Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

  Some are naked. You have to laugh at the men’s fully extended penises, aroused by the night air and the proximity of so much beauty. You are almost aroused yourself.

  You think of your young man. He is late. He is always late. You are always waiting. Your father says that a woman who waits must contain all and lack nothing. You think he was quoting, but you were never able to discover what. He is full of surprises, your father. Barely an eighth-grade education, yet he would correct your college English papers.

  But your young man, your beautiful young man. He wears green to match his eyes. He is not stupid, but he is not smart enough to hide his vanity. You discovered foundation makeup in his locker, yet not for a moment did you think he was cheating. Not that he wasn’t capable of that. But he was so full of guile as to be guileless.

  But you? Hook you up to a polygraph and you would flunk every question. Did you love him? Yes. No. You would have been tagged a liar for either answer. Sometimes. Maybe. Only when hooked to a machine calibrated to detect ambivalence would you pass.

  After the entertainers, the animals. But such animals! Not any that God created. Fabulous creatures with the heads of lions with large child faces mounted on them. A herd of cats, goose-stepping in the moonlight.

  You are reminded of the wonderful and terrible books of your childhood. There was one where a boy was given the power to read into the hearts and souls of creatures by feeling the shape of their hands. Thus the hands of kings and courtiers often felt like the appendages of cloven beasts, and the hands of honest workers were soft like those of the highest royalty.

  The idea that you couldn’t tell the nature of the creatures around you, human or otherwise, without such a gift was terrifying. In bed you would hold your own hand to determine what you were. Human or beast?

  Across the path from your bench is a low stone wall separating the grass of the park from the sand of a narrow beach. There is writing on it. A sacred script. Thick strokes in black paint outlined in red. Punctuated by a face that grins. It is sending a message. But what is it?

  The parade is over. People are leaving for other festivities. The dogs have vanished, the children lifted onto shoulders and taken to bed. Silence descends. You close your eyes to revel in it.

  You wake up with a start. There is a hand on your arm, moving down it. You are startled to see it is still night, but a night so bright that you could read by it. The hand belongs to a stranger, a youngish man, not clean, wearing a fisherman’s hat and an army coat. Seeing that you are awake, he withdraws his hand.

  I was just wondering, do you have any money I could borrow, he says.

  Normally you would just say no. You give your time and money to the clinic. But things are different tonight. Your sense of well-being. The beauty that surrounds you. You wonder what you would feel if you took his hand.

  You look for your purse. But there is nothing. You check your pockets in case you brought only your wallet or stuck your driver’s license and a credit card in a pocket. Nothing. The man watches as you go through your contortions.

  Probably you shouldn’t have been sleeping here, he says. Probably someone got here before me, someone not so nice.

  He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his coat and offers you one. When you refuse, he lights one himself and settles back on the bench.

  When I saw you there, I thought, Now what’s a nice lady like that doing in Lincoln Park in the middle of the night? he says. It was a real strange sight. But where are your shoes?

  You look down. Your feet are bare and dirty. There is some dried blood on the side of your ankle. You reach down and pluck out a piece of glass. The hem of your pants is muddied.

  Someone’s been paddling, says the man. I can’t say I blame you. It’s certainly the night for it.

  You notice that it’s no longer quite as quiet. Although the crickets have subsided, and the hum of traffic from afar has dwindled, there are other noises. You notice that the two of you aren’t alone. The field surrounding you is dotted with dark shapes, people rolling up carts, unfurling blankets. A man and woman struggle with a mass of material that turns into a small tent. An encampment is forming.

  The man continues to talk as he smokes.

  You’re new. You must prefer the shelters. A lot of the women do. You can stay cleaner there. But I don’t care too much for the rules. In bed by nine PM. No liquor. No smoking. No getting up before six AM.

  You must be a night person, you say. I always was, too. I’m a wanderer.

  Wanderer. Wandering. Wanderlust. You like the sound of the words as you speak them.

