Concrete Angel (25 page)

O
ne of Mother’s economies in the lean years before Mickey appeared had been the “return” of her “return business,” although on a smaller scale than the earlier version due to various irksome constraints. She now knew no postal worker was going to deliver a constant stream of goods without getting a cut or turning her in. She knew, too, a surplus of garage sales, though they’d grown in popularity in the intervening years, made her too visible to a variety of overseers. She’d soon be accused of running a business without a license. Especially in the tightly configured neighborhoods we’d lived in since leaving Shelterville. But a temperate use of the scheme seemed feasible, especially given our economic status in the pre-Mickey days. Although I knew about it, she mostly ran it herself this time, perhaps wanting no witness available to be quizzed.

After their marriage, Mother worried Mickey might find out and call a halt. She was addicted to the free merchandise as well as to the excitement of pulling it off. She needn’t have been concerned; Mickey thought she was a genius. He was sorry, he said chuckling, that she couldn’t think of a way to get a few products from the U.S.Treasury. I didn’t get the joke until my mother explained it, but it never failed to send my mother into gales of laughter. If Mickey gave any clue that he was making a joke, however feeble, she was quick to supply the laughs. Although on her own, Mother had a poor sense of humor.

Coming home from school, I spotted Mother sunning herself on a chaise on the front walk. She did a half-hour on each side with large applications of cream in between, wearing a tiny yellow plastic eye protector that made her look meaner than usual and a swimsuit designed to garner a perfect tan. She’d decided to ignore new information about the effects of sun-tanning, reasoning the ozone layer had been intact during her formative years.

“I read it’s the bad burns you get as a kid that give you cancer.”

“Hand me the lotion, Christine,” she said now, her eyes slowly opening. “No, no, the pink stuff!”

I watched while she slathered it on, and then went into the kitchen and poured some milk, grabbing one of Mickey’s expensive peanut butter cookies to go with it.

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.”

T
he 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 state. “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.