Anonymity

by Janna McMahan

They all watched, holding their breath, until the baby settled back to sleep.

  “Sorry,” Emily whispered as she sat down. “I'm not used to being around kids. She sure is sweet.”

  “I know, right? I just stare at her while she sleeps, and I can't believe she's mine. I love her so much I could just die sometimes.” Kelly wiped a blue-tipped finger under her sunglasses and sniffled. “You just wait, Beth. You have no idea how much you're going to love that baby.”

  Kelly's rush of emotion left them silent. Somehow, even Emily felt stung by the baby's puffy pink lips and sweaty curls against her pale skin. There was an uncomfortable tug at the back of Emily's throat, a weird feeling of joy over Kelly's little cherub.

  The tugging sensation traveled down to Emily's stomach, making it difficult to swallow her salad. She suddenly realized that she didn't want to talk about herself. What could she possibly say that would compete with their baby stories? It would be so much easier to just let them ramble on.

  So she asked Beth, “Are you having a boy or a girl?”

  Emily listened to their happy absorption in all things baby. She hadn't really given the concept much thought, but now she could see there was apparently a fountain of happiness attached to motherhood, a sense that life was filled with a profusion of possibilities. She wondered if she would ever become a mother.

  But before she could think about babies, she'd have to get married—something she hoped to do, some day. Getting married had never been high on her agenda either, at least not before this moment. As she watched the assuredness of their lives, Emily saw a security that appealed to her. Could she be that girl? The one who was taken care of by a man? The one who worried about baby clothes and if her polish was chipped? A minivan driving, pinot grigio sipping, fake blonde with a toddler in tow?

  What's wrong with you? Reality check, she said to herself. But this wasn't the first time Emily had experienced a twinge of envy. She had recently begun to realize that most of her high school class was moving into what seemed to be their third and fourth major life changes while she was still playing level one. It hadn't bothered her much before, but now she recognized the glare of disparity.

  “We must be boring you to death with all our baby talk,” Beth said. “What have you been doing the past couple of years?”

  Emily chewed and thought how to phrase her lack of momentum. “I still work at Group Therapy. Frank made me bar manager.”

  “So you get the good schedule.” Beth always looked for the kind angle.

  “I enjoy it. I love the people and the money's good.”

  “So what about a love interest? Anybody special now?”

  Emily shrugged. “You know me. I'm not into that one-guy-at-a-time thing.”

  “Emily likes musicians,” Beth said with a wicked little smile. “We'd stay out on Sixth and Congress all night. Or we'd hang at Emo's until we ran out of money, then we'd drink beer in somebody's backyard. Emily would always end up with some musician following her home.”

  The more Beth elaborated on Emily's male conquests, the more Kelly's lips took on a judgmental twitch.

  Anger flashed through Emily.

  Beth seemed oblivious. “Our parties lasted until daylight drove us inside or the police arrived. Those were some good times.”

  Beth sighed and Emily imagined that if she could see her eyes that Beth would seem wistful about her past nightlife, back when she still had a waistline and a predilection for Jell-O shots. But then Beth said, “I like hitting Sixth Street, but you know, I have to admit, it was getting old. I just couldn't do it anymore.”

  And there it was—the point in the conversation that underscored Emily's stagnant life. Beth had a point. Really, how long could Emily continue to hang out in bars? Would she still be doing it at thirty? At thirty-five? The singles scene in Austin was smoking. Married life had always seemed lame by comparison, but maybe, just maybe if the right guy came along, Emily would entertain the idea.

  It was true that her men never seemed to stick around more than a couple of months, but often it was Emily who hastened their departure. What would it be like to make a pact with a man, to swear to the world that you would always be together for better or for worse? Maybe there was somebody out there who wouldn't eat all her food, trash her house and sleep all day. A man she wouldn't want to kick out the morning after.

  “So, Emily, what was your major?” Kelly asked.

  Crap, Emily thought. Here we go.

