Because They Wanted To: Stories (7 page)

Her chest sweated from holding Penny against it. The baby’s crying had become a steady contemplative grumble, as if she had found an engrossing pocket of misery and was digging around, exploring.
The rhythmic little sobs penetrated Elise and attached her to the baby. She sat on the bed and rocked. The attachment was mutual and interlocked. It made Elise feel relaxed; no matter what happened, it would be all right. She thought: formula. Robin had left a bottle of formula on the counter so Elise wouldn’t have to heat it again. Still holding Penny, she walked to the counter and got the bottle. Penny took the nipple in her mouth with a neat little grab. She sputtered, panted, then sighed and quieted as she earnestly sucked.

As soon as Penny stopped drinking, she wet herself again. She didn’t seem to care, but still Elise thought she’d better try to change her. Carefully she laid the baby on the coverlet. She undid the soaked diaper and took it off. Penny kicked and waved. Elise wet a thread-bare washcloth at the kitchen faucet and wiped the baby. Carefully she put a new diaper on. She wasn’t sure it was on exactly right, but it would do until Robin got back. She rinsed the washcloth and hung it on a tiny metal rack.

Andy came over. “We’re hungry,” he said. There was a reproachful little push in his voice, and no wonder: it was two o’clock. She got bread and peanut butter and dishes out of the cabinet. The dishes were cheap and bright-colored. There were three cups, two with flowers on them and one with a picture of a hippopotamus carrying a balloon. Elise imagined Robin in the Salvation Army, picking out cheerful dishes; she felt protective allegiance. She stood at the counter, making them all sandwiches. The linoleum on the counter was cracked and faintly buckled. There was moist black mold where the counter met the wall, and a sour smell in the drain. The odorous dirt was lush and dense. It made her feel rooted to the floor and to the making of the food. She thought of her mother, standing at the counter, making food. Mostly she thought of her mother’s hips, big and strong and set right against the counter.

She cut each sandwich into four squares and the orange into eight wedges. She poured everybody a cup of milk, and they all sat down to eat. The boys ate with concentrated faces, as if they were exaggerating their satisfaction on purpose, reassuring themselves that it really was good, that there would always be sandwiches and milk for them. Elise remembered the time she and Becky got up before everybody else and made themselves tea and peanut butter sandwiches;
it wasn’t that good, but they relished the meal because they wanted to. She remembered herself and Rick and Robbie sitting at the breakfast table while their mother hurried around the room in her open coat, fixing pop-up waffles in the toaster. Their mother was always late for work. She poured their little glasses of juice with a quick, jerking motion. She put their plates before them with such force that the food almost slid off. All her movements were like the tail end of a great, bursting effort, like a grab for a lifeline in a midair leap. The children ate breakfast in the center of this surging effort. Unknowingly they aligned with it. They supported their mother with the fierce secret movements of their breath and blood.

If Elise could have written her mother a letter, she would have told her that she remembered how hard she’d worked to get breakfast on the table in the morning and how good her breakfasts were. She would tell her mother she missed her. She would tell her she had a job as a baby-sitter.

Eric looked at her. “When is our mommy coming?” he asked.

Elise looked at the clock. With a strained click, one white digit became another. It was two-forty. “She could walk in any minute,” she said, “but if she doesn’t, she’ll be back in a few hours.”

Eric looked confused, then disturbed. He licked his finger and picked at the bread crumbs on his plate with it. Andy began a loud singsong chant.

“She’ll be home soon,” said Elise. “Don’t worry.”

Andy sang louder and more insistently. He stood up in his chair and thrust his lips in the air like a singing snout. Well, Elise could sing too.

“Six foot, seven foot, eight foot—bunch! Daylight come and Blue wants to go home!”

Andy stopped with his mouth open, his eyes bright and askance. He grinned, jumped off the chair, and sang his crazy noises right at her. He paused.

Elise stood up; she waved her arms and wagged her butt. “Come Mister Tally Man, tally me banana—daylight come and I want to go home.”

