“God will get you,” I whisper.

She’s strung in tubes and quilts and corn-colored flesh. Still, my mother is void. She’s blank. She’s cool.

I had promised Woody one hour each week and right now, ten minutes remain. So I’m snapping through Woman’s World.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

Judy, the jumbo nurse squeaks in. About her: She’d gone to grade school with Mom and is always speckled with fourteen karat gold.

“How’s our girl doin’?” she asks.

“The same.”

“I know it’s hard, Kiddo.”

“Sure,” I say, turning past a Pampers ad.

“She’s in my prayers. Every mornin’. Every night.”

I think to myself, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, LADY! You don’t know anything!”

“Your Ma really does look terrible.”

“Well…she’s dying.”

“No one deserves cancer. Especially in the girly parts.”

Know this: I’ve watched the illness gorge its way through my mother since last June and as time drips on, I gleam.

“Jesus Christ,” Judy soon snivels. “This is just…so unfair.”

“Um…I have to go to the mall.”

“Mornin,’” chimes Clara, the saggy clerk.

Dappled in diamonds of sweat, I veer through checkout lane three. I plunk everything on the speeding black belt. I unload razors and deodorant. I set out a rabbit’s foot and five discounted cans of red spray paint.

“Good deals,” she says, tapping in each price.

“Yeah.”

“Mall’s crazy today, huh? Everybody’s out gettin’ ready for the holidays.”

I sigh, but don’t speak.

“Havin’ a clearance sale next week, ya know.”

Then my eyes catch the Speed Stick glowing green. Her register says $2.10.

“Everything’s supposed to be a buck,” I protest. “This is Buys For A Buck.”

“Honey, it’s just a name. Can’t ya’ read all these tags?”

“That’s retarded,” I snip.

“I don’t make the rules,” the woman says. “Ya want me to ring it or not?”

“No way.”

Spurned, oozing with glares, she begins to pack away my goods. “I know why you’re always in here buyin’ so much air freshener n’ spray paint,” she tells me. “I aint dumb. I know ya gonna go shove it up your face. That’s what my son used to do.”

“I’m eighteen. It’s legal.”

She wheels across the food court, K-Mart bags knotted to her stroller.

Gina’s my best friend and one of the only girls I can bear. During tenth grade, I fed her Freeze Pops while she forced out a nine pound baby. We brewed formula, got high, stopped all the screeching.

“Did ya get it?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“No hairspray, right?”

Instantly, I sink to see the beautiful boy. “Hi sweetness.”

Jessie just stares at traffic. He gurgles while thick slobber twinkles on his chin.

“Guess what I got,” I say, pulling the purple foot free. “Look Jess…fancy. It’ll give you good luck.”

“What’s that thing?” Gina asks.

“A surprise. A rabbit’s foot. For him to play with.”

“George…um…ya can’t give a baby that kind of crap. They eat everything. He’ll, like…choke.”

In a huff, I cock my red head. “I was just being nice. What the fuck?”

“Don’t have a hissy, George. Don’t be mad. Let’s watch all the cute boys.”

We both sigh and sit on a graffitied bench. Behind us, Johnny Appleseed’s Memorial fountain spurts sadly. It once flowed, gushed, but now it barely trickles.

I start plowing through my pockets, snatching out coins. And I hurl. Pregnant with hope, I see the pennies drown in dead green waters.

“Make a wish,” Gina says.

Know this: God still seeks redemption. He has offered Woody and my perfect new nose. He has offered Mom’s death too. So I’m certain the Lord will grant me a pack of sons. Someday.

“Think it’ll come true?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Gina smirks, knowingly, “Ya could always adopt one. Ya could probably buy one…somewhere.”

“Maybe I’ll just get pregnant.”

She gags twice. “If ya do, you’ll be the richest, most famous boy in the world.”

“I’d love to be huge with a big big belly.”

“George…ya don’t got an egg. Ya need an egg.”

“Girl parts are gross,” I giggle.

“Ya need a uterus too.”

“So. Miracles happen all the time. You never know. What about the Virgin Mary?”

My best friend begins gawking at boys from Burger King. With a purse and a pout, Gina slides on sunglasses.

I tell her, “Come is more important anyway. Maybe all I need is lots and lots and lots of come.”

“Betcha already got a name picked out.”

“Ace,” I say, busting with glee.

“Sounds like a porno name.”

“Shut up. It’s cool.”

But Jessie begins to howl as if he’s just had five booster shots. He yanks on his shabby mane. Whipping. Wailing.

“What’s your problem?” Gina snaps.

