Mendocino and Other Stories (8 page)

To change the subject, I will ask about their children, and out will come wallets containing studio photographs, smiling families in front of fake fireplaces. They are of my generation, these men, only five or six years older than I am, and they will show me pictures of children in the fourth or fifth grade, of children, perhaps, in junior high. They will point to little blond heads, saying, This is Kerry, he's pitcher on his Little League team; this is Heather, isn't she pretty?

The client is probably a good father.

I'VE REACHED
an impasse on the ad. I am keeping the guy, who, I think, will be out for a run; I am keeping the semiglamorous young woman; I am keeping their two dogs. I am trying to think dog food. But somehow it's hard to go on, without Lizzie.

I decide that what I need is a fresh pad of paper. I head for the supply closet but stop, as usual, at Karen's desk, for a look at her knitting.

“I just have the sleeves left,” she says, holding up the rest. “Donald's mother is going to do the crochet work around the neck.”

“It's so pretty,” I say, fingering the soft gown.

She puts it in her shopping bag and goes to the closet for her coat. It is only 4:30, but she's allowed to leave early these days, to ensure herself a seat on the subway. She lives way out in Brooklyn, twenty-three stops away.

She buttons up, then comes over to the desk to get her things. Suddenly she starts laughing, her hand over her mouth.

I turn, and there is Samantha, walking toward us in that funny pregnant goose step of hers. She is bundled up in her wool cape,
ready for the walk home, and when she sees us, sees Karen in her big blue coat, she, too, starts to laugh.

“What's so funny?” I say.

“The two of us,” says Sam. “We're so … pregnant.”

Karen giggles.

“When I see other pregnant women on the street,” Sam says, “we always exchange this little smile, like we have a secret the whole world can't guess.”

“You do that, too?” Karen asks, laughing.

“Of course,” Sam says. She smiles at me, the trace of an apology in her expression, then turns back to Karen. “I'm leaving too,” she says. “I'll walk you to the subway.”

We say good-bye, and they head for the elevators. I watch them for a moment. They are so entirely unalike—Sam is tall and auburn-haired, with an elegant, angular face, while Karen is hardly more than a child herself: short and small-boned, her blond hair pulled away from her face and held by bright pink plastic barrettes. Yet what I see first and most clearly is the fact that they are both huge—huge with child, as they say. Grand with child.

The red “down” arrow appears over the door to one of the elevators. They turn and wave to me, then they are gone.

THE WOMAN AHEAD
of me in the movie line is pregnant. Six months, I would guess. She keeps turning around and scanning the sidewalk behind me. She is waiting for someone and she seems impatient. Every few minutes she glances at her watch. I wonder why she's so anxious; the movie doesn't start for nearly twenty minutes.

I look away and catch sight of a billboard bearing a Fitch Brown Llewellen ad. It's for a fragrance. A woman with carefully disheveled hair stands on the beach at sunset. One strap of her
sequined gown has fallen from her shoulder; her high-heeled sandals dangle carelessly from her hand. She looks into the distance. The copy line reads, “You can't forget his touch.…”

I look back at the woman and find that she is looking at me. I start to smile at her; I can already feel the small, intimate smile we will exchange. But she looks away, and again ranges her vision over the sidewalk behind me. She is about to turn around when her expression changes to pleasure.

A man comes up from behind me and bends to kiss her. “Sorry,” he says. He is tall and has curly brown hair and little wire-rim glasses. He is wearing faded Levi's that fit him wonderfully, a brown suede baseball jacket, and a blue and white striped dress shirt. From the shirt I deduce that he has a real job somewhere, but he's not so stuffy that he would wear his suit to the movies. When they're at home together, he's probably very sensitive to whether she feels like talking or whether she'd rather be left alone. He's sure enough of her, of them, that he's perfectly content to spend entire evenings in silence. But he's wonderful to talk to, when they do talk: he really knows her, and their conversations have a rich subtext of shared knowledge and experience. When he kisses her, it means something.

It's somehow worse actually to see men like this, to know they exist. It's as if he has been sent to remind me that the only men I might consider marrying are those who are already husbands.

He puts his hand on her rounded belly. “How's the baby?” he says.

JENNIFER APPROVED MY
new outline, her last act before starting her leave. She has been gone for a week now, and so far she has called in every day. I fill her in as quickly as possible, assuming she'll want to get back to hanging curtains in the nursery or
whatever, but she lingers on the phone, asking about this meeting or that report. When I mention Sam—she's due “any day now”—Jennifer sounds impatient. I think she resents Sam for working all the way through her ninth month. It is somewhat surprising that Jennifer started her leave so early. Sam thinks she was afraid her water would break at work, which would not look businesslike at all.

