Premature rupture of membranes, the doctor said. Stress, physical strain, the likely cause. The baby wasn’t quite ready, he said—though he could induce labor, if she wished. But she told him, No, she’d wait.
Bed rest was advised. It would happen soon, everyone said. Or hoped. There was so much talk of delivering this baby safely, perfectly, that Lucy felt a stultifying pressure. It was clear that everyone considered this kid the solution, the cure. Sometimes Lucy felt like the frickin’ Virgin Mary, being asked to pop out salvation.
How unreal, to lie on your back all day while people stared down into the Cyclops of your belly. Confined, waiting on a star—or whatever cosmic force it would take to draw out the child. Maybe it was Lucy’s fear, the sense that she’d mess things up, get it wrong, that kept the baby from coming.
Plus, she wasn’t sure she was ready to see its face. Ron was hoping for a boy, but Lucy refused any offers of disclosure in regard to the baby’s sex.
Premature rupture of membranes. The phrase stayed with her; seemed like something Frank would have said, some condition to be feared. Lucy often felt confused, woozy, her mind spiraling for hours as she lay in bed beside the manger. She wondered if they were putting something in her food. Something to keep her calm.
But she was calm, she told them; she was fine.
She got up sometimes, while no one was looking, and closed the curtains. Morning always came too quickly, the rah-rah of the sun like some demonic cheerleader. But even with the curtains drawn, it was still too bright. She half considered going into the closet.
* * *
It wasn’t for a baby—the manger. It was for Ron. He’d set up a cot beside the bed, claiming he didn’t want to injure Lucy. “How are you gonna injure me?” she’d asked.
“I toss,” he’d replied.
When he kissed her goodnight, he did so from the side, pecking her cheek, steering clear of her belly. Ashamed for having grabbed her with such force on the bridge, he wished to cause no further harm to the endangered Cyclops. He was careful, timid, treating Lucy as if she were some other kind of woman, patting her shoulder, avoiding obscenities, speaking softly—another man entirely. It made Lucy want to scream.
And it was too ridiculous: the butcher’s hairy bulk lying across the flimsy fold-up mattress, while she floundered in the queen.
“This is silly,” Lucy often said. “Come here.” When she said that she missed him, he smiled, but stayed in the cot. Sex, for the butcher, was out of the question—and Lucy, for the first time in her life, was ashamed to ask. All she wanted was that he lie beside her, kiss her mouth, her breasts, put his hands on her thighs.
Soon, he said, he’d be back in the bed. Back on top of her. Soon, it would be like new. A new house, too. He was already looking, he told her.
How could she tell him she could never leave?
Sometimes he kissed the eye of the monster, Lucy’s bellybutton, and whispered things that Lucy made an effort not to hear.
* * *
“Summer’s just around the corner,” Netty said, opening the curtains, the window. “Enjoy the nice air while we have it, dear. We’ll be melting in a few weeks.”
“The sun hurts my eyes,” said Lucy.
“I’ll make some tea.” It was Netty’s solution for everything, including Lucy’s complexion, which the old woman deemed peaked.
Lucy’s face was as pale as Edgar’s now. Paler, in fact, if one were to judge by the posters around town, which had yellowed, giving the boy’s death a semblance of life.
While Netty made tea, Lucy put on her sunglasses and tiptoed downstairs, out the front door. She only wanted to sit on the porch—to watch the grass bend and the shadow of the dogwood inch its way toward the street. She’d become a great starer, observant in a way she’d never been. The shadow of the dogwood wasn’t black, but dark dark purple.
She looked up every now and then when a car passed. But there were no green trucks.
Not that she expected one. Ron had practically convinced her that there’d been no pickup; that she’d been following air. “You had a little flip-out,” he said. “Let’s forget about it, okay?”
When she’d telephoned Mann to discuss the five A.M. visitor with the blacked-out license plate, Mann had said she’d look into it—asking Lucy why she thought this was related to Edgar.
“You said anything out of the ordinary.”
“Yes,” conceded Mann. “So, what kind of truck was it?”
