it. Because she hated charity and hadn’t known what she had to offer in exchange for Ardelia’s wages. But now she did.
Anyone can roll a burrito.
“Dude,” Cherry said, opening her arms for a hug, “we’re gonna find you a baby mama, no problem.”
Saturday morning, Cherry drove downtown to the “historic” Four Hills Theater, where the crew had been filming all night. Spanner was waiting outside Ardelia’s trailer dressed in a smart jacket and skirt. One ankle was sheathed in a black brace that somehow managed to look stylish. She was texting.
“So . . .” Cherry tried. Spanner put up a finger, finished her text, and pocketed her phone. She gave Cherry a once-over.
“Now that you’re on the payroll, dress a little more professionally.”
Cherry had meant to look professional. She’d worn jeans, not cutoffs, and a black tank top — her only shirt without writing on it.
“Didn’t know there was a dress code.”
“You look like a stagehand.”
“You look like a super-villain.”
Spanner’s lips twitched, a possible smirk. “Come on.”
Ardelia’s filming schedule necessitated conducting interviews between scenes. Today she was in full costume — or, r
ather, half costume, having exchanged her hoop skirt and bustle for jeans. Above the waist she wore a high-necked corseted top with poofy shoulders, hair in the same wavy ’do as last time, cheeks powdered and rouged. She seemed frazzled.
“Don’t say it. I look ridiculous. I’ve been up all night. Scene thirty-five, ‘The Grand Theater.’ Some of this dialogue is absolutely awful. All about moons and trifles and treetops.”
At least Ardelia worked hard for her money.
Spanner and Cherry flanked their boss on the couch, facing the raspberry love seat where Cherry and Lucas had sat earlier that week. The whole situation was rigid and bizarre. Spanner checked a binder, clicked a pen. What did binders and pens have to do with making babies? Why did they all have to be sitting on the same couch? Would the candidates dress professionally or like mommies in high-waisted jeans and baggy kitty-cat sweatshirts? For a horrible instant, Cherry worried there might be a physical-examination component. Would the candidates have to undress? No, that was stupid. Wasn’t it?
“They’re not going to, like, get naked, are they?”
Spanner and Ardelia looked around at her slowly.
“Why would they be nude?” Spanner said.
“I don’t know, for, like, a physical examination?”
“A doctor does that, luv,” said Ardelia. “We’ve got their medical histories right here.” She gestured to Spanner’s binder. Each of the twenty-two candidates had her own file, complete with height, weight, and age. Also every skinned knee, booster shot, wart removal, and root canal. There were photographs, too. Smiling girls between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six, oozing sunshine, dependability, and availability. It was a Mommy Catalog.
This model also available in taupe!
“So what’s left to interview them about?”
Spanner seemed to be waiting for this question and pounced. “I’ve devised a twenty-seven-point personality test, the results of which, when tabulated, will give us an excellent picture of the subject’s fitness. One,” she said, ticking the numbers off with her fingers, “is the candidate a flight risk, i.e., is she likely to run away with the baby? Two, is the candidate psychologically fit to be a carrier, i.e., does she have a history of violence, criminal activity, or drug use, which may not appear in her medical record? And three, is she a liar, i.e., is she lying about being healthy and mentally fit?”
She closed the binder with a satisfied slap.
“Span is very scientific.” Ardelia made a serious pout. She was poking fun a little. “Now I, on the other hand, like to trust my instincts. I’m intuitive by nature and can get an excellent sense of a person just by spending a little time with them.”
“Well, some of us,” Spanner interjected, her gaze lingering on Cherry, “prefer to have all the data before we make a judgment.”
Cherry met Spanner’s look. “But you just said people lie on their records. So how do you know they’re not going to lie to you?”
Spanner rolled her eyes. “Well, obviously that’s part of the —”
But before she could finish, someone knocked at the trailer door. Their first candidate had arrived.
“Okay,” Ardelia said, squeezing the other girls’ hands. “Here we go!”
Cassie Warren, age twenty-six, was mousy and waifish. Cherry couldn’t imagine her frame supporting a big tummy. She was nervous, fidgeting on the love seat, twiddling her beaded necklace. Her grin was airtight.
“So,” Ardelia said, offering the girl a water, “let’s get to know each other.”
“Okay.”
Cherry couldn’t tell if the girl’s eyes were naturally wide or if the sight of Ardelia in her fused-woman outfit was freaking her out.
“Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”
“Okay.” They waited while she thought of her answer. “I’m twenty-six. Sagittarius. I’m a teacher’s assistant in Newton, but I also volunteer part-time at the Nature Conservancy. Um . . . I’m very healthy! I’m a vegan, but I still get a lot of protein.”
And bam — Cherry was bored. Hippies were boring.
“I like to crochet. And bake — I’m a very good baker.”
Yawn.
“I like to go kayaking with my boyfriend —”
“Wait.” Cherry sat up. “You have a boyfriend?”
Spanner and Ardelia looked startled, like they’d forgotten she was there.
For the first time, Cassie’s grin touched her eyes. “Uh-huh. His name’s Steve.”
“Your boyfriend’s okay with you renting out your womb?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s fine with it. He’s great. He’s a nature guide. You know, for kids?”
Spanner opened the binder. “May we proceed? Ms. Warren’s time is valuable.”