  “I'm still undecided,” she quipped. “Keeping my options open.”

  Kelly looked confused.

  “You didn't go to UT? Where'd you go?” she asked.

  “Nowhere yet,” Emily said as she took a big mouthful of tasteless salad. So time had gotten away from her. So what? She didn't have to explain herself to a housewife.

  There was an awkward, judgmental silence.

  Kelly picked up her phone and touched the screen. “We're late for Mommy and Me classes,” she said. “So sorry, but we're outie. Nice to meet you, Emily.” Kelly slung her bag over her shoulder and released the brake on the bulky stroller. A curt exit.

  Beth slowly maneuvered up out of her chair. “Sorry, we have to run. It was so good to see you. Facebook me. We've got our ten-year reunion coming up next summer.”

  Emily watched them cross the parking lot and get into a gigantic SUV. Everything about Beth and her friend seemed shiny and polished and larger than life. They pulled into traffic moving toward the highway and the sprawling suburbia beyond. Beth was as sweet as ever, but her friend had a bitchy edge.

  Emily's lunch was no longer appealing. The greens were sad and wilted, like her mood. She tossed the box of salad in a trash bin. The wine bottle in her messenger bag seemed unusually heavy and Emily readjusted it on her shoulders a number of times before finally giving up and climbing onto her bike. She coasted out into the bike lane and peddled toward the Colorado. When she reached her neighborhood on the other side of the river she was grateful for the avenues of gnarly trees that cut sun's fierce grip.

  At home, Emily brought her bike inside, where it lived against a wall strewn with black handlebar marks. She scooped up mail scattered across the wood floor at the front door. Skinny Cat slept in his favorite spot on the couch. Emily sat beside him and scratched his torn ears.

  She switched on a couple of her funky old lamps. They threw shadows on her kitschy thrift store art. She picked through bills and coupons and a postcard solicitation from a dating service that promised to find her perfect match.

  Her eyes were suddenly heavy. She needed a power nap. It was Friday, her night off from the bar. She had plans to meet friends, but that would be much later. Downtown didn't really start rocking until ten.

  Lorelei

  THE SIGN above the entrance read Tumbleweed Street Outreach. She pushed through the heavy steel door. Inside, half-a-dozen young people draped themselves over scarred furniture. One in a folding chair leaned into a computer monitor. A candle flickered from a windowsill, cloaking the room with the sting of cinnamon. Nobody looked up or even seemed to notice her.

  Lorelei found the food table and heaped a paper plate with pasta salad. She bent forward and shoveled a pile into her mouth. It was creamy and cool.

  “Hey.”

  His eyes were smiling. Genuine eyes.

  “Is it okay?” she asked, the loaded fork halfway to her face again.

  “Sure. Take all you want. I'm David. I'm here to help if you need anything.”

  He turned away. Low pressure.

  She blurted out, “You got a toothbrush?”

  He stopped. “Sure. You need some stuff?”

  “My pack got took.” She had made the mistake of stashing it in bushes in Phoenix when she went into a convenience store to buy jerky sticks. She hated to carry her things inside a store. It made her feel more homeless somehow, more vagrant, if she toted her bedroll. It made storeowners more nervous too.

  “We've got all that stuff. Whatever you need, soap and deodo
rant,” he said.

  “You got blankets?”

  “Blankets and sleeping bags.”

  “Okay.”

  “You need another pack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Follow me.”

  He led the way to a back room stocked with boxes of blankets and random travel size soaps and shampoos cast off from various hotels. Canned food was arranged on metal shelves.

  “Take your pick,” he said, waving at a heap of used backpacks.

  She stopped chewing long enough to point to the one army green bag among the reds and blues. Dark natural colors were easier to hide.

  His smile was so swift she wondered if she had seen it at all. He unzipped it and tossed in a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and soap. He grabbed a small towel and shoved it in. ‘You want a blanket or a sleeping bag?”

  “Blanket. It's hot out.”

