OUR SURPRISE BABY

by Paula Cox

  “Joseph, I can assure you—”

  I stop, gasping, as I realize that no, I cannot assure him anything.

  Because I haven’t had my period this month.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Allison

  I call Marjorie when I get out of the church, walking to my car through a light end-summer drizzle, the rain welcome and cool on my flushed skin. When I tell Marjorie I need to go home early, she snaps, “And why’s that?” I make sure not to respond straightaway, because the way I’m feeling I’m afraid I might snap back. I take a breath, and only then do I respond.

  “I threw up while visiting a client here at the rehab. I think I might’ve caught a twenty-four-hour bug or something, and I don’t want to infect everyone at the library.”

  “Take the afternoon,” Marjorie says, “and if you’re not at work tomorrow, you better have a note.” She laughs gruffly, and then mutters something I can’t hear before hanging up.

  I put my cell away, thinking about my job at the library, how odd and specific it is. It’s not as though there was a social work team there before I joined that can operate without me. It’s more like I am a freelancer without being a freelancer, on their payroll because it looks good to have a social worker at this new multimedia library-esque extravaganza. If I, for some reason, cannot come to work for any elongated period of time, what will happen to that position? I try and ignore this thought as I climb into my car, belly still churning, and drive toward the convenience store nearby my apartment building.

  The churning in my stomach is comprised more of nerves than real sickness now, I sense. I don’t feel like I’m going to vomit again, but my belly keeps sloshing anyway, my thoughts propelling my nervousness. I think about my romance novels, about how one of my heroines might react. Would she drive to the store stoically, telling herself over and over that whatever happened, she would be strong? Or would she go crazy, become angry? I don’t know. All I know is that I am somewhere in between, numb but nervous, sick but somehow holding it together.

  Most of all, I am angry with myself. An entire month passes—just over a month—and I don’t have my period. I don’t go to the store to restock my tampons. No PMS; no moodiness, no cramps. None of that happens, and yet I go about my life as though everything is normal, as though from the age of twelve this hasn’t been a regular occurrence in my life. The only excuse I have is that I’ve been busy at work, but what kind of excuse is that for missing something this glaring? Perhaps I subconsciously thought I was just late. I don’t know…even as I walk into the convenience store, under the fluorescent hospital-like lights, and pick up a box of pregnancy tests (why do these stupid things come in two packs. Aren’t they super accurate or something?) I tell myself I might not be pregnant. I might just be late. Because pregnancy would be impossible for me, completely impossible. My life is on track, and is carefully planned. Pregnancy is not part of the plan, at least not for years.

  I pay for the tests, ignoring the knowing look of the clerk, and return to my car, heart thumping in my chest, thumping so hard I feel as though it is going to thump up my throat and choke me. I swallow, and I get the strange sensation that I am swallowing my heartbeat. “You’re just being dramatic,” I mutter to myself as I put the car in gear and drive toward my apartment. “You’re just being a drama queen.”

  I park my car and almost run up to my apartment, stopping only to lean down and clutch my belly. My body is acting weirdly today. First there was that business mistaking stomach sickness for an emotional pang in my chest, and now nervousness is making me feel physically incapable of running. I shake my head, my vision hazy. Everything is happening too fast, without any warning. Everything feels like it’s spinning out of control. I tell myself to calm down, I haven’t even taken the test yet. But my heart keeps thumping and my belly keeps tightening.

  Finally, I pace into my apartment, dropping my handbag on the floor and kicking the door closed behind me. I take the bag of pregnancy tests into the bathroom and almost trip over myself trying to pull my skirt and my tights down, shifting from side to side, propping one hand on the wall and kicking off one shoe by accident so that it lands in the shower. Then I sit down on the toilet too quickly, my ass cheeks aching. I curse, ripping the test from its packaging as though I am a child and it is Christmas morning. Yes, I reflect grimly, this is my present. What a present! I kick off my other shoe. It hits the wall with a loud bang.

