Cheyenne wakes at six-thirty, smiling over her crib at us.
“Baby help,” she says.
I get out of bed and let down the crib side, so Cheyenne can climb out by herself. She struggles, trying to do it all one-handed while she keeps a hold on her doll.
“Here, let me hold Mary for you,” I tell her.
She pauses, then hands the doll to me, grips the crib railing with both hands and climbs over. She runs to the bed where Rudy still sleeps, covers pulled over his head. She pulls the covers away from his face and pokes at his eyes.
“Daddy. Wake.”
“No,” he says, then pretends to snore.
“Wake!” she says, trying to force his eyelids open.
In one quick move he swoops her into bed with him.
“I’m gonna eat you up,” he says, making gobbling sounds and munching gently at her.
Cheyenne laughs like I’ve not heard her laugh in weeks.
Irma knocks on the door and comes walking in.
“Hungry, Baby?” she says, smiling at Cheyenne.
“Go with Gramma before I eat you all, all up,” Rudy says, lifting Cheyenne and holding her out to Irma.
“I need to leave in about fifteen minutes,” Irma says, carrying Cheyenne out of the room.
As soon as they’re gone, Rudy gives me a sly grin.
“Fifteen minutes is plenty of time,” he says.
I quick close the door and crawl back in bed.
“Quiet, though,” I whisper.
“As a mouse,” he says, taking my hand and guiding it to him.
After Irma leaves for work we get up and fix a huge breakfast, bacon, eggs, orange juice, and a kind of cinnamon toast that’s sort of Rudy’s specialty.
“How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?” Rudy says, watching me wolf down food.
I smile, embarrassed, and slow down.
Cheyenne sits in her high chair and Rudy feeds her little bites of scrambled egg in between his own big bites. Watching them, I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. This is what I want, right here, not some halfway house with a bunch of women I don’t even know—complaining women at that.
We clean up the kitchen and get Cheyenne dressed. Rudy sings silly made-up songs to Cheyenne, and every time I look his way he’s got this big smile on his face. Same for me. I can’t stop smiling, either.
“I should go get set up with classes this afternoon,” I tell him.
His smile fades. “Why don’t we spend today together, just the three of us. It’s been so long.”
“Well, okay. I don’t want to miss much school, though.”
“Just today,” he says, putting his arms around me. “Huh, Cheyenne,” he says. “Just today.”
“Today!” she repeats, causing us both to laugh.
We spend the day talking about how things are going to be. For sure we’re going to Vegas to get married just as soon as we can. And Rudy’s going to get another job, better than the last one.
“Ol’ Murphy didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground,” Rudy says.
“I thought you liked him?”
Rudy’s face clouds over.
“That’s before I saw what an asshole he is.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothin’. It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Rudy walks out the back door and sits on the steps, smoking. I gather up dirty clothes and put a load in the washer, then Cheyenne and I vacuum. She loves to push the vacuum cleaner.
I think if Irma comes home to a clean house, maybe she’ll start to like me again. Or at least stop hating me.
After we finish vacuuming we take Cheyenne’s big plastic ball outside and bounce it back and forth. Rudy plays, too. His smile is back. When Cheyenne tires of the game, Rudy and I sit on the steps and watch while she goes from flower to flower, sticking her nose into each one, then looking at us and smiling.
“Yum, yum,” she says at each stop.
I go inside and get the pictures Daphne and I took at the park, then sit back down beside Rudy.
“Look, this is my friend from the desert,” I say, pointing to Daphne.
He glances at the picture, then looks away.
“And this is her little boy, Kevin.”
This time he doesn’t even look.
“That’s over, Missy. I don’t want you even thinking about it.”
I tuck the pictures back in my pocket and move closer to Rudy, not wanting to spoil things.
When Cheyenne starts showing signs of sleepiness we put her down for a nap, and again we make quick, quiet, love. It’s like we can’t get enough of each other.
Later in the afternoon, I call for an appointment with Planned Parenthood. When I was in the desert I didn’t know where to go to get a refill on my birth control pills. The woman I talk with there tells me we should be using condoms until I complete a new, full month’s cycle.
I hope I can explain it to Rudy. Why should that be a problem? We do the most private, intimate things with our bodies, but then I can hardly get up enough nerve to talk about something as simple as using a condom.
By the time Irma gets home, at six-fifteen, the house is spotless and dinner is ready. I used the last of my welfare check to buy the makings for spaghetti and garlic bread and brownies. Irma loves brownies.
“How’s Gramma’s baby?” she asks, and Cheyenne runs to her.
She smiles and says hello to Rudy, and just sort of nods at me.
But I can tell by the way she looks around, she likes what she sees. I’ll keep doing my share, more than my share, and Irma’ll get over being mad at me—I’m pretty sure.
Late at night, after Cheyenne has been asleep for hours, I tell Rudy, “This was the happiest day of my life.”
“Mine, too,” he says. “That’s how they’re all going to be from now on. Happy days.”
CHAPTER
9
“We want all happy days,” Rudy tells me, watching as I get ready for school. “Stay here with me.”
