Baby Love
Joyce Maynard
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
A Biography of Joyce Maynard
For Steve
This wee one, this wee one
This bonny winking wee one
The first night that I with him lay
Oh then hee got this wee one
I’de bin a maide amongst the rest
Were not I gott this wee one
SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY SCOTTISH POEM
Chapter 1
FOUR GIRLS SIT ON the steps outside the Laundromat. It’s unusually hot for May, and they have just put three dimes in the dryer, which they are sharing. Sandy, who uses Pampers, doesn’t need to do the wash, but she’s here to keep the others company. Tara could have left her laundry another day too, but she has made a little pigtail with Sunshine’s inch and a half of blond fluff and put a ribbon in it. She wants the others to see—particularly Wanda, whose baby, born with thick black hair, is now bald.
They are sixteen years old, except for Sandy, who is eighteen and married. They all wear size seven jeans except Wanda, who used to wear size five but gained sixty pounds when she was pregnant and still has forty to lose.
“I got this cocoa butter at the health food store,” Sandy tells Jill, pulling up her India-print shirt to show her stomach. “See. No stretch marks.” Jill has just told the others that her period is now six weeks and four days late. She’s fairly sure that she’s pregnant. If it’s a boy she will name him Patrick, after her favorite actor on Dallas.
Across the street at the Gulf station, Sandy’s husband, Mark, is looking under the hood of his car, which he has brought in for an oil change. The car is a 1966 Valiant with a slant-six engine and has only 32,000 miles on it. He is about as proud of this car as Sandy is proud of Mark Junior, who will be celebrating his five-month birthday next Wednesday with a party to which Tara and Wanda and their babies, Sunshine and Melissa, are also invited. Sandy is going to make devil’s food cake with coconut icing, and there will be paper hats for the babies. Jill will be there too. Mark plans to go trout fishing that afternoon.
“He’s so cute, Sandy,” says Jill, meaning Mark and not Mark Junior. (At this moment Mark’s rear end is all that can be seen of him, leaning over the Valiant.) “You’re real lucky.” Just then Ronnie Spaulding walks past—he is on his way to the Rocket Sub and Pizza shop for a grinder—and the girls stop talking. Wanda tosses her head so her hair falls over her shoulders and shifts Melissa onto her stomach. The girls are very busy for a moment, adjusting their babies’ shirts and kissing their heads. (For the first time in her life, Tara never has to worry what to do with her hands.) When Ronnie has gone, they all giggle quietly.
They do not talk a whole lot. For one thing, they have covered most subjects by this time. They know, for instance, that Virgil Rockwell is the one responsible for Jill’s present condition, though he doesn’t believe she is really going to have a baby and says she is just trying to get in good with her friends. They know that Wanda is on the waiting list for a job at Moonlight Acres Takeout this summer. They know that Tara’s mother is a bitch and refuses to call Sunshine anything besides it, and says Tara should put her up for adoption. They know that Mark and Sandy had a big fight last night because Mark doesn’t like still having Mark Junior sleeping in their bed (Mark and Sandy bought a water bed with the check Sandy’s grandmother sent for her birthday), but Sandy read an article in a magazine about the sudden infant death syndrome and she doesn’t want the baby alone at night until he’s past the danger age. Also—the others thought this was pretty funny—one time she climbed into Mark Junior’s crib to see what it felt like to lie there and from flat on her back on the crackly rubber mattress the room looked very spooky. She noticed, among other things, that the clown mobile she had chosen so carefully, at the K-Mart, just looked like a bunch of flat disks floating around. She also thinks it is traumatic starting out your life behind bars. Mark said, “Don’t you think it would be pretty traumatic to start out your life waking up in the middle of the night and seeing your parents screwing right next to you?” Sandy—who really wouldn’t mind if they never did that anymore—said, “We can do it on the couch.” Mark said, “What the hell did we get a water bed for?”
