The Misfortunes of Others

by Gloria Dank

  “Yeah.”

  “So tell me.”

  Elmo scratched his cheek guiltily. “I’m sorry, Weeze. I was sure she had cut up ‘Girl in White,’ and it was killing me. I figured she was the only one nuts enough to do it. And then she kept picking on Jennifer, hinting that if Jen used one of her brushes she’d paint better, that kind of stuff. I saw red, that’s all. One day after class I opened her case and messed everything up. It was easy, I just went over and did it. I don’t think anybody saw me, other than Jen, and to tell you the truth, she was thrilled.”

  “Nikki saw you, you bumpkin.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, but don’t get all red in the face, she didn’t tell. She said to Snooky that she was glad somebody had done it.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how everybody felt. Alice is a mean little bitch.”

  Weezy looked at him thoughtfully. “Okay. But she would never have cut up ‘Girl in White.’ You know that.”

  He shrugged. “She was the only one, Weeze. I figured it had to be her. Who was it, by the way?”

  “None of your business, junior.”

  “That private, huh?”

  “Yes. Nothing to do with any of you—nothing. A ghost from my past.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “Try to control yourself from now on, will you? Are you still mad at Alice?”

  “Nah.”

  “You could always apologize to her.”

  “Don’t press your luck, Weezy.”

  “If you don’t, she’ll keep on thinking that Jennifer or Nikki did it.”

  He thought this over. “Yeah. Maybe. I’ll think about it. I’m not promising anything. I think she doesn’t deserve to know what happened.”

  “That’s my good, kind, forgiving boy,” said Weezy. “Now listen, there’s something else I have to tell you. It’s something you need to know.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t know how to say this, but the person who slashed all the paintings was triggered off when she saw ‘Girl in White.’ She thought it was my work, and it was so good that it sent her into a homicidal frenzy. I’m sorry, Elmo. I know it’s a strange thing to hear. I really am sorry.”

  “She thought ‘Girl in White’ was your work?” Elmo said slowly.

  “Uh-huh.”

  His face turned slowly red. “She must have been a moron, Weeze. You’ve never done anything to touch my ‘Girl in White.’ ”

  Weezy patted his face. “That’s what I thought you’d say,” she said, laughing.

  “Cheers,” said Maya, raising her wineglass.

  “Cheers,” echoed the other three, and they all drank.

  “Yuuccch,” said Snooky, shuddering. “Do I have to drink grape juice? It’s such a letdown after that wine you served to me last time.”

  “Now, now,” said Weezy. “It’s not fair to drink good wine in front of Maya while she’s pregnant, you know that. I still feel bad about last time, I don’t know what I was thinking. Now stop whining.”

  “I like to whine.”

  “I know. More pasta, anyone?”

  She had decided to have a little dinner party, just the four of them, before the baby was born. “Because goodness knows when we’ll be able to get together again afterwards, Maya. I mean, not to depress you or anything, but having a baby makes it harder to have these little intimate meals.”

  “I know, I know,” Maya said unhappily.

  “How are you feeling these days?”

  “Like a great whale, moving slowly and ponderously through the ocean. Like a sea animal on land, gasping for air.”

  “Like a mighty mastodon, lumbering across the primordial veldt,” said Snooky.

  Maya glanced at him in annoyance. “Oh, shut up, Snooky. Honestly.”

  “This is why I’m having a dinner party,” said Weezy. “Because we could all use some entertainment. And because I haven’t cooked for someone as appreciative as Bernard in months.”

  Snooky had laid the table with crystal and silver, all of Weezy’s best. The grape juice glowed in a decanter on the sideboard. “I refuse to decant it, it’s not wine,” Snooky had said.

  “Pretend,” said Weezy. “Use your imagination. I’m not serving it in the bottle it came in, I’ll tell you that.”

  There had been a momentary snag in the proceedings when Snooky, emptying a steaming pot of vermicelli and boiling water into a colander, had watched in horror as the colander tipped slowly over, spilling its precious contents all over the sink. Weezy had sat down on a chair and laughed helplessly.

