Concrete Angel

by Patricia Abbott

  My babysitting job wasn’t until six so I went to the basement and turned on The Mike Douglas Show where Kristy McNichol was singing “He’s so Fine” to Burt Reynolds. Over Kristy’s wall of sound, I could still hear my mother on the phone with her new friend, Fran. Fran disappeared from our lives quickly as most women did since mother was never long interested in the company of females. But on that day, lots of giggling followed, probably about Mother’s newest returns.

  Mother was running out of room. Only last month, she donated three boxes of merchandise to the Salvation Army, something that went against her scruples. The woman acted surprised to receive so many unused beauty products, but listened attentively as Mother assured her that paying more attention to improving one’s looks would help the poor secure jobs.

  “And help yourself, of course,” she told the open-mouthed woman. “You get first dibs.”

  The Martins left for their dinner party at eight, their two toddlers already fast asleep. Neil Burbage arrived at nine. He lived alone with his mother, which gave us something in common—an absentee father. Neil’s father had died in the early days of the Vietnam War, and he barely remembered him.

  Although I wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend, no one could stop me from talking to Neil at school. We weren’t exactly dating but had kissed three times. The last time, in a back row of a movie theater downtown, he’d put a shaky hand on my breast. It sat there twitching for several seconds before I brushed it off. If I was supposed to feel sexy—like I might suddenly want to do it—something was wrong. Mostly I’d felt embarrassed, weird. My breasts, small and covered by layers of white cotton: bra, slip, blouse, sweater, hardly merited such attention. They seemed no more sexual than my ankle or ear. But maybe Neil wasn’t doing it right.

  Kissing, I could get; there was something for both of us to do. If you were to rate Neil as a desirable boyfriend—like they did practically each month in my mother’s magazines—he’d rank near the bottom. But so would Mickey. My father would also rate as a bust, based on his history of cheating and being out of the house so often. The “absentee father,” one of the quizzes labeled him. Neither Mother nor I had ever met the kind of men who topped those lists. If there was a list rating women in Esquire Magazine, where would we be on it? What was our claim to a high number? So for the present, Neil was nice enough and a pretty good kisser.

  We were getting to the point where we might begin kissing when I heard a cautious knock at the door. Jumping up, I grabbed Neil’s hand. He was a bit dazed and slow to move; his feet were too big and clumsy to make a hasty escape. It always surprised me how large most men’s feet were in shoes. At the swimming pool, they always seemed to be a normal size, but something happened once they slid into shoes.

  “Come on,” I hissed, tugging at him. Seconds later, I practically shoved him down the basement steps. “You can come back up once whoever it is goes,” I hissed.

  I pressed the door closed, sensing him standing there at the top of the steps, thinking the situation over. I listened to his heavy footsteps as he slowly descended.

  “Mother,” I said a second later, back at the door. She stood in the doorway looking wan and worried, her eyes blinking blindly in the blast of light. I held the door open and she stepped inside. Did she really think I needed her help? That woman who couldn’t raise me?

  “Bet you didn’t expect me.” She laughed raggedly and grabbed my hand. “Don’t worry, Baby. Nobody died.” She quickly sank into the nearest chair, but immediately rose, examining the seat like something on it had stung her. “Look, I think I made a mistake tonight. A pretty big one actually.”

  It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying because I could hear Neil walking around in the basement, sounding like a huge animal moving through the brush. I heard a ping pong ball drop and bounce a few times, a racquet clattered to the floor. Did he have to entertain himself with the sports’ equipment? Mother appeared oblivious to the noise though she might have thought it was the children playing.

  “What kind of mistake?” I asked, wondering if Neil had managed to turn on a light before his descent. Perhaps he was in the dark?

  “Look, I took—I took something a little while ago. She told me it’d do the trick, but now I’m sort of sick.” Mother put her hand on her stomach and made a face. “You know—nauseated.”

  “You took something for what? Cramps?”

  The sudden and reassuring silence below allowed me to concentrate now. My mother did look sort of green; she wore two different shoes too. Unheard of.