  You said it. Give me the park at night anytime. Hey, where’s your stuff ? I can help you settle in.

  I don’t know, you say. Home, I guess.

  You have a home?

  Of course. On Sheffield.

  That’s a pretty nice street! Where on Sheffield?

  Twenty-one Fifty-three Sheffield. Right down the block from St. Vincent’s.

  I know that area. So you have a house there. So why are you out here, middle of the night, no shoes?

  I guess I wanted some fresh air, you say. But now that he asks, you’re not sure. The man’s face has filled your mind, driving all other things out. His nose, his mouth. The grime in the considerable laugh lines around his eyes. A slight bruise on his cheekbone. The tufts of hair that stick out from under his cap. Not an unlikable face. A capable face, but capable of what?

  What about your family?

  They’re all dead, you say. My mother. My father. Everyone died.

  Hey, that’s rough. Real rough. Mine all died too. I have a sister somewhere, but she doesn’t talk to me anymore.

  He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, finishes it off, throws the butt on the ground, and grinds it in with his boot.

  Hey, do you think we could go to your house? I sure would love to sleep in a bed for once. A bed with no rules.

  We have a guest room, you say.

  Well, that’s just perfect. I would love to be your guest. Just love it. He stands up, dusts off his trousers, and waits.

  You get up too. Your feet are sore. A slight stinging on your ankle. Can you walk? You can. But you’re suddenly very tired.

  Do you know how to get there? you ask.

  I sure do. My old stomping grounds. And Antoine’s, too. Let me get Antoine. He’d sure appreciate a guest room himself.

  I only have one guest room. But it’s a double bed.

  Well, I could do worse than share a bed with old Andy. Let me find him. You just stay here. He runs off, glancing back at you every other step as if to make sure you don’t go away.

  You do as he says. You are grateful that someone has taken charge. You never let James do that. You must be getting older. Old. The desire to abdicate responsibility. To let others act, decide, lead. Is this what aging is all about?

  Suddenly the man is back. With him, another man, slightly built. Cleaner than the first, but a less open face.

  You finally ask the taller one, Are you my husband?

  Excuse me?

  How long have we been married?

  The small man laughs. If she really does have a house on Sheffield, you could have a real sweet deal.

  Yeah, but what if she does have family after all?

  You heard her. They’re dead.

  Yeah, but she’s fucking nuts. We don’t really know what’s what.

  James? you say.

  The small man speaks up. Yes?

  No, you say. Not you. James.

  The other man hesitates. Yes?

  James, I’m ready to go home.

  Okay, my dear. The man looks at the small man and shrugs. What have I got to lose? he asks. Okay, he says to you, let’s go. Sheffield and Fullerton, here we come.

  Seemingly hours later, you finally reach your house, unlatch the gate. The men stand aside, waiting for you to take the lead. A sign has been planted in the front garden. sold. Everything is dark. No curtains in the windows.
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  You walk up to the front door and turn the knob. Locked. You ring the doorbell. You ring it again. You pound on the door. James! You call. An arm grabs you from behind. Quiet. Do you want to wake the neighbors? You have forgotten. Right. The neighbors. You reach above the door and feel around the edge of the door frame. Nothing.

  Doesn’t she have a key?

  Apparently not. The taller man retreats down the stairs and tries one of the ground-floor windows. It doesn’t give. He tries the other. In the meantime you yourself have retreated to the front garden. You are turning over rocks. You know the spare key is here. You put it there yourself.

  The ground is cold against your bare feet. You step on something that crunches. A snail. Then another. You always hated them. Marauders. Thieves. Robbers of beautiful things. Fiona loved them, however. She would paint them brilliant colors using Amanda’s fingernail polish, and set them loose. Living jewels among your petunias and impatiens.

  You step on a sharp stone and let out a cry.

  Shhh! says one of the men.

