The Animal Hour (3 page)

That is what she had been thinking. And her glasses had been beginning to fog with tears. And she had been thinking about how, if she hadn't married the Shithead, she would have graduated from Kenyon this past year. And she would've come to New York and been a set designer instead of the wife of a starving actor. And she would not have allowed herself to get pregnant before her husband had even landed a paying role. And she would never have known what it felt like for a nice girl from Cleveland, Ohio, to lie curled on the kitchenette floor, trying to protect her womb with her arms while her husband punched her head again and again and again because it was her fault, all her fault, all of it, all of it …

A good vehicle for Dustin Hoffman
, she had been thinking.
Well, hot shit.

And then the phone had started ringing. The baby woke up and started to cry. The Shithead started pounding on the door.

“When I get in there, Avis, you are going to be one sorry girl, you understand me? If you don't open this door right this second …”

Now, finally, her paralysis broke. She started for the bedroom, for the baby.

“Get the hell out of here, Randall,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You can't come in here. Just go away.”

“Avis! Goddamnit!” He hit the door hard—with his shoulder it sounded like. The chain lock bounced and rattled.

The phone kept ringing.

“Aah! Aah! Aah!” the baby cried.

“I'm coming, sweetheart.” Avis pushed open the connecting door and ran into the bedroom.

It was just like
The Wizard of Oz.
Stepping from the living room into the bedroom: it was just like the scene in the movie
The Wizard of Oz
where Dorothy steps from her black-and-white Kansas house into the colorful world of Munchkinland. The living room was Kansas. The peeling white walls, the faded parquet floor; the card table, the chair, the bare bulb in the ceiling. The bedroom—the nursery—that was Oz, or Munchkinland or whatever. There was a riot of color and decoration here. The walls were plastered with Mickeys and Goofys and Kermit the Frogs. The floors were lined with toys and cushions, unicorns and rainbows. And so many dangling mobiles—elephant mobiles, lamb mobiles, airplane mobiles—that Avis had to push them out of her way as she ran to the crib by the bright window.

My apartment
, she thought frantically.
A good vehicle for Judy Garland.
She reached the side of the crib.

The baby was waiting for her there, standing, gripping the crib's top rail. He was a sturdy ten-month-old boy with sandy hair and blue eyes. He had pushed aside his handsewn quilt and was jumping up and down amid his embroidered pillows. The moment he saw her, he stopped crying. His puckered face smoothed and cleared. He broke into his huge, half-toothless, baby grin.

“Gee-ee-ee,” he said.

“Oh!” Avis breathed. “It's da baby! Did da baby come to say hello?
Hello
to da baby!”

“Agga agga agga agga,” the baby said.

“This is bullshit, Avis!” She could still hear the Shithead screaming through the other room. “You cannot keep me out! This is not legal!” And—
wham!
It sounded like he hit the door with his whole body this time.

The phone shrilled again, insistent.

“Agga agga agga agga!” said the baby.

“Oh, da baby.” Avis hoisted him quickly out of the crib, held him against her shoulder.

“I'm gonna break this fucking door down, Avis, I mean it!”

He hit it hard again. The phone rang.

“Oh God,” Avis whispered.

She held her baby's head gently as she rushed out of Oz, back into the living room. She blinked hard as her tears made the bare Kansas walls blur. She ran toward the kitchenette, toward the phone on the wall.

“Avis!” He was now hammering rapidly against the door with his fist: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang without stopping. “A-vis!”

“I'm going to call the police, Randall!” she called out, crying. “I'm serious!”

“Go ahead!” The fist kept hammering. ‘They'll agree with me! You know they will! Go ahead!”

The baby made a small, frightened noise against her shoulder. She patted his head as she ran. “It's all right,” she whispered breathlessly.

“Avis!” Bang-bang-bang.

The phone on the wall rang again just as she reached it. She snatched it up. Held it to her ear.

There was nothing. Then a dial tone. The caller had finally hung up.

“Oh shit!”