  “Where’s Mickey?” There was no way this didn’t involve him. “And who’s she? The one who said it would do the trick?”

  She chose the question to answer. “Plays poker tonight. You know that!”

  My stepfather played poker on second Friday nights. On the nights when it was at our house, Mother went crazy fixing packaged treats. Mickey had to practically drag her out of the kitchen when the other men came. Or “the boys” as she referred to them.

  “The boys love my California dip.”

  “Sure, Baby,” Mickey said, grinning crazy-eyed at the men sitting behind her. “You’re some great cook.”

  I felt like dumping the platter in his lap. She was trying so hard for the first time in her life, and this was her reward. I always wondered if Racine had done any better.

  “So what did’ya take, Mom? What kind of pill?” Hadn’t I already asked her? She had an unnatural fear of doctors and had been known to medicate herself with anything available. “Who’s she?” I repeated.

  “A kind of potion, I guess you’d call it. Brewer’s yeast and pennyroyal tea.”

  I’d never heard of either. She made a face, and then busied herself with examining the framed photos on the mantel.

  “Cute kids. They look exactly like their father. I’ve seen him mowing the lawn once or twice. Muscular guy, blonde?”

  I nodded and she turned away suddenly, a fist to her mouth.

  “What’s pennyroyal?” I asked, pretending not to notice her unusual gesture.

  “It’s an herb, I think.” Seeing my blank look, she added, “A weed. Oh god, I might as well tell you. I think I might be pregnant.” She waited for my reaction, which was slow to come, so she went on with the story. “Someone told me pennyroyal tea mixed with brewer’s yeast would do the trick. Can you imagine—having a kid—at my age? You know, I actually tried to get pregnant a few years back. With Hank, that is. When it might have been a good idea. But now…”

  “You mean kill the baby?” I was shocked. This was something out of a Danielle Steele novel. I knew young girls had abortions but not married women. Not my mother. “You think you might be pregnant or you know you are?” I wasn’t too sure about the mechanics. Were there signs other than the obvious one? Did a rabbit actually have to die?

  “Oh, it’s the same as when I was pregnant with you. The same feeling. If Mickey finds out, he’ll make me go through with it though he won’t want another kid. Catholics, you know.” Mother swished around the room, examining the knick-knacks and not looking me in the eye. “Every piece in this room was purchased around 1965. Must have been the year they got married. The Martins.” She fingered a porcelain figurine of a shepherd girl. “I bet they bought this at Kresge’s—even if it looks expensive. With little kids around, you aren’t going to spend money on stuff like this. You put your valuables away somewhere. Probably in the basement.”

  She looked vaguely in the direction of the basement door. Would she insist on going to look? Thinking there were boxes of junk for her to investigate? Maybe a thing or two to take? Was there some other place Neil could hide?

  I took the shepherdess out of her hands, steering her back to what brought her here. “Mom, listen, what’s the stuff you took supposed to do?”

  “She said it’d start me cramping in a few hours, and I’d go on to miscarry within a day or two. I took it about an hour ago. So far I only feel sick to my stomach.” She paused, considering her st
ate. “Maybe its nerves. I’m as jittery as a canary.” She started prowling the room again, and I followed close behind.

  “Why don’t you go back to her, Mom. Or at least call.”

  I heard Neil moving around again, but Mother didn’t flinch. Why had she come to me anyway? Wouldn’t my grandmother have been a better choice? Probably not, given her hatred of Mickey. And she’d certainly not support Mother in an abortion. She was one of those women who put crosses on her church lawn. But what could I do? Fixing her hair hadn’t prepared me for this. Taking the rap for a murder too was poor preparation for assisting in an abortion. Would there be no end to supporting her? Was there ever going to be an escape?