Cherry sat back. “All yours.”
Spanner launched into her interview. The questions seemed designed to root out unstable people. Do you ever feel depressed? Have you ever been violent? Cherry could answer yes to both of those. She felt down sometimes, like she was shouting herself hoarse in a big pit with no one listening. And she’d been violent, sure. She once punched a hole through the Sheetrock in her bedroom, the time Stew accidentally threw away the old family photo album.
How do you manage stress?
See answers to one and two.
Ask the right questions, and everyone seemed nuts. Cherry couldn’t think of a single person who wasn’t a little unstable, except maybe Lucas, and he got depressed sometimes, too.
“Have you had a baby before?” Spanner asked.
“No.”
“Have you ever done drugs?”
“No.”
Cherry snorted. It just came out. In her boredom, she’d only been half listening. But . . . come on.
Everyone was staring at her.
“Sorry,” she said. “But I mean, you’ve never done drugs. Not once?”
“No!” Cassie’s fine eyebrows stitched.
Cassie the Hippie didn’t seem like a liar, but Cherry knew a pothead when she saw one. She looked to Spanner, expecting the cynical one to back her up at least, but both women just stared.
“Cherry,” Ardelia admonished in a soft tone, “we’re not here to accuse. If she said she doesn’t, she doesn’t.”
Cherry withered. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to talk at all during the interview. (Demonstrates severe impulse-control problems.)
Still, though.
“But there was that one time, right? Everyone tokes up once. Even tight-ass over here.” She jerked a thumb at Spanner. Cassie laughed a little, then checked herself. Spanner clucked her disapproval. “My brother likes to smoke in the morning,” Cherry offered. “Wake and bake.”
“Steve smokes, too,” the girl said sympathetically.
Cherry felt the others straighten. “My first boyfriend was a pothead,” Cherry said. “Oh, man, every time it was all, Oh, everything feels better when you’re stoned. You’re so tense. Know what I mean?”
There was a light of recognition in Cassie’s eyes. She eased forward. “It’s true! It’s, like, that’s not me. Why do I have to smoke, too?”
“I hear ya,” said Cherry. “And sometimes, God, you just take a pull, just to shut him up, you know?”
“Yeah, and then you feel —”
Cassie’s face fell, the sunshine washed from her features. Her lips moved, trying to re-spindle the words, but it was too late. She glanced at Ardelia, then back at Cherry. “I mean, I haven’t, or I barely ever — not anymore, not in years. That’s not me.”
“Totally,” Cherry said, folding her arms. She cast Spanner an I told you so look.
Cassie burst into tears. Eyes jammed shut, gagging on her sobs, her tiny body shaking in its loose-fitting sundress. She rushed out of the trailer, one hand to her face, the other raised in self-defense.
The three on the couch were frozen.
“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” Cherry said at last.
“That was . . . impressive,” said Spanner.
“Oh, s
hit. Oh, shit.” Cherry stood. Ardelia stared up at her, mouth open, blinking her false lashes.
Burning with guilt, Cherry rushed after Cassie. The girl hurried away from the trailer in mad little steps, hugging herself. Cherry called out, and she turned.
“So?” The force of her tone stopped Cherry in her tracks. “So I get stoned every once in a while. Is that so bad?”
“No!” Cherry said. Her throat constricted. She’d just wanted to prove she was right, to prove she belonged there. She hadn’t meant to wreck this girl’s chances. It hadn’t occurred to her that being an occasional pothead would blow Cassie’s chances — though, of course it would. With so many candidates, how could Ardelia settle for anything less than perfection?
I Don’t Think.
“I really needed this! I really, really needed this! I would have quit weed, I swear! I don’t know what I’m gonna do!” She searched the ground for a solution. “Do you think I want to carry someone else’s baby?”
Cherry didn’t know what to say. She’d thought, Yes, Cassie had wanted to carry the baby. If not, what was the point of the interview?
“You know what? Fuck you!” Cassie surprised them both. The curse didn’t quite fit in her mouth. Her eyes widened, then narrowed again. She savored the words this time. “Fuck. You. You’re rich! You don’t know what it’s like!”
Before Cherry could respond, Cassie climbed into a rust-spotted Volvo and slammed the door. She leaned her forehead against the wheel, her shoulders quaking. She sat like that for a while.
When Cherry came back into the trailer, Spanner was scribbling a check. She handed it to her with a flick of the wrist.
“What’s this?”
Ardelia put a hand on Cherry’s shoulder. “Darling, I’m clearly not paying you enough.”
Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday evenings, from four until eight. Wombs on parade. Girls of different heights, weights, and shapes took their turn on the raspberry love seat while Spanner quizzed, Ardelia smiled, and Cherry watched like a judge on America’s Next Top Mommy.
At first she’d counted the minutes until quitting time, until she could run home to Lucas. But the more she paid attention, the more time seemed to fly as it never had in school or at her old job. This was more interesting than rolling burritos, and she was better at it than school. When the guilt over Cassie the Hippie had faded, Cherry remembered she was protecting Ardelia. She was guarding her friend against a bad match, against the lying, greedy, unstable rent-a-moms of the world. She felt like Sherlock Holmes, deducing what Spanner’s personality test couldn’t, simply by watching. Cherry judged and was confident in her judgments.
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