Polly tugged on her gown and made her way to the door, her voice husky and still trembling slightly from the force of their loving. “What’s wrong, Clover?”
“I...want...my...da-a-addy. I...want...Wilbur.”
“Daddy’s not here. Go back to bed, now.”
“ I... want... my... rabbit. ”
“Come on, it’s time for sleeping.”
Clover’s wails grew fainter as Polly led her down the hallway, but they didn’t stop. Michael got up and fumbled in his drawer. He found a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, pulled them on and made his way toward Clover’s bedroom.
Polly was tucking her firmly in, and although Clover didn’t resist, she was sobbing into the pillow, deep, heartbroken sobs that shook her body.
“Go back to bed, love. I’ll get her settled.” Michael pressed a quick kiss on Polly’s neck and sat on the edge of Clover’s bed, rubbing his hand up and down her small back. He could feel every vertebra, as well as the child’s agitation.
“We’ll get your rabbit tomorrow, sweetheart,” he soothed. “How would it be if I told you a story now?”
Through her sobs, Clover nodded.
“Once upon a time...” He hesitated, at a loss for a beginning. It had been a very long time since he’d made up tales for a small child. He tried without success to remember stories he’d told in the past.
“Once upon a time there was a fish named Oscar,” he began, thinking suddenly of Duncan. “Oscar lived in a glass fishbowl and he belonged to a little girl called—”
The sobbing had stopped and Clover rolled over on her back, eyes on Michael’s face.
“Susannah. The girl’s name is Susannah,” she prompted, sniffing hard.
Could he do this? He swallowed the lump in his throat and made himself go on. “Oscar was a very special goldfish because he knew how to talk, but only to—” He forced himself to say it. “Only to Susannah. No one else could understand him, because no one listened the way she did.”
The ideas and words were beginning to come easier; his daughter’s name not so difficult to say.
“Oscar had a small round glass fishbowl filled with water, because fishes need water to breathe. But he wasn’t happy there. He’d put his face against the glass and look out at the big world where Susannah lived, and wonder what it would be like to get out. Gradually, it was all he thought about. It was what he wanted more than anything. Now, one day a terrible thing happened. Susannah’s daddy hurt his leg and had to go to the hospital to get better.”
“Just like my da-daddy.”
The hitch in Clover’s voice touched his heart. “Just like your daddy, yes.” Michael nodded and stroked the damp hair back from her forehead.
“Susannah’s daddy made sure there were good people to take care of her while he was away, but she was very frightened and terribly lonely. She cried all the time. She wrapped her arms around Oscar’s fishbowl and she cried and cried and cried. Oscar tried to tell her that everything would be okay, but she wasn’t listening properly and so she couldn’t hear him, and that made her even sadder. Her tears fell into Oscar’s water, more and more and more of them, and they were salty, because tears are like that, very wet and very salty. Soon Oscar began to feel a little sick because he was breathing in all the tears Susannah was crying.
“ ‘Stop, stop,’ he pleaded. But she couldn’t hear him. She wasn’t listening. Slowly, the fishbowl filled up more and more with her tears, until at last it was filled to the very brim. All the salt made Oscar float to the top and suddenly, he floated right out and into Susannah’s lap, all wet and fishy and gasping for water, because fishes can’t breathe air.
“Now, the shock of that made Susannah stop crying. She stared down at her lap and said, ‘My goodness, Oscar, what are you doing out of your fishbowl?’ And she waited for him to answer, but of course Oscar couldn’t. He’d gotten what he wanted, which was to be out of his fishbowl, but now he didn’t like it at all. He flipped and flopped because he was a fish out of water, and at last Susannah realized that her tears had filled up the bowl and floated poor Oscar right out. Quick as a wink, she put nice fresh water into the bowl, and cupping her hand carefully around him, she put Oscar back. ‘Thank you, oh, thank you,’ he gasped, and now she could hear him again, because she was listening. And he told her what he knew to be true—that very soon her daddy would be coming back to her—and Susannah knew that what Oscar said was right, because he always told the truth. And from that day on, Oscar never wanted anything except what he had, which was a lovely round fishbowl, lots of water, and a good friend he could talk to.”
