The Babysitter at Rest

by Jen George

  Someone has burgled our house. They took the TV, the new lamp, and Horse’s computer on which he’d been writing a sex drama. Horse says, “What will become of Vaginal Teeth?” “Big whoop,” Susan says. “We buy new shit.” “I can barely pay rent,” I say. Diana calls the police. The police arrive and they eat fresh pineapple cake from our refrigerator. Horse wiggles his eyebrows at the female police officer. He puts music on the boom box. Diana lies where the TV had been and cries. Lorry watches Horse and the police officer grind on each other. Allen reads a book at the kitchen table. Susan takes my paints out and begins painting. She hands me the painting when she’s done. It’s me, on the beach, topless, with one crab pinching my left breast and another crab crawling into or out of my vagina. “It’s you,” she says. Susan’s skill level has accelerated greatly. The painting is beautiful. “I’m having a show at the gallery in town,” she says. “All of the paintings have already sold.”

  I’m pretty sure I was supposed to have a birthday, but it has not come. It was supposed to be some time ago, but some time has passed and I definitely did not have a birthday.

  Susan has completed construction on the basement pool. I go down to the basement in my swimsuit. There is a large stack of unused bricks, a trowel, and a cement mixer. The pool is above ground, almost more like a tank than a pool. Or like a pizza oven filled with water. The structure goes up very close to the basement ceiling so that you have to flatten your body then scoot in on your back or stomach in order to get into the water. Once you’re in, there’s only about six inches for your head above the water.

  Tyler Burnett has gone on a family vacation. I don’t know where he went. With Tyler Burnett away I spend a lot of time at the town pool. I swim for hours. The silver-haired man watches me from a chaise lounge. I play punchies-and-kickies with Lizzie Olsen. She socks me in the nose then kicks my stomach above water in the shallow end. I punch her shoulder. I kick her knee in. She pummels my ear with her fist then with her free hand drags me down by the hair and kicks me in the neck. I cough and choke. “Good game,” I say when I catch my breath. Injured and unable to swim, I go into the clubhouse. Inside, the silver-haired man rests naked on an oxblood leather couch near the pool table. He is a very large man, very tall; he takes up the length of the couch. “Oh,” he says. “To see your face again. Relief. Please sit. Only for a moment. To be with you. I’ve come so far.” I sit in a chair opposite the silver-haired man. I watch him masturbate. I watch him as he comes. He rubs his come onto his stomach. “Please,” he says. “Please lie here.” I walk across the rug and lie on his naked come-stomach. It smells of bleach. “It’s ok,” he says, “I do not want you to remember. Just lie.” My nose stops bleeding. Pain leaves my throat where I was kicked. My skin sticks to his come. The man begins to cry. He’s very quiet about it. His stomach only trembles a little bit. “Relief,” he says. I kiss his stomach only once, very lightly, before going back in the pool.

  Tyler Burnett climbs into my bedroom window late at night. “I have work early,” I tell him. I’m the only person who’s not gotten a promotion at work. In fact, I only get coffee and take lunch orders now. It’s possible I’ve been demoted. I think my boss doesn’t like me, maybe because I don’t sleep and look tired at work. I tell my boss, “Babysitting and swimming take up most of my time outside of work,” so that she may understand, but she only says, “Turkey sandwich with cheese.” Lorry masturbates under the blankets on the bed next to mine. “I took a night off of my vacation to be here,” Tyler Burnett says.

  “Where is your vacation?” I say.

  Tyler Burnett becomes rigid. He is usually somewhat rigid, but now more so. “I must be going,” he says. “The baby.”

  “Do you need me to watch him?”

  These questions are a failing. I should know better. There is no point if I am going to continue to think and act this way. But I can’t stop myself. “One quick blow job,” Tyler Burnett says.

  Jimmy is no longer at work. He’s singing full-time now and making a record in town. I see flyers for his concerts. I’ve been cleaning the toilets and emptying the trash. When I’m finished cleaning the toilets I sharpen pencils and dust the ceiling fans. I water the office plant. I think I’ve been demoted again. A new girl takes the lunch orders. She’s recently arrived and lives with roommates by the lake. She goes around to every desk and says, “Lunch?” which is very different than my style, where I’d say “What do you feel like today?” or “Tuna again?” or “Extra ketchup?” I can see now how those kinds of questions lost me that particular duty.

  Susan’s rented large buffet tables and the house is filled with balloons for her birthday party. Everyone is dressed up. Somehow the only clothing I have left is my bikini. I’d forgotten I’d had other clothing at one time—workout clothes, formal wear. I have no idea where my formal dress went. Everyone in town comes to Susan’s birthday party; guests spill out onto the front porch and back lawn. I see Diana in a swimsuit, headed down to the basement. Tyler Burnett’s wife arrives to the party wearing one of her wedding dresses, which can be described as ethereal. Her hair is done up in a fingers-in-an-electric-socket-style bun. She is stunning. Apparently she and Susan are good friends. Susan shows Tyler Burnett’s wife her paintings. Tyler Burnett’s wife nods and claps and is very animated in her admiration of Susan’s paintings. Tyler Burnett’s wife sees me and says, “The child, our babysitter.” She comes over to me at the doorway of my room. “I remember houses like this,” she says. “Please show me your room.” I show her the three beds lined up in a row. I show her the paintings I keep under the bed. “I’m also growing tomatoes,” I tell her. “And I’m in charge of caring for the plant at work.”