  “Ohmigod, Snooky, what do we do now? Send out for pizza?”

  “We can still save it. Give me a hand here.” He was scooping it back into the colander. “We’ll wash it out, they’ll never know the difference.”

  “We can’t serve them soapy vermicelli, Maya’s pregnant.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “We’ll have to start over. Fill up that pot again, will you? Let me check and see if I have any other kind of pasta.”

  She found two boxes of linguini and said they would do. “Not as good as the other kind, but Maya and Bernard will never know. Do you want to tell them dinner will be a little later than planned, or should I?”

  “It’s my fault, I’ll do it.”

  Over dinner, Maya asked, “How’s the class going, Weezy?”

  Weezy shrugged cheerfully. “Oh, the usual. You know. Bruised egos and frayed tempers. But nothing serious, nothing outrageous. I must say it’s been a different world since I came back. I think they’re afraid I’ll leave again if they get too difficult. Does anyone want more sauce on their linguini?”

  “I do,” said Bernard. He watched in satisfaction as she ladled hot meat sauce laced with garlic onto his plate. “Thank you.”

  At the end of dinner, Weezy raised her wineglass again. “To friends.”

  “To friends,” said Maya.

  “To friends and good food,” said Bernard.

  “Friends and good food,” they said, clicking their glasses. “Cheers!”

  A month later, on October eighteenth, two days before her due date, Maya went into labor.

  She began to feel an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, like gas pains, on a bright and sunny Saturday morning. At first she thought she had eaten something that disagreed with her, but as the morning went on, it finally dawned on her that the pains were spaced regularly apart, every ten or fifteen minutes.

  “This is it, Bernard.”

  Her husband leaned down and kissed her. “Okay.”

  “You ready?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Me neither.”

  As the day went on the pains gradually became stronger and closer together, just as she had read in all the books. Maya was worried.

  “It’s taking too long,” she said, fretfully thumbing through one of her birthing manuals. “Too long, Bernard. Is something wrong? It’s been eight hours, shouldn’t the pains be every five minutes by now?”

  “I don’t know.” Bernard had paid attention during the birthing classes, but as this long day passed he felt all his hardwon knowledge seeping away from him, sliding gently away and over the horizon, out of his grasp. “I don’t remember anything. Did we take those classes? Do you remember when we’re supposed to call the doctor?”

  They decided to call the doctor, who was reassuring. “Just stay home and keep timing the contractions. Call me when they’re five minutes apart, or if your water breaks.”

  Neither of these things happened. Day turned into night. Maya could not lie down or sleep because of the pain, and yet the contractions were still eight or nine minutes apart. At midnight, over her weak protests, Bernard bundled her into the car and drove to the hospital.

  “This is normal,” said the labor nurse. “Don’t worry. This happens all the time.”

  “You’re only at three centimeters, Mrs. Woodruff,” said the resident. “I can’t admit you until you reach four centimeters. I’m sorry.�
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  “But the pain—!”

  “Call me if it gets worse. We don’t want you all alone at home, screaming.”

  Bernard and Maya got in their car and drove back home, silent and miserable. “I feel rejected,” she said. “Rejected by the medical establishment. How could I not be at four centimeters yet? I’ve been in labor forever. How could they turn me away?”

  “Maybe if we walk around, it’ll help,” he said, remembering one fact from the hours of lectures.

  They walked around the streets of Ridgewood for the rest of that long, dreary, agonizing night. At daybreak, Maya clung to him and sobbed.

  “Let me go to the hospital,” she wailed. “I want to go to the hospital. Please don’t make me walk anymore. I can’t walk one more step. I want to go to the hospital, Bernard. I want the pain to stop and I want to lie down.”

  Bernard put her in the car again, along with her little valise that they had carefully packed three weeks earlier, with her toothbrush, a towel, a washcloth, some magazines to read during labor, and two adorable little baby outfits which Maya had lovingly picked out from the white chest of drawers in the nursery. He drove her to the hospital and demanded that she be admitted.