  “Okay. But if you're still here when it starts to get cold you need to come back because all the sleeping bags and coats go quick once the weather turns.”

  She continued to eat as she trailed him to another room.

  “How'd you find us?” he asked as he held up food items. Lorelei nodded and he tossed them inside the pack.

  “I asked around.”

  “What's your name?”

  She hesitated, took another big mouthful of the sweet pasta and chewed. He waited patiently.

  “What difference does it make?” she finally said.

  He shrugged. “Everybody's got a name.”

  “Do I have to tell you to get that stuff?”

  “No. You can come here and eat and get supplies without telling me anything. But some of the kids like to use our computer to send e-mails. They use our phone and address so they can look for work. If you use our electronics you have to give us some info. If you use the health clinic or the dental clinic, they'll want to know what to call you.”

  When she didn't offer more information he handed her the backpack.

  “Do you need some clothes? I don't know if we have anything you'd like, but you're welcome to look.”

  He opened the door to a windowless storage room and the smell of stale fabric crept out. Inside, clothing hung haphazardly from wire hangers and spilled from cardboard boxes onto the floor.

  “I'm afraid your options are pretty limited.”

  “You got any socks?”

  “I doubt it. Socks go fast.”

  She wasn't going to wear clothes that smelled like her grandmother's attic. On the streets your style was your only cred, and she had no street cred in Austin yet. She'd have to lay low until she could use her five-finger discount to get a few things off sidewalk sale racks. It wasn't hard. Sales clerks didn't care. It was expected.

  “No thanks,” she said, looking into the clothing room. She'd seen the shower area, had hoped she could wash up before she left, but it would be pointless without clean clothes.

  “Okay,” David said and shoved the door closed. “I don't blame you. Pretty grim.”

  She trailed him back to the front room where kids were eating and laughing. He poured her a cup of lemonade.

  “You a traveler?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Which way did you come from?”

  “West.”

  “You here for a while?”

  “Depends,” she said.

  “On what?” Those eyes again. As if he had all the time in the world to talk to her. It made her feel good. It made her cautious.

  She tossed her empty plate in the trash, hoisted her new pack onto her shoulder.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You know, for the stuff.”

  “Anytime. That's why we're here.” He handed her a small card. “This is a schedule of where you can get food. We only serve on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There are two churches that serve other days. They're both on The Drag, really just a couple of blocks down from here.”

  She wondered what he meant by The Drag, but decided she didn't want to give him a reason to talk more. She'd already stayed longer than she had intended.

  “Thanks man,” she said, and tucked the card in a pocket. “See you around.”

  “Sure. We're here if you need us.”

  Dark had fallen. She'd have to find somewhere to sack out for the night, and it was apparent from the stadium-level lighting that the city didn't want anybody sleeping in the vicinity. She needed to find a park, some spot with heavy landscaping and a water fountain. She hoped Austin didn't have mosquitoes.

  She was already hungry again. She found the food card and checked to see where she could get free breakfast. Tomorrow was Wednesday, no breakfast anywhere, but University Baptist Church on Guadalupe was serving lunch. She had arrived up Guadalupe, so she headed back down that street thinking one of the churches she had passed would be the right one.

  She quickly came upon an ornate stone cathedral. A couple of kids smoked on the few flat steps separating the church's entrance from the sidewalk. She read the historic marker and found the curlicued architecture was called Spanish Revival. She walked the perimeter, looking for a way into the grounds, but none appeared. A low wrought iron fence surrounded the church. She scaled it with little trouble.

  Parks and alleys were risky, especially when you were alone, especially when you were a girl. But cemeteries were assured safe havens. Normal people didn't sleep in boneyards. Even gutter punks avoided sleeping with the dead.

  Barbara

  “SO BETH'S moving back to Juniper.” Barbara's eyes fell on the red and black club stamps decorating her daughter's hands. At least they weren't permanent.

  “Right down the street from her parents.” Emily sighed and pinched crust from her sandwich.

