What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  Listen, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. My dear doctor, please listen. I’m going to tell you something about myself I very rarely reveal. It may shock you. I am older than I appear to be. Old enough to be a grandmother, in fact. This man you see before you, this dear sweet man, is my son. And his wife is my daughter-in-law. I know it seems impossible, but it’s true. I am old enough to be a mother once-removed from that poor darling baby above us, I shall be his Nana, his Nona, his Bubbie, his Granny, his Mimi; I shall be his very special and devoted Momsy, and I am here, here right now, here with two working hands and two operating feet, and I think if you do not release that baby into the care of his loving Papa and his doting Momsy, you will rue this day forevermore.

  The doctor seemed somewhat overwhelmed by this speech, for he took another step backward, as if Livia Pinheiro-Rima were a fire whose heat was becoming too intense. He turned once again to the man.

  She is your mother? he asked.

  The man looked at Livia Pinheiro-Rima and was about to declare she was his mother, but then it occurred to him that if he was given this child on the basis of lies, he would never feel that the child was truly his.

  No, the man said. She is not my mother. But please, give me my son. What more can I do? Do you want more money? Tell me, just tell me, and I’ll do it. But give me my son!

  He stopped talking when Livia Pinheiro-Rima reached out and touched him on the small bare part of his neck that rose above his white shirt collar.

  Relax, my darling, she said. My dear, dear boy. Everything will be fine. You are overwhelmed. She gently patted his cheek and then withdrew her hand. She turned to the doctor.

  Don’t you see? He is overwhelmed. My poor boy. The impossible journey here, and these days of waiting, and the cold, and then his wife’s accident; can’t you understand it has all been too much for him? Of course, I’m his mother. Do you think he would be here if I wasn’t? Do you think he would come to this godforsaken place to adopt a baby if he weren’t my son? He came here because I begged him to. Because he is a good son. A son who loves his mother, and who will love his son. It is all connected, the love we feel for our parents and children.

  I don’t understand you, said Doctor Ludjekins. What has this to do with the baby?

  Everything! It has everything to do with the baby! I told you, it’s all connected, the love of parents and children. You can’t be so heartless as to not acknowledge that.

  Of course I acknowledge it. Who would not? I simply fail to see what bearing it has on the matter in hand. I think perhaps you decide I am a dunce. I have a medical degree from Johns Hopkins University in the city of Baltimore, the state of Maryland. Do you know of it?

  Of course I do, said the man. It is a very fine school.

  So you see I am not some dummkopf.

  Oh, my dear doctor! exclaimed Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Of course you are not! My son and I have the utmost respect for you, and for this marvelous institution you direct. I myself plan to leave a large part of my small fortune to St. Bartholomew’s.

  It is St. Barnabas, said the doctor.

  Of course it is! St. Barnabas. One of the finest institutions of its kind.

  We follow all international protocols, said Doctor Ludjekins. We do not sell babies. Procedures may have been like rubber under my predecessor, Mrs. Tarja Uosukainen, but I assure you that St. Barnabas is no longer the hodgepodge it once may have been. Everything is now clean and above the boards.

  Of course, doctor—that is exactly why I suggested St. Barnabas to my son. I knew that since you have taken over it is an institution beyond reproach. That is precisely why we are here, and why my son is so eager to claim his son.

  We do not contribute our babies to lonesome parents, said Doctor Ludjekins. They must all be here to welcome the baby.

  Yes, of course, said the man. And my wife would be here, if it were not for her broken leg. If it’s really so important, I will go back to the hotel and drag her here, limping all the way. She would do it happily. She would crawl here on her hands and knees. He did not realize he was aggressively gesticulating until Livia Pinheiro-Rima reached out, grabbed one of his pinwheeling arms, and lowered it to his side.

  Hush, she said. Poor boy. You’re upset. She turned to the doctor. He’s upset, she said. It’s only natural. Excuse us for just a moment, if you would be so kind.