  “She’s out playing bridge tonight. Does everyone in this city play cards on Friday nights?” She ran a hand through her hair. “Told me to wait till tomorrow, but I wanted to get it out of the way—take it while Mickey was out. You too. I thought I could handle it. She made it sound like I could.” Mother put a hand over her stomach again. “I don’t think anything’s happening, Christine. They’re not cramps—mostly I’m kind of nauseous.” She checked her watch. “What time do you expect the Martins home?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “I guess I’ll go on home. No sense running into them.” She started toward the door. “I think I’m a little better. Not that that’s a good thing. Nothing’s going to happen now except I’m going to have a baby at age forty-two. Can you imagine? If I wasn’t married to a Catholic, I could get a legal abortion. Why did I hook up with a Catholic?” The tears started. “Mickey will blame it all on me.” She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Maybe it’ll be a boy. Most men want a son, don’t they?”

  I couldn’t picture Mickey surrounded by baby gear: cribs, high-chairs, bassinets. Would he sacrifice his fish tanks to make room for a kid?

  “I bet that stuff—the penny royal—takes time to work.” I patted her shoulder. “Call me if something happens.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about any of this. Should I help her murder my little brother or sister? If discovered, what would the punishment be? More visits to a shrink? Jail? I doubted I could avoid jail with another suspicious death on my record. But abortion was legal. But this kind? Self-induced. I wasn’t sure.

  And wasn’t I too old to have a sibling? Given what I knew about my mother, I’d be more like a teenaged mother than a sister.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” The words were perfunctory since my head was spinning with the possible outcomes.

  “Sure, sure. I’ve been in worse fixes than this.”

  As she started out the door, we both noticed the Martins’ blue Torino pulling up. “Oh boy, they’re home earlier than you thought,” Mother said brightly. “Now you can come home and take care of me.”

  The Martins weren’t surprised to find my mother there and within a few minutes, we were home again with Neil left behind. It was hard to keep his dilemma in my head over the next few hours, which were mostly spent turning Mother’s problem over and over. I drew her two hot baths, made tea, rubbed her feet, found a heating pad, did her hair. “Thanks. It always makes things better—to look like myself.” We waited expectantly—forgive the word.

  Nothing happened.

  Neil ended up spending the night in the Martins’ basement. The phone rang at seven-thirty the next morning. “I think we have something of yours,” Mrs. Martin told me icily.

  “Hi, Christine.” Neil sounded dopey, either from lack of sleep or embarrassment. Or maybe he was a dope. Why had I chosen so poorly—was it a family curse? Was I on the road to a Mickey already?

  “Why didn’t you go home?” I hissed into the phone. He started to answer when I interrupted. “No, never mind. We’ll talk about it later.”

  I hung up quietly and then heard a snuffling sound, only partially muffled, and remembered too late Mother’d be awake and was probably listening in.

  Downstairs, she sat at the kitchen table clicking her nails, now platinum, on the vinyl. Even after the night she’d spent, the troubles she had, Mother was prepped for the day ahead. Her negligee was apricot and her bare shoulders were peachy in the morning light. Her hair, loose for once, was well-brushed. She wore light makeup. A light scent carried on the breeze coming in the tiny kitchen window. I couldn’t help but stare at her; after the night we’d spent, she was ready for action whereas I was my usually soggy mess.

  Mickey never rose before ten on Saturdays so there’d be plenty of time to discuss recent events. I sat down. Nobody said anything for a long time.

  “Well, I don’t know what to do with you,” she finally said. She jerked her head suddenly. “After what I already have to tell Mickey, you bring me this? Was this Neil person hiding in the basement the whole time, making a fool of me? When I was pouring out my heart to you? Were you planning a little escapade of your own?” She paused. “Hey, is that Mickey getting up?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Well, I can’t talk about this now, Christine. If Mickey finds out what you did, he’ll probably send us back to your grandmother’s. Or if he finds out about what I tried to do. He takes his orders from Rome, you know.” Tears streamed down her face suddenly, and I started crying, too. “I can only hope we aren’t both pregnant,” she said as a parting shot.

  This took me by surprise; the idea she wouldn’t know whether I was having sex. I thought she knew everything about me. I was years away from such an episode—how could she not know it? She’d made me fearful of anything sexual. Afraid of close relationships. How could she not know the price I’d paid for her choices?