It is seven o'clock at night, and the office is empty except for me and Max, my art director. He is working up storyboards, I am scripting. We sent out for Chinese.

To my surprise, my original tag line made the final cut. The last image will be the guy in his running clothes throwing the stick for Sunny, then turning to wave at the semiglamorous woman as he heads out of the park. He stumbles, rights himself, looks sheepishly back at her, and she stands there, an amused smile on her face, and waves. Voice-over, tag line:
Kanine Krunch—food for the dogs that people like you love.

I dip my chopsticks into a carton of Hot and Spicy Shrimp, pull out a water chestnut, and put it into my mouth. The phone buzzes and I pick it up, thinking it must be Max, who is sitting across the hall eating Beef with Broccoli.

“Szechuan Kitchen,” I say. “What's your pleasure?”

“Virginia?”

“Oh, hi,” I say. It's Sam. “I thought you were Max. We ordered in Chinese.”

“It's starting,” she says. “I've had four contractions.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Just wanted to keep you posted.”

“Oh, my God,” I say. “Oh, my God.” I've got this huge smile on my face, I must look ridiculous.

“Josh is making me get off the phone,” she says. “He wants us to practice our breathing again.”

“You've practiced a million times,” I say.

“I know,” she says, laughing. “Wish me luck.”

IT'S A GIRL
. I got the call at work late this afternoon. She was in labor for seventeen hours. Seventeen! Visiting hours go until 8:30, so I finished what I was doing before racing to the hospital.

I am hurrying down the corridor, looking for Sam's room, when ahead of me I see a pair of swinging doors and a large sign that says nursery. There is nothing to stop me, no sign saying staff only or even parents only. I push through the doors and into a darkened hallway.

No one else is here. A huge glass wall separates me from the babies, reminding me of those one-way mirrors psychologists use to study people.

The nursery is brightly lit, and there are, unbelievably, row upon row of babies. They are in cribs about two feet apart, their tiny red heads all pointed in the same direction. The cribs are numbered, 01 through 56. Only seven cribs are empty. What happens when there are more babies than cribs? The whole thing suddenly seems comical to me—ludicrous, even. I imagine baby after baby being born and brought to this room, an assembly-line gone mad. Babies making way for more babies, hospital cribs filling and emptying, filling and emptying, all over New York, all over the world.

All this time, going through Sam's pregnancy with her, it has seemed to me magical somehow. But it's just what happens: women have babies.

I push back through the swinging doors. The hospital corridor is brightly lit: clinical and matter-of-fact. I find Sam's room, knock on the open door, and go in.

“Virginia,” Sam says. She is lying in bed, looking very pale and
tired and happy. Josh is sitting on the edge of the bed, all wrinkled and unshaven. He is, I realize, still in yesterday's clothes. There is a look of bliss on his face. Or maybe it's exhaustion.

I lean down to kiss Sam. Her face feels damp and warm. “Virginia,” she says, “you would have been proud. I made it all the way through without any drugs.”

“Great,” I say. That was one of the things we always talked about: would she be able to stand the pain? It was as if I were pregnant, too, I was so interested.

“I could have killed her,” Josh says. “I was hoping they'd give me a little something.”

“He was wonderful,” Sam says, smiling at him.

“You were wonderful,” Josh says, touching her shoulder.

There is a moment of silence. There are things I should be saying, but what are they?

“So, Virginia,” Sam says, “what do you think of Isabel?”

Josh laughs. “Can you believe we changed our minds again?”

For the longest time it was going to be James or Sarah, there was no wavering, no doubt. But the past few weeks, Sam was coming in to work with new possibilities every day. Amelia, Susan, Laura. Henry, Timothy, Jacob.

“I like Isabel,” I say. In a few days they'll take her home, and a new baby will appear in whatever crib she's in now. Maybe it'll even be Jennifer's baby, although I don't even know at which hospital Jennifer is going to deliver.

“Oh, look,” Sam says. “Your timing was perfect.”

I turn around and there, standing in the doorway, is a nurse, a little bundle in her arms.

Sam is radiant. “Her first real feeding,” she says.

The nurse comes over to the bed. “Are you ready to see Mom?” she says to the bundle. “Are you ready to say hello to Mom?”

I look at Sam, but she doesn't seem at all amused by the nurse's
little show. She holds her arms out, and the nurse gently gives her the bundle. Sam looks up at Josh and smiles. She turns to me. “See?” she says.

I lean in close, and there, in the midst of an elaborate system of soft white wrapping, is a tiny pink face. “She's very cute,” I say. I look up at Josh, but his attention is fixed on the bundle. He touches the little nose, then puts his arm around Sam and buries his face in her hair.

