Blue Plate Special (18 page)

“Yes.” She clears her throat. “I’m here.”

“You sound funny.”

Her desk chair screeches back and forth several times. “I feel funny.”

“Aunt Lee, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“Ariel, do you remember the Kurt Vonnegut book I gave you last summer?”

“Sure.
Cat’s Cradle
. I loved it.”

“Then you remember the concept of the karass, and how we’re unknowingly bound to certain people?”

“Of course,” I say, surprised she has to ask. She and I talked about the concept for, like, hours. We agreed she and Mom and I are all part of the same karass.

“A karass is propelled forward by conflict,” she continues.

“Aunt Lee,
please
, why are you telling me this?”

“Because, it’s possible our karass just got a lot more complicated. Ariel, you need to find out your grandmother’s name. If it’s Madeline—Madeline Fitch would be her maiden name—I know her. Madeline and I went to the same high school. There in Elmira. In the fall of our senior year, we were thrown together by, well, circumstances.”

“What kind of circumstances?”

“Let’s just say that Madeline—she helped me through a very difficult situation.”

A can top pops. I picture Aunt Lee at her desk with a Dr. Pepper. I wish she were drinking it here instead.

“Around Thanksgiving,” she continues, “Madeline’s boyfriend
died in a car accident. Madeline started working at Grand Union after school. She and I didn’t travel in the same circles—not that Madeline really had a circle, all she had was her boyfriend—but sometimes I’d stop by, to see how she was managing. She wouldn’t talk to me after he died, though. She’d stare right through me like she’d constructed a fortress around herself no one would penetrate again.”

Aunt Lee pauses, sipping soda. “By spring—I remember it was close to Easter because I was at Grand Union buying chocolate eggs—I noticed Madeline had gained back the weight she’d lost, but there was something different about her. By the time the school year ended, it was obvious she was pregnant.”

“So what happened?” I ask.

“I never found out. I gave Madeline a gift at graduation—something I hoped would help her—but I never saw her after that. I always wondered if she put her baby up for adoption, or if she decided to raise it herself. Though, I have to admit, I couldn’t imagine her caring for a child. After Tad died she seemed so withdrawn, so depressed.”

Aunt Lee exhales a slow breath. “Oh, Ariel, this is too bizarre. If your grandmother is Madeline Fitch, the baby she was pregnant with could be your mother.”

I’m totally numb. I can’t even think, I’m so stunned.

“Ariel,” Aunt Lee says, “are you all right? Say something.”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m just…trying to take it all in.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” After a long pause, Aunt Lee adds, “Ariel, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I have to. From what I’ve gathered the few times Desiree has mentioned her mother, I’m guessing she was a terribly neglectful parent. And please don’t take this the wrong way because I’m not trying to defend her actions, but, well, if her mother is Madeline Fitch, the woman’s had a very
tragic life.”

“What are you saying, Aunt Lee?”

“Perhaps, if your mom can see past her own hurt”—she pauses—“then maybe she can forgive her mother.”

Mom reappears, starting up the walk toward me. It feels like she’s been gone light-years. “Aunt Lee,” I say, “Mom’s coming back now. What should I do?”

“Find out your grandmother’s name. And go from there.”

“If Madeline Fitch
is
my grandmother, do you want me to give her a message? Should I tell her Lee Stemple said hello?”

“That name won’t mean a thing to her,” she answers. “I used my full name in high school, and I wasn’t married to Glenn yet. But yes, you can tell her Muralee Blawjen sends her best.”

W
hen I get home, Mom’s in her room
, door closed, singing along to her radio.

As I’m breaking lettuce in a bowl for a salad the phone rings. Answering it, I smell Mom’s boozy breath on the receiver.

“Hi,” Tad says, “where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get you since I got back.”

I glance at Mom’s closed door, praying she didn’t hear the phone ring. That she didn’t pick up and talk to Tad. “Sorry,” I say. “I had to help a friend with something.”

“Really? You never mentioned having a friend.”

His saying that makes me sound so pathetic. I’m kind of irritated he pointed it out. “Yeah, well, I do.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

I reach for a cuke and a tomato, start dicing them into neat squares. “Muralee.”