“Green,” said Lucy.
“And the make? The model?”
Lucy, deeming the question a scold, had wanted to hang up the phone—angry with herself as much as with Mann. She couldn’t remember the make or the model.
When the detective confessed it wasn’t much to go on, Lucy added, in her new faraway voice, that it was a pale green, sort of minty.
* * *
In a chipped pot on the porch, yellow freesia was in bloom. Florence, no doubt, had put down the bulbs in the fall—possibly one of the last things she’d done. Bumblebees bobbed in the blossoms. Sometimes Lucy thought about bringing flowers to Florence’s grave. But she was afraid she might see other names carved on the stone. Her own. Or Edgar’s. Who could tell what was real anymore, or what time was up to? Sometimes she stared into her phone for hours, swiping through photos—and occasionally she even dared to watch one of the white-child videos on the Internet. It was like sneaking a cigarette, flashes of sweet bright poison.
When a drunken bee knocked Lucy’s face, she scooted away from the freesia. She checked the shadow of the dogwood, which had moved nearly an inch.
It wasn’t the only thing creeping, though.
“I can see you,” said Lucy.
The girl was hiding behind the large hydrangea, the pink blossoms like candied brains.
“What you doing, Mrs. Feen? You just sitting?”
“You can sit with me if you want.”
Toni-Ann immediately marched over, doing a terrible job of hiding her glee. She plopped herself down, her bare and sweaty arm rubbing against Lucy’s. She smelled like warm milk, nearly sour. When she put her sticky hands under Lucy’s blouse, to touch the sleeping Cyclops, Lucy allowed it. She liked the girl’s boldness; so unlike the others.
“I’m petting it.”
Lucy could feel the catlike purr of the girl’s body. She tried to imagine that the vibration was coming from inside her frozen belly. Toni-Ann’s sticky fingers now played a light bongo against the taut skin. It felt nice.
Toni-Ann, too, liked being next to Lucy; it helped. After a while, she took back her hand and put it in her mouth. She looked at the street, where she’d once seen Edgar get out of a green truck.
“We’re still waiting,” she said—and Lucy nodded, not wishing to discourage the girl.
* * *
Not long after they’d been called inside (Lucy, by Netty, to take her tea; and Toni-Ann, by her mother, who didn’t like the girl hanging around the funny farm next door), the purple shadow of the dogwood reached the street, and in a cocoa-colored room in Villa Maria Hospice, Walter Bubko turned his head toward the bright chaos of a television and died.
At the nurse’s station, a light blinked; a buzzer buzzed. One of two women playing rummy put down her cards and sighed. “Number thirty-four.”
“Out the door,” her companion rhymed—intentionally, but without malice.
* * *
When a nurse arrived at 21 Cressida Drive, it was only Anita Lester, there to examine the mother. She put a Pinard horn against Lucy’s belly and listened for the heartbeat.
“Okay?” asked Lucy.
Anita nodded abstractly. She removed the horn and put her hand and cheek against the mound. She’d need to stay there for nearly half an hour, counting the movements. Since Lucy refused to go to the clinic or the hospital, older techniques were required. Anita didn’t mind. She got to practice skills she’d learned but rarely used.
Plus, there was time to chat—though Lucy and Anita said l
ittle. Small talk. Still, it was nice. Lucy was not a woman Anita would have ever considered a friend. But here they were. And the truth was, people changed.
“Kick,” said Anita.
“How come I don’t feel it?” asked Lucy.
“He must have his slippers on.”
Anita timed the intervals between tremors. It seemed slightly long.
“I’d like you to come in tomorrow for a Doppler.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just want to double-check with the machines. Can you come tomorrow at eight?”
Lucy said she didn’t like the machines, they were too loud.
“It’ll be quick,” Anita said brightly. “You’ll be home by nine.”
Lucy watched her belly rise and fall with each breath. Anita was still listening—her head floating like a buoy.
“How’s Jarell?” Lucy asked after a while.
“He’s good,” said Anita. “In fact he’s waiting downstairs. We’re going to a movie afterwards.”