  “She’s in pain,” he told the labor nurse, a tiny woman with a wise old face. “A lot of pain. You can’t send us home again.”

  “Is she going to have drugs?”

  “We weren’t planning to.”

  The labor nurse looked at Maya sympathetically. “You sure, honey?”

  “We took Lamaze,” Maya gasped. “Another one’s starting, Bernard.”

  After they held her hands through the contraction, the labor nurse said confidentially, “Not to burst your bubble, hon, but Lamaze is what you do while you’re waiting for your epidural.”

  “No, no,” said Maya, shaking her head. “No. I can take it. Oh, God, here comes another one. I can’t stand it, Bernard, I can’t—” Her breath was cut off and her face turned white.

  “Think of peasant women,” said Bernard. “Think of cave women. Think of horses in the fields.”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” sobbed Maya. “Leave me alone. Go away. Where are you going? That’s right, leave me all alone here, having your baby. That’s right, just abandon me in the hospital. Oh, God, here comes another one, I can’t take it, it hurts soooooooooooooo muuuuuuuuch!”

  “There’s something wrong,” she confided to him later, once she had finally been admitted (“four centimeters, Mrs. Woodruff, congratulations”) and ushered upstairs to the labor room. They were met by a pleasant-faced young woman named Amber who checked Maya over, then sat down with a cheerful air to read a magazine. “I think it’ll be a while, Mrs. Woodruff. Try to conserve your energy. You’ll need it for delivery.”

  “What energy?” Maya sobbed. “I have no energy. Leave me alone, Bernard, stop touching me, I hurt everywhere.”

  When she whispered to him that something was wrong, he was seriously alarmed. He looked down at her pale, anguished face. “What? What is it?”

  “It shouldn’t be taking this long. It shouldn’t be hurting this much. They never said it would hurt like this. They said it would be a beautiful, natural experience, Bernard. They—” Her voice was cut off in an inarticulate wail. Later, she whispered, “I’m dying here. I’m dying, and nobody cares. Something is terribly wrong.”

  “You’re not dying. Nothing is wrong.”

  Maya bared her teeth and snarled at him. “A lot you know about it. It just kills me that this is your kid too, and your entire role is to sit there and bring me ice chips. It just kills me.”

  At eight centimeters she threw the paper cup at him, screaming, “NO MORE ICE CHIPS!” at the top of her lungs.

  At nine centimeters she had lost all trace of human dignity.

  At ten centimeters, the doctor came in, nodded and said, “Now push.”

  The rest of the beautiful, natural experience was lost upon Maya, who pushed until she felt like her guts were pouring out of her and spilling onto the floor. She pushed for an hour and a half, and then was bundled down the hallway into the delivery room, white sheets flying, exposed to half the hospital, not caring, wishing she were dead. She was surrounded by medical personnel and admonished to push.

  “PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!” they chanted, in unison.

  To Maya, it sounded like some kind of arcane tribal rite. She was far away in a daze of pain. If she had been able to, she would have killed the instructor who had talked about “pressure sensations during the birth experience.” She was sure something was horribly wrong. It shouldn’t be this bad. It shouldn’t hurt this much. Nobody had told her. She was used to being prepared for the experiences in her life, and there was no preparation for this. It did not feel like the birth of a baby. It felt like a brush with death.

  “PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!” shouted voices around her, above her, far away. Bernard seemed far away. She couldn’t tell where he was, exactly. She wondered wistfully where he was. She thought he was holding her hand, but she wasn’t sure.

  “PUSH!” shouted her doctor, a familiar voice. She pushed, and the baby came out. There was a happy collective sigh in the room.

  “It’s a girl,” said a voice, a woman’s voice, above her and far away. Maya blinked. “A girl, born at two oh five P.M. Congratulations!”

  Bernard gripped her hand. She could feel him now.

  “A girl,” he breathed. “A girl, Maya.”

  She looked up at him, standing pale and wild-eyed over her. His hair was tousled and he looked distraught.

  “A girl,” he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard the first time. “A girl.”

  “I’m thirsty,” said Maya. “Do you think they’ll let me have some water now?”