  I hold the stick in the bowl, my belly still tight, which in an unexpected way is quite helpful: it squeezes my bladder. I pee on the stick, and then set it on the tank behind me. I still need to pee, so why not; I do the second test, too. Why not just have a little more safety. They’ll both be negative, and then I’ll know, and I can stop worrying, and get back to my life. Then I clean myself and stand up and walk to the bathroom door, my back to the sticks. I know that turning around will make this real. As long as I stand here, looking at my living room, a few romance novels and notes piled up on the coffee table, my clothes from yesterday strewn across the floor from where I haven’t yet put them in the washing basket, the sunlight resting against my television, as long as I just stand here, I can pretend that none of this is real. The moment I turn around, I will not have that choice.

  But I can’t avoid reality forever. I return to the toilet, but I don’t stare down, not yet. I look at myself in the mirror which hangs just above and to the side of the toilet. Twenty-five years old, but I look younger. At least, I think I do. Twenty-five years old. Is that too young, or too old? And how old is Rust? Thirty, perhaps a couple years older or younger? People have kids and families at that age, don’t they, but I don’t think me and Rust are people in the abstract.

  I’m delaying the inevitable, I know, so I force myself to look down.

  For a moment, time seems to pause as my mind tries to turn what I’m seeing into some tangible reality. During the next few minutes, I just stand here, staring, trying to turn the three sticks into something real. I’m rooted to the spot. I can’t move. I can only stare. Just stare at these sticks which, if I am to believe them, are going to change my life forever. Slowly, the sticks become real, and I face what they tell me: I am pregnant, they agree. I am pregnant with Rust’s child.

  Gasping, I go into the living room and throw myself on the couch, burying my head in the cushions, my life spinning around and around in my head: my future life, in which my hard-won job at the library is going to be in danger, in which I am going to have to explain to everyone that the father is an enforcer I no longer know; a life as a single mother, and all the struggles that entails. Of course, there is the other option. The other option …something about that makes me queasy, but surely it would be for the best? Surely it would make more sense for a woman like me?

  Dammit, why didn’t we use a condom? Why did I think “not having a boyfriend” was a good enough reason to let my prescription for the pill lapse?

  I can’t stay on the couch for long. I feel too restless. I go into the kitchen and start chopping bananas and apples, listening to the thud-thud of the knife against the chopping board and focusing on the piling up of the fruit chunks; and then I focus on the noise of the blender, of the banana and apple and yogurt and milk all mixing together. But after the smoothie’s done and the dishes are washed and set to dry on the draining board, I’m still pregnant. Nothing has changed.

  I return to the living room and drop onto the couch, stretching my legs out before me and staring at my feet. The other choice …I am not opposed to it, in principle, but there is just something that makes me unsure about the idea in the physical. And Rust …I throw my head back and let out a groan. I have to tell Rust before I do anything, don’t I? I’ve read about women who’ve gone ahead and had abortions and later the men have found out and—I don’t think I could do that to Rust, even if Rust is just supposed to be my taste of an alpha, even if I have spent the last month avoiding him.

  I try and picture the scene in my mind, how he will react,
but the truth is, though I think there is something more there than just the sex—a little something, a whisper of something—I don’t know him well enough to imagine precisely what he’ll say or do. He’ll be surprised, of course, but will that surprise turn to anger? Will he simply ignore me? Will he tell me to go away and do whatever I want about it?

  I swallow, somewhat shocked by the way that thought makes me feel, as though already I am forming a connection with this fledgling life inside of me, as though already I am starting to become attached.

  “I have to tell him.” I murmur, going through into the bedroom and lying on the bed: the bed in which I have woken countless times imagining that he is beside me, naked, horny, ready to fuck like animals again just as we did in my office.

  I think about where to find him; I don’t know where the club is and, anyway, the idea of rocking up to a motorcycle club on my own without knowing if he’ll be there makes me nervous. Perhaps that bar? What was it called…yes, the Englishman. Maybe I’ll ask the barman for Rust’s number.