“What are you gonna see?”
“Zombies, I think. On a spaceship. He loves that stuff.”
“Boys do,” said Lucy. “Does he like Predator?”
“Oh my God,” said Anita. “He even has the dolls. Of course he doesn’t play with them anymore. He has a girlfriend now. You know Bethany Harvow?”
“I’ve seen her. She’s pretty.”
“Yes, well, I don’t think her father’s happy about it.”
“Fuck him,” said Lucy—and though Anita didn’t like such language, she felt the truth of it here and laughed.
“It’s nice that Jarell still makes time for you,” remarked Lucy. “That’s impressive.”
“The girl’s at French camp. He’s pining.”
“He’s such a handsome kid.”
Anita grunted. “Don’t I know it.” She moved her hand a bit higher.
“I really appreciate what you’re doing,” said Lucy. She could hear the kindness in her voice, and it embarrassed her.
At least she was still a bitch when she talked to herself.
“Kick,” said Anita.
“Damn right,” said Lucy.
* * *
“Would you like some tea?” Netty asked Jarell.
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“A cookie?”
Jarell declined. “Thank you, though.”
Such a polite boy, thought Netty; she hardly minded that he was black.
“You can put on the television if you want, dear.”
“Okay,” said Jarell—and did.
He felt weird being in Edgar Fini’s house. You couldn’t help but think of it as haunted. He was glad his mother was helping, though. His mother was a really good person.
Maybe he should surprise her, tell her they could skip the zombies, go to that romantic thing she wanted to see. The one with what’s-her-face, about the couple who keeps falling in love—but as different people, and over, like, a thousand years. It was the kind of crap she liked.
When the Finis’ phone rang, Jarell was startled.
So was Netty, who had the sense that a large bird had just flown into the house.
“Hello?” she said brightly, certain it was bad news.
65
Star of Bethlehem
Outside the café, pixie moss was in bloom, along with some other star-shaped flowers Edgar knew to be sandwort. He’d become a near expert on Pine Barrens flora—having spent a lot of time looking through Great God! Flowers of Field and Swamp, an enormous watery-smelling book with lurid photographs and the occasional pressed blossom. In another life, it had belonged to Conrad’s grandmother. Her name (Frances Billings) was written (curly script, purple pen) at the top of the first page. Most of the saved blossoms were little more than crumbs. Which is what happened to flowers—people, too—over time. Conrad’s family had been coming to the cabin for more than a hundred years. “The castle,” he sometimes called it jokingly—though Edgar could tell it was more than a joke. It was easy to see how much Conrad loved the place.
When they’d left, that morning, Edgar was astonished once again how long it took to get to the main road. Jack had barked at the truck, but couldn’t follow because she’d been tied to her post. The first vehicle they’d passed had been another truck, brand-new, with gigantic wheels. The driver, an old man with a white ponytail, had waved, and Conrad had waved back. “Do you know him?” Edgar had asked, and Conrad had shook his head. “Just being friendly.” The odd squeak in the man’s voice, plus the rat-tat-tat routine against the steering wheel, had made Edgar feel queasy. For a long time they’d said nothing, as if they were driving to a funeral. Edgar had tried counting a flock of chimney swifts, but they’d disappeared before he could finish. He was glad when Conrad turned on the radio, even if it was mostly just static, like a broadcast from Mars.
* * *
Being in public again, among strangers, frightened Edgar, and he focused on the flowers. The hostess taking names at the door had said it might be a while before she could seat them. The normally quiet spot was hopping; a tour bus was parked at the side of the road.
“Star of Bethlehem!”
The voice was loud, and Edgar, startled, turned. A huge woman in stretchy shorts and yellow plastic sunglasses was so close he could smell her lunch-meat breath.
“I try to grow them at home,” she said, “but they never take. They come up a little bit and then they”—she made a fart sound, by which Edgar assumed she meant die.
