Meanwhile she freezes the image and prints a little picture for me, so that later I can show the little worm to my husband. Right this minute I ain’t all that sure I want to do that.
She turns a few knobs, and pushes a few sliders and stuff on her keyboard, so a pale search light appears in the image. It’s scanning around some dusky nooks and crannies, where silvery, flat layers—some thin, some thick—have sunk down into the dark, just like wet mud. It isn’t barely clear to me that what I see up there is for real. Perhaps the light just flashes there, off the sludge, and what it mirrors back to me is like, false. Something just dreamed up.
The ray flutters about, slicing, somehow, across them layers of dense, grainy clay of what’s inside me. At first I don’t much mind all that slicing, ‘cause it don’t hurt me, and it don’t feel like nothing, really.
With a soft, squelching sound, little specs glitter in the dark fluid. And there—just behind them specs—something moves! Something catches the light and like, wow! For a second there I can swear I see a hand: My baby’s hand waving, then turning to float away.
This isn’t exactly what I’ve expected, ‘cause like, not only is that fluid kinda see-through—but to my surprise, so is the little hand. Like, you can spot not only the faint outline of flesh on them, but the shine of the bones coming at you, too.
Me, I’m here to protect my baby, to keep him safe from harm, even from the shadow of harm. So I tell her, “Now, stop that!”
And she points her ears even sharper, saying, “Excuse me?”
So I go, real slow, I say, “You heard me. Turn the damn thing off.”
And them three aunts, they stop whispering amongst themselves. Right away they click their heels, like, awful hard against the floor to rise up, and aunt Hadassa says Oy, which is quickly echoed, like, Oy Oy, by aunt Fruma and aunt Frida. Anyhow, they seem eager to find out what it is I’m fussing about.
So I insist, this time much louder, “Stop, stop already! You slicing my baby!”
And the sonographer, she freezes the image, and tries to hold me off, saying, like, “Ultrasound scan only looks like a slice through the flesh, but trust me, it isn’t.”
And in turn I ask, “Is it fake, then?”
“Listen,” she tells me, with a tone that is half-polite, half-tired, half-annoyed, “it’s considered to be a safe, non invasive, accurate and cost-effective investigation in the fetus, and not to worry.”
Here she glances, with some caution, at them aunts, ‘cause by now they’ve come awful close to the screen, which is where she, the sonographer, stands, if you can call that standing, ‘cause really she’s leaning back ever so slightly, like, away from them.
“None of you fine women should worry in the least,” she says. “As you may already know, ultrasound has become an indispensable obstetric tool, which plays an important role in the care of every pregnant woman. My job here is to take some measurements, which reflect the gestational age of the fetus, to arrive at the correct dating of birth—”
“All right,” I cut in, ‘cause by now I’ve figured that despite all this rattling, she means well.
Still, I’m glaring at her, like, to stop her from chattering, ‘cause anyway she don’t barely make any sense. “Go on, then,” I tell her, “go on with them measurements, but from now on, you better be real careful.”
In reply she mumbles something, making the mistake of thinking that from where I lie, I can’t see her rolling her eyeballs, which seem, somehow, even redder than before. So just to make myself clear I spell things out for her, like, “We don’t want to see no more slicing, you hear?”
She blinks, giving a slight nod to me, which means that at last, we have a clear understanding between us fine women.
The image comes alive, and there is that black bubble again, swimming in in its gravy. She marks an outer edge around it, which at once, brings it so close to you that like, it could almost swallow you.
And in it you can spot, yes, you can suddenly find—gleaming there, in and out from them fuzzy, gnarly shadows—the most beautiful side view of a baby:
My little one curled there on his back, like he’s just about to start bouncing around. There, there’s his face! He’s bathed in light, with a round forehead and plump cheek and the cutest little nose you’ve ever seen. And there’s his lips, which is like, gulping for air, the mouth opening, closing on his own little thumb and then, sucking it.
Aunt Hadassa drops her chin in surprise, and in spite of trying her best to contain herself, she gives a shrill little yelp, after which the sonographer tells her, like, Enough! And to leave the office at once, because she’s had it already, up to here!
And with a sigh, she warns us that she may quit her job right now, right in the middle of this here session, because God knows how she’s even managed to make it to work this morning. She’s so broken-hearted after last night, which was when—without no warning—her husband got up and left her, because she’d tried and tried but no matter how hard she kept on trying, she couldn’t get pregnant.