The boys grinned delightedly. Eric gave a high squeak; he darted forward and grabbed her thighs, butting her with his head. She wobbled and sat down, unbalanced and abashed by the sudden burst of
feeling. He climbed up on her lap and groped her body like a busy animal. Andy jogged up and down, yodeling triumphantly. Eric planted his knee on her thigh and squeezed her breasts with both hands. That startled her. Boys weren’t supposed to do that, but he was only four. She wasn’t sure what to do; it seemed mean to make him stop, but if she let him do it, he might think he could do it to anybody and he’d grow up to be the kind of guy who grabs women’s boobs on the street. Then Andy came over and grabbed at her too. She sat for a moment, perplexed. If Robin walked in, would she think that Elise was molesting the children? She put her hands on their shoulders and gently pushed. “Hey,” she said, “stop it.” They clung stubbornly. She pushed them again, harder. Eric put his face against her and let out an angry, pleading little grunt. The sound shocked her, and she hesitated. Then Andy lost interest anyway. He let go and went off toward his toys. Eric sighed and relaxed against her. Tentatively, she stroked his head. Then she stroked his back.

When she looked at the clock, it was past three. Robin must’ve gotten her job. Maybe it was a waitress job and they’d hired her on the spot. Elise imagined Robin changing into a soiled, ill-fitting waitress uniform in a dressing closet filled with odd furniture, forgotten sweaters, and a bucket with a dry mop in it. Her small limbs would be bristling with tension and determination. She would smooth the uniform in the depressing mirror and remind herself to smile. She would work frenetically, trying to do too much at once. The manager would yell. She would work through the break, sneaking olives and maraschino cherries from the condiment tray.

Or maybe she hadn’t gotten the job. Maybe she had just decided to go for a long walk in the park, eating cheap candy out of a bag. Elise liked to do that. Sometimes when she was finished panhandling, she would take the long walk around Stanley Park, even though she’d been walking all day. It would probably be a treat for Robin to do something like that, after being cooped up in the apartment for days.

But six o’clock came and then six-thirty, and Robin didn’t come back. Elise wondered how, if she’d gotten a job, she could know exactly when she’d get home anyway. What if the job had started at
three? What if it was a long shift? What if she’d applied for a waitress job and didn’t get it, and then looked at the paper and saw one of those “escort” ads? She pictured Robin in her little summer dress, talking to an escort service man. She pictured Robin sitting and holding her purse with both hands, her knees together and her calves splayed out, one foot tucked behind the leg of her chair.

One night when Elise was begging in San Francisco, a man asked her if she would blow him for twenty dollars. He must’ve heard her asking other people for money, because she hadn’t asked him. She hesitated. She had never blown anybody before. “Okay,” he said. “Thirty.” “Okay,” she said. They had to walk a few blocks to get to his car. She saw that he wore nice pants and shoes. She asked him what he did. “Never mind,” he said. He had a sour, contracted little face that reminded her of a cat spraying pee on something to mark it. Elise didn’t mind the mean expression; there was even something intriguing about it. It looked like it came out of a small, deep spot that was always the same.

When they got in the car he started to drive. “Are we going back to your place?” asked Elise.

“No,” he said. “The park.”

For the first time it occurred to her that something bad might happen. She had read in a magazine that according to experts, rapists and killers are less likely to attack people they can identify with on a human level. So she began talking to him about her boyfriend, even though she didn’t have a boyfriend. She thought it might remind him of being in love.

“He doesn’t like me to do this,” she said. “But we need the money so much. He’s trying to get a band together.”

The man didn’t say anything. Light played on his face. He looked like he was alone in the car, thinking about something he didn’t like. He drove deep into the park, where there wasn’t any light. He stopped the car and took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the dashboard.

“If it’s good, you’ll get the rest of it,” he said. Then he unzipped his pants and said, “Go for it.”

Elise hesitated. She felt insulted, and she wasn’t sure what to do.
She considered telling him that she’d never blown anybody before; it didn’t seem like a good idea. She curled her legs up under her, bent, and tucked her hair back. It couldn’t be that difficult.

But it was. Her jaw hurt, hairs kept getting down her throat, and it went on and on. Finally he said, “Oh, Jesus Christ, just hold still and open your mouth.” He grabbed her hair in his fist and furiously worked his hand. There was a horrible taste, and she reflexively spat. He yanked her head up and jerked her over to the other side of the car. Pain tingled across her scalp. She reached for the bill on the dash-board. He swung wildly; he meant to slap her face, but she moved too fast and he just clipped her chin with her fingers. He snatched the bill on the backstroke and crushed it in his hand.