  “It'll be good to be close to her parents when the baby comes,” Barbara said. Her e-mail dinged in the other room, but she forced herself to ignore it. This was Saturday. Her daughter was visiting. E-mail could wait.

  “Did she invite you to a baby shower?” Barbara asked.

  “Oh God. Don't even think that. I hate those things. Besides, I'm tired of always buying wedding gifts and baby presents and never getting anything in return.”

  “Well, your luck would change if you picked young men who are marrying material.”

  Barbara had learned not to stop by Emily's house unexpectedly. More than once she'd dropped in unannounced in the middle of the day and caught her daughter with some young man still twisted up in her bed sheets. They were always scruffy things, mostly musicians, boys with tattoos crawling their arms. Late work schedules made musicians appealing, or at least convenient, for a bartender.

  “Please don't start,” Emily said.

  “You lack a people filter. You always have. You'll just let anybody into your life.”

  “Just because I don't want to live in this cookie-cutter suburb and date the khaki clan doesn't mean I'll never get married. I date nice guys.”

  “None of your generation actually dates. All young people seem to do now is read each other's profile online and text a few thousands times. Then suddenly, there's the hookup.”

  “Whatever.”

  “How a girl's supposed to know if a boy really likes her if all they ever do is meet at a bar? If the guy springs for a couple of beers, does that mean you sleep with him? Seems risky.”

  “Don't worry. I have a strict no-glove, no-love policy.”

  “Please. That's not the type of information a mother wants to hear.”

  “Well, you brought it up.”

  Barbara often wondered if her daughter's laissez-faire attitude was common to today's young adults. Perhaps she should have pushed Emily harder, demanded more. Isn't that what all the talk shows and magazines harped about? How her generation had ruined their children by trying to be their friends rather than parents?

  “I hate all the expectations,” Emily said. “Like there's some grand life plan you have to follow to reach happiness. Step one: go to college. Step two: get some big job. Step three: get married. Step four: buy a hous
e. Step five: be a breeder. It's like, if you don't have a widescreen and a golden retriever, you're somehow less of a person. I want to know who made those rules.”

  “Nobody made the rules, Emily. But if you ever want to be somebody, you have to apply yourself.”

  “I AM somebody. I'm a person. When did being somebody stop meaning being an individual and start being defined by jobs and college degrees?”

  “Everybody has to work. Why not do something worthwhile?”

  “You don't respect what I do.”

  “Do you respect what you do?” Barbara swirled the ice cubes in her tea.

  “Your tone implies I'm not supposed to be proud of my job.”

  “It was just a question.”

  “Right. It's just a question. Why can't you love me just the way I am?”

  “It's because I love you that I want you to get past this teenage angst and grow up. Life isn't easy. You've had every possible advantage. We bought you computers, took you on nice vacations, sent you to camp, paid for lessons. I should have had such an auspicious start in life.”

  “Been reading your word-a-day calendar again?”

  “Don't judge me for trying to improve myself. And don't change the subject.”

  “I'm well aware of your working-class background and how Grammy and Pops didn't help you much. Blah. Blah. Blah.”

  Her daughter's dismissive attitude stung. It wasn't that Barbara flaunted her childhood of diminished circumstance. It was only that she wanted Emily to understand how hard work was the only way to security in life.

  “That's disrespectful.”

  “I'm sorry. You're right. I don't want to fight.” Emily pushed away her plate. “Beth said our ten-year reunion is next summer.”

  “Will you go?”

  “Probably not. And I know what you're going to say before you say it. I'm ashamed to go back, but I'm not. That's just it, I'm not unhappy with my life. I'm content.”

  “You can't bartend indefinitely.”

  “Really? Why not? Maybe I'll open my own place.”

  “With what money? Investment money? Honestly Emily, I do wonder about you sometimes.”

  She crinkled her nose. “It's just that I don't know what I want to do. I've never had that big goal, that one thing that I just knew I was meant to do.”