  “Well,” she says. “That’s something.”

  People dance and drink. Lizzie Olsen shoots people with nail bullets from her wooden gun while her parents snort ketamine on the banquet table. Jimmy shows up in a limo with Cass, who is now his manager. A stage is set up in the backyard. Everyone goes outside to watch Jimmy play. Jimmy does not remember me from work, but he is familiar with Susan because they’re part of the same social group. Outside, I stand near the hydrangea bush but the silver-haired man is not there. Tyler Burnett shows up high on ketamine and we screw under the bed in my room. “Do you need me to sign your permission slip?” Tyler Burnett says before leaving. “I’m not in school,” I say. “I don’t want the truancy officer showing up at my door,” he says. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not in school. I’m between seventeen and twenty-two. And I hope to have a birthday.”

  In the morning, the house is destroyed. Horse, Allen, Susan, and Lorry sit at the kitchen table eating cold pizza. “Susan, why do you still live here? You are very successful,” I say. Horse belches then says, “Where’s Diana?” “She died,” Susan says. “When?” I ask. “How?” “Susan sealed her into the pool,” Allen says. “I got pretty drunk last night,” Susan says. “I wanted to show off my masonry skills. I didn’t know she was in there. By the time anyone realized it, it was too late and the quick-drying mortar had dried. She could’ve cried out or something before I was done.” In the backyard, there is a small headstone with Diana’s name on it.

  The woman who drives me to work has finally made her hair appointment. She got long extensions that were then made into a hundred little braids. At work I go to water the plant. I’ve lost my work clothes at some point, as I did with my workout clothes and formal-wear, so I’ve been going in in my bikini. I hardly recognize anyone in the office anymore. My boss, or someone who is my superior, approaches me. “Your services are no longer needed, child,” she says. “Has the plant already been watered today?” I say. “Your position is being terminated,” she says. “For watering the plant, or for cleaning and dusting too?” I ask. “You are fired,” she says.

  After I’m fired I go to the farm. My tomato plant bears no tomatoes. I take a scoop of manure and dump it on the plant. “That won’t help,” Lizzie Olsen says from a hammock. She shoots her nail
gun at me and gets me in my rear ass as I run away through the corn. I go to the beach and then I walk up to Tyler Burnett’s house with my rear ass bleeding through my bikini bottom. Tyler Burnett is at the chemical plant. Tyler Burnett’s wife is conducting a séance in the Wild Horses dining hall. “You’re late,” she says. “The baby is in his wing and you really should’ve been here hours ago.” “I had work,” I say. As I go upstairs to watch the baby, I see Susan and Jimmy sitting at the large dining hall table waiting for the séance to continue.

  “You’re such a sweet baby,” I say. The baby throws blocks around. Tyler Burnett’s wife has painted a new mural in the baby’s room with the title written in gold paint at the bottom: Gazebo in Flames. She has also painted the baby’s changing table with a scene that appears to be me in my bed at home, lying on the last of the three beds in my room, in my bikini, staring at the ceiling. Above Tyler Burnett’s wife’s signature it says, The Babysitter at Rest.

  “I get paid ten dollars an hour to watch you,” I say to the baby. “I am not your mother.” I give the baby kisses on his belly. “When is your birthday?” I ask him. He supports himself on his little podium then falls to the floor. “When is my birthday?” I ask. The baby swallows blocks. “Funny baby! You might choke!” Flies begin to swarm around him. I change his diaper, which is full of shit-covered blocks and whole tomatoes. I wash his blocks and the tomatoes, then I stuff bay leaves and sage and cedar into his diaper. I cover him in sandalwood oil. I polish his tooth with baking soda. I put a tiny bit of mascara on the baby’s eyelashes. I put clear polish on his fingers and toes. I put a thimbleful of absinthe in his bottle and wrap him in a sheepskin, then I put his little gold crown on his head. I rock the baby in the rocking chair, looking out over the cliff. “Your father’s good looks and his property will never be yours because you will always remain a baby,” I say. “It is better this way.”

  TAKE CARE OF ME FOREVER

  On a bed in the emergency room, being pumped full of morphine and oxycodone, vomiting, then being pumped full of the same medications, I recall the ways I’ve always been. I’ve always been afraid of not getting what I want. I’ve been that way since I was four. I’ve always wondered why people look senseless in crowds when they fear a greater managerial organization is not looking after them. I’ve been that way since I was in a crowd just recently. I’ve always had stomach pains and trouble with regularity. I’ve been that way since I was five. I’ve always imagined how living people will look burning in the National Cremation Oven all people burn in when they die. I’ve always prayed in bed at night to something unknown, possibly the sky, as my ambitions were never excessively lofty. I’ve always thought I was destined for great things such as people taking pictures of me. I’ve always noticed how people appear to be excelling when doing basic life things like jobs or talking about articles. I’ve always wanted to be all things to all people. I’ve been that way since I was eight and my doctor told me to give him a call when I was eighteen. I called him when I was eighteen. I said, “Was there something you wanted to tell me?” The doctor said he’d have to retrieve my file and call me back. Several weeks later he called me back. “You were a charming girl,” he told me. “So flirtatious, overtly sexual. I’d like to marry you.” “I’ll have to think about it,” I told him. My mother said marry him—the money, the status, the savings on medical bills. I left a message with his secretary accepting the proposal, but by the time he got my message he had married another former patient who had also recently turned eighteen. My mother had already bought me a wedding dress. The dress became my favorite thing to wear most days, though my mother hated to see me ruin it through use.