  She took the man’s hand and pulled him into a corner of the anteroom and positioned them so that she was facing him with her back to the doctor. She mouthed a word with her lips, which were painted a bright deep red, but the man did not understand what she said and so he shook his head. She winked at him.

  You’re upset, my dear, she said in a voice that could easily be overhead by the doctor, who was standing just a few feet away. Why don’t you go outside and smoke a cigarette? It will calm you. And I will have a chat with Doctor Ludjekins.

  But I don’t—

  Of course you do. Here. Livia Pinheiro-Rima opened her little bag and reached into it and withdrew her cigarette case.

  Hold this, she said to the man, and handed him her bag, which he clutched rather awkwardly with both hands, as he did not like the doctor seeing him holding a woman’s handbag. Livia Pinheiro-Rima flicked open the case and pulled one cigarette out from beneath its silver clasp. Give me my lighter, she said. It’s in the bag.

  He reached into the bag and found her lighter, which he withdrew.

  Take it, Livia Pinheiro-Rima said. She handed him the cigarette she had extracted from the case and took the bag from him. Now go outside and smoke. I know it’s cold but the cold will do you good. I will come and get you when I am finished with the doctor. Do you understand?

  Yes, said the man. I understand.

  Good, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Go. She pushed him toward to door. Don’t come back until I fetch you.

  The man had not smoked in several years. But he felt foolish standing idly on the steps of the orphanage, and so he lit the cigarette and smoked. It was very cold outside and he wished he could fill his entire body with the warm, poisonous smoke. He smoked it down to the filter and then threw it in the snow. It was too cold to stand still and so he descended the steps and walked across the small parking lot to the road. Across from the orphanage was a building that looked as if it might once have been a gas station but was now clearly abandoned. There was no other building in sight, only fields of snow. Even though it was early afternoon the sun was setting in the west. It leached a pale yellowish light along the horizon. Nothing moved or made a sound.

  The man felt very capable of making noise, and he wished he had a gun so he could fire it and hear the violent disturbance. Instead he shouted the word cabbage as loud as he could into the cold air. Cabbage had been the name of his childhood dog, a fat dachshund that when curled up was said to resemble a cabbage. The dog often ran away—apparently it did not like living where it lived—and the man, when he was a boy, spent many hours out in the fields surrounding his family’s house shouting the dog’s name. Cabbage! Cabbage!

  He had loved the dog but had also hated him, because he was always running away. Usually he would reappear, but once he did not and the man saw him the next day from the window of the school bus, lying by the side of the road, crushed. He had wanted to tell the bus driver to stop but could not, for the school bus was a ruthless place where any sort of emotional behavior was violently ridiculed. When he got home from school that afternoon he rode his bike to the place where the dog lay and brought him home, holding the dog against his chest with one hand and the handlebar with the other. The crushed dog leaked blood and guts onto his school shirt and he was punished by his mother because he had not changed into his play clothes before going to fetch the dog.

  Cabbage! Cabbage! Come!

  He turned away from the field and walked across the parking lot to the steps of the orphanage. He wished he had another cigarette to smoke. Perhaps he would start smoking again. It was for his wife he had stopped, and now she was dead. But if he had a
child he should not smoke. It was one of the many things he would give up for the child. Well, he had already given up smoking, so he could not give that up for the child, but he could at least not start smoking again. He wished he could sit down, but the icy steps were heavily dusted with ashes. Someone had shoveled a narrow path to a bench that stood in the field beside the parking lot but the bench was covered in snow. Odd that someone would shovel the path to the bench but not the bench itself.

  His wife was dead. The part of his life that had been his marriage was over. It had been a good part of his life, except for the past year. In the next part of his life he might have a child, be a father. Or he might not. Doctor Ludjekins had seemed adamant, but then Livia Pinheiro-Rima was a formidable opponent. He would miss her when he left this place. Perhaps she would come to visit him and the child, as if she really were his grandmother. Otherwise the boy would have no grandparents, for both his and his wife’s parents were dead. If everything went well, he could be home in three days. With a son. Even if everything did not go well, he could be home in three days.