Our eyes plunge. The rabbit’s foot lies, now drenched, on the glassy floor.

I’m at the sink, scrubbing skid marks from his Jockeys. I sing with Rufus and I’m happy since it feels like summer and I’ve already guzzled two wine coolers.

Soggy coupons color the counters beside me. Each is cut, not torn. Some perfect squares say, “35 Cents off Pledge,” “55 Cents off Luvs,” “Buy 1 Six Pack of RC, Get Another FREE!”

Soon, Woody stomps through. About him: He once hid a heap of Honchos beneath the pull-out. After my blustering fits, he now knows not to waste.

“Hey Gorgeous,” he grins.

“No Telegram today,” I say. “Paper boy didn’t deliver.”

“Did ya’ call the office?”

“I don’t want to get him in trouble. I just want the fucking flyers.”

My boyfriend kicks off his beat boots. Squares of hardened mud crumble to the floor.

I’m thinking, “I already vacuumed!”

Then a bitchy smile splits across my face. “Can I get a kiss?”

Woody says nothing, just wiggles from his work clothes. He blows two wads of snot into the trash can.

“Yuck!” I squeal.

He’s beaming, potbellied. “I’ll kiss you now.”

“Gross!”

“Come here!”

Woody tortures me with a quick round of tickles. Finally, he nips my chin. There’s bristle and stink and peppermint schnapps.

“Um…what’d ya do today?” he asks.

“Nothing. Went to the mall. Saw my mom.”

“How’s she doin’?”

“Still can’t breathe so well. Smells weird too.”

His whole face softens.

I tell him, “She doesn’t even know I’m there. She’s practically dead.”

“Really?”

“Yes. So why do I have to see her?”

“Think of it like this…if ya go, you’ll get sent to heaven.”

“I’m already going there.”

Woody fake-punches my cheek. “Gotta do what’s right.”

I begin groping for my can of Kodiak. Fingering out a fat minty bulge, I stuff it in. I suck and I suck.

“Ya still think about all that stuff?” he asks.

“No,” I lie. “I don’t even remember.”

But I do remember month-long earaches. I do remember the olive loaf at Christmas. I do remember all those piercing cavities.

“What we eatin’?” Woody asks.

“Shepherd’s Pie.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Red paint flecks dot my slick upper lip. I’m spritzing the washcloth and cupping my face. With a heave, I pull in sweet, clean vapors.

Gina’s laughter falls like flurries. More about her: In May, she’d disappeared. Gina met a boy at Bob’s and spent the weekend slurping down Buds in his basement. So I took Jessie. When she returned, Gina was grounded for the first time since tenth grade.

“We shouldn’t huff no more,” she says. “But I love being wasted.”

Wet coughs fire from my chest. Sputtering, I belly flop on the twin bed beside her.

She still stammers. “Remember…a few years back? On that New Years? We drank a bunch of nips…and we danced on the highway?”

“I remember.”

Gina jolts with a cackle. “George…I’m gonna kill myself. I swear. I swear to God,” she jokes.

I’m teasing too. “Shut the fuck up.”

“My life is like… It’s…the worst.”

“Be quiet.”

“I live with my mother. Still,” she giggles. “I don’t got a job. I don’t got a boyfriend. I don’t got anything.”

“You have Jessie.”

In a haze, she snorts and wipes away streams of chemical goop. Her smile is suddenly gone.

“I’d do anything to be like you,” I say. “To have a little baby.”

“Kids can be a pain in the ass, ya know.”

I fold my legs. “Just isn’t fair.”

“I know I’m an asshole. When I think about it…if I didn’t have a baby…I could have so much more.” Now she’s babbling louder. “And anyways, I ruined the kid’s life. It’s my fault he’s messed up.”

My damp eyes begin to flicker because I always forget Jessie’s retarded.

“Do it!”

“Oh…yeah.”

Woody fucks me fast on the sofa. He drives in, disappears and then, three seconds later, slides free. Completely.

“I’m gonna’ shoot,” Woody snarls.

“Don’t pull out.”

“You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

Right now I’m inside a sweet slow dream. Beyond the squeals and hoots, my brain just fizzles. I think of bibs. Booties too.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps.

“Fuck my pussy!”

Woody’s drawing on the Lysol-drenched rag. “Ya want my baby batter?”

Couples strut across the dance floor ceiling. They boogie, clapping, clapping.

As an old Soul Train jitters, I’m flipped over in the midst of one long headstand. Quick pangs of ache shoot through my head like comets.

“George? George?”

Woody grumbles in. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“They’re dripping out. It won’t work if they get away.”