“But Rudy, it’s already Thursday. I don’t want to miss any more school.”
“All I’m asking is that you and Cheyenne stay home with me, just ’til I find another job, that’s all. Is that too much to ask?”
“No,” I say, searching for my old notebook to put into my backpack. “But I don’t want to mess up my chances for graduation.”
“You care more about your stupid graduation than you do about me and Cheyenne,” he says, scowling.
I go to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and put my arms around him. “That’s not true. You’re the most important person in my whole life—you and Cheyenne. You know that.”
“Stay with me then, just one more day. Tomorrow I’ll personally drive you over to Hamilton so you can get started again. Promise.”
His deep brown eyes, sincere, pleading, captivate me.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“One more happy day,” he says with a smile.
I smile back, keeping my uneasiness buried below the surface, thinking how lucky I am that Rudy cares so much, and that he needs me.
Friday morning Rudy insists that Monday is a better day to start.
“Cheyenne needs to get back to preschool, too,” I tell him.
“Monday’s soon enough,” he says.
“When are you going to start looking for another job?” I ask.
“Whenever,” he says.
Instead of getting registered at school on Monday, we go to the Department of Social Services, where we wait in one place after the next to get my address changed back to Rudy’s house. It was just one check that they sent to the shelter and now it’s like a very big deal to send my checks to the same place they’ve been sending them for over two years.
Cheyenne is tired and fussy, and there’s nothing I can do but hold her on my lap while I wait for my number to be called. If I let her go she tries to run out the door. Besides that, there’s all kinds of things sh
e could hurt herself on in here—tables and desks with sharp corners, swinging doors, people walking around, not looking where they’re going.
I bounce Cheyenne around, try to play patty-cake, but she tries to squirm down.
“Look at that,” Rudy says, pointing to two women behind the counter.
They are leaning against the counter, laughing and looking at a stack of snapshots. One of the women is very fat. Her hair and make-up look as if she spent a lot of time getting ready this morning. The other woman, the one with the stack of pictures, is short and skinny and sloppy looking, as if she just rolled out of bed and came to work.
“It’s like they don’t have a goddamned thing in the world to do. Let us peons wait.”
Cheyenne lets out a cry and tries to push herself down. Rudy takes her from me and jostles her up and down.
“I hate that,” Rudy tells me. “They think they’re so much better than anyone else, with their forms and numbers.”
“Maybe it’s their break,” I say.
“Shit, Missy. They’re just letting us know who’s boss, that’s all. I know about people like that,” he says, angrily enough that several people glance up at him.
Cheyenne tries to push away from Rudy.
“No, Cheyenne!” he says, the angry tone still in his voice.
Cheyenne pulls her mouth down into her saddest look, then opens it wide and lets out a shriek.
“Jesus!” Rudy says, shoving Cheyenne back at me.
“Number fifty-seven,” the woman who is not looking at snapshots calls out.
I look at my number again, even though I know exactly what it says. Eighty-nine.
Cheyenne is crying full blast, and now everyone’s looking at us. What am I supposed to do, anyway? It’s like I’m making her cry just to annoy them or something.
“Rudy, maybe you should take Cheyenne for a ride. She’s so tired, and I know she’d go to sleep in the carseat.”
“What?” he says.
I talk louder, over Cheyenne’s crying.
“Take her for a ride so she’ll go to sleep,” I say.
He walks away, over to the counter in front of where the two women are still talking and looking at pictures.
“Hey!” he says.
Neither of the women responds.
“Hey! Goddammit!”
Now, instead of looking at Cheyenne, everyone’s looking at Rudy.
He bangs on the counter. The larger of the two looks up.
“You work here?”
“Please take a number and wait your turn, sir.”
“I asked you a question.”
The sloppy one nods in the direction of a giant, uniformed security guard, who walks over to the counter, his hand resting on a club that dangles from his belt.
“Peeceman,” Cheyenne says, pointing, suddenly happy again.
My throat goes dry and I silently plead for Rudy to calm down, calm down.
“Save your questions for when your number comes up,” the woman says. She uses firm, even tones, like teachers do when they’re giving one final chance to a difficult child.
The whole room seems to lean toward Rudy, waiting for whatever will come next. Calm down, I’m thinking. Calm down.
“I hope to Christ someday you both have to wait for help from anybody in this room ’cause you won’t get it. Flat tire? Mugging? About to drown in a swimming pool? Tough shit, bitches!”
There is a pause in the room and then, as if of one spirit, everyone starts clapping. The security guard has Rudy by the arm, guiding him toward the door, but Rudy manages to turn and flash a Rocky Balboa smile at the crowd. The applause heightens as he is escorted out the door.
The two women look together at the last three pictures, taking their time. Then, finally, the smaller one calls for number fifty-eight. Moments later the larger woman calls for number fifty-nine.
There is a buzz in the room, kind of like at a basketball game after a player’s made three free shots in a row.
I hear a tapping at the window and turn to see Rudy motioning to me. He is smiling broadly. Others in the room notice him and they, too, smile. The guard watches, but does not move. I put Cheyenne on the floor, take her by her hand, and the two of us walk to the door. Rudy meets us and picks Cheyenne up. He is laughing.