  What’s that? the other one says. Short bursts of sound, a woop woop woop from down the street. Red and blue lights flash.

  Fuck, says the short man, and he’s off like a flash, the other man after him. You go in the opposite direction, into the alley. Down three houses, one, two, three. Through the back gate and into the back garden. To the large white rock under the drain pipeline. The key is under it, just where it should be.

  Peter would tease Amanda. Keys everywhere! he’d say. Scatter keys through the neighborhood! To every woman and every child! Amanda would just shrug. Better than being locked out in subzero weather, she said. Better than breaking a leg or having a stroke and no one able to come over and check on you.

  You let yourself in. The house is silent, waiting. It smells stale, of mildew, a slight memory of gas. You flip the light switch but nothing happens. Still, it is Amanda’s kitchen. No flowers, no fruit, but her photographs, her furniture. She is not here. You know that somehow.

  You wander down the hall. You know this house like your very own. Since you were pregnant with Mark. Amanda was the first person in the neighborhood to come to your door. Carrying not cookies, not a casserole, but a potted cactus. Ugly, with a small yellow star-shaped flower on the crest of one of its spiny arms.

  I know you by reputation, although you don’t know me, she said. You treated one of my students who had an unfortunate accident with a firecracker. You repaired three of his fingers, and he still has use of two of them. Everyone says you are a genius. I admire genius.

  Not a genius, you said. Just good at what I do.

  You accepted the cactus. And promptly threw it in the garbage when Amanda left. You hate plants, and cacti most of all. You would have preferred cookies. But a few days later when you saw Amanda in the street, you stopped to say hello.

  You remember it as clearly as if you were there now.

  When are you due? she asked.

  May 15. Just nine more weeks, you said.

  You must be ready by now. How do you feel? Excited, I’d imagine.

  No. My husband is. He’s the one that wants children.

  You waited to see what effect your words would have on this woman. She was tall, with impressive posture. Her back was straight, her gold hair curved in a shiny helmet that just reached her shoulders—you knew it was her real color. There were faint streaks of white—not gray—at her temples. Her tailored clothes were crisply ironed. You were conscious of your baggy cotton pants, your extralarge T-shirt billowing over your round belly, your worn sneakers.

  Amanda laughed. You’re what, thirty-five?

  Thirty-five. It was time.

  She smiled a little wryly. We’re still trying.

  You didn’t even try to hide your surprise.

  I don’t give up easily. She reached out and patted your stomach—a gesture that too many people felt free to make. You found that you didn’t mind. It wasn’t presumptuous, but something else: There was yearning in it and a bit of awe. This made you speak more gently than you otherwise would.

  Sometimes it’s time to move on, you told her.

  Not yet, she said. We haven’t given up yet.

  What about adopting? you asked, then wished you could take back your words. Of course she must have considered it. How facile. And you actually found yourself blushing. But she didn’t seem to mind or notice.

  No. I need more control than that, she said.

  That’s an odd way of thinking about it, you said. You were becoming interested in this woman.

  Nevertheless, control is what I want, said Amanda.

  But if you could get a newborn, wouldn’t that be control enough? you asked. You were genuinely curious about what she would say. You shifted a little on your feet. The baby was moving, thrusting its limbs so that your stomach got distended into strange, angular shapes.

  After all, you continued, you’d have the child right away. You can even be in the delivery room in some cases, so the first person the infant sees is you.

  Still not enough, Amanda said.

  Enough what? you asked.

  Control. That would take care of the nurture part. But what about the nature? That would be an unknown.

  But you’re a teacher, you protested. Surely you see how different children from the same households, raised the same way with the same food and the same experiences, can turn out differently?

  Yes, Amanda said. You need to know that you’re the source of whatever comes out. Otherwise you leave open the door for other emotions, other attitudes toward your child to creep in.

  Emotions like what?

  Contempt. Disdain. Or just plain dislike.