With a squint, he utters something and bumps back through the darkness.

“The excema’s comin’ back, darlin’,” she says.

Sashes of sun pierce my eyes, but still, between white hot bands, I see nurses smoking out back.

Boring. Boring. Boring.

Judy dumps Jergens in her palm and mashes both hands together. “The cream’s so cold,” she tells me. “Ya’ gotta warm it up first.”

“Oh.”

She begins to rub my mother’s hefty arm. Stroking. Squeezing.

Of course, I’m filled with sass. “Why are you doing that, anyway?” I hiss.

“Her skin’s dry. Wouldn’t you want someone to put cream on you…if you couldn’t do it yourself?”

I say nothing. I think, “Gross.”

“George? Would you do me a favor?” she asks.

“Well…I have to leave soon.”

“It’ll only take a sec,” Judy says. Now she’s coating her own elbows with leftover lotion. “Why don’t ya’ give your Mom a hug? It’s her birthday.”

“She doesn’t know what’s going on,” I snicker.

“She knows you’re here. She knows. She was blinking and coughing last Tuesday.”

Swiftly, the room begins to shrink. Faded flowery walls inch closer and Judy’s just a breath away. I’m being squished.

“Come on, Kiddo. Please?”

I tell her, “We hate each other, you know.”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes it is. You don’t know me. And you don’t know her.”

The woman quakes. “I know she’s a sweetheart. I know she’s an angel.”

My rage spurts wildly. I almost begin barking about first grade when a swarm of ticks nearly killed me.

“She’s sick, George.”

“So are you,” I say. “So am I.”

“You’re supposed to take care of your Mother.”

“She never took care of me!” I shout.

“Settle down. Ssssshhh!”

At that moment, I breach.

“SHE USED TO LIVE IN THE ATTIC, JUDY! AND SHE’D CRY AND CRY AND CRY! All the time! Every day! And she’d never come down!” I sneer, “She’d even pee in Tupperware bowls. And she’d shit in plastic bags. Because she was too scared to leave. She couldn’t. Not even on Christmas! Not even on my fucking birthday!”

“Stop cussing! Quiet down!”

“No!”

Judy’s wild-eyed, her head bobbing. “You’re tellin’ stories. And you are on drugs again.”

I see my cupcakes tan. I sit before the window, looking in, drawing up whipped cream clouds.

And soon, the room flip-flops. In a frothy swirl of giggles, my hump rises, round as a kickball.

It’s him.

Ace.

He’s growing. He’s swimming. He’s squirming.

“Hi little man,” I gush, so giddy.

“Thank God tomorrow’s fuckin’ Friday,” Woody says. Hunched over, he builds a chop suey mountain.

I tip back my wine cooler and tell him, “I’m getting a job at the mall.”

“Why?”

“We’re going to need the money,” I say.

“No we won’t. I make enough landscapin’.”

“Well…kids are expensive. Gotta’ buy diapers, toys, formula.”

Woody stabs the saucy mound. Eagerly, hungrily, he scoops forkfuls into his mouth.

“Have to get clothes and booster shots and…”

“Georgie, please.” His big blistered hands slice through the air between us. “Just give it a rest.”

For an instant, we stop and our strain soars, floating like a spritz of Old Spice. I can hear the pipes thud. I can hear the Crowley’s cursing next door.

Know this: I will have my son. I WILL! I WILL!

So I begin to yap, “We are gonna’ have a baby!”

“Georgie, you’re so messed up. When you gonna’ realize we aint gettin’ a kid? No way!”

I slap the tabletop and a swift solid crack stings my hand. “I can do whatever I want.”

He glares at me and glares at me.

“I want a baby!”

“Enough!” he thunders.

My fury ping-pongs, bounding throat to womb.

“You can’t have no fucking kid, Georgie!”

“SHUT UP!”

“There aint no miracles.”

“SHUT UP!”

“You don’t got no cunt!”

As curtains of punch-colored clouds tumble above, I sit on Foster Field’s fifty yard line.

Of course, I’m raving. “I should get a job! I should leave Woody! I should move away! I should call Henry What’s-His-Name!”

Then my torso tilts to life.

Ace.

I rub his full crowded bump, tracing hearts and swirls.

“Hey…” Woody starts to whisper from the sidelines. “I cleaned up the dishes. And the juice,” he says.

My belly rumbles round.

“Chop Suey was good,” he grins. “Think I’ll take some for lunch tomorrow.”

“Do whatever you want.”

Woody drags himself close and drops beside me. “Georgie…don’t be mad.”

