Tiny Ladies

by Adam Klein

  ‘Nothing.’ I start to make my way to the bathroom.

  ‘Do you mind if I watch television?’ she asks.

  I’m surprised she wants to do this. ‘Just not the news.’

  Later she’s watching something like the home shopping club. But they are only selling dolls – large porcelain ones – not for children.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say finally. And I mean it, regardless of the outcome. She doesn’t say anything, just nods sleepily. She is still watching the set, the large hand turning over the seal of authenticity. The doll’s head is ornamented with silver satin and cheap glass beads. I fall asleep with the voice of a woman saying, ‘This is something you can keep on cherishing and cherishing.’

  We drive toward her parents’ house. The storm has been less destructive here, but the roads are tricky, the trees hung with icicles. I think about what she’s said about her father, how he’d lost the use of his body from his waist down, and how his temper took the place of his manhood. Perhaps Hannah had, as well.

  She’d promised that if her father died, she would take care of her mother. But he didn’t die, and so she couldn’t do a thing for either her father or her mother. Her father saw to it that she remained outside the conflict. She was never in a position to address his loss; that was something for his wife to comment on. That was bad enough.

  These towns have a sullen quality about them, populated by frugal, haunted people. People who lost or never had options. It’s like going back in time, with humble, small homes dressed for Christmas, long streets with shop signs in fonts that signify an America I was born too late to see.

  Despite my ruminations, I feel less uneasy today and think it’s because I’m exhausted. No dreams, just a restless shifting of tonalities and shadows.

  The past seems to recede too, as though you could lose it in the right car. And though I know this is an illusion, it is one of the few that brings me comfort. Hannah, on the other hand, is returning here. I know that she has come to collect something, to pick up some piece of her past she isn’t done with.

  She’s better after we stop for breakfast. She appears less drawn and her compulsion to talk about last night is lessened. That talk carried us over what felt like endless blank miles. I thought the sun would never rise and the roads never end.

  Over coffee she says, ‘I don’t want to spend a lot of time with my parents. We don’t need to, and I think it’s less stressful for them if we leave tomorrow.’ I want to propose our staying in a motel again. I’m not sure I can get right back in the car and turn around. I’m not sure I want to go back. But I don’t say anything. Best to wait.

  In the car she becomes animated, pointing out the monuments: the Howard Johnson’s; the auditorium with its Indian head mosaics; the abandoned storefronts of downtown; and later, on Nebraska Street, the old Central High School, its windows broken out and its stone walls covered in black soot; the old synagogue, shingled and dilapidated and vaguely Gothic.

  Her parents’ house is small with a small lawn where the snow is mounted knee-deep. We pull up into the driveway and stop before the garage. There are no trees on any of the surrounding lawns, as though landscaping meant the removal of anything but grass.

  ‘I’m glad you came with me,’ she says, turning off the ignition and looking straight ahead. ‘I need you here. I need you to just go along with me while we’re here. Can you do that?’

  I nod. ‘Sure,’ I say.

  ‘I’m going to say some things that will probably surprise you, and I need you to just stay on your toes and go along with it. Promise me you’ll just go along with it.’

  ‘I’ll go along,’ I say.

  She steps out of the car before I can ask her what to expect. I know now that we have not come all this way to hide out. She has come to finish something. This is what we’ll do for each other. The finishing business.

  Her father answers the door, almost agile in his chair. He’s wearing bottle-thick lenses that make his eyes seem enormous. They are full of distrust, perhaps incomprehension. Hannah bends to kiss him, and he turns his cheek up. It is almost entirely subsumed in gray stubble. She introduces me as Ellen.

  ‘Ellen? Oh, you’re Ellen. Come on in,’ he says. ‘We’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind King,’ I say. At first the dog surprises him, but his face comes alive when King licks his hand. ‘I love dogs,’ he tells me. He speaks softly, not like the angry man Hannah described. Then again, he’s old now, reconciled. We hang our coats on a rack next to a small piano; it’s covered with at least ten different-sized frames. He begins to tell me about the family; there are great-grandmothers and his grandfather; austere, almost regal women in furs; a boy with beautiful hands at the piano. Hannah is standing in the yard as a child; she makes the yard look enormous. I look from the picture to her face, but she turns quickly from me. There’s dust over all the surfaces, and I have to keep myself from lifting one of the frames and wiping it clean.