  I think back to how he offered me his number and how I brusquely refused him, wondering if he’s going to forgive me. Wondering if he’s already moved on.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rust

  Zeke and I, Shackle, and a few of his lieutenants sit in the bar as the doctor operates on one of the pledges in the dormitory wing. Even from here, we can hear his screams: high-pitched, full of disbelieving pain. Zeke winces each time the pledge screams; the kid’s a pledge Zeke brought on himself. Shackle gets a bottle of whisky and places it on the table, and one of the lieutenants collects some glasses and begins handing them out, all to the soundtrack of a screeching pledge.

  When we’re all sipping our whiskies, Zeke mutters: “Fucking unpatched.”

  Everybody nods in agreement.

  “Fucking unpatched,” Shackle agrees. “Trent was supposed to be a fuckin’ tick we could just flick away, no problem. But I’ve been hearing some troubling shit. First of all that Trent is gathering more and more unpatched to join him; and second of all that they’re getting into hard shit, like heroin.” He scratches his jagged scar, his mouth set into a grim line.

  I know how he feels. Say what you want about The Damned, but we’ve never been into hard shit like that. We’re into weed, bootlegged booze, cigarettes, protection, counterfeit electronics, but never hard shit like heroin, shit which ruins lives. Looking around the table, I can see that the men feel just as I do: this Trent fuck has gone too far. The pledge lets out another scream, this one louder, penetrating the walls of the bar.

  “Can’t the doctor give him something?” Zeke murmurs.

  “Probably has,” I grunt. “Gunshot hurts like a sonofabitch.”

  “The fuck would you know?” Zeke says.

  “He was shot, before you joined,” Shackle says quietly. “Back when Mouse was in charge.” A small smile touches Shackle’ lips, despite the screaming. “Tried to take on three guys yourself, you crazy bastard.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Young and stupid. It was just a grazing shot to the thigh, Zeke, but it still hurt like fuck. That kid in there has got a—what is it? A flesh wound to the torso?”

  Shackle corrects me, telling me he’s got a slug clean through his bicep muscle.

  “Fuck,” Zeke says. “Yeah, I bet that hurts a damn lot.”

  We drink our whisky, and then one of the lieutenants asks who did the shooting.

  Shackle shakes his head. “No clue who it was exactly, but it was unpatched, that’s for sure. The kid told me when the doctor was bringing him in that the guy who shot him shouted: ‘Trent says hello.’” Shackle growls, his face twisted with rage. “This unpatched fuck thinks he can blow a hole in a Damned—a pledge, but still a fuckin’ Damned—and get away with it …he’s a fool.”

  “He’s got a lot of support,” Zeke points out. “More than he did a month ago. Me and Rust have been doin’ what we can, but it’s difficult. I think we’ve failed.”

  I offer a sideways smile. “Yeah, tell the boss we’ve failed, Zeke, great fuckin’ idea.”

  Everybody laughs darkly.

  “It isn’t your fault,” Shackle says, speaking a little louder over the sound of the pledge’s screaming. “It’s my fault. I should’ve sent the whole club after this fuck the moment he started bothering us. I just never thought he’d have the balls to really go after one of ours. Rust, when you told me about how you chased off him and his, I thought the bastard was green; I thought he’d stay green. How long’s it been—a month, two? And he’s gone from a scared leader of a bunch of rodents to having the balls to slug a Damned.”

  “He’s insane,” one of the lieutenants says. “’Cause when we find him, he’s dead. He must know that.”

  “Maybe he thinks he’s got enough gun power to take us on.” Zeke shrugs when the lieutenant shoots him an angry look. “I’m just speaking about what could be,” he goes on. “If he’s dealing heroin, he’s got a supplier, and if he’s got a supplier, maybe he’s got enough pull to form a proper club. We all know that once you put a patch on a group of men, pretty soon they start thinkin’ more of themselves. And that can be used for good, like we do. Or it can be used for bad, like so many other clubs do.”

