Part 22 (1/2)

Startled by seeing familiar features on a face on her dream-beach, Mary awoke with a start. She was standing before she realized it was morning, and that she was no longer dreaming. Her right hand was shaking. It took a moment before she remembered where she was and what was going on. The clock above the television told her it was minutes before ten in the morning. Maybe Robert had returned and decided not to disturb her. Maybe.

She rounded the couch, then raced to the stairs, took them two at a time; but before reaching the top, she spotted Jenn sitting below in the living room. Mary c.o.c.ked her head, stopping in mid-stride.

”Hey, sweetheart,” she said, doing her best to sound rea.s.suring even though she was well beyond frightened herself.

Jenn's legs were together and bobbing, her clasped hands rested over her thighs, and her head was slightly bowed.

Much slower than she'd climbed, Mary descended the stairs carefully, as if Jenn might feel heavier steps. Then she drew close to her, bent to one knee, taking Jenn's hands in hers. The little girl looked up, her eyes dark and full.

”Did you mean it?” asked Jenn.

”Mean what?”

”When you said that you wanted to have a girl like me?”

Mary looked away: The girl had lost her mother, and now her daddy hadn't come home. Jenn felt utterly unwanted. ”Oh, honey,” said Mary, bursting into tears, thinking that she wasn't wanted herself: her mother was angry with and ashamed of her, and Scott had discarded her like old drumsticks. And what would he decide once she told him? Mary hugged Jenn, who began crying, too, and that's when she had the thought of bringing the little girl home with her. She would call the police, fill out whatever report she had to, but the girl wasn't going to be placed in some home, just another overgrown fetus with a hungry mouth. No way.

She picked up Jenn, who held on a little harder than she had to. ”Come on, sweetheart. Why don't you come home with me?”

”Okay,” said Jenn. Then she pulled back. ”Do you think he's all right?”

”He'll be fine, honey.”

Jenn searched Mary's face, her eyes wider than ever.

”What in G.o.d's name were you thinking?” Freddie screamed, one hand on her forehead, the other planted on her hip.

Mary looked up at the darkening sky, thinking, Well, girl, what exactly were you thinking? ”We went to the police and filed a report, Mom. Where else was she going to stay?”

”Well, I don't know. Certainly not here.” Freddie was slowly moving away, toward the street, her sandals sliding along the driveway. Pebbles skittered away from her feet.

George, who'd been silent until now, laid a hand on Mary's shoulder. ”You did the right thing, honey. I'm proud of you.”

Freddie whirled around. ”Oh, for Christ's sake, are we an orphanage? Come on, George, your daughter comes home with that little p.r.i.c.k's fetus inside her and all of a sudden you're Mister Philisophical!” She turned away, throwing her hands up. ”Maybe we're not an orphanage after all. We're a f.u.c.king asylum!”

As if to protect her, George stepped in front of his daughter. ”Give us a moment, Mary. I'm so sorry.”

Mary nodded, slowly turning away from her father's voice, which became a whispery growl she'd never heard before. The tears came before she opened the front door.

Freddie hadn't spoken to her in more than a week, and to say that the mood had been heavy around the house would be a little like saying constipation was strangely liberating. It seemed to Mary that her mother wasn't just disappointed, wasn't merely embarra.s.sed or ashamed. No, it kind of seemed like Freddie hated her.

The words wouldn't go away: We're not an orphanage after all. We're a f.u.c.king asylum.

Ever since Scott had cast her aside, she'd believed the worst treatment a person could suffer was that sort of apathetic dismissal. It was that blank look that had hurt the most, a look that seemed to say, Do I actually have to say this and deal with your reaction? Couldn't I just send you a card?

But her mother's invective had left this in doubt.

Today was no different. Mary had made it up around six, just in time to drag Jenn out of the bed in the guest room (which she'd begun thinking of as Cell Block Jenn), get her dressed and to school in time for the warning bell. When she'd returned home Mom and Dad had been sharing breakfast in the kitchen, but the moment she'd strolled in Freddie had shot up and brushed past her. Dad had glanced down at his bowl of oatmeal, casually shrugging and apologizing that things had come to this. The whole thing was wearing him out.

And that's when it hit Mary that she should reach outside of her family and single friend, that she should tell Scott about the baby. He should know, right? Sooner or later, whoever came for abandoned children would come calling, and it would be just her and Grady again, alone in Cell Block Mary. Maybe Scott had missed her, maybe he had had second thoughts. Perhaps the field wasn't as large as he'd thought. And wouldn't he care, wouldn't anyone care, about a new life?

