Crossing the Line

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “She claims the last name is Polish, Jane.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Candy Likme,” he said, spelling it for me.

  Great. I was now the proud editor of Slit by Candy Likme. This just kept getting better and better.

  My mother’s church, unsurprisingly, was a sea of white, with Emma the only black pearl.

  Was it Anglican? Methodist? Lutheran? It was hard for me to say. All I knew was, I had brought Emma into yet another situation in which she was in a minority of one.

  When I’d phoned my mother, asking if she’d be willing to take us to her church, she’d been thrilled at the prospect.

  “I’ve always wished you were more religious, Jane,” she’d said. “I’ve never quite understood just what it is, the problem you have with God.”

  “I don’t know if it’s so much me having a problem with God, Mother,” I’d said. “It’s more like I suspect God of having a problem with me.”

  Still, she was pleased that I was coming and that Emma would be coming, too.

  “She can’t start too early on the road to salvation,” my mother pointed out as we walked into the church.

  I wanted to point out that, to my mind, Emma didn’t need salvation. What, after all, did she have to repent so far in life—her inexplicable adoration for those four video boys from Australia? It seemed to me more like the rest of the world was in need of salvation for not providing her with a better world to live in. But I kept mum with Mum—no need to rock the ark and make waves in what were comparatively calm waters.

  As I said, I really wasn’t quite sure what denomination church I’d stumbled into, but I knew it wasn’t Jewish or Muslim, since Jesus apparently figured strongly into the equation.

  While still on the phone, I’d asked Mother if Vic would be coming with us.

  “Oh, no,” she said, although she did sound glad I’d asked. “Vic isn’t much interested in the conventional side of religion.”

  “But things are still going well with you two?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, again sounding pleased.

  “Have you told Sophie yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Oh, you know Sophie.”

  I did. But I’d always assumed that the Sophie I knew was far different from the Sophie my mother knew.

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “She said she was shocked, but then Baby Jack gurgled something to her and she had to go. Of course, by then she was all smiley-sounding and said, ‘This is the greatest thing to ever happen to the Taylors yet!’ before ringing off.” She sighed. “I don’t know about her moods, Jane. Could she still be breastfeeding?”

  When I looked back on that day at church, I realized that the strongest impression I’d come away from it with had been one of hats. Meeting my mother on the steps in front of the church, I’d noticed she had on her head a sedate navy and cream number.

  “Here,” she said, pulling a pristine white bonnet from out of a purse that matched the hat.

  “Thanks but I’m not really the type who—”

  “Not for you, Jane! For Emma.”

  I proceeded to put the bonnet on Emma, which made her look silly, I thought, but she didn’t seem to mind and it made my mother happy.

  “She looks a bit Scarlet Letter-ish in it,” I said.

  My mother looked pointedly at my spiky-haired, unhatted head.

  “I would have said that was more you,” she said.

  Touché.

  But once we were inside, there were hushed tones and Jesus on the cross and about four hundred hats.

  There were straw hats and felt hats. There were white hats and hats of every other color imaginable, some hats having more than one color. There were hats with feathers and hats with flowers. There was even a hat with a stuffed bird on the brim, which I thought kind of scary in a pre-serial killer kind of way but that Emma found a treat.

  Aside from the hats, there was a lot of hushed talking from the man at the altar—no, not Jesus; the other one—and hushed, off-key singing and hushed whispers as everyone stared throughout the service at unhatted me and my black-pearl daughter.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Not that Emma wasn’t well behaved; she hardly fussed at all except for when the minister—reverend?—said something about “unsaved souls going to Hell,” which she rather seemed to take exception to. It was just that it was all so airless in there. And I was a bit worried that this particular preacher might be the scaffold-carrying type, and that he’d begun readying it for me, what with my Scarlet Letter vibe.

  I thought we’d be able to just walk away afterwards, perhaps go grab some brunch, maybe some chocolate chip pancakes for me and a glass of milk for my little friend. After all, isn’t that what church-going families do together on Sunday after church? But my mother was in no hurry. Apparently, we first had to talk to the minister. Reverend?

  “Mis-sus Tay-lor,” the man in black intoned to her.

  “Reverend Pauling.” She gripped his hand with a smile I’d thought she’d reserved for getting an extra slice or two of cheese off the man in the cheese shop.

  Well, she’d called him Reverend, so at least that was cleared up for me.

  “And this must be Little Janie,” he said, looking at me.

  Little Janie? He looked at me like he’d known me once, which I guess is just barely possible, although I really didn’t remember the church at all and, oh, I don’t know, I’d think I would have remembered that particular Jesus on the cross.

  “Do I know you?” I asked, taking his hand.

  “No, but I know you. Your mother talks about you all the time.”

  Now there was a revelation that wasn’t in the New Testament: my mother was talking about me to reverends; and, when she was doing it, she was calling me Little Janie.

  “We here at Little Divine Divinity United Reform—” so that’s where we were! “—think it’s just so marvelous the way you’ve opened up your home to that little black child.”

  “Well, it’s not like—”

  “No, I’m sure it’s not easy.”

  “That wasn’t what I—”

  “But we want you to know we’re here to help. And of course you’ll be wanting to bring her every Sunday.”