Luckily she wasn’t talking to him, but to another woman, also in stretchy shorts. Edgar looked again at the flowers. They were definitely not Star of Bethlehem. He moved away, closer to Conrad, who was sweating under a tree, pretending he wasn’t scared. But Edgar could tell that he was. “Walk around,” he’d encouraged the boy after they’d got out of the truck. Edgar wondered if it was some kind of test.
To the side of the café, behind a white metal fence, was a huge statue of a gorilla. There was a sign on the gorilla’s chest, but the text was too small to read from the distance—and since a crowd was gathered there now, taking photographs, Edgar and Conrad stayed away. The gorilla was over twenty feet tall, his face frozen in an unconvincing scowl. Tall pines, twice his size, loomed at his back. He looked trapped, confused, behind the white fence. “We’ll check it out after we eat,” said Conrad, pushing down Edgar’s baseball cap.
“They can still see me,” said Edgar.
But Conrad said he was only adjusting the hat because of the sun—and besides, he told the boy, they weren’t doing anything wrong.
Edgar nodded and, as he’d been doing a lot lately, grabbed Conrad’s hand. Each could feel the other’s heartbeat. After a moment, Edgar, pretending to have an itch, took his hand away. Conrad whistled blithely, tapped his fingers against the tree. “Did you put your sunscreen on?”
“Yes,” said Edgar—though he’d put on only a little, considering the fact that his skin hadn’t returned to its former paleness and therefore seemed less vulnerable. Possibly the darker pigment was a reaction to the fire, or to spending so much time in the sun, but Edgar wondered if it might have something to do with God. He’d recently seen a documentary about churchgoing people who fell on the ground in fits of shaking until they were no longer themselves. Being born again, they called it. Supposedly, in a single life you could be more than one person.
Edgar needed this to be true. Why else would he be standing among all these strangers and not screaming for help? Why, when the fat woman had pushed past him, saying, “Excuse me, hon,” had Edgar let her pass without grabbing her arm and whispering his secret into her ear?
His silence troubled him. He knelt down to pick up some pebbles to distract himself.
And, anyway, what was his secret? He hardly remembered.
Of course he remembered! But it was too painful to think about. Edgar threw the pebbles, surprised by how hard they struck a tree not far from Conrad.
Why had they come to this horr
ible place? All the people outside the café seemed phony, like actors. They were dangerous, too. Not dangerous as if they might hurt him, but dangerous as if they might break the world into a million pieces. Only recently had it come together again.
Edgar wanted to go home, wanted just the three of them. He and Conrad and Jack.
Still, he found his attention drawn to the phone—an old-fashioned one with a slot for money and a big black handle. It reminded him of the one in his grandmother’s bedroom, from which he’d first called Conrad. His mother and the butcher had been making terrible animal sounds that night. It was distressing to think about it even now. Edgar hummed to drown out the memory—though the sound that came from his mouth was more of a grunting.
“Is that the ape?” said Conrad.
Edgar shook his head and walked distractedly toward the phone. CALL ANYWHERE IN THE U.S.A. FOR $1.00! He lingered there, stuck his fingers into the coin return.
Conrad drifted over. “What? Do you want some change, buddy?”
Was he joking? Edgar wasn’t sure. “No,” he said. He didn’t want to hurt Conrad’s feelings. Conrad had not been well lately. A person who didn’t know him might think he was fine, the way he cooked and cleaned and worked in the yard just like before; the way he played checkers and told funny stories. But Edgar knew him and could tell that he was going away again. His voice had changed. His hands, too—which, when they weren’t tapping, were quivery, like guinea pigs.
Edgar moved into a shady spot free of strangers. On a low bush there were huge blossoms, like hairy cupcakes the color of a sunset. He leaned in toward one. It smelled amazing. He motioned for Conrad to come over.
“Wow, pretty cool.”
“Smell it,” said Edgar.
Conrad did. He put his nose deep into a blossom and closed his eyes.
Edgar was glad the man was taking the flowers seriously. “What do they smell like to you?” he asked.
Conrad took a moment to consider it—and then said, “Butterscotch.”
Which was exactly right. When Edgar turned his back to Conrad, it was to hide his tears.
Edgar and Lucy Page 49