Mary excused herself. She changed, then sat beside Grady on the bed. The spiky spitfire's customary rising time wasn't even around the corner, the corner being noon. Mary kissed her on the forehead, whispered that she loved her, then took off for the wrong side of the tracks.

Locals called this section of Simola Straight Third Area, and driving through it had always given Mary a case of the nerves. She'd borrowed Dad's ancient Lincoln, but even this heap looked like a Rolls in this part of town. She struggled to keep her speed at the prescribed twenty-five miles an hour. It seemed neither air conditioning nor gainful employment existed in this part of the world: people were milling about outside, some of them leaned back against the odd cinder block wall, cigarettes dangling from their lips, others...o...b..ting in loose groups and talking not only with their hands but with their entire bodies. But they all put the daily grind on hold when they spotted the white b.i.t.c.h sliding by in the wheels that looked as good as they had the day the factory sticker had been taped over its window. Those aren't eyes, she thought. They might as well be bullets.

When she pulled into Scott's driveway, drums boomed from behind the garage door. This terrified her. Somehow, she hadn't expected to show up and see him right away, but now that it seemed likely, adrenaline surged through her. She gripped the steering wheel as if it were the edge of a cliff, drawing a deep breath. No big deal. After all, this wasn't about her. This was about the Peter Pan banging away on a taped-over set of drums.

Mary opened the door, got out and listened to Scott play. He'd improved. He'd always been good, perhaps better than good, but G.o.d, he was sounding more and more like those Rock and Roll G.o.ds he'd invoked since she'd first seen him stroll into Freshman Comp four years ago.

Approaching the door, she continued to breathe deeply. She pulled open the screen and lightly rapped on the door, not noticing that she was tapping her foot to the beat. She waited, listening for sounds, but heard nothing. She knocked again. This time someone yelled that he was f.u.c.king coming, hold your f.u.c.king horses.

The door opened and a cloud of pot smoke wafted out. An oversized boy stood before her; he must have been six-four or five, and his long, oily hair stretched to the middle of his stomach, and his eyes were gla.s.s, his smile missing two teeth at misfortunate spots. He took an eyeful before cracking his broken smile wider that a photographer for Heavy Metal might have suggested. He nodded. ”T'sup.”

”Scott around?”

The boy stepped aside, ushered her in, mumbling, ”In the garage.” He p.r.o.nounced it gay-rawge.

Mary eyed him as she slide past, thinking of Mike Randall. She wasn't sure this boy would even go to the trouble of pouring moons.h.i.+ne down her throat.

Before she knew it she was at the door, her fingers at the k.n.o.b, and then the thing was swinging open.

Scott stopped, his arms above his head. A vaguely stunned look spread over his face. He dropped his sticks on the cement floor. He was high as a mushroom cloud. ”Mary,” he said, as if he needed to remind himself of her name.

She nodded, looking over him dispa.s.sionately. This was the guy she'd been pining for? ”Hey,” she said, but a thought pa.s.sed through her mind, quickly. What if he said, Yeah baby, I'd love to help raise a rugrat. Oh, the things I could teach her.

The adrenaline had pa.s.sed and Mary was left sizing up a boy who might never make the trip to manhood, a boy who might play in a successful band, but who more likely would work at a gas station until his liver gave out, burying his half-life beneath a deluge of alcohol and an ever increasing a.r.s.enal of drugs. She suddenly understood that she had done some growing up over the last couple of months, and Scott had done some drinking and smoking and probably some f.u.c.king. Mary smiled. It wasn't cruel, the smile, but soft and so radiant that the drummer's mouth dropped open and he whispered, ”Wow.”

”Never mind,” said Mary, turning and moving toward the door without even a backward glance. She pa.s.sed the overgrown pot-head slumped on the couch, a gla.s.s bong between his legs. ”Hey, where ya goin'?” he asked. ”Don't you wanna suck my bong?”

Mary got the h.e.l.l out.

Mary was at home alone when the first of the cramps. .h.i.t her. She cried out, doubled over, and grabbed hold of her bed sheets. The cramps were sudden and violent, and they caused her to squint, to grimace. Slowly, using the sheets as leverage, she shoved herself from the bed, onto the floor, and crawled to the bathroom.

Propped against the bathtub, Mary stared at the toilet, her eyes unfocused. It was in there, floating and miniscule and dead, a small ma.s.s of blood and tissue, created and now uncreated.