  ‘Is that you?’ a voice calls from the kitchen. Hannah’s father guides us in. Her mother is sitting at the table, feeding an infant from a bottle. The child’s eyes are closed, but his mouth is working feverishly. Without a word she hands the child, bottle still in its mouth, to Hannah.

  ‘We’ve taken good care of him for you,’ she says to me. ‘I guess you want to hold him. Alex,’ she coos, ‘your mother’s here.’

  I take him from Hannah, searching her eyes for some kind of prompt. Her eyes are full of a sadness that could as easily be shame. They’re chilling. We all stand around the child, doting on him. The child is oblivious. Anyone can be his mother. I feel claustrophobic in this circle of adoration; my thoughts are too stained, my heart too agonized by this deceit I have to play out. I know the child is Stefan’s – that Hannah couldn’t kill him – this child that is either the unexpected or planned outcome of her confused seduction.

  ‘Ellen’s better now,’ she tells her mother. ‘She’s ready to take him back to Iowa City.’ I wonder if she’s told them I was in the psychiatric ward, whether she’s projected her entire story on Ellen. I don’t say anything, just look down at the baby as though he’s my excuse for everything that may have come before. If I was mentally too weak and had to be hospitalized, it was only because the child seemed too perfect; I wasn’t equipped. Finally, I look into her parents’ faces. ‘Thank you for taking care of him,’ I say.

  ‘We’re happy you have him now. He’s a beautiful baby,’ Hannah’s mother says. She looks exhausted. She stands up and shuffles toward the refrigerator, barely lifting her feet.

  ‘Do you mind if I walk with him?’ I ask. I break off from them and walk out the back door into the yard. I pull the blanket up over Alex’s mouth. I look into another house, another kitchen window. I think I can make someone out behind the screen, a woman no doubt. Probably washing dishes. It surprises me that Hannah doesn’t follow me out into the yard. Instead she remains talking with her mother, watching me from the window while I clumsily adjust to the baby’s fitful movements.

  We go to an early dinner with her parents. It is a difficult procedure – and one that I imagine is irregular – to get them out of the house. I carry the baby. There are a few families already seated at tables around ours. The place has a large salad bar, adjoining rooms separated by brown accordion doors. The waitress, who must be in high school, immediately comes over to look at Alex. He is asleep in my arms.

  ‘He’s adorable,’ she whispers. ‘How old is he?’ I look into her eyes for a moment, the question skipping over my mind but not landing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to her. There is something in my voice that keeps her from asking again.

  Hannah’s parents, on the other hand, don’t ask questions. Perhaps they thought this child was Hannah’s, and they are just grateful now that she hasn’t lied, grateful there was a real mother out there. They accept me as some kind of proof, something incapable of concealment or falsehood. And though I haven’t had a moment to pull Han
nah aside, to tell her how startling this charade is, I’ve already grown used to it. I step into the role of uneasy mother with no great effort; I feel slightly possessive and slightly intimidated by the child, and these feelings seem natural. I dip a cloth napkin into my water and rub his cheeks clean, and his sparkling green eyes – so much like Hannah’s – are full of delight. I listen to their conversation while I tend to the baby; Hannah tells them about a job she has applied for, how well her painting is going. Finally, she tells them she may have to cut the trip short, that I need to get back to work.

  I look up in time to see her parents quickly glance at each other. There is relief in their eyes, as though being in their daughter’s company has required them to acknowledge a part of themselves they don’t want to revisit. They act as if they’d reached some kind of tenuous truce, a mutual forgetting. I imagine Hannah’s awkwardness, her mannishness, is too present for them to ignore. Their resolve to get on with life no matter how unfortunate leaves very little room for her. Hannah understands this too well.