Clover sighed; her eyes drifted shut, opened again.
Michael made his voice softer and softer. “And Susannah stopped crying, and very soon her daddy was all better and he came home to her.”
She was asleep. “And they all lived happily ever after,” Michael whispered, pulling the warm quilt up and gently tucking it around her.
He closed Clover’s door and made his way back to the bedroom. The bed lamp was on and Polly was propped up on pillows, a magazine against her bent legs.
“Is she asleep?”
Michael nodded, slipping under the covers, reaching out to take her in his arms.
But she resisted. She tossed the magazine to the floor and flopped back on her pillows, arms crossed on her chest. “We’re going to go through this every single night, Michael. I just know it.”
“Probably not. She’ll get used to being here. Right now she’s in a strange place and she feels very alone. She misses Jerome. He’s all she’s got.”
“I know that, and I do feel sorry for her. I just wish I could like her a little more.” Her ambivalence toward Clover troubled her still. “It’s awful not to like a child. You don’t seem to have that problem with her.”
It sounded almost like an accusation.
“She’s not an easy kid,” he acknowledged. “When Jerome first brought her in to see me, she fought like a little tiger.”
“She’s sullen, which makes me crazy. Susannah was cheerful almost all the time.”
Michael didn’t answer. He reached over and turned out the bedside lamp. Why did Polly have to bring their daughter into every single conversation? Even Clover had named the girl in his story after her.
“Would you believe my mother actually said that Clover reminds her of Susannah?” Polly’s voice mirrored her outrage. “As far as I can see, there’s not one single thing about Clover that could possibly remind anyone of Susannah.”
A long-forgotten bit of poetry flashed unbidden into Michael’s head.
“She is a little lonely child, lost in hell. Persophone, take her head upon your knee, Smile and say, my dear, my dear, it is not so lonely here...”
The words were painful. He pulled up the blanket. “Polly, can we just go to sleep? It’s been a long day, and I’m wiped out.”
“Sure.” Her anger was evident in her tone. “Sure, we can go to sleep. Anything at all to avoid talking to me, right, Michael? You can spend an hour telling a story to a kid, but when it comes to having a serious discussion with your wife, you’re too tired.”
He didn’t answer. He forced his breathing to mimic sleep. After a long, interminable time, when he could tell by her rhythmic breathing and the slight trembling of her limbs that she was asleep, he crept out of bed and made his way downstairs to his office.
He always had patient files to update, government forms to fill out, paperwork that both numbed his brain and demanded his attention. Through the small hours he worked, and just before dawn, he stretched out on the leather couch and fell instantly into exhausted sleep.
Polly awoke slowly. Gray morning light filtered through the draperies. It was raining outside; she could hear the steady patter of water hitting the glass panes of the window. Michael was gone, but she suddenly had the definite feeling that she wasn’t alone. She turned over quickly and propped herself on an elbow.
Clover stood at the side of the bed, staring
at her. How long had she been there? Polly stared back for a moment, feeling as if her privacy had been invaded. Then she tried for a smile and cleared her throat.
“Good morning, Clover.”
“It’s time to get up.”
The words were accusatory, and for some reason they made Polly feel guilty. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
She squinted at the clock and yawned. “It’s only ten past eight. That’s not exactly the middle of the afternoon, you know.”
Clover didn’t respond. She was already dressed, in the same shorts and top she’d worn the day before. She looked tousled and unwashed.
“I’m hungry. Where’s Doctor gone?”
Good question. “He’s probably at work. He has to go and make all the sick people better.” And get away from his wife.
“Sick people like my daddy?”
“Yup.” She swung her legs out of bed, and Clover followed as she headed for the bathroom.
“I’ll be out in a minute.” Polly shut the door firmly behind her. When she emerged a few moments later, Clover was sitting on the floor, by the door, waiting.