“No,” he said. “That was shit.” Outraged, he groped between the seats and extracted a packet of Kleenex. He yanked one out with such force that the packet flew into the back seat. He wiped himself furiously. “You were shit,” he said.

“That’s not fair,” she said. Her voice was light and shaky, and her heart patted fast and high in her chest. “I mean, you got off.” Her voice was still light, but now it was stubborn too.

He paused in his wiping and half turned. The air between them went into a slow, palpable twist. “You little cunt,” he said. His voice was very quiet. “I should beat the shit out of you.”

If he grabbed her, she would poke out his eye. She would kick and bite and scratch. Her mind sped up and ran too quickly for her to hear it. She waited.

He threw the bill at her. “Get out,” he said.

As she walked, her mind stopped racing and she began to think. She didn’t know where she was going, but she felt heady and feverish with clarity. She would not be frightened. She would be all right. It was so cold her teeth chattered, but that was all right. She walked a long time. Sometimes she heard voices, and she knew she was passing near groups of people who couldn’t hear her. She felt safe and private in the dark.

She emerged on Haight Street. A caravan of street people were arrayed across the edge of the park. She could see them huddled in ragged groups, their belongings on the ground in bundles. Some people walked between groups with a feisty, rakish air. Dogs trotted
about, wagging their tails and sniffing people. The scene had a muddy, pushed-down feeling, but inside that was something raw, volatile, and potent as electricity; it could go in any direction, and it was hard to tell which it would be. She walked by a bright-yellow shirt that had been used to wipe somebody’s butt. She realized she was trembling.

“Hi.” A woman wearing a purple jacket walked up to her. “Do you need anything?”

“What?”

“Like condoms or . . . anything?” The woman had a nervous little face and funny looking glasses. Her jacket had “Youth Outreach” written on it. “Um, alcohol pads, bleach, a toothbrush? A cookie?”

“No, thank you,” Elise had said.

It was getting dark. Through the screen, Elise could feel that the air had cooled, but the apartment was still very hot. It was seven-thirty. Andy and Eric were yelling at each other. In a minute, they would start hitting. Elise felt anger come up in her and then go back down.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s time for dinner.”

Andy threw his toy truck on the floor so hard it dented the wood. “When is Mommy coming?”

“Soon,” she snapped. Except that she didn’t realize she had snapped.

Andy and Eric kept fighting at the table, until Andy kicked his brother and Elise yelled “Stop it!” as loud as she could. Then they sulked. This time, they didn’t eat as if they wanted to like the food. They seemed disappointed in it. Elise was sorry she didn’t have anything better to feed them, and she was also irritated at having to eat peanut butter again herself. She would rather have had pie or candy bars, and if she had gone out panhandling, she would’ve been able to. She hoped Robin was working for an escort service, because then she’d bring home enough cash to give Elise some.

After dinner, she heated the formula and fed Penny. The baby was sleepy and docile. She was very wet again, but she wasn’t complaining, so Elise didn’t change her. She had agreed to stay only until six anyway; Robin could change her when she got home. Penny released the nipple of her bottle with a guttural chirp; a sparkling thread of spit spanned nipple and lip, then broke and fell down
Penny’s chin. Elise patted it dry with a Kleenex. She put her hand on the baby’s stomach and rocked her.

She thought Robin must sleep in this bed with Penny, curled round her protectively as you would sleep with a kitten. Eric and Andy must sleep with them too. The bed was big, but still they would have to sleep close. She wondered if they wore pajamas. That would be uncomfortable in the heat, but it might be even more uncomfortable to touch sticky naked limbs. She pictured them all lying together, the children asleep and Robin awake and blinking in an oscillating band of street light. She wondered if Robin had a light, lacy gown to wear, or a nylon shortie.

Fleetingly, she thought of her mother in the short cotton gowns she called “nighties.” She wore them with a white rayon peignoir that she had bought when she was eighteen. Elise remembered her mother’s short, thick calves, the little hood of fat covering each round knee. Her mother’s legs were middle-aged and ugly, but there was something childish and sweet about them.