  I think about Trent running a club and clench my fists under the table. I think about the way he leaned over Allison, the first time I ever met her; I wonder why I didn’t just end it then and there. But back then, he was just a creep bothering a beautiful woman. Back then, he was just a weirdo, a nuisance. Now, everything’s changed. The kid screaming from the other side of the building is proof enough of that. Allison …I almost shiver at the thought of her. I need to keep her out of my mind. I need to kill that part of me. She rejected me. It’s over. Done, over, done. I need to remember that.

  “Rust?”

  Shit, Shackle is talking.

  “Yeah?”

  “I said, what do you think their chances are in a straight-up war?”

  I shrug. “No idea. Before, I would’ve said it’d be like stepping on an ant-hill, but now, who the fuck knows?”

  “Think you’d have a little more faith than that,” a lieutenant mutters.

  “We’re The Damned, don’t forget,” I reply, to a round of throaty laughs. “I don’t know, Shackle. I’d need to know more about them: their numbers, their bases, their operation.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll need to do.” Shackle nods. “I’m tired of these fucking insects moving in on us. I’m tired of their fucking arrogance and I’m tired of that kid’s screaming.” He points at his scar. “It was a fuckin’ gang that did this to me, boys, five of the fucks. Do you know what I did to those bastards when I got my hands on them?”

  We all grow quiet, because we all know. None of them are alive today.

  Shackle stands up and walks to the bar, where he leans and lights up a cigarettes. Some of his lieutenants light up too. Zeke and I remain sitting, sipping whiskey. For ten or so minutes, we wait in silence: a silence punctuated by the screams of the kid in the next room. The screams rise and fall as the doctor picks pieces of bullet out of the wound. I look around at the men, all of them seeming grim and focused, and wonder what they’re thinking about, if their thoughts are honed on Trent and the unpatched and nothing more. Or if they stray.

  This thought occurs to me ’cause my thoughts keep straying. Here I am, sitting with my club, one of my brothers screaming and bleeding, the leader of the club smoking a cigarette and staring off into space, and Allison keeps resurfacing in my mind. Goddamn Allison, like some kind of magical woman, with the ability to captivate my thoughts when she should have absolute no place in my mind. During this past month, I have banished her. I have accepted that I’m never going to see her again.

  A voice calls out in my mind: “Liar! Liar!”

  I swallow, lean back, on the surface looking nonchalant as ever, but inside an invisible hand squeezing my chest. I’ve wanted to banish her, is the truth, but banishing her isn’t so simp
le when I’ve been visiting Joseph. It’s too difficult to visit the kid without asking him how she’s doing, if she’s okay, if she’s seeing somebody else…that last one is important to me even when I know it shouldn’t be. I haven’t touched another woman since Allison, which is about the strangest thing I’ve done in a long, long time. Me, Rust, enforcer, lady’s man—that’s how the men know me—hasn’t touched another woman just ’cause I fucked some chestnut-haired deer-eyed woman in her office. Was the sex that good? Was I really that captivated by it?

  I lean my head back, hardly hearing the glugging of the whisky now, the occasional muttered word of one of the other men, the crisping of the cigarettes. All I hear is Allison. In my mind, she is leaning over me, those perfect pert breasts pushed together, wearing only her panties and waiting for me to snap them away with my teeth. In my head, she whispers, and here in the bar I feel the whisper on my neck: “Why don’t you come and visit me, baby? I know I told you I didn’t want it, but I lied. I lied, baby.”

  I pour a whisky, sip it, willing it to not only burn down my throat but burn away the thoughts, too. Allison pushed me away. She doesn’t want me. Allison made her choice. We fucked and now we’re done; that’s all. I don’t need to worry about her anymore. It makes me angry that I can’t just shrug and forget her. How many women have I been with who, afterward, I’ve never thought about again? How many times have I even forgotten the name of a woman after we’re done? And here I am…I want to growl, but I’m surrounded by the men so I make sure to keep myself calm. But I need something to help me get rid of some of this tension. I’m fuckin’ furious with myself. She pushed me away, and yet I still want her. Goddamn it!