By now she’s like, on a roll: She can’t stop herself from talking to me, even though she don’t pay no attention to how I’m twisting here, on them fresh sheets, and how I’m biting my lips, which I have to do, ‘cause I need to pee so bad, I really need to go, like, right now.
But what can I do? She isn’t a sonographer no more, just plain Debbie, who talks and blinks, blinks and talks to no end, telling me how he turned, for just a second, and looked back at her over his shoulder, perhaps waiting for her to beg him to stay—but in sheer despair she cried out, Well? Don’t just stand there—go! Go already! And so, finally, he did.
I can see she’s in pain, and she don’t need no advice from me, ‘cause my man isn’t no better anyhow, and who knows what to expect of him now. So I raise myself on my elbow and lean closer and touch her arm to say, like, I’m so, so sorry for you, Debbie. So now she starts sobbing, she’s in tears, which at least stops her from blinking all the time. She says she can’t take it no more, like, looking at them fetuses sucking their stubby little thumbs all day long.
And her parents, she says, they come from the old country, where a divorced woman’s no better than damaged goods, so of course she isn’t gonna to tell them nothing about all this, because like, what will they say? She would much rather talk to a stranger—someone she won’t see no time soon—or just bury it all inside.
Then Debbie wipes her swollen eyes to stare at aunt Hadassa, and to say that this screaming, right in her ears, makes her nervous, because she’s in a delicate state, which you can tell by the sound of her hiccups and from time to time, her sniveling.
Her hand, she says, may turn shaky, which is a sign of bad luck, because that would prevent her from taking them measurements, such as the Crown Rump Length around the head, right here on screen, and the Femur Length, and the Abdominal Circumference, all of which requires great focus and like, complete silence around her.
So without a word aunt Hadassa hangs her head, and beats a path of retreat across the floor, like a wise, old general knowing when to admit defeat on the battlefield. Her two sisters march out the door closely behind her, and together they all wait for me outside. I can hear them whispering excitedly to each other.
When Debbie is finally done getting herself together and taking all them measurements, she tells me to go empty my bladder, which is a lucky thing, ‘cause at this point I’m ready to burst, like, before you can even finish saying sonographer.
Then I get out to the waiting room, eager to get out as quick as I can, to find out if Lenny’s come back home. Along the way I’m trying to put my hands in the sleeves of my winter coat and buckle my pink belt around me—only to discover that it don’t fit me no more, ‘cause my body, it isn’t barely as slim as I thought it was.
Looking down on it, a view comes to me in a flash, which makes me brace myself, like, for danger: Down there on the floor, aiming at me from left, right and center, is the sharp, pointed tips, the ti
ps of three pairs of shoes.
Me, I look up, and can’t barely believe what I see: Aunt Hadassa gives me a smile, as do her sisters. “Wait, don’t just go,” she says, in the most disarming manner. “Stand there!”
Gone is the acid tone in her voice. Gone is that squint of suspicion. Them witches, they look awful friendly this time around. At first I figure that having seen my baby, they simply have no choice but to glow, just because of adoring him—but like, it’s a bit more than that.
“My God, you are fearless!” says aunt Hadassa. “I dare say, you are just like me.”
“No,” I tell her, “I’m tougher.”
“A fighter, is what you are! I mean, you would kill to keep your baby safe.”
To which I say, “You bet I would.”
Then, seeing me feel around my belt, like, to find the next hole in it, Aunt Hadassa offers, “Here, let me help you with that, dear.”
And she draws even closer, and wraps herself around me—mushy, droopy flesh flapping like wings under her arms—and clicks my belt into place, so now it hangs nice and loose around my waist.
Then she takes a step back, letting me lead the way out, which is when I know that she knows that there’s no way I’m gonna let no one stop me.
No one—I swear—no one can draw this story to a close, by telling me there’s still time, like, to end it.
This is week twelve. My pregnancy’s viable, and it’s not to be aborted. So now, as we walk out, we fine women peer straight into each other’s eyes, knowing that at long last, we have a clear meeting of the minds between us.
The Naked Bulb
Chapter 11
Since the bleeding began, I’ve been missing my ma more and more. If she was here I could ask her, like, How come I feel so alone. How come I can see, all of a sudden I can now see how my youth is wasting away in this place. Like, I have no air, I’m wilting here. And Lenny, he don’t even pay no attention, ‘cause he’s back to his usual thing, which is: comb his thinning, gray hair—sleek it back, real slow and careful—and then work all day, write all night, either out or away.