She slammed the phone down. The Shithead flung himself against the door so hard, so loudly, that she spun to face it. He did it again. The door seemed to bulge inward. She backed against the wall and stared at it. Where the fuck was Dustin Hoffman now?

“You hear me, Avis?”

The baby was starting to whimper, afraid.

“Ssh,” Avis said. She stroked him. She bit her lip as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

Randall slammed into the door. She gasped. She thought she heard the wood cracking.

“Avis, goddamn it!”

“All right!” she shouted. And now the baby started crying. She stroked him, jogged him up and down. “All right, that's it!” she screamed.

The Shithead pounded wildly. The door cracked and jumped in its frame.

“Avis!”

“That's it!” she screamed. “Stop it right now, I swear to God, or that's it, that's it! I'm calling Perkins.”

On the instant, the pounding stopped. The screaming stopped. The room went silent except for the baby's tentative cries. Avis held the boy against her shoulder, bounced him up and down. “Ssh,” she whispered. “It's all right now. Ssh.” She sniffled. She took a quick swipe at her nose with her knuckles. More loudly, she said, “Do you hear me, Randall?”

The silence went on for another second. Then: “Damn it, Avis,” he said. But he did not shout now. He said it quietly. “Damn it.”

“I'm serious,” Avis said, jogging her baby. “I mean it. I'm going to call him. I'm going to call him right now.”

“Goddamn it,” came the voice—the suddenly little voice—from behind the door. “Look …” And then: “Goddamn it … Goddamn it, Avis, what do you have to pull shit like that for?”

“I mean it,” Avis called back. “I'm picking up the phone. Just go away, Randall. I'm picking up the phone right this minute.”

“A-vis,” the Shithead whined. “Come on. Come on, I mean it. Don't do stuff like this. I mean it.”

“I'm dialing him. I'm dialing Perkins right now.”

The baby had lifted his head from her shoulder. He was looking around with wide-eyed interest. “Pah?” he wondered softly. The baby liked Perkins.

“Listen, Avis, could we just talk?” said Randall through the door.

She gritted her teeth. She hated this, the way he sounded now, the humiliation in his voice. She wanted it to stop. She wanted to leave him some pride. Maybe she
could
let him in, she thought. Even if he was a Shithead. Maybe they could just talk, just through the chain maybe. Just for a minute. She closed her eyes, took a breath. She forced herself to go through with it. “The phone is ringing, Randall,” she called.

“Shit,” he said softly through the door. But he tried one more time. “You know, I'm going to call my lawyer, Avis. I am. I'm gonna call my lawyer on this right now, today, as soon as I get home.”

She pressed her lips together, almost overwhelmed with pity. She knew Randall didn't have any lawyer. She knew it was just something he said whenever he felt helpless and weak. The tears that had pooled in her glasses spilled out now in little streams. And still, she made herself go on. “It's ringing, Randall. It's ringing right … Hello! Perkins? Hi, it's me, Avis.”

“All right, all right,” Randall said quickly. She could hear him moving away from the door now. She could hear his voice growing fainter. “All right, but I'm serious, Avis. You're gonna hear from my lawyer on this. You can't just do this. I got rights. I got rights, you know.”

But then there were his footsteps on the stairs. Tumbling down the stairs quickly. Practically running. She could imagine Randall shooting a terrified glance back over his shoulder as he skittered past Perkins's door on the landing below.

“Pah?” said the baby, looking around with his big eyes.

Avis held him away from her so she could look in his face. He stared at her, wondering.

“Pah!” she said, blowing on him.

The baby thought that was hilarious and let out a loud laugh, kicking his legs.

Right beside them, the phone rang loudly. Avis jumped. The baby thought that was hilarious too. The phone rang again. Avis let her breath out, shook her head. The baby laughed some more.

“Ah ha ha!”

“Very funny,” Avis told him.

She caught up the phone as it rang a third time. She wedged the handset between her chin and shoulder. She held the baby out in the air. Made a face at him through her tears. He wriggled happily.