So the girls are just sitting in the sun. Wanda would like to get a tan. It’s three months since Melissa was born, but she still looks fat and she thinks that a tan would make her face seem thinner. If she were in school she would be thinking about the prom around now—picking out a pattern at Martin’s with her mother, probably, or even shopping for a dress store-bought. She has no regrets though. Now she has her own apartment, just above Rocket Subs. She can have chocolate ice cream for breakfast if she wants. She gets food stamps, and money from the baby’s other grandmother, Mrs. Ramsay, whose husband is dead, whose son joined the navy six months ago, and who says, “I don’t care about marriage licenses, just so I have a grandchild.” Mrs. Ramsay has crocheted five different jacket-and-bootie sets for Melissa and baby-sits anytime Wanda goes on a date. Wanda was surprised that even when she was eight months pregnant, guys would take her out and not even necessarily do anything. One of them—Sam Pierce, who was older, thirty, and worked at the mill—was mostly just interested in seeing what she looked like with no clothes on, and she was actually sort of proud to show him. Nobody had seen her except the doctor at a clinic. She was never big on top before and then she was huge all of a sudden. Sam Pierce had wanted to suck on her breasts, which she didn’t tell anybody. She thought this was weird but also she liked it. He grew up on a farm, so he knew—which she didn’t—that what comes out wasn’t milk, it was colostrum. The milk comes later, he said. Actually, Wanda had not breast-fed Melissa. A girl she knows said, “That will ruin your boobs and then for sure you’ll never get anyone to marry you.” So Sam Pierce was the only one who ever sucked on her breasts. He hasn’t come around in a long time.
Sunshine wakes up crying. Tara’s mother says Sunshine has colic and that it is because Tara breast-feeds the baby and it isn’t getting enough milk. Tara has no intention of putting Sunshine on formula though. She has observed that Sandy’s and Wanda’s babies have splotchy rashes on their faces, while Sunshine’s face is smooth as an apricot. Privately she also believes that Sandy’s son is overweight. You can count three chins on Mark Junior, while Sunshine has a chin like Cheryl Tiegs. Tara plans to get her a bikini this summer, for the beach.
Tara had never gone all the way before. The boy was Sterling Lewis, who is on the basketball team and planning to go to Dartmouth like his father, the year after next. It was their second date and there has never been another. She has not discussed the baby with Sterling Lewis—though her mother has written many long letters to Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, late at night, when she is drunk. Tara is not sure whether her mother mails these letters or not. Anyway, Sterling Lewis goes with Leslie Dillon now, and is always deep in conversation when she passes him on the street. Tara does not really care. Going all the way did not seem to be a very big deal—it happened so fast she is still not too clear about the details but feels dumb asking, since obviously she is a mother, and should know. All that matters is she has Sunshine now, and soon she will find a job and get out of her mother’s house and get her own apartment wit
h a room for Sunshine, which she will decorate with a mural of Sesame Street characters. She was always good in art.
“Don’t you feel weird doing that right in the open, with guys around and everything?” asks Jill, as Tara unbuttons her shirt.
“Some thrill,” says Sandy, laughing. Even now, Tara has very tiny breasts. Sunshine twists her mouth sideways, trying to locate her mother’s nipple. She makes tiny snorting noises as she catches hold, curling her fist around the edge of Tara’s collar.
Ronnie Spaulding comes out of the Rocket Sub shop and crumples an empty Coke can in his hand. Wanda picks a piece of fluff out of Melissa’s nostril. Ronnie stops in front of the Laundromat, looks over his shoulder as if maybe he’s checking to see whether a train is coming. Not really, of course—no trains run through this town.
“So, Wanda,” he says, starting past the group on the steps now, in the direction of the dryers, which have all stopped spinning now. “I was wondering if you’d like to go bowling Saturday.”
Wanda says she guesses so. Ronnie says, “See you.” Sandy, noticing that Mark has slammed down the hood of their car, gathers up her diaper bag and adjusts the visor of Mark Junior’s sun hat, which says “Little Slugger” on the front. She shifts the baby onto her hip as she crosses the road. “Stop over tonight,” she calls to Jill. “I’ll lend you some cute tops.”