“We should have a shower before breakfast,” Polly said determinedly.
“Both together?” Clover immediately took off her shorts and top. She’d forgotten to put on panties, Polly noticed, and she’d pulled on her shorts backward. She was still a baby in so many ways.
“I guess so. We’re both girls.” It was the most efficient way to do things. Polly turned on the shower and soaped them both down, then shampooed her head and Clover’s. Afterward, she used dusting powder and cologne liberally on Clover as well as herself. The little girl was fascinated with Polly’s cosmetics, and Polly let her dab on moisturizer and lip-gloss. She used conditioner and volumizer on both their heads, deciding on impulse to take Clover to Louie and see what he could do with her hair. It desperately needed cutting. The sparse bangs hung in her eyes; the rest was too short to braid or pull into a ponytail. She also had to drop by Jerome’s apartment to pick up Clover’s things, Polly remembered.
Those errands might take up the morning. Clover napped so they’d have to be home by noon. Somehow, someway, she’d have to make it through the day, Polly thought. There were weeks of this ahead, she reminded herself, and her heart sank. She felt trapped.
During the past months she’d never thought of herself as free. She’d viewed her days as stretches of time to put in, hours to fill with shopping, lunches, hairdressers and masseurs. Now that she had to build her days around this child, Polly understood for the first time how independent she’d been. She’d had freedom, and never once appreciated it.
“Okay, kid, let’s go down and have breakfast.”
Clover looked clean, if not pretty, in fresh pink shorts and T-shirt, and she trotted along at Polly’s side cheerfully enough. At least the day had started off fairly well. That was a hopeful sign.
In the kitchen, Polly made coffee, poured two glasses of orange juice, set out cold cereal and milk.
“I don’t like orange juice,” Clover announced, pushing away the glass and scowling. “I don’t like this cereal. I only like Sugar Pops.”
“Want some toast, instead?”
Clover shook her head. “Don’t like toast. I want bacon’n’eggs.”
“We don’t eat bacon and eggs. How about oatmeal?”
“Don’t like oatmeal.” Clover thrust out her bottom lip ominously.
“Then what the heck are you going to eat for breakfast?” All the fragile camaraderie of bathing and doing makeup disappeared in an instant, and Polly was right back where she’d been the day before, feeling resentment and animosity toward this four-year-old child and disliking herself for it.
Clover sullenly agreed to peanut butter on plain untoasted bread, and much against her better judgment, Polly marked Sugar Pops on a grocery list.
She knew it was silly, but Clover’s fussy eating habits got under her skin. Susannah had been the easiest child in the world when it came to food, Polly recalled. After her illness was diagnosed, a macrobiotic practitioner had suggested a strict diet of grains, steamed vegetables and rice. Susannah had adopted it wholeheartedly, never complaining.
Sipping her coffee, Polly called and managed to wheedle an appointment with Louie, who told her that he usually didn’t “do” children but would bend his rule just this once to accommodate her; it just so happened he’d had a ten o’clock cancellation.
It was already nine-thirty. Polly rushed them out and over to the salon, only to find that Clover was terrified of scissors. She took one look at Louie holding the tools of his trade and began screaming.
No amount of reasoning or even bribery worked. When Polly tried to lift her into the chair, Clover stiffened and kicked. Everyone stopped and stared.
Louie moved well out of range, rolled his eyes and looked disgusted.
Polly finally slunk out of the salon with Clover clutching her pant leg. Every eye in the place was on them. Polly had an irresistible urge to turn and scream, “She’s not mine, I’m only baby-sitting.”
She didn’t. She hurried them into the car, took deep, calming breaths and drove to Jerome’s apartment, a two-bedroom walk up in a run-down building in Richmond.
“There’s my house,” Clover crowed as they drove up. Polly unlocked the outside door and Clover raced in ahead of her, the trauma of the aborted haircut forgotten. She danced up the stairs and waited impatiently as Polly opened the apartment door.