  A sweet wee bairn inside is crying for his Dada.

  The man turned to see Livia Pinheiro-Rima standing on the top step.

  You’re a father, she said. Now come inside and collect your son.

  What happened? the man asked.

  Why do you care what happened? Everything’s fine. The wee bairn is yours. They’re inside now putting all the papers in order. You’ve just got to sign on the dotted line.

  He’s mine? Really?

  I wouldn’t joke about something like this. Now come inside before you freeze to death.

  In the taxi on the way back to the hotel the man held the child on his lap. Livia Pinheiro-Rima smoked and looked out the window, even though it was dark and the only thing she could see was her smoking reflection.

  The child was sleeping soundly. He wore the puffy silver snowsuit the man’s wife had picked out after an hour of neurotic deliberation in Babies “R” Us. It was designed to resemble a space suit and even had a patch proclaiming JUNIOR SPACE RANGER on its sleeve. Some of the child’s straight blond hair protruded from beneath the hood and his cheeks were flushed. It was as if he, too, had been through an ordeal like the man and was similarly exhausted. He was heavier and more substantial than the man had imagined he would be. And he would only get bigger. Is he too much for me? the man wondered. Am I big enough for him?

  Look at him, he said to Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Isn’t he beautiful?

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima rolled down the window and threw her cigarette out into the night. Then she turned and looked at the man and at the child.

  He will break hearts, she said. Yours among them, I’ve no doubt. Children do that.

  Do you have children?

  Yes, she said. Two. One I’ve lost touch with—I suppose he might still be alive. But I know the other is dead. And did they break your heart?

  Yes.

  Both of them?

  Each in his own cunning way.

  The man looked down at the child he held. I don’t think Simon will break my heart, he said.

  Of course you don’t. No parent does. Here—give him to me. Let me hold him. Now, while he’s all rosy-cheeked and sleeping. Before you take him away forever and I never see him again, the thought of which I cannot bear.

  The man carefully handed the child to Livia Pinheiro-Rima, who held him against her bear-fur coat. She gently stroked one of his flushed cheeks with the backs of her fingers. The man saw that she was crying.

  After a moment of watching her, he said, Will you tell me what you did?

  What do you mean? She did not look up at him. She continued to caress the child’s cheek.

  I mean back there, at the orphanage. What did you do?

  The baby is yours, she said. You don’t want to know what I did. It shouldn’t be a part of his story, or yours.

  But you’ve got to tell me!

  Have I? She stopped caressing the baby and looked at the man.

  Yes. Otherwise I’ll always worry.

  Why would you worry?

  I just want to feel safe. That he is mine.

  You are safe. He is yours. I assure you.

  Did you give him money?

  Here, she said. Have him back. He’s yours. That should be all that matters.

  The man took the baby back from Livia Pinheiro-Rima. She turned away from him and once again lit a cigarette and regarded her face in the dark window.

  They rode in silence until the taxi entered the narrow winding streets of the old town. Livia Pinheiro-Rima reached into the pockets of her coat and extracted two black leather gloves that she carefully slid over her large slender hands, pushing down the V between each of her fingers so that they fit her snugly. Then she folded her gloved hands in her lap and looked back out the window.

  I’m sorry, said the man. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you. For everything you’ve done. For my wife, and for me, and for the baby. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for you. What you said before, on our way out, about how you felt. I have felt the same. Feel the same. I’m sorry I didn’t say that then.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima turned away from the window and looked at the man. Well, thank you, she said. It’s nice to know. Although what good it will do either of us, I know not.

  The man held the baby and Livia Pinheiro-Rima pushed them all through the revolving door and into the lobby of the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel.

  Come, she said. We must celebrate this occasion with a drink.