Ann would feel better if it were raining. When the sun’s shining like this she feels guilty sitting in the house with the TV set on, eating pancakes. She has been sitting here on the couch for three soap operas and a quiz show. She had popcorn for breakfast—left over from last night—and then she had a doughnut and it was stale, left her feeling that wasn’t what she really wanted. She should have something like oatmeal for breakfast, or a little bowl of granola. High in calories, but filling. Eat something you really like and you won’t eat so much. So she had a bowl of granola and just as she was getting to the bottom of the bowl she thought she’d put some honey yogurt on top and it was so good she had another bowl with more yogurt. There was a little yogurt left then, so she made herself another bowl to finish it off. Then she did fifteen sit-ups. Then an ad came on for maple syrup, with a family sitting around the table—father, mother, a boy about eleven and a girl around nine. Trina’s age. That’s when Ann got up and made herself some pancakes. Now she is undoing the top button on her jeans, pulling a blanket around her. In a minute she will fry up the rest of the batter. Soon she will turn off the TV set. Then she will eat another cup of yogurt, but only because that makes it easier to throw up. She will go into the bathroom and pull the shades. She will tie back her hair and run cold water over her index finger and stick it down her throat.
This is why she is not fat. She’s not skinny anymore, but no one would call her fat. Just sort of puffy looking. She thinks about what Rupert would think if he walked in right now and saw her standing over a toilet full of vomit at two o’clock on a beautiful sunny afternoon. He’s probably planting tomatoes right now. No, Trina must be home for vacation. They’re probably traveling. Maybe they’ve taken a canoe up the Allagash River and built a tepee on a bank somewhere. Maybe they are sitting in a café in Vienna eating Black Forest cake. She pictures Rupert sitting at the corner table of the Copper Kettle waiting for her, because she has never been to Vienna and cannot picture that.
When Rupert told her she should move out she remembers thinking: Now I’m going to find out what it means to have a nervous breakdown. They were on vacation in Florida—Rupert got Trina on vacations—and Trina wanted Rupert to fly a kite with her and he had looked at Ann and said, “I’m too old to go through this all over again.” She remembers bending to pick up her towel, trying to push her foot into her sandal without unbuckling the strap, thinking: In a minute something is going to happen, and waiting, almost curious, to see whether her legs would give out under her or whether she would walk into the water with all her clothes on or straight into the path of one of the cars that are always racing up and down the sand at Daytona. Maybe in a minute she would begin to scream.
But what happened was, she turned in the direction of the hotel, smiled when she passed the woman from Burlington whom she met in the lobby the day before, remembered her room number. Opened the top drawer, with her stack of T-shirts on one side and Trina’s Old Maid deck and jacks on the other side. Packed. When Rupert and Trina came back to the room—not right away, because Trina had wanted to fly her kite some, more—Ann said, “My mother’s sick. I have to go home right away.” Trina said, “You mean you can’t come with us to Disney World?” and Ann said, “I guess not.” There were no more planes that day, so they all had dinner together that night. Nothing special, just the hotel restaurant. Ann thought she would be unable to chew, or to swallow, or that Rupert might suddenly pull the cloth off the table with all the food on it and say, “Surprise, I didn’t mean it.” But they had a normal meal and then they went to the movies—The Muppet Movie, which they had seen twice before because it was Trina’s favorite. Rupert still laughed at the part where Kermit rides a bicycle, with his little toothpick legs.
Then they went back to the hotel, put Trina to bed. Ann thought: Now something will happen. She had begun to cry—not uncontrollably, still—and Rupert said, “Trina will hear.” She said, “Then come into the bathroom.” So he sat on the edge of the bathtub and she sat on the toilet and couldn’t think of any of the things she’d been saying to him, in her head, all through the movie. Just please let her stay and she would promise not to interfere with his work anymore, didn’t need to have a baby if he didn’t want one. Just please let her stay. She can remember him leaning toward her and how she thought: Now he’s going to put his arms around me. What he did was, he tore a piece of toilet paper off the roll, folded it over three times and handed it to her. He said, “I hope you didn’t get a sunburn today. Put some aloe on it when you get home.”