“I should go,” I say.

They look at me in surprise, almost as if they've forgotten that I'm there.

“Stay a minute,” Sam says. “Would you like to hold her?”

She seems to want me to, so I sit on the bed and carefully take the bundle from her.

I look down at the tiny face. She's so little, but somehow she is remarkably heavy, substantial. There's a real body inside this blanket. A real baby. I touch her cheek; it's so incredibly soft and pink and warm. I can't believe how warm she is, how I can feel the warmth of her body, all the way through the blanket and through my clothes, all the way to my breast. Which one was she, in the nursery? How could I not have wondered? I can't help it; there are tears rolling down my face. In a moment this crying will find a voice, and I am afraid to hear it.

Someone, the nurse, takes the baby from me. I don't want to look at Sam, I'm so ashamed. But I do look at her, and when I see the way she's biting her lip, when I see the squint of understanding in her eyes, I let out a single, hoarse cry. Her arms come up around me and she pulls me close and holds me. She runs her hand down the back of my head, and I can imagine how it would feel to really let myself go, to sink against her.

But I don't. I pull away and stand up. I grab a Kleenex from the box on her table and dab at my eyes. “I've got to go,” I say.

“No,” she says, “Virginia—”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'll call you.”

Without looking at Josh or the nurse—or at Isabel—I hurry out of the room and past the nurses' station to the main hall. I hit the button and wait for the elevator to come and take me down.

I WENT BACK
to Babes in Arms and bought the mobile for Isabel; I have decided to keep the bear for myself. He sits on my couch, a mute and pleasant companion. Lately I have been spending a lot of time on my couch, too. I read there, of course, and I nap there, but that's also where I eat, my knees bent, a plate of cheese and crackers in the hollow of my lap. I just can't be bothered to set the table.

IN THIS CITY
, there are dozens of pairs of sneakers, their laces knotted together, hanging from telephone wires and power lines. This city is Madison, Wisconsin, and Winch is trying to understand the sneakers because, a newcomer, he thinks they might explain something to him—tell him how to live here, whether to live here.

Winch sits on the porch steps of Luke and Sarah's apartment. He has forgotten his key again. He knows exactly where it is, too—in the little painted bowl Sarah keeps on the coffee table in the living room, where he sleeps. He put the key there last night because Sarah was trying to get Luke to talk about whether or not there ought to be something in the bowl—whether the bowl would look better with something in it—and Luke would not cooperate. Winch felt like a peacemaker, donating his key to the cause. When he saw the key in the bowl Luke snorted, a sound
that Winch finds extremely disagreeable. He can't remember Luke ever making it before, but he makes it a lot now.

Sarah comes pedaling up the street on her three-speed, her short hair flapping against her head. Whenever Winch sees her on her bicycle he can't help thinking of
Butch Cassidy—
that part when Paul Newman takes Robert Redford's beautiful girlfriend for a spin on a rickety old bike. Who played the girlfriend? Winch can't remember, but Sarah looks a bit like her. Winch thinks she should wear more long skirts, should try letting her hair grow.

“ARE YOU LOCKED OUT?
” Sarah says, just stopping herself from adding “again.” The way he sits there just kills her. He's so—passive. She refuses to feel guilty, though; the guy is thirty years old and ought to be able to keep track of a key.

“Yeah,” Winch drawls. “I guess I am.”

“Well,” Sarah says, adjusting her pack and lifting the groceries from her bike basket, “I hope you haven't gotten cold waiting for me.” She walks up the steps and past him to the door. She feels like some kind of dreadful nanny, chirpy and upbeat. She decides that after she's put the groceries away she'll hide out in her and Luke's bedroom for an hour or two. Not for the first time since Winch's arrival, she thinks it's too bad he couldn't have shown up next year, when, if all goes according to plan, their penny-pinching will have paid off and they'll have bought a house—with a guest room. Having Winch camped out in the living room is just one more reminder that they're still living like students.

“What do you think about those shoes?” Winch says. He's still sitting on the steps.

Sarah turns from the door. “Excuse me?”

Winch points at a pair of hightop sneakers dangling from the phone line.

“I think,” Sarah says, “that someone's feet must be cold.” But as she goes into the house she thinks, Why'd I say that? She's been wondering about the shoes, too—ever since they appeared, last spring. She's noticed a few other pairs around town.

THROUGH THE LIVING
room window Luke can see Winch sprawled on the couch, wearing his—Luke's—headphones. Winch is grooving to the music; Luke watches as his feet wiggle, as his arms beat time on his thighs.