  “No, actually, I—”

  “And, when she gets a little older, we’ll want her in the choir…”

  It was time to stop him. If I let him go on any longer, he’d have me signing Emma up for the convent just to get him to shut up.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Reverend Pauling, but I’m afraid Emma and I won’t be able to become members of your church.”

  I saw my mother’s face fall, and felt a rare twinge of guilt.

  “Oh, you know,” I said, “maybe we’ll still come here for the big things—Christmas, Easter, potluck—but I just don’t think we could do it every week.”

  “And may I ask why not?” The reverend asked, looking at me earnestly.

  “It’s, um, er, it’s the, it’s the hats!”

  “The what??” The words came from both Reverend Pauling and my mother.

  “The hats! They’re very scary for Emma.”

  “They are???” and here they both looked at Emma, who was of course not cooperating at all on this one, but was giggling again at the woman’s hat that had the taxidermy.

  “Yes, they really are,” I said in as solemn a tone as I could muster. “I’m not even sure where it comes from exactly. All I know is that she has bad…associations with them.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Maybe it comes from when Constance sat with her?” I babbled on. “I do believe they watched some Hitchcock. Maybe it was The Birds.” And here I gave a head jerk towards the taxidermy lady again but Emma was still not helping, because she was too busy giggling.

  “You can see how hysterical she’s getting,” I said. “I’m afraid we really must go.”

 
But I’d only taken a single step before I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  It was my mother.

  “You do realize, Jane, that you’re an intensely odd young woman?”

  Well, it wouldn’t be a year in my life if at least one person didn’t say that to me.

  “Yes.” I smiled back at her. “I did know that.”

  Constance, Minerva, Dodo, Stan.

  Stephen Triplecorn had interviewed everyone at Churchill & Stewart who had been on his list except for one person, but now the time had come for him to talk to Louise.

  One thing had been bothering me, ever since this whole Home Study thing had started. Any two idiots could get together, exchange a few bodily fluids, and, if a baby came out of it nine months later, no one would question their right to keep the baby; much less subject them to a study to test their fitness. And yet here was Stephen Triplecorn, tossing through every corner of my life, to see if it was okay for Emma to keep living with me.

  Did I think it was wrong for them to examine prospective parents so closely?

  Bloody no! I thought they should subject every prospective parent, natural or just waiting in line, to some sort of examination for fitness. If a closer eye were kept on things, who knew but that there might not be less abuse in the world.

  That said, as much as I might endorse some kind of examination for all parents, I could yet see the fly in my ointment: where a person had enemies—and how many of us don’t?—it would be easy for one to come forward to say that one was unfit.

  So, as much as I’d dreaded Stephen Triplecorn talking to Constance or Minerva or Stan—or even Dodo, who might feel ethically compelled to tell an inconvenient truth—it was nothing compared to the dread I felt over him talking to Louise.

  In the months since I’d been back at C&S, in the months since Louise had been assigned as my assistant there had been no easing of tensions between us. If anything, the situation had worsened. The way I figured it, the only way she would give a kind interview about me would be if I managed to throw a sack over her head and lobotomized her in the hall closet prior to Stephen Triplecorn’s arrival. And, since physical violence was one of the few things that was beyond me, that wasn’t on.

  How I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see what she would say when she was interviewed by Stephen. I supposed I’d just have to rely on Dodo once again to tell me all about it later.

  As it turned out, Louise and I were of a single mind for once. Apparently, she wanted me to be a fly on the wall, too. She even suggested it!

  “Jane should be there too,” she said sweetly to Stephen and Dodo. “Why, I’d almost say it was her right to hear what’s said about her.”

  And so, there we all four were, in the conference room at C&S, since three people in Dodo’s office had been stretching its capacity limits and four was just that one too many.

  Louise was seated where I suspected she’d always wanted to be in life: at the head of the table. To her left, was Stephen Triplecorn. Dodo was at her right and I was next to Dodo.

  Before Stephen Triplecorn could even ask a single question, Louise began talking in a voice that brooked no interruption.

  “Let me tell you about Jane Taylor.

  “Jane Taylor and I began working here at Churchill & Stewart within a week of one another over eight years ago. To be frank, our relationship has never been good. Jane has always been soooo much her own person, that who could ever stand her, really? She always has to have these…opinions about everything, always thinks she’s right.

  “But I suppose that’s neither here nor there.

  “No, the thing I think you’ll be most interested in is Jane’s pregnancy.”

  Here Dodo tried to stop her, but Louise wasn’t having any of it.

  “It all started a year ago April when Jane thought she was pregnant but then wasn’t. First, she lied to the man she lived with at the time, Trevor Rhys-Davies, who somehow has managed to get lost in the shuffle since. I guess Jane thought that eventually she’d just get pregnant and that would be that. Of course, she didn’t get pregnant, but she continued telling everyone, including all of us here at Churchill & Stewart, that she was.