“Too late!” I fire.

“Why ya wanna a little kid anyway?”

I flick at the wind. “I don’t want to be a movie star. I don’t want to be a singer. I don’t want to be a model. I want to be a parent. That’s all I want.”

“Yeah?”

“We could raise our kids to feel happy. We could raise our kids to feel safe. It would be fun, Woody.”

“It would be fun. But…you and me…we’re only boys. Only eighteen. We can’t have no kid. Whose gonna give us a baby?”

“I’ll just…have it myself,” I say.

Blinking at a blank scoreboard, he chuckles. “Right.”

“Fuck you.”

“George…stop it. Ya gotta come home so we can shave and shower and get to bed.”

I sneer, snipping reeds of trimmed grass, but in seconds, I toss them like New Year’s confetti.

“Please?”

“I believe in all these things,” I whisper.

He hooks his arms around my waist. “You’re my baby. And I’m yours.”

With a sputter, I begin to leak into Woody’s lap. “Don’t you believe too?”

Last Christmas, Woody gave the paper boy a card with ten dollars sealed inside, but still, he doesn’t deliver and, soon, I just might phone that office.

Right now I’m waiting by the storm window. A Tot Finder decal coils off its glass. The sticker is pale, bleached, baked on by years of sunlight. So I begin strapping tape to each corner curl.

“George? Hey!”

Gina thunders through, spangled in a new crown of sun-splashed hair.

I ask, “Did you see the Telegram in the yard?”

“No.”

“Fucking A!”

“George! I’m sick,” she gripes. “My belly hurts.”

“Why?”

“Got my period.”

“Eeeewww,” I flinch.

Drooping, Jessie lops, lame on his mother’s hip, yet in four seconds, the little boy begins to yowl.

“Stop it,” Gina crows. She rests him on the floor.

“Hi honey bun,” I sing-song in falsetto.

Jessie just licks the linoleum. The baby rolls around, burbling, burbling.

“I put his favorite toys in the purple bag,” Gina tells me. “If he gets bitchy, just give him one. He’ll cut the crap.”

“Okay.”

“So…do I look alright?” She orbits and fluffs her frozen bangs.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe Kurt asked me out. Weird.”

“You’ll have fun. He’s cute too.”

“I wish I could fuck him, George. Maybe he won’t care. We could put some towels down or something.”

Immediately, my forehead slinks toward the ceiling.

“Does that sound skanky?”

“Gross!” I shout. “You’re smelly.”

Jessie’s diaper is crammed with loose gobs of shit. His stink strangles.

“Yuck!”

Skating across floorboards, I nab two toys off the table then, glide back.

“Which one you want, Cutie?”

Blankly, he digs at a sore shaped like Florida. The baby’s scratching and pulling, dragging and clawing.

“Sweetheart, no.”

He grates again.

“You’re going to bleed,” I say, prying his fingers free.

Colored in spite, the child sniffles.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

I snag a spit-soaked bunny from the floor and push him toward Jessie’s grip.

“Look,” I offer. “See.”

He coos. He slips into silence.

“I’m a pretty good mommy, huh Jess?”

Slowly, bit by bit, the baby lifts his head. As he gawks at me, a real grin curves across his face.

“Soon, I’m gonna have my own baby. A boy. Somebody just like you. He’ll be really smart, really fun.”

Jessie laughs out loud.

See: I often try to forget the unsigned permission slips and each lost weekend. I try to erase my mind, but all the mess remains.

Still, I press her palm to my stomach.

“Feel that?” I ask. “I think there’s a baby in there. I think he’s really there.”

Her cold husky fingers twitch.

“I can feel him sometimes. Mostly in the morning. When I vacuum. When Price Is Right comes on.”

“GEORGIE!”

My mother’s head springs up from her pillow. “GEORGIE? GEORGIE?” she croaks. “I heard ya. Can ya hear me?”

Skimming backwards, I knock the tiny table and a mound of old McCall’s slip to the floor.

“George?”

I’m draped in wonder. Awestruck too. “What?”

“They’re comin’. They are.”

“Oh yeah?”

She starts to yank on the hissing hoses. “They still find me. Every night they come.”

“Still?”

“I’m scared,” my mother moans. “I’m so scared.”

“Well…soon you’ll be dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Really?”

Now she’s throttling with tears. “Please don’t tell your baby…about the things I did.”

It feels as if God just pressed pause because life outside is still and the nurses don’t gibber.

“Tell him I was…magnificent.”

My mother cannot see the sheen of dribble that gleams on my cheeks.

“I will.”