  She began to water the African violets that sat on the kitchen windowsill. Each one had to be placed individually in a pan of water where it bobbled unevenly like a sail-less boat on a lake. The leaves didn’t like to be wet, she told me, making it sound like the plants had confided this tidbit to her. Mary Theresa, Mickey’s daughter, brought a plant with her whenever she visited. This almost ceremonial gift giving had the air of a religious act since Mary Theresa always wore her school uniform, holding the plant out to Mother like a communion wafer or a religious relic.

  Racine, Mickey’s ex, had a miniature greenhouse in a knocked-out kitchen window where she raised the violets from cuttings. My mother lived in deep fear that one of the possibly rarer plants might die and she’d be unable to replace it, though I voiced the opinion that none of the violets were rare, repeatedly assuring her of this. But she regarded the ritual as a test—one she was bound to fail.

  So far we’d had to buy eight replacements at the Kresge plant department. The supposed gifts put an enormous pressure on Mother, who’d never had to raise anything other than me before this year.

  I felt sorry for my mother. Wasn’t there a single thing in her life that was easy or normal? There was our impossible-to-keep-clean white house, the finicky fish with their funky diseases, the oversensitive plants, the bookkeeping duties of the return business, her health-conscious husband, her delinquent child, her hair and skin requirements, her scornful mother across town, her ex-husband in Bucks County who’d recently become engaged to the heiress to a chocolate fortune—all of these things preying on her mind, requiring an output of her limited resources.

  But why did she marry Mickey? How many of these problems emanated from his presence in our lives? More than half by my calculation. I could have kept her happier were we alone—when had I once let her down. But she’d preferred having a consort.

  I crept up to my room and stayed there all day. Maybe I wasn’t convinced I wanted Mickey for a stepfather, having him tell me what I could do as if he had a right to it, being forced to witness the million quirky things that were part of him, watching Mother alternately drool and grovel in his presence. But sending Mother back to her previous life was too cruel. Another defeat could be her undoing and she’d be back in an institution, trying out the latest therapy for whatever ailed her. Or spritizing innocent women who entered a store.

&nb
sp; On Monday, Neil was waiting at the bus stop. “Why didn’t you get out of there when they went to bed on Friday night?” I asked, swiping at him with my lab book.

  “The old man threw the lock on the kitchen door before they went to bed. The basement door was locked, too. Dead bolted.”

  “Did your mother go crazy?”

  He nodded. “I’m not allowed to see you anymore. She called the Martins and apologized Sunday morning. They were laughing about it by then.” He scratched his head. “But they didn’t think it was so funny when I knocked on their basement door Saturday morning. The old man opened the door with a Louisville Slugger in his hand.”

  I shuddered. “What if he kept a gun?”

  I knew this scenario all too well. Being involved, in any way, in a second shooting would probably send me to jail and examples of how it might happen threatened me from every corner. Would I have to tread carefully forever?

  Neil nodded, “Don’t think I didn’t give it some thought before I knocked at the door. I kept yelling I was Christine’s boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend? Was this how he saw himself? Well, it was over now. I wouldn’t take a chance like this again—not for a long time.

  The bus came and we climbed on, finding seats as far apart as possible. Neil faded into the advertisement for Noxzema medication pasted behind him on the bus and ceased to exist. Having a boyfriend, or any friend at all, was too much trouble with my mother around. She was right to warn me off friendships. It was better to keep other people out of it. Perhaps someday the situation would change, but I wasn’t hopeful.

  Days turned into weeks as I waited for Mother to tell Mickey about her condition. The tension continued to mount as day after day passed. I spent much of those weeks alone, staring at the fish tanks, throwing darts at the board in the basement. I pushed the ping pong table against the wall and played against myself. I cleaned out my bureau drawers though they were already perfectly fine. Mickey floated above or below me, making his demands, eating his lemons, spending time with fish, working on his pecs. I avoided him as much as possible, waiting for the explosion to come.