  I can see that she respects their bond; she seems to watch them with a bleak satisfaction. It’s familiar, even if it’s not warm. It occurs to me she’d be happy to stay with them if she could, that it still hurts her to acknowledge their preference to be alone.

  She holds her mother under the arm as we make our way out of the restaurant. It’s cold, but it’s not snowing. Her father manages his wheelchair with difficulty, gritting his teeth at times but not asking for help. Alex is sleeping, drooling pearls along the edge of the blanket. I carry the bassinet, wondering whether Hannah’s mother made the blanket for him or if they bought it. I wonder if I should offer to give it back to them, if it’s a family item, something meaningful.

  Hannah has to help her father into the car and fold the chair, put it into the trunk. He sits in the front seat, winded.

  ‘Thank you for dinner. I had a nice time,’ I say to the back of his head as I lift Alex onto my lap. He begins rolling the radio dial, looking for a talk station.

  ‘We don’t get out often. We’re just very happy this baby is with his mother. Hannah’s mother became quite attached to him. I hope you’ll take him back to visit us.’ He turns up the radio. We drive back with barely a word spoken. I look over and notice Mrs Fisher blotting her eyes with her scarf. I feel agitated by the hoax, by the promise I’ve made to bring him back here for visits. I can’t even look at Hannah. I look out the window instead. I imagine myself a new mother, seeing the’ world in all its abrasive wonder for the first time, not the faintest idea how to keep my child from expecting too much of it.

  Hannah asks me to stay in the car; she tells her parents we’re going for a ride and not to wait up for us. Her mother offers to take Alex inside, but Hannah says we’ll take him along.

  ‘He’s asleep already,’ her mother persists. ‘Let me put him to bed inside.’

  ‘Ellen wants to spend time with him,’ she says. Her voice has an edge to it. Her mother steps out of the car, and Hannah opens the trunk, carries the chair over to her father. I also leave the car to embrace her mother. Her parents enter the dark carport, but before they disappear I notice Hannah’s mother turning a last time, her eyes reluctantly gazing at the bassinet in my hand.

  I move Alex into the front seat between us. ‘Now you understand why I had to come here,’ she says. ‘I told my parents it was Ellen’s baby. I couldn’t tell them what happened.’ I move Alex out of the direct line of the heater. His cheeks are stippled red.

  ‘I told them Ellen was in the hospital with depression, and asked them to watch over him. They’ve had him off and on for two months. But he needs some stability now.’ She says these things flatly, as though effecting these new conditions requires nothing more than clearly stating them.

  ‘I hated that,’ I say to her. ‘I hate faking, pretending I’m someone else.’

  She says nothing, but I can tell she’s angry at me.

  ‘I don’t know how you can do that to your mother. That was really hard on her. She was crying.’

  We drive into the parking lot of the old Central High School. At night, the structure is terrifying. Its blackened stone makes it look like an enormous crematorium. Hannah shuts off the headlights and we sit silently for a moment; we’ve come up against a wall of darkness.

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she says.

  The whole place is boarded up; there are some weathered signs promising restoration for the following year, but no indication that anything is yet under way. I find the place more than forbidding. It seems impossible to imagine children inside its high walls. It’s like a prison, designed to dwarf and intimidate. The windows – all broken out now – offer no relief to the facade. They propose a deeper blackness.

  ‘C’mon,’ she says. ‘Wrap Alex up and let’s go inside.’

  ‘I’m not taking him in there.’ I hear something like outrage in my voice. What is she thinking?

  She turns on the seat, looking first at me, then him.

  ‘All right,’ she says, taking the handle of the bassinet. ‘I’ll carry him.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask impatiently over the hood of the car. ‘It’s cold in there and he might get hurt.’ But she’s already slammed the car door and is nearing the chained doors of the school. I follow her, though the whole thing feels strangely over-determined, as though I were back in an old dream with the onus to correct something. I catch up to her as she makes her way around the side of the building, and she smiles at me, faintly, as though she’s pleased I’ve decided to come. There’s a low window covered only by a loose board. I take Alex from her, silently and without prompting. I look at his sweet face; how a child born from so much remorse could look so untroubled.