  Let me get this straight. You can love a child who displays, let’s say, unattractive traits or behaviors if you know he or she came from your genetic makeup. But if you don’t know . . .

  . . . then who knows what you might feel toward them? Amanda finished your question.

  Like a body rejecting a donated kidney, you said slowly.

  Exactly. And because you don’t know until you transplant it, why take the risk?

  Because people need kidneys. And you say you need a child.

  I do, she said. And the way she said it convinced you of her resolve.

  But it didn’t add up. You protested, But you’ve left half the chromosomes out of the equation. What about the genetic makeup of the father? That’s certainly out of your control.

  I can deal with Peter’s genes, with any peculiarities that arise from them, she said. You wondered about that. You didn’t believe at that point that you would ever consider James as something you’d have to deal with. You changed your mind later, of course.

  The woman stopped. My turn to ask some questions, she said. Why did you resist having children? Is it your career?

  No. I suppose it comes down to control as well, you said. I like making my own choices. I always have. But with a child you have no choice. When it is hungry, you must feed it. When it has soiled itself, you must clean and change it.

  But as a doctor, aren’t you constantly responding to patients’ needs? When something happens during a surgery, you have no choice. You have to fix it. When an emergency arises, you have to respond.

  That’s different, you said.

  How?

  You spoke slowly, trying to work it out.

  It requires the best of you, you said. Something unique. Not just anyone can perform a transfer of an intercostal nerve into the musculocutaneous nerve to restore biceps function. Or an open carpal tunnel release, for that matter. Even other specialists mess those up. Yet a child can love anyone. Children do love the most horrible, depraved people. They attach to warm bodies. Familiar faces. Sources of food. To be valued for such base requirements doesn’t interest me.

  You’ll change your mind when you have the baby. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.

  So people say. My anticipation is that I will hand it over to James and let him deal with
it.

  You interest me. Not many people would think this way, much less say so.

  I usually say what I think.

  Yes. I see that. And I suspect you don’t have much patience for people who don’t.

  You’re right. Not much.

  Then suddenly your memory skips ahead to the birth, which was three weeks early. There were some problems with Mark’s lungs. He came out furry, covered with lanugo. A small, red wheezing creature. He was your patient before he was your child, which helped the transition.

  Naturally you breast-fed him, because of the antibodies. Did your duty in that regard, despite the inconvenience and pain. You didn’t like being sucked dry multiple times a day, and the thought of it distressed you more than you expected.

  You weaned him at three months and resumed your professional life once you no longer leaked milk at the slightest provocation. You hired Ana at that point—Ana who did all the things a good mother would do. You were not a good mother. And yet Mark clung to you. And, six years later, Fiona did the same. By then Amanda had stopped trying to conceive, even she admitted it was pointless.

  When was the last time you saw Amanda? You cannot recall. You accept that she is gone. They are all leaving, every one of them. James. Peter. Even the children. A diaspora. But you are somehow drawing strength from that. With each loss, you are stronger, you are more yourself. Like a rosebush being pruned of extraneous branches so the blossoms will be larger and healthier next season. Sheared of this excess, what will you not be capable of ?

  You have a vision: Amanda, here, on the floor, her heart violated, her eyes still open. You always thought the practice of closing the eyes of the deceased a silly one. It’s for the living, of course, who would like the dead to behave, to have death approximate sleep. But there is no repose for Amanda. She’s on her back, her hands clenched as if about to engage in battle. Her legs akimbo. Are you making this up? Because there are others in the room, shadows are flickering. Words are being spoken. Must you do this? Yes, I must. Quickly then.

  Your mind is full of other fantastic images, some in lurid color, some in black-and-white. It is like watching a compilation of movie clips filmed by a lunatic. A heap of harvested hands on the white sands of a turquoise sea. Your parents’ house in Philadelphia, engulfed in flames. I am very far gone indeed. Here. So it was here. You can see the remains of the yellow chalk mark mixed with dust. What Amanda could never have abided.