Clearly, Jerome did his best to keep the place clean, but clearly, too, money was in short supply. The furniture was old, well worn and mismatched. An antiquated television stood in one comer. The stove and battered fridge looked ancient. A toaster sat on the kitchen counter, but there was no microwave, blender, food processor or juicer, and certainly no dishwasher.
Two bikes leaned against a wall, an adult’s and a child’s with training wheels.
“That’s my bike. I ride with my daddy. This is my bedroom,” Clover announced with great pride, ushering Polly in and climbing up on the narrow bed. The pink quilt was thin from many washings, but plenty of toys lay scattered around, many of them homemade. Clover had several dolls, a set of building blocks and a unique dollhouse that Polly admired.
“My daddy made it for me.” Clover snatched a grubby toy rabbit off the bed and held it lovingly to her chest.
“It’s beautiful. And that’s Wilbur, huh? Let’s gather up your clothes and whatever toys you want, and take them to our house, okay?” Polly had brought a roomy sports bag and several boxes, but the few garments in the closet and the sparse collection of underwear, pajamas and socks left plenty of room.
“Shall we take your dolls?”
Clover didn’t answer, so Polly added the dolls to the bag anyway.
“How about your dollhouse, Clover?”
Clover was now sitting on her bed, clutching Wilbur. She shook her head.
“Okay, then what else would you like to bring?”
No answer. Polly added toys at random and zipped the bag, then carried it to the doorway. Clover didn’t move.
“Come on, Clover, we have to go now. If there’s anything else you want we’ll take it. Your bike, maybe?”
Clover shook her head again, scuttling back on the bed so that her back was against the wall.
Polly went to the door and waited. “Clover, c’mon, now.” A foreboding came over her. “We have to go.”
No answer. Polly blew a breath out from between her teeth, dropped the sports bag and went back into the bedroom.
Clover sat exactly where she’d left her, back against the wall, rabbit clutched to her chest.
“Clover, you can’t stay here. There’s no one to take care of you.” Polly reached out to pick her up, and Clover bit her on the thumb. Her sharp teeth pierced the skin. Polly shrieked with pain and jerked back, rubbing her hand. Blood popped out of the bite marks.
“Ow-ww, damn it all, biting is not allowed.”
Polly realized she was shrieking
. Her thumb hurt like fury. What she wanted to do was smack Clover, but she made a huge effort to control herself. She lowered her voice. “You really hurt me, Clover Fox. And hurting people is not allowed. Now, get off that bed and come with me. You can’t stay here, you know that.”
But that was exactly what Clover intended to do. She didn’t move. Chin set, eyes slitted, she glared up at Polly.
Polly glared right back. What on earth, she wondered, was she going to do with this impossible child?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Polly finally reached out and and lifted Clover, holding her tight against her and being careful to face the child away from her to make sure that biting wasn’t easy.
Clover kicked and thrashed and began screaming. The back of her head caught Polly on the cheekbone, and for a moment she saw stars. She fumbled for the doorknob, got the door open and began to struggle her way down the steps.
Clover went right on screaming and squirming, and an elderly woman coming up the stairs needed to back against the wall to avoid being kicked. She looked up at the open door of Jerome’s apartment and stared at Polly suspiciously.
“That’s Clover Fox, isn’t it?” She had to holler to be heard over Clover’s screams. “Who are you? Where are you taking her? Where’s Jerome?”
Polly, red-faced, mortified, out of breath and out of patience, had no desire or energy to hold a conversation.
She jockeyed past the woman, stumbled down the final steps and out to the car, wrestled kicking child and keys and car door and finally dumped Clover inside on the front passenger seat.
As soon as Clover was in the car, she stopped fighting. She bent forward and rested her forehead on her skinny knees, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Sweating, trembling, feeling as if she’d just been wrestling a lion cub, Polly leaned against the side of the car and tried to figure out how to get the sports bag she’d dropped in the apartment. Could she leave Clover alone in the car for the scant four minutes it would take to retrieve it and lock the apartment door?
Pickin Clover Page 14