Luke backs off the porch and down the steps, undetected. He makes his way around the house, looking in windows, until he sees Sarah lying on their bed, her arms crossed over her chest, staring into space.

He taps on the window and her body jerks out of position—both feet lifting off the bed, her arms flailing out in front of her. Immediately, she's raising the window.

“Don't ever do that again,” she says. “Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” He waits to see whether he's instigated a bad mood, but she seems OK. “What're you doing?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “Avoiding you-know-who.”

“Me, too.”

“He was locked out again. Sitting on the porch when I got home like some dopey-eyed stray.”

“The guy is hopeless,” Luke says. This feels vaguely disloyal, but he no longer cares. Whatever he's owed Winch has long been repaid. He looks at Sarah, standing in the lighted window, and gets a brilliant idea. “Can you slide the screen up?”

“You're going to climb in? Wearing your suit? You'll get it all dirty.”

“No,” he says, “you're going to climb out. I'll help you. Then we'll sneak out for dinner.”

“Oh, Luke,” Sarah says. “We can't do that. He's our guest.”

Luke stares at Sarah. He wishes he could be certain that she's not just trying to avoid messing up her clothes. “Fine,” he says. “I'm going around.”

WINCH IS IN
the kitchen, his hand halfway into a box of Ritz crackers, when he hears Luke at the front door. Luke calls, “Hi, honey, I'm home,” as he does nearly every time he enters the house: even if Sarah's not home and he knows it, even if Sarah's with him.

Winch grabs a handful of crackers and, hearing Luke's step, shoves them into his breast pocket. He puts the cracker box back and is at the sink, filling a glass with water, when Luke comes in. “Hi, honey,” Winch says.

“What's up,” says Luke. He pulls a beer from the refrigerator, twists off the top, and begins to drink. Winch would really love a beer, but Luke doesn't offer—maybe because Winch has the water.

“I said what's shakin',” Luke says. “What'd you do today?”

Winch thinks. Luke's after what job and apartment progress Winch made, but the answer is none: he went to see about a room in a house that turned out to be on a street with four pairs of sneakers hanging from wires, which was weird in and of itself; and then the people were nice but not quite right—the girl kept talking about group meals and schedules and the two guys were classic, wearing ironed shirts and sure to be uptight about stereos and shampoo and stuff. And Winch did nothing about a job today—wasn't into it. “Oh, I saw this cool exhibit,” he says. “On State Street. This whole place was painted black and then there was furniture in it, but made of neon. It was cool. I mean, you couldn't sit on the chairs or anything, they were—”

“Air?” says Luke.

“Well, yeah, you know. And neon tubing.”

“Sounds special,” says Luke. He puts his beer down and opens the refrigerator. “What's that wife o' mine got planned for dinner, I wonder.”

“She said something about spaghetti,” Winch says. What Sarah said was “Maybe Luke will make spaghetti tonight,” but Winch doesn't tell Luke this. He's not sure when it's going to happen, just that it is: Luke and Sarah are heading for trouble. Winch feels like the pan that's keeping the oil out of the fire.

“Did she?” says Luke. “Well then, who am I to say otherwise?” He pulls a package of hamburger from the refrigerator, sets a pot on the stove, and begins emptying the meat into the pot. “Hand me that spoon there, lovey,” he says, gesturing with his chin at a wooden spoon in the dishrack.

Winch hands it to him. “I'm going to just go into the living room for a sec,” he says. He's got to do something about the crackers in his pocket—stash them somewhere or eat them.

“You do that,” says Luke. “I'll be right here.”

SARAH'S RELIEVED TO
find Luke alone in the kitchen—she wants to get things on a better footing. She even put on a skirt, she's not sure why. Well, maybe she is: it's one he really likes and the last time she wore it he told her she looked beautiful. “If the second graders could see you now,” he said, “they'd all fall immediately and hopelessly in love—they'd never give you another minute of trouble.” So, OK, she admits to herself, she's after a compliment.

“Seduced into the kitchen by the heavenly smell of browning hamburger,” Luke says. “I knew it would work.”

“Where is he?”

“Having his cracker fix in the living room.”

She laughs. “Telltale bulge in the shirt pocket?”

“I'm going to put a note in the Ritz box,” Luke says. “ ‘I'm on to you—a friend.’ What do you think?”

“Too subtle,” Sarah says.

“You're probably right. Something like ‘Keep out, fucker’ might work better.”