“What’d she need help with?”

“It’s private. I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Oh.”

I steer the conversation back to him. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing a roof leak. Wanna see a movie when I’m done?” He drops his voice and adds, “At the drive-in?”

My period still hasn’t shown up, so the coast is clear. “Sure. What time?”

“I’ll pick you up around six.”

I glance at the kitchen clock, wondering how I’ll be ready that soon. I have to change out of Tad’s clothes. And shower. And redo my makeup. And style my hair. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll see you out front.”

“Madeline, um, maybe you could invite me in for a few minutes this time. Since you met my dad, well, I thought maybe I could meet your mom.”

My heart leaps into my throat. I stare at Mom’s closed door again. “No, I—”

“Look, Madeline, if you’re embarrassed about your place, don’t be. Remember, we live in a trailer park.”

When I don’t answer, Tad says, “I love you, Madeline. I mean what I told you—I want to know everything about you.”

My eyes fill, and my heart settles back in my chest. “Everything?” I whisper.

“Everything,” he repeats.

Mom’s bedroom door groans open. She starts toward the kitchen, coughing her raspy cigarette cough.

“I’ve gotta go,” I blurt out, and hang up. Fast.

Mom crosses the kitchen, drops two empty beer bottles in the trash, and reaches in the fridge for another. When she sees me standing there, pouring dressing on my salad, she jumps. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she half-says, half-slurs.

I poke my salad. Tomato innards ooze around the tines of my fork. “Yeah, well, I’m here.”

She steps closer. “Remember the man I told you about? The one with the vanilla pipe tobacco? Guess what?”

“He switched to black cherry and now you don’t like him anymore?”

“
No.
” She slaps my arm, giggles, takes several swallows of beer. “He gave me his phone number, so I called him. He asked me out for a drink.”

Poor, stupid Pipe Man. He has no idea what fate awaits him. No one asks Leona Fitch out for a drink. She could drain his savings account before the night’s over. But, hey, maybe it’ll be worth it. Maybe she’ll give him something to remember her by, like she did with my father. Whoever
that
sucker might be.

My mother sidles up next to me. “Oh, honey, I think he might actually be the one. You know how you just get that feeling sometimes?”

I nod. “Actually, I do.”

Of course, she doesn’t ask me
how
I know. I’ve been dating Tad for months and I’m out almost every night, but still she hasn’t caught on.

“Anyway”—she gulps more beer—“Dusty and I are—”

“
Dusty?
” I laugh. “What kind of a name is that?”

“He was named after Dusty Cooke, the Yankees player.”

I roll my eyes and take another bite of my salad. “Since when are you interested in baseball?”

“I’m not, silly. I’m interested in Dusty.” She slaps her knee and cracks up, like she said something incredibly funny. Then she gets all serious. “Oh, Maddie, wait’ll you meet him. You’ll see what I mean. This one’s husband material. Maybe me and you are finally done with those cemetery trips. Wouldn’t that be nice? If we never had to go back to Cherry Hill?”

It’s hard to imagine not having to perch on the rock beside Sophie DeSalvo’s concrete angel or shiver from the mist of the
nearby fountain. Not having to listen as Mom’s slurred words hang like tarnished stars from the flat, black sky while she mourns another loser.

Mom reaches in the junk drawer for a piece of gum. When she opens the wrapper, the stick breaks into stale, brittle shards. She shovels them in her mouth anyway. “Dusty and me have so much in common,” she continues, talking and chewing. Gum chips cling to her teeth. I look away, disgusted.

“Like what?” I ask, more curious than interested.

“Tons of things. We both love John Lennon.”

“
Everyone
loves John Lennon,” I snap. I glance down at Tad’s Impeach Nixon T-shirt. “It’s not like you both love Richard Nixon or think he shouldn’t have been impeached. Now
that
would prove you’re soul mates.”

She ignores me. “Dusty and I both cried when we heard Elvis Presley died. Can you believe it? A man who cries and admits it?”