I’m tipsy with hope. I swat through a CVS sack and scoop out my E.P.T. The box screams, “A woman’s FIRST choice…CLEAR RESULTS…99% accurate.”

In a glance, I see Clara, from Buys For A Buck. She waddles across the food court, hugging her handbag.

Quickly, I stash away the test.

“Hi,” she says and slumps down beside me.

I say nothing.

Clara tells me, “Waitin’ for my son, Derrick. Should be comin’ soon. Said he’d be by round noon…but it’s almost one.”

I think: “Who cares?”

“Maybe he forgot,” Clara says. “Derrick always forgets.”

I say to myself, “Be quiet! Shut up!”

Then she thumps my arm three times. “Hey…uh…we got air freshener on sale, ya know.”

“Oh.”

“Some cinnamon spice stuff. If ya like that kind.”

Looking at her, I hold my stare and, slowly, I tell Clara, “I quit doing that.”

But a wet sour mist peppers our skin. There’s slopping and cackles and clucks all around.

We watch school skippers hunt through the fountain. They’re sweeping up handfuls of silver.

“Lord,” Clara croaks.

Bumbling, shaking, the old woman starts to rise. “Those are people’s wishes! My wishes!” she hollers. “Now they aint gonna’ come true!”

It’s dark enough to switch on every lamp in every corner, but I don’t because it feels snug. It feels secret.

I’m rocking in our beaten La-Z-Boy, whisking batter for another carrot cake. I dunk my middle finger, then lap the candied goo.

Beside me, Jessie’s still snoozing. Soundlessly.

A burst of thuds ruptures at the front door. Cradling my bowl, I shoot up and unclick each deadbolt.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It’s Marion, Gina’s Mother.

“Where is she?” the woman asks, rubbing her weary golden eyelids.

“On a date.”

“I don’t think so.”

I blend three slow circles. “Maybe they went to the mall or something. Maybe they went to get subs.”

Marion says, “She took her make up and some blouses.”

“So.”

“She took her birth control too.”

“Oh.”

With a smirk and a sigh, she unbuttons her coat. “Did Gina tell ya about the pills her Uncle bought over the computer? The Zoloft?”

“No.”

“Well they aint working so well.”

“She’ll come back. Soon.”

“If ya see her, tell her I’m tired of her shit, George. I gotta work, ya know. I have my own life.”

“I’ll keep Jessie. No big deal.”

“Is this gonna be okay?” he asks.

While my brows knot like a birthday bow, I dress us all in afghans. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. We’ve never slept like this…”

The baby is wrapped, bundled, nested between us. He’s already dreaming.

“Should I put a shirt on?”

I shake my head, thinking, “Woody…you’re so cute.”

“What if I crush the kid?” he says.

“You won’t. Jessie’d probably scream anyway.”

He rolls closer and jabs a finger in his bellybutton. Woody sniffs it. “Ya think Gina’s comin’ back this time?”

“Yeah. By tomorrow. By Friday, definitely.”

With a slow, drowsy wink, he folds the blanket over Jessie’s shoulder.

“This is how it could be,” I tell him.

See: I promised God that if Ace comes home, all will be settled. I’ll be nice too. I’ll donate to the State Troopers Fund and sweep the Crowley’s crumbled walkway. I’ll even attend mom’s funeral.

Right now my legs are unlocked. As I drench the test wand, specks of urine hit my hand.

Please. Please. Please.

The cordless starts to sing its droning song. There’s a crackle, then Woody’s voice on the answering machine. “We’ll call ya back,” he echoes.

“Hey…”

Gina.

“Don’t pick up. If you do, I’ll hang up.”

Scowling, I bunch a wad of Charmin. I dab at my penis.

“I’m in Atlantic City,” she says, beginning to sob. “I know that you hate my fucking guts. BUT I CAN’T DO IT! I gotta be…alone. Away from my mother. Away from Leominster. And Jessie. And you too.”

I swish back down the hall and perch atop the whirling washing machine.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m a piece of shit.”

Behind her blubbers, a girl shouts, “TWO HUNDRED BUCKS! TWO HUNDRED BUCKS!”

Gina’s groaning, “I called my Ma. I told her that you’d take Jess. I know you’ll do that for me George. You’ll be a great Ma. Better than me. Better than…”

The box beeps.

Suddenly, Woody booms in. His face is crinkled and he clutches today’s Telegram.

“Hey Gorgeous,” he smiles.

My eyes dip down to the stick still in my hand. I can see a bright red plus sign, blurry and perfect.

 

© 2005 Michael Graves - Contributor's Bio