  She puts her foot against the side of the building for leverage and, pulling the board away, slowly draws the long nails out of the stone.

  ‘We don’t have a flashlight,’ I say. ‘This is stupid and dangerous.’

  ‘Trust me. I do this all the time.’ She puts the board down and knocks the shards of glass out of the frame. Turning to look at me, she adds, ‘Once we get upstairs, we’ll have moonlight in the windows. This is a great place. You’ll see.’

  She hoists herself up and over the window ledge; then her face reappears, framed by shadows. She passes her hands out to retrieve the bassinet, and I hand Alex over to her. There is something ancient about the transaction, the shrouded appearance of her face, and my making this offering through the wall. And then I, too, climb inside.

  Once our eyes adjust, it’s easy to find our way to the stairwell. The place is damp. There are puddles underneath the busted windows, and wooden chairs stacked against the walls. I’m worried about things roosting in here, or kids squatting, endangering the baby. I try not to think about it. I become interested in some of the old desks, the bookshelves stacked with paperwork and files, information nobody claimed.

  Hannah seems to know where she’s going. She moves confidently through the dark halls, and Alex looks like he’s sleeping still. I watch her carrying him aloft, guiding him over these forgotten, broken things.

  She turns to me before a large window in one of the classrooms on the second floor. ‘You see,’ she says. ‘Perfect light.’

  I walk to the window, and the face of the moon is spectacular. The light of it falls like powder over her shoulders, and over her knuckles, tightly clenching the plastic handle of Alex’s bed.

  ‘Thank you for what you did today, with my parents. I’m sorry it was so hard for you.’

  ‘It was all right,’ I say. You killed Victor. I owe you one.

  ‘I want you to keep him, Carrie.’

  I stand still, sensing the magnitude of this. She has chosen this place to ask this of me; her words fall resoundingly, chillingly, in here.

  ‘I came here after I first had Alex, and I knew I’d come back here. I thought of leaving him here and just letting the cold take him out. And then the oppor
tunity with Victor happened, and I thought if I acted on that, you’d understand what I was going to ask of you.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about being a mother, Hannah.’ She’s taken him out of his bassinet, and is holding him before her like a heavy package.

  ‘You know not to take a baby into a place like this,’ she says. ‘You know he could get hurt; he could fall.’

  Her implied threat makes me outraged. The anger momentarily keeps me from noticing the creepiness of her suggestion, her fixed, flat gaze.

  ‘Even if I could keep this child,’ she says, ‘I could never be honest with him. I’m responsible for his mother’s death and I helped put his father away. If you take him from me, it’ll be like Ellen has taken what was rightfully hers. I think that’s the only way to make things right. You could care for this baby, Carrie.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘Ellen will never have what’s rightfully hers. And if you give up Alex, you’ll never have the experience of your son’s love. You have to accept him. You can be a good mother to him.’

  ‘My killing Victor gave you the chance to move on. I gave you that chance. I can’t move on with this baby,’ she says, annoyed. ‘I need you to take him. I’ll abandon him otherwise. I will.’

  ‘I can’t just take your baby, Hannah. You have a responsibility.’

  She cuts me off. ‘I have a responsibility to Ellen. I’m responsible for the dead.’

  I imagine holding the baby – how much greater the responsibility to the living.

  ‘Now I’ve done something for you,’ she continues, ‘and I need you to think about how much is at stake for me. I can’t mother a child if I’m sitting in jail.’ She takes a step forward, holding Alex in front of her. ‘This is his last chance, Carrie. Trust me.’

  I hold out my hands and collect him. I bring him close to me, bewildered. At first I think it’s Hannah who confuses me, but I understand her. It’s my own thoughts that I’m confounded by. They seem for the first time to be purged of fear. I look at Alex and wonder if this wasn’t the child Victor was looking for, the one I’d lost. Courage. I was looking for courage in his face.