  The man followed her into the bar. Livia Pinheiro-Rima walked around the bar to her seat in the corner. She unhooked the horn toggles on her coat and shrugged it off, allowing it to fall onto the floor. She was wearing the black sequined evening gown she had worn the night the man had first met her, and the man thought, She must have known we would succeed at the orphanage, otherwise she would not have worn that dress. He followed her around the bar, sat down beside her, and looked around as if there might be someplace to stow the baby but of course there was not so he held the baby on his lap.

  It was a bit awkward, he realized, carrying a child around with you.

  When they had settled themselves, Lárus detached himself from his wall and came and stood before them. He took no notice of the baby. Schnapps? he asked.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima turned to the man. Schnapps?

  No, said the man. Champagne! We’re celebrating. Champagne for us all. Bring us a bottle of your finest champagne.

  Our finest champagne is very fine, said Lárus. It is perhaps too fine for you.

  I expect it is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Bring us a bottle of the Billecart-Salmon.

  The blanc de blancs or the rosé?

  Don’t be a fool. The blanc de blancs. We’ll have a toast. Our dear friend has just become a father. He has a child, you see.

  Yes, I see, said Lárus. Children under sixteen years of age are not allowed in the bar.

  He’s seventeen, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Go.

  Lárus turned about and exited through the upholstered door.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima sighed and placed her bag upon the bar. She opened it and fished out her cigarette case. One supposes one should smoke at a time like this, she said. Or are you afraid it will harm the little one?

  I think he’ll be fine, said the man. I’d like one too.

  Mais oui, bien sûr. She extracted two cigarettes from her case, put them in her mouth, and lit them both. She handed one to the man and inhaled upon the other.

  I realize now, she said, that a glass of Billecart-Salmon is exactly what I have been craving. I’m so sick of that damn schnapps, you’ve no idea.

  Do you think I should take his snowsuit off? asked the man. Do you think it’s too warm for him in here?

  Oh, I doubt it, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Plus better too warm than too cold. If you start catering to every little whim of his now there’ll be no end to it. It’s good for children to suffer a little.
It builds character.

  No wonder your children broke your heart, the man said.

  I admit I wasn’t the best mother in the world. Or even a particularly good one. I wanted my children to be independent, self-sufficient. To go off on their own and make their own lives as soon as they possibly could. In the old days children were sent out into the fields or down into the mines as soon as they could handle a hoe or a pick. Now they’re all mollycoddled and live at home until they’re middle-aged.

  If this is advice you are giving me I shall follow none of it, said the man. I expect I shall be the type of parent you hate.

  I’ve no doubt you will be. You’ll ruin this poor lovely child faster than you can say Cornelia Otis Skinner. But don’t abandon your own life. Don’t conflate it with his. Don’t conflate it with anyone’s. That’s my real advice.

  Is it really? asked the man. It sounds lonely.

  Oh, I don’t mean that you should be lonely. Or necessarily alone. I mean you shouldn’t do anything out of a fear of being alone. That’s when the trouble starts.

  Lárus backed through the door. He held a large silver tray upon which sat a bottle of champagne and four flutes. He lowered it carefully onto the bar beside the man. He unbelted and removed the foil wrap that shrouded the head of the bottle and then untwisted the wire cage. He then pulled the cork out of the bottle and held it at arm’s length as it calmed itself. He poured a small amount of champagne into each of the flutes; it raced up the walls of the glasses and stopped just before overflowing. The hissing foam loitered at the rim of the glasses for a moment and then began collapsing back into itself, and as it settled Lárus slowly poured more champagne onto the retreating foam and this time the champagne mounted inside the glass with less drama. He equally filled all four glasses and placed one before Livia Pinheiro-Rima and one before the man. Then he picked up one of the two remaining glasses of champagne.

  Who is the fourth glass for? asked Livia Pinheiro-Rima.

  Lárus nodded at the child the man was holding in his arms. For the seventeen-year-old, he said.