“Terrific,” I say flatly. “Where’s he taking you for a drink?”

“Well, he not exactly taking me.”

“But you just got done saying—”

“Dusty doesn’t have a car.” She checks the kitchen clock and brushes past me. “So I’m driving.”

I follow her and yell, “No way! They revoked your license, remember? If you get caught driving drunk again, you could go to jail.”

“I don’t
plan
to get caught. I
plan
to be careful.” She opens the coat closet and holds up a blue jacket I bought at the thrift store. It has a warm lining, and I thought it would be perfect for the drive-in since it’s the end of the season and the nights are chilly. “Is this
yours
?” she asks, like it’s impossible I’d own anything that nice. Or that small.

“Yeah, it is. Put it back.”

She slips one arm in a sleeve.

I glare at her, this pathetic excuse for a mother who takes and takes and takes. The woman Tad wants to meet. Yeah, right. I can’t wait to graduate, start my own life, and get the hell away from her. “Put it back,” I demand. “
I’m
wearing that tonight.”

Her other arm glides in. She buttons the front, admiring herself in the mirror. “But it looks so nice on me. And it’s Dusty’s favorite color.”

I reach for the sleeve and whirl her around. “I don’t care that it’s Dusty’s favorite color”—I grab her shoulders, shaking her—“I
said
, put it back!”

The phone rings, startling me.

Mom stares down at my hands. “Better get that,” she says, lifting her chin toward the kitchen.

I hurry toward the phone, in case it’s Tad. Except the person on the other end just breathes, so it’s probably an obscene caller. Or Dusty the Dustball, warming up for a big night.

By the time I hang up, Mom’s already making her escape. Keys jangle as she grabs the ring off the hook at the bottom of the stairs.

For the first time ever, I don’t chase after her, hollering, “Come back!” I don’t attempt to wrestle the keys from her hand. I’m so damn sick of worrying about
her
all the time. I’ve got a life of my own now, one completely unrelated to Leona Fitch.

Walking to the window, I watch Mom climb in her Charger and rev the gas. She backs out without checking behind her, cutting off a van with peace signs spray-painted along its sides. The van blasts its horn, screeching to a stop to avoid her while Mom, oblivious, keeps driving.

I stare at the empty driveway, at the dark puddle that means Mom’s car is leaking fluids again. Seeing the stain makes me think
of Muralee’s bleeding, and the pads I bought for her at the drugstore. And that makes me think of the package I stole.

Reaching inside my handbag, I pull out the home pregnancy test, open the flap, and study the directions inside. All I have to do is mix my pee with the chemicals—except they don’t say pee, they say
urine
—then wait for the results.

I lock the deadbolt, breathe deep, and start for the bathroom.

at eight months pregnant

i’m as big as a barn,

my back hurts like hell,

and it’s hard to sleep.

i lie in bed, belly up,

playing connect-the-dots

with the ceiling stains.

last night i found a butterfly,

the night before that a flower.

but tonight there’s nothing.

the dots just won’t connect.

outside the window,

the clover inn lights buzz and blink.

rigs thunder by on the highway.

jeremy mutters something in his sleep

and his arm goes thump across my chest.

in the darkness

i squeeze his hand,

until the ceiling dots

don’t matter anymore—

only jeremy and me and the baby,

the family i never had

but will now.

* * *

two weeks later,

on valentine’s day,

jeremy gives me a rose

and a card that plays

you are my sunshine.

after work

we order catfish takeout and

i balance my plate on my belly as

we watch
wayne’s world
on the vcr.

i’m sure jeremy would rather

be doing something romantic,

but i can barely move i’m so huge.

when jeremy gets up for another beer,

i put the video on pause,

swallow hard, ask him,

are you ever scared?

he reaches in the fridge.
scared?

yeah. about taking care of a baby.

she could be here soon.

he taps his fingers, counting.

but it’s only been seven months.

my heart races.
yeah, well,

s—sometimes babies come early.

especially, um, when they’re big.

as if i’m offering proof,

i wave my hand over my giant middle.

the catfish churns in my stomach.