  “First, she tried to pretend that she shared the same obstetrician as Princess Niquie. But then, when she began to worry that we might catch her out in that lie, she invented a tarot-card reading midwife, Madame Zora, who was to deliver her baby. As the months wore on, Jane accepted all sorts of perks at work—days off, a footstool under her desk, attention. Eventually, I suppose she must have realized that someone might question a pregnant woman not getting any bigger, so she took to wearing padding under her clothes so that no one would be any the wiser.”

  “And how long did she keep this up?”

  “For nine months. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that if the baby she’d found on those church steps had been white, she’d still be scamming everybody.”

  “Louise!” Dodo shouted.

  Louise held a hand up.

  “Before anyone says another thing,” she said, “I have something to show you.”

  While she was gone, I stole a surreptitious glance at Stephen Triplecorn. If that wasn’t smoke pouring out of his ears, it was close enough.

  When Louise returned, she was pushing a trolley with a TV/VCR on it. She punched play. At first, there were just squiggly lines as she fiddled with the remote. Then there was a picture shot from overhead of me, undeniably looking pregnant, with a date and time stamped in the lower corner as Louise hit freeze frame: November 5, 2:00 p.m.

  Apparently, Louise had gotten the guys from Security to go through old tapes of people entering the building, and they’d located me returning from lunch. The time stamp proved that, for once, I’d returned on time, but I doubted that was going to carry any weight for me in this room.

  I was ruined. More importantly, Emma was ruined.

  Dodo was the first to recover.

  “Thank you so much, Louise,” she said icily. “I think we’ve seen and heard enough. You may go now.”

  “I’d say I’ve seen enough,” said Stephen Triplecorn, starting to rise, after Louise had left.

  “Oh, no,” said Dodo, “I don’t think you have. Sit.”

  He sat. And then Dodo did something I’d never seen her do before, something I would never have imagined her doing in a million years. She lied.

  Oh, how she lied.

  “I’ve never told anyone this before,” she said to Stephen Triplecorn, “so please keep this in the strictest confidence. Louise is my cousin.”

  “Louise is your cousin,” he stated, not asked, as though unsure which particular room in the madhouse he was going to find himself in now, which turned out to be topically appropriate as it happened.

  “Yes, Louise is my cousin. But she comes from the known-to-be-mentally-unstable branch of the Lane tree.”

  “Except she’s not a Lane at all,” pointed out Stephen Triplecorn. “Her last name is—”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Dodo. “And the Lane branch doesn’t like to talk about that other branch very much. But they are an insane bunch and Louise is the worst. Anyway, a few years back, within the week of our hiring Jane, as Louise mentioned, I got a call from Louise’s mother, saying she’d been sacked from yet another job for being a pathological liar, some story about her saying everyone at the firm—man, woman, receptionist—had made passes at her. Can you believe it? It’s quite enough to accuse one person in a firm of sexual harassment—nearly expected, in some jobs—but the whole firm? It would have been more believable if Louise were even remotely likable. But the idea of an entire firm with the hots for Louise? At any rate, Louise’s mother didn’t think that anyone would ever hire her again. I mean, would you hire someone like that?”

  Dodo didn’t wait for an answer.

  “No, I thought not. At any rate, I took pity on Louise, got her a job here at C&S.”

  “Weren’t you at all concerned she’d try to pull the same stunt here?
” asked Stephen Triplecorn.

  “Here?” Dodo looked indignant. “Nobody would ever try to pull that here, because who would ever believe it? Do I look like a harasser to you? Does Jane? True, there’s Stan from Accounting,” she conceded, “but he’s such an equal-opportunity harasser that nobody ever takes him seriously. Does Constance—”

  “Wait just a second,” said Stephen Triplecorn. “Didn’t you tell me before that Constance was insane and that you’d given her a job out of pity?”

  “Yes,” said Dodo, determinedly looking obtuse. “What of it?”

  “It just makes me curious, that’s all,” he said. “I mean, what are you all running here, a publishing firm or a home for wayward whackos?”

  “Well,” said Dodo, “we try to do our part.”

  “And, if you felt so sorry for Louise, why’d you give her to someone else at the firm?” asked Stephen Triplecorn. “Why not keep her as your own assistant?”

  Dodo feigned shock.

  “But that would be nepotism!” she said.

  “Isn’t it nepotism anyway,” he pointed out, “to hire your pathologically lying cousin, even if it’s to work for another editor?”

  “Well, if you want to be picky. May I please go on?”

  “Please do.”

  “Right away, Louise became jealous of Jane working for me, felt I played favorites. To cut to the chase, ever since then, she’s made up the most horrendous lies about Jane, trying to ruin Jane’s life.”

  Stephen Triplecorn didn’t say anything to that. He merely looked pointedly at the video equipment.

  “Oh, that!” Dodo laughed.

  “Yes,” he said, “that.”

  “It was a costume party!”

  “A costume party?”

  “We were celebrating Guy Fawkes Day. Everyone was supposed to get dressed up, for the party, and that’s what Jane went as—a pregnant lady! I do think you need to give Jane credit for that one. Why, most people are so unoriginal that there’s usually more than one nun in the mix.”

  “And that’s how you celebrate Guy Fawkes Day here—with a costume party?”

  Dodo leveled a look of seriousness at him. “But of course. Don’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “What’s more, I never heard of anyone who does.”