Sarah doesn't respond. She gets onions and a green pepper out of the refrigerator and starts chopping. She wishes Luke would just relax about Winch. It's inconvenient having him here, sure, but it's not that bad. There's something sweet about him, really; he's like a child, eager to please but helpless when it actually comes down to pleasing. She remembers the first time she met him: she'd gone to visit Luke at school—their spring breaks hadn't matched up that year—and she was lying on his bed, reading, waiting for him to get back from a class, when there was a pounding on the door. She hurried to open it, fearing something awful had happened to someone, and there was this impossibly tall guy with wild blond hair and surprised eyes—Winch. “You've got to come with me, you've got to see this,” he said, grabbing her hand and virtually pulling her out of Luke's room. She followed him out of the dorm and down to the creek: there, standing on the bank, were eight or ten tiny ducks watching their mother gliding on the water. Remembering this, it occurs to Sarah that Winch would be a good teacher. Better than she is, anyway. Ducks! If only she could take her class to see ducks. If only she knew where to find them, how, when.

ONCE THE SAUCE
is simmering, Luke heads back to the bedroom to change his clothes. He had just gotten over feeling like an imposter, wearing a suit and tie every day, when Winch showed
up. During the two weeks that Winch has been here Luke's backslid to the point where he doesn't only feel ridiculous because of how he's dressed; he's started wondering again how anyone—his colleagues, other lawyers around town, even his clients—can possibly take him seriously. He looks like the kind of person his clients—boys fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old, and making their third and fourth court appearances—contemplate mugging when the bars close Saturday nights. One kid today said as much—Doug Kaiser, whose illegal activities strike Luke as especially unfortunate: he ought to be a starter on East High's defense. Explaining to Luke that he'd been minding his own business at the corner of Gorham and Bassett (at two o'clock in the morning, of course) when two frat boys came along and started hassling him, Doug said, “Those pretty boys had their heads up their asses. They're dumb shits. A guy that looks like you doesn't fuck with a guy like me.” “Word to the wise?” said Luke. “Man,” said Doug, “they were asking for it.” “Right,” said Luke. “But we won't mention that to the judge.”

He pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt and looks in the mirror. When he was in college—bearded, and hollow-eyed from too many late nights—he could pass for thirty. Now that he is thirty what does he look like? A frat boy. A pretty boy. Dumb shit. He would not like to run into Doug Kaiser late at night anywhere.

Heading down the hall to the kitchen, he hears Sarah and Winch laughing. How is it, he wonders, that a guy with whom you once agreed about everything can become a measuring stick for your own self-delusions? He smiles to himself. Who better could there be for the job? Maybe Winch should settle in Madison—to keep Luke honest.

SARAH'S SO PRETTY
when she laughs—Winch wishes she did it more often. He goes on with his story, lying now. “And the next
night I went back and she'd carved this message into the table where we'd been sitting. It said, ‘I'd like to coil around your winch.’ ”

Sarah cracks up. “No way—you made that up.”

“Cross my heart,” Winch says.

“You lie like a dog,” Luke says from the doorway. Winch turns and looks at him. “I made it up—about ten years ago, remember?”

Winch can't tell whether Luke's angry or not. He shouldn't be, but these days Winch doesn't know how to read him; the one constant in dealing with Luke is that Winch is almost always surprised. “You nailed me, man,” Winch says. He turns to Sarah. “So he's still got his bionic memory, eh?”

Sarah smiles at him. “When he wants to.”

Winch feels the tension wires that run between Luke and Sarah start to jangle. He goes over to the stove and looks at the spaghetti sauce. “This smells good,” he says.

When he turns back, Luke's smiling strangely at Sarah. “Well?” Luke says.

“What?” she says.

“What'd I forget?”

“Did you forget something?”

“Isn't that what you meant?”

“By what?”

“What you just said.”

Sarah turns to Winch. “Did I say something? I don't remember saying anything. But then, I'm not the one with the memory.”

Winch attempts a peacemaking smile. What's he supposed to say? Luke faces him. “Women,” Luke says, “have this uncanny way of making you feel ever so slightly insane. Keep that in mind, son, and you'll be OK.”

Winch swallows uncomfortably. “So do you think maybe we should start the water boiling for the noodles?” he says. Then he
remembers the thing he did today, the great idea he had. “Hey,” he says. “I bought you guys some wine.”

He goes into the living room to get it, and when he comes back something's changed. They're in precisely the same places they were, but the tension wires have, miraculously, gone slack.

Winch holds up the bottle. “Are you guys into red?” he says.

SARAH'S TOO TIRED
to talk. Sitting at the table, playing with her pasta, she tries in a desultory way to get a fix on the conversation. They're talking about drugs, though—tripping on some camping trip they took together—and the only things she can think of adding are in the teacher mode: Weren't you afraid that you might get separated? How could you have forgotten sweaters?