“How about that?” he says. “I guess we showed those two lazy bitches.”
“Bitches,” Cheyenne says.
“No, baby,” I say.
Rudy puts his hand over his mouth, still laughing, like the whole thing’s cute, or something.
“I’ll take her for a ride now, get her to sleep,” Rudy says.
“Okay. It’ll probably be at least another hour.”
“See that tree down there?” he says, pointing to a shady place down the block. “After she’s asleep real good I’ll just wait for you there.”
I kiss them both and go back inside. I wish I’d brought a book to read, but I haven’t had a chance to get to the library since I left the shelter. In fact, right now is the first time Rudy and I have been apart for over a week.
The only magazines on the table beside me are two ancient issues of Sports Illustrated and a beat up Home Style from a year ago. I flip through the Home Style, wishing it had a story. The pictures are pretty, though, and I can’t help wondering what it would be like to live in a great big house with French doors that open onto a deck overlooking the ocean.
There’s a picture of a kitchen that’s got to be as big as Irma’s whole house. I guess there are real people who live in houses like that.
Once, when I was little, Sean’s mom, Teresa, drove us around a place called San Marino, so we could see Christmas lights. That place had huge trees, and huge houses, and huge lawns.
“Some people have all the luck,” is how Sean’s mom explained that we lived in motels near racetracks and other people lived in beautiful, huge houses. Even then, I wondered if it was only luck. I guess it has to be, at least for little kids. Why else was I born to my mom, instead of to some rich mom and dad, where I’d have had my own room, and gone to school with the same kids, year after year?
For that matter, I guess it was luck that got Cheyenne born to me. I hope it was good luck for her, even though we’re not in a big house with all matching appliances and she doesn’t have her own room with teddy bear curtains and matching lamps. I want to make it be lucky for her, so when she’s older and looks around at how everybody else lives, she’ll know she got lucky when she got me for a mom.
Why do I cry when I think about this stuff? Cleansing breath, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .
“Number eighty-nine.”
It is the sloppy one calling my number. I put the magazine back and walk quickly to the counter. I explain about the address change. The clerk doesn’t look at me or even act as if she’s listening. Her whole head disappears as she leans down below the counter. I stand on my tiptoes to try to see what she’s doing, but I’m not tall enough to get a good look. When she reappears she slides a form across the counter to me. I wait for an explanation.
“Number ninety,” she calls.
“What am I supposed to do about my address change?” I ask.
She looks at me as if I’m the most stupid person she’s ever seen.
“Fill this out and mail it in,” she says, condescendingly.
“That’s all?”
“Fill this out and mail it in,” she repeats.
For an instant I’m glad for everything Rudy said to her, and I wish I’d clapped for him, too. Why should we wait over three hours just to pick up a form?
Rudy is still in a good mood when I get to the car.
“Hey, Babe,” he says, reaching across the seat and opening the door for me.
Cheyenne is sleeping, her head flopped over to one side. I scrunch up my sweatshirt and prop it into her carseat, so she looks more comfortable.
“Kisses?” Rudy asks.
I kiss him on the cheek and he pulls me closer, kissing
me on the mouth. We sit in the car for a while, kissing and hugging, easy at first and then with more intensity, our hands moving to special places, places Rudy’s taught me want to be touched.
“Am I your hero?” Rudy whispers to me.
“Mine and everyone else’s,” I tell him, though I am halfhearted about it.
“Rudy?”
“Yeah, Babes?”
“I want us to go to one of those couples’ support groups I’ve been telling you about.”
He backs away, fast. “We don’t need that shit,” he says.
“For me?” I ask.
“I’ve got for you,” he says, moving close again, nuzzling my neck, making soft animal sounds, making me laugh.
CHAPTER
10
“Melissa!”
Bergie hurries over to me and gives me a big hug, then reaches for Cheyenne.
“How’s my baby-help girl?”
Cheyenne ducks her head shyly, but leans toward Bergie to let her take her from my arms.
Bergie laughs softly and carries her over to the playhouse where Brittany and Ethan are busy playing at the make-believe stove.
“Look who’s here,” Bergie says, setting Cheyenne down just outside the doorway.
They stop stirring their pretend food and look at Cheyenne. Then Ethan hands her a pan and a spoon. She steps inside the playhouse, and all three of them stir air-food with great enthusiasm.
“How are you?” Bergie asks, turning to me.
I know this is not a question to answer with a quick “Fine, thanks.”
“I’m good,” I tell her. “Glad to be back.”
“How was your time at the shelter?”
“It was okay. I learned a lot. People were good to me, but it wasn’t home.”
“Are you back at Rudy’s?”
“Yes.”
Bergie frowns.
“It’s okay now,” I tell her. “Things are different.”
She looks at me with a kind of sad look in her eye.
“Really. Rudy says he knows now how important we are, and that we’re only going to have happy days from here on out. Besides, he was never as bad as those guys I heard about at the shelter.”
Baby Help Page 9