  Weezy came to the hospital with a flat box wrapped in silver paper with a large pink bow. Inside was a newborn sleeper outfit in pink and white.

  “Oh, thank you,” said Maya, holding it up. “It’s adorable.”

  Snooky came carrying Mabel the bear, and a large green noisemaker. He stood at the foot of Maya’s bed and blew it as loud as he could.

  “Hurray!” he shouted.

  Maya regarded him with distaste. “Go away. Stop making so much noise.”

  “What should I do with Mabel?”

  “Mabel is three times the size of Rebecca, you realize that. Take her home. Put her back in the nursery. Rebecca will play with her when she’s five years old.”

  Snooky sat down next to her bed. “Weezy made me promise I wouldn’t tell you that you look awful.”

  “Thank you, Weezy.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How do you feel?” asked Snooky.

  “Awful.”

  “Still in a lot of pain?”

  “Oh, my, yes. Yes, indeed.”

  “Thinking about having any more kids?” he asked brightly.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” said Maya. “I don’t think so. Not any time in the near future. No, no, I don’t think so.”

  “We went to the nursery before we came here,” said Weezy. “Rebecca is gorgeous. Absolutely, fantastically gorgeous.”

  Maya smiled at her. “Isn’t she, though?”

  “Oh, absolutely. And I’m not lying to you, Maya. You know I would say it anyway, because you have to say that kind of thing to a new mother, but I really mean it.”

  “She favors our side, thank God,” said Snooky.

  “Yes,” said his sister, “that’s what Bernard says. He thinks she looks like me.”

  “Thank God.”

  A faint crease appeared between Maya’s brows. “She could look like Bernard, I wouldn’t mind. I would like it.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t.”

  She frowned at him. “Are you deliberately trying to aggravate me?”

  “No, no, don’t be aggravated. Listen, I’m dying to hold my beautiful little niece.”

  “Not until we leave the hospital, Snooks. She has to stay in the nursery during visiting hours.”

&nbs
p; “That’s a shame. We left Bernard standing guard over her like a Tyrolean watchdog. He was frightening a few fond grandparents away from the glass window. They were afraid to stand there with him glaring at them.”

  “Yes, he never leaves her alone. It’s a comfort, really, I don’t have to worry that she’s crying and I don’t know about it. He would stand there all night long if the nurses let him.”

  “Rebecca Constance is the prettiest name,” said Weezy dreamily. “I just love it.”

  Maya smiled over at Snooky. “We thought you’d like Constance.”

  “I wish Mother could have seen her,” he said, taking her hand.

  “Yes.”

  After a pause, Snooky said, “Which brings me to a more macabre topic. When is William slinking into town with his hated wife and loathsome offspring?”

  “Oh, he called this morning. They’re planning to come in the day after tomorrow. He’s combining it with a business trip to New York.”

  “Go figure that. Day after tomorrow, you say? I would leave town, but it would look so obvious. And I want to stay around to hold Rebecca once they spring her from her glass prison.”

  “Yes, please stick around, Snooks. I don’t want to have to handle William by myself. I’m not up to it quite yet.”

  “I understand. Anything I can bring you, Missy? Anything from the outside that you crave?”

  “I’d like some more painkillers, if you see a nurse anywhere. Do you think I’ll ever walk again?”

  “You’ll walk,” Weezy said. “My mother had four children, and I distinctly remember her walking.”

  “We had no idea what it was going to be like. We didn’t understand. Do you know what I brought in my bag for the hospital? A tape of canoe sounds on the river. You know. Loons crying, crickets chirping, that kind of thing. Gentle paddling noises, the rushing of the water. It was supposed to calm me down during labor.” She uttered a cracked, hysterical laugh. “Calm me down during labor!”

  Weezy nodded in sympathy. “Bernard told us that you didn’t get much of a chance to read those magazines you brought along, either.”

  “No, no, I was screaming too loud to enjoy them,” Maya said tiredly. “Don’t go yet. I love seeing both of you. Stay and tell me stories.”