you know, jeremy, if you want out

it’s still not too late to—

look, dez. i know this is going

to be hard for both of us—

he pops the tab on a beer,

staring down at the can

—but i’m not bailing on you.

that wouldn’t be right.

we’ll find a way to deal with this.

we’ll save our money and

get an apartment.
he laughs.

everyone’ll want to come visit us

when they get tired of shoveling snow.

i picture carol ann and eric

sitting next to us

in lawn chairs in a
real
yard,

sipping drinks and eating munchies

while the baby splashes in a kiddie pool.

jeremy loops his arm

around my shoulder.

it’ll be okay, dez.

we’ll make it work.

i love you and i know

i’ll love our baby too.

there’s that word again.

our.
the three letters

i keep avoiding.

* * *

a week after valentine’s day,

i start with the contractions

charlotte warned me i’d have

right before the baby comes.

they’re like really bad

time-of-the-month cramps,

she’d told me.

bull.

shit.

they’re a million times worse.

the pain is un-fucking-believable.

i take my poetry book to work

so if there are any slow moments

i can
try
to keep my brain occupied,

but it’s busier than usual and

ariel
sits on the counter

untouched.

as i’m writing up a breakfast order

for a couple with a smart-ass kid

who can’t keep his finger

out of his nose,

a wetness oozes out of me,

dribbling down both legs.

charlotte looks up from

the spuds she’s mashing,

hurries to my side,

grabs my tablet.

your water broke, sweetie.

i gotcha covered.

she tosses ned

his key ring and hollers,

get ’em to the hospital fast!

jeremy ushers me toward the door,

looking every bit as scared as i am.

inside ned’s truck

pain rips through my middle.

i grip the dashboard.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuccckkkk!

jeremy clutches my hand.

ned guns the gas pedal hard.

* * *

six hours later

the pain is a nightmare

i’ve already begun to forget.

in my hospital room

i hold her.

my baby.

a girl, just like i predicted.

jeremy stands beside my bed,

studying us like we’re

another species.

a nurse comes in,

smiles at him.

would daddy like to hold her next?

an assumption.

fine with me.

jeremy’s arms bend at odd angles.

he looks so worried he’ll drop her.

soon he relaxes,

kisses her forehead.

hey, pretty girl.

that’s one lucky baby,

getting what i never had—

a daddy’s arms encircling her.

not that jeremy’s
really
her daddy.

but he sure is acting the part.

he glances from the baby to me.

she’s got your nose, dez.

back at her.

and your cheeks.

at me.

and your dark hair.

he walks to the mirror,

studies himself,

then the baby again.

who’d she get the blue eyes from?

my heart hammers my ribs.

i—uh—well—

the nurse reappears.

most babies are born with blue eyes.

they’ll turn later—

she looks at jeremy then me—

especially with brown-eyed parents.

talk about perfect timing.

* * *

as we come through the diner door

charlotte claps flour off her hands

and rushes toward us.

oh, ain’t she beautiful?

what’d you name her?

i notice my poetry book

sitting right where i left it,

a sign i chose

the right name.

ariel.

well, ariel—

charlotte tickles my baby’s tummy—

welcome to the sunshine state!

* * *

charlotte loans us the crib

from her baby-raising days,

which jeremy sets up next to our bed.

i unpack charlotte’s present—a nylon bag

stuffed with diapers,

wipes,

onesies.

in our kitchenette

she makes jeremy a kmart list.

shaking his head, he reads it.

diaper-rash cream,

petroleum jelly,

baby oil.

where the hell do i find this stuff?

she takes his shoulders,

directing him toward the door.

just ask a friendly sales associate.

now hightail it.

ariel has a workin’ mama,

so we’ve got formula to make.

i watch as charlotte

lines baby bottles across

the counter in our kitchenette.

you got a mama somewhere, desiree?

her shadow,

i copy every move.

yeah, in new york,

but it’s complicated.

she doesn’t even know

she has a granddaughter.

mumbling, i add,

she barely knew she had a daughter.

charlotte puts a saucepan of water on to boil.

i never got along with my ma either.

damn shame, ain’t it?

it’s like having a hole

in your heart that never heals.

i nod, agreeing with her.

together

we mix formula,

divide the formula into the bottles,

load the bottles in the fridge.

when we’re through

i’m tired as hell,

hoping i can

squeeze in a nap.

charlotte starts toward the door,

gotta run, honey.

a league of bowlers

made a reservation for noon.

they’re bossy as hell.

must be those big balls.

from her crib,

my baby starts to cry.

life before ariel is over.

gone. for good.

her tears trump mine now.

in the doorway

charlotte turns and winks.

time to try out that formula.