“Hello,” she said. She sniffled.

“Oh, Avis,” came the voice on the other end, an old woman's voice, quavering. “Oh, Avis. Thank heavens. You're finally there. It's Ollie's Nana, dear. I need him. I'm desperate. There's been a catastrophe.”

“W
hat's that supposed to mean?” she said. She laughed. “I'm not Nancy Kincaid—what does that mean? Who am I then? Am I supposed to guess?”

But the black woman in the doorway did not laugh. She was not even smiling anymore. She simply stood there, poised and stylish. Her folder under her arm. Her hip jutting a little in her red dress. Her gaze still empty, still unfathomable. Nancy (because she was sure that she
was
, in fact, Nancy Kincaid) found herself shifting nervously under that gaze. Her weight went from foot to foot. Her hand flicked to her hair.

“Come on,” she said. “Seriously. What is the problem here?”

The black woman raised one hand: a mature, professional gesture. “Look,” she said. “You can't be in here without permission. All right? That's all I know. If you want to wait outside in the reception area, maybe when Nancy comes in you can discuss it with her, otherwise—”

“But I
am
Nancy. This is my office. Christ. I mean, I think I know who I am.”

“Well—I'm sorry. But whoever you are, you can't stay in here.” The black woman did not waver. Her gaze did not waver. “You'll have to go out into the waiting room. Please.”

“I can't believe this.” Open-mouthed, Nancy looked around for support. Through the glass partitions, she could see down the row of offices. She could see an older woman hanging up her coat on a stand. A man in shirtsleeves opening his briefcase on his desk. People were going about their business, getting down to work. Only she, of all God's children, was being persecuted here by the Demon Secretary of Warren Street. She turned back to the black woman. “You know,” she said, as the idea dawned on her, “I don't think I know
you.
Do
you
work here?”

“Miss, I don't have time for this right now. If you want to—”

“Do you work here?” Nancy said. “I mean, this is ridiculous. Why are you bothering me?”

“Albert.” The woman had turned, had called the name down the corridor. Nancy glanced to her left and saw the man in shirtsleeves look up at the call. He was a young man with coiffed brown hair. He was wearing a blue-striped shirt with a red tie and jolly red suspenders.

“Is that you calling, Martha, my love?” he said.

“Albert, could you come in here for a moment?”

Jesus. This woman won't give up
, Nancy thought. But she was annoyed to feel a little clutch of fear in her stomach. As if she were a high school kid standing up to a teacher. “Look, can I just get to work now please?” she said, a little desperately. “I mean, this is ridiculous. I would like to have my office to my—”

“Albert.” The young man had joined the black woman in the doorway. The black woman—Martha—was indicating Nancy with one red fingernail.

“Yes, oh entrancing one,” Albert said.

“This woman has come in here without permission.”

“Horrors!”

“She says she's Nancy.”

“What?” To Nancy's dismay, the young man, this Albert, looked up at her and let out a surprised little laugh. “She says she's Nancy?”

“Nancy Kincaid?” Nancy said. She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Fernando Woodlawn's personal assistant? Jesus, you guys! I don't know what's going on here but …” Then, as Martha and Albert gazed at her, she stopped. Two other people had come up behind them. A tall woman with tinted hair. A doughy blob of a man in a gray suit. They were standing on their toes, looking in at her over Martha's and Albert's shoulders. Nancy looked from one to the other, from one stare to the other. Her mouth was still open on her last word as the whole thing became clear to her. “Oh,” she said finally, drawing out the syllable. “Oh. Oh, very, very funny. Very funny, people.” And her cheeks really did turn scarlet now. She felt as if her whole body was blushing and she thought:
Damn him!
“All right,” she said. “Where is he? Where's Fernando? What is this, like, some kind of trick he pulls every year at Halloween or something? Break in the new girl? Is he hiding under the desk or recording this or something? Come on. You got me. I'm humiliated, hooray. Enough is enough.”