Me, I thought getting married was meant to change things—but then, if things are changing it’s not for the better.
It’s funny how now—when she’s out of my reach forever—I feel so close, so terribly close to her. At least now, ma don’t push me back no more. She can’t say, like, Enough, girl! Snap out of it! And she don’t get in the way, I mean, in the way of me doing what I’ve been wishing for so long I could do, which is just cling, cling real close to her. I so miss the smell of her face: a mix of sweat, cheap eau de cologne and cigarette smoke. I try to dream up that smell, which gags me, and stings my eyes, and brings me close to tears.
If she was here I could ask her, like, when did she have the hunch, the first clear hunch that pa was gonna leave us, and how long after that did it happen.
At this point I don’t know how much longer I can go on relying on Lenny, ‘cause even when he’s here, even when he fixes his eyes on me, there’s something in them lately, something hard, even furious, which I swear, I don’t really get.
Last night I was so worried—worried to the point of getting mad—because for some reason, Lenny didn’t come home at all, even though I got all ready for him, all prettied up with my little black dress, which for the first time I had trouble zipping up, ‘cause my belly had just started to grow, and to get rounder than it used to be.
He wasn’t there—but to me, it felt like he could watch me through them walls. I felt choked. I even cussed him in my heart. I told myself it was just a dumb, crazy feeling, and to stop fighting for a breath. Still, it felt like Lenny could spot, somehow, the sudden blush that—in spite of myself—started flaming on my skin, the moment I passed by kitchen and laid eyes on his son.
In a blink, the air felt steaming hot all around me.
This was something new to me, ‘cause up to this moment I didn’t exactly care for Ben—even though from this angle, the slant of his shoulders looked just the same as his pa’s. Suddenly my heart went pit-a-pat, which—I swear—didn’t happen never before. If my husband was here tonight, if he hadn’t left me, it won’t have happened now. No matter how much I tried to cool it, here I was, blushing, on account of the fact that I’ve just blushed.
And Ben, he was leaning back, lost in his dreams in the corner. His pale face and his mussed up hair fell just outside the light, the dim, fuzzy light which had no border, no clear border anywhere on the kitchen table, ‘cause there wasn’t no lampshade over the bulb, on account of the fact it had been broken and removed, like, ages ago, and never replaced.
I bet you would have me turn away, which was the right thing to do—but it was already too late, so I didn’t. Anyway, I could already tell that Ben could tell, by the swish of my hair, that there I was, just about to cross the threshold. His nostrils flared up, like, to breathe in the scent, the faint scent of my shampoo, mingled with a dab of perfume.
I could’ve walked past that door—but then, this I knew: whatever happened, in your eyes it would always be my fault. The boy wants me. He wants me real bad, and for that, I pity him. He would soon kill himself if he can’t have me—but any which way, you would blame it on me. In your eyes, the boy can’t be nothing else than naive. So of course, it must’ve been me, me who seduced him.
You would call me a bad girl—so then, why shouldn’t I be?
For ten years I tried, as best I could, to be squeaky clean. It’s too damn hard, and you don’t never trust me anyway. So instead I could really go wild, and take my revenge on my husband, by giving him a reason—a real reason this time—to be jealous, so he don’t need to go searching for one.
I beg you, Lenny, I whispered. Come back to me, or else... From this point on, things won’t be the same, never again. I swear, I’m gonna do something bad, gonna hurt you, dear, so you won’t never leave me like this, without even saying one word.
After a while I dried my eyes. Hell, what’s the point praying, or hoping, or threatening, when anyhow, you ain’t even here to listen.
So I came in, hips swaying, and looked down at the boy, saying, “Help me, Ben.”
Which startled him. The features of his face contorted, like he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be troubled by me surprising him, or not.
Either way, he sprang to his feet and with a shaky voice, said, “Sure, what—”
And I turned my back on him, and tugged at the zipper of my black dress, pulled it as high as it would go, so now it reached the level of my waist, and then I just stood there, waiting for him to make his move. And with trembling fingers Ben brought the two edges of fabric together—barely touching the back of my neck—and managed, somehow, to pull the thing all the way up.
“There,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “It is done.”
And then he stepped back, away from me. I reckon he was thinking about the late hour, and about his pa, who should’ve been here already, and about not being able to face him, ‘cause like, how can you try to rob the old man of his woman, and how can you win any fight—let alone dare to stay in it—while having to carry, somehow, the terrible handicap of being young.