All this she can remember very clearly. She plays these scenes over in her head nearly every day, picking out different parts to focus on, saving them for nighttime, usually when she’s in bed. Sometimes she thinks about the flight back to Vermont, dusting the snow off the car, having to empty her purse out in the snow to find his keys. Leaving a little pile of crumbs, a couple of dry roasted peanuts, a couple of seashells lying there for someone to wonder how there would get to be shells in the Burlington airport parking lot in March. Sometimes the scene she focuses on is her and Trina lying in the double bed that night—Rupert said Trina would feel left out if I sleep with you on our vacation. She remembers lying awake all night, just wishing she could be alone and cry, needing to cry the way sometimes, when she was little, she’d need to go to the bathroom during a test. Thinking she might burst. Watching Trina sleep, with her mouth open and a corner of her nightie wound around her thumb. Dreaming about Disney World probably.
What happened after is blurred. Clearing her clothes out of his closet, sorting out her records—Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, the song Trina thought was so funny, about a dead skunk—from his shelf full of Glenn Miller and Sinatra. She remembers drawing a picture of herself, naked, in the dust on her bedroom window, trying to picture him finding it, feeling sad.
What she did then was take the money that her father had left her out of the bank and open a checking account. She bought a new red car and a stereo tape player and sixteen cassettes that same afternoon. She drove the U-Haul with her clothes and records to her friend Patsy’s house in Brattleboro, bought six newspapers and circled all the real estate listings that had old houses and land and didn’t cost too much. She spent three weeks driving around Vermont and New Hampshire and upstate New York and then she found a Cape with four fireplaces and twenty-four acres with a brook running through at the end of a dirt road. The real estate agent—a man about Rupert’s age, early fifties—said didn’t she want to consult her parents about this, hire someone to check out the roof and the sills. “Of course I’d like to make the sale,” he said, “but I’ve got a daughter about your age and
I sure wouldn’t want her taking on something like this.” Ann had seen her mother only once in the two years since she left college and moved in with Rupert. She would have liked Rupert to see the house, know what she was doing, but she said no, I don’t want to consult anyone, and bought it with cash.
This was a year and a half ago, when she was twenty. She thinks now that she does understand what it means to have a nervous breakdown. It’s not something that happens like a heart attack—nothing so dramatic as walking into the ocean and disappearing. For her it has meant sitting on this couch watching soap operas for eleven months, driving into town every day to buy yogurt and bananas and cheese and raisins and movie magazines and Dolly Parton records and Kahlua and a deluxe Golden Touch sewing machine she’ll never learn how to use, and a loom and a .35-millimeter camera and a ten-speed bike and begonia bulbs and grape vines. She buys plants and then never gets around to planting them. They sit in the wheelbarrow she bought, dropping leaves. Sooner or later they die, and it depresses her, seeing them every day on her way out to the car. So finally she takes them to the dump and then she buys more, and pretty soon they die too.
Mark stands in front of the bathroom mirror holding an imaginary guitar. They’re playing the new Grateful Dead album on the radio without commercials and he’s pretending he’s the bass player. He is not wearing a shirt. He’s so involved in the fingering during this particular song that he doesn’t even see Sandy—who has just put the baby down for a nap—standing in the doorway watching him. “Hamburgers or tuna casserole?” she says.
“Don’t you ever cook something different?” he asks her. “Roast beef or pot roast or something?”
Sandy has in fact planned something different for dinner: harlequin parfaits, from a recipe she saw on the back of a Cool Whip package. She has bought candles and a bottle of Cella Lambrusco. This was supposed to be a surprise.
Baby Love Page 1