* * *

i don’t know how

people with babies

manage to function.

ariel wakes us several times a night.

i check her diaper then hold her

while jeremy nukes the formula

if it’s time for her to eat again.

one night i wear the floor out

walking ariel from one end

of our room to the other—

back and forth,

back and forth,

rubbing her back

in small, patient circles.

shhhh, shhhh, shhhh.

but after an hour

she’s still crying.

i walk to the window,

staring out at the parking lot.

biting my lip, i start to cry too.

but then i feel jeremy behind me,

see his arms spread wide like wings,

closing around us,

making us one.

* * *

charlotte’s sister, shirley,

agrees to watch ariel

for fifty bucks a week

which—on a busy weekend—

i can cover in a single night’s tips.

at the end of my first day back

i nab an empty jar

from the recycling,

take it to our room,

drop six quarters inside.

jeremy lifts it off the dresser.

what are the quarters for?

three damns,

two shits,

and an asshole.

he screws his face up.
huh?

i want to clean up my act for ariel,

i explain.
every time i swear,

i have to feed a quarter to the jar.

he strips off his work shirt.

shoot, how’ll we pay for diapers?

i swat him—
you little shit!
—

and drop another quarter in the jar.

* * *

each morning i check ariel’s eyes,

praying they’ve turned brown

while we slept.

but always, always,

they’re bluer than the day before.

i imagine telling jeremy the truth,

that ariel isn’t really his daughter.

i wrap my tongue around the words:

there’s something i have to tell you…

but then he’ll bend to kiss ariel’s nose

or plant a raspberry on her belly

and i’ll say
i love you
instead.

* * *

the northern lady returns,

wearing a charcoal gray suit,

and takes a booth near a window.

a girl with pimples

and long, mud-colored hair

sits across from her.

when i walk over,

the lady smiles up at me.

you had your baby!

what were you blessed with?

embarrassed by the attention,

i feel my face go red.
a girl
.

the lady looks from pimple-face to me.

i’m sorry. i’d introduce you two,

but i don’t even know your name.

desiree,
i tell her.

desiree,
she repeats.

from desiderata.

latin for
wanted child.

yeah, right, i think but don’t say.

desiree,
northern lady goes on,

this is emily merrick.

she’s in tenth grade

at gainseville high.

i force a smile.

we exchange hellos.

i’m interviewing emily

for my next book,

the lady explains.

my mouth falls open.

you mean you already wrote one?

pimple-face flashes her tinsel teeth.

three of them. her most famous is called

watch your back,
and it’s about

how cruel girls are to one another.

it won, like, a zillion awards.

already, i hate emily merrick,

who gets to go to high school and

have lunch with northern lady

while i sling hash and wait tables

for two bucks and twenty cents an hour.

what’s your name?
i ask northern lady,

hoping emily merrick

won’t answer that question too.

dr. stemple.

she reaches in her binder,

hands me a business card.

i study the raised print.

wow. i’m from new york too.

johnson city, outside binghamton.

you probably never heard of it.

oh, yes, i have!
she answers.

i graduated from high school in elmira,

about an hour from there.

i teach college in poughkeepsie now,

but went to the university of florida

so i come back often for research.

pointing to the card, she tells me,

call if you’re ever in the area.

i smile, say,
i will,

and tuck the card in my apron.

* * *

outside our room

i sit next to jeremy,

feeding ariel,

while he calls

his parents on the pay phone.

i hear his mom answer.

hello? hello? who’s this?

jeremy just breathes.