  A nurse approaches my ER bed, which I should not call mine because it is so temporary. “You are dying,” she says.

  My life was never almost something, which is possibly better than almost being something where dying is concerned. Once I rode a carousel and sat upon the white horse with a golden saddle. Another time I got drunk at the beach during the night and came across a party lit by tiki torches and paper lanterns where I had free champagne and cake. I skinny-dipped with strangers in the ocean then. It was a fantasy come to life. Once I fell deeply in love with a man I’d met only once. I’m not sure if he loved me, but I’d like to think he was fond of me. We’d had a nice conversation at a party and were very kind to each other. We smiled at one another throughout the evening. It is something to have such genuine, mutual feelings of kindness upon meeting someone. I had never before experienced it and have not since. After we parted ways, I thought of him. At night, I’d go to bed early so that I could lay in the dark and think of him. I’d imagine kissing him in the cafeteria at the Met, running into him on the street and getting a hotel for the afternoon, giving him a hand job in his car during his lunch break while parked on the street. In each scenario we’d mostly masturbate one another or make love in the driver’s seat or smile at each other, full of kindness.

  After nearly two weeks in the ER, I receive a room in the hospital; it’s actually half a room, partitioned by a curtain, next to the floor bathroom, with a small window next to the bed that looks onto a brown brick wall. The wall on my side of the curtain has a large crack that looks to be the result of a powerful earthquake or something rather large hitting the building. A woman behind the curtain on the other half of the room moans. A television plays a local channel currently airing old interviews of great people discussing subjects and opinions. An older woman in a yellow caftan, draped in beads, and with a ring on every finger, says, “Life was never trouble for me. I just don’t understand why people are always at odds with the world around them.” She is very beautiful. Titles under her image show that she is a great woman at philanthropy and organized events. “One must be honest with oneself; this is a cardinal rule for harmony,” she says. A nurse comes and hooks me up to an IV. She gives me several shots in the back of my arm, takes a small hammer, like one made for breaking up brittles or toffee, from her pocket, hits the crack in the wall, and then leaves. Mice skitter in and out of the crack in the wall. I am left alone in the room, in my hospital bed, for several days. No one comes. The roommate moans.

  Meal service begins after some time. A short man with a cauliflower ear appears to deliver my breakfast every morning. He cooks the food himself in the hospital kitchen. He puts hot sauce all over the scrambled eggs, the white toast, and the fresh mango so that I’m unable to eat it.

  The discord amongst the nursing staff is apparent and often difficult to ignore. The night shift fights most loudly, but there is tension on all shifts. Sometimes they threaten to beat one another to a pulp. Other times they ask one another if they’d like to take this outside. They accuse one another of flat tires, stolen mail, malicious spells preventing good fortune, adulterous relationships, spit in food, banana peels conveniently left in hallways, smelling bad, talking shit, being full of shit, shitting in the employee toilet without flushing. They talk about patients: about which ones are particular burdens, about which ones are sexy, about which ones are assholes, dipshits. One of the night nurses uses my bedside radiator to dry her pantyhose and underwear after she’s washed them in the floor’s bathroom sink. Another one watches me while I pretend to sleep.

  After holding my bladder for several days, I decide to use the floor’s bathroom for the first time. In the bathroom, I notice a large hole in the wall. An opening. I enter the opening with my mobile IV. I make my way through pipes, drywall, and rotten wood into what seems to be a strip mall dentist’s office hallway. All of the office doors are locked and the snack vending machine at the hallway’s end is empty. The janitor’s closet is the only open door. Inside there is a mop and a toilet plunger covered in dried toilet paper next to a small bucket of teeth. There’s an opening partially covered by a poster of a model in a crotchless dashiki. This opening leads outside, to the exterior of the hospital, which shares its wall with a football stadium. The stadium lights are on. I walk onto the football field and, as I approach
its center, I recognize several things: a collection of VHS tapes on a bookcase, a TV/VHS set playing Van Gogh and Gauguin: A Love Story, and a stool upon which sits a naked painter with a very small penis. I recognize the painter as someone I used to do sex games with, only I didn’t know they were sex games at the time. The things surrounding him are his belongings from his old bedroom. I sit upon the grass below the stool in the middle of the football field. The painter holds a brush in one hand, a palette in the other. He’s painted a poorly mixed ochre/burnt sienna beard on his face with oils. The painter looks as though he’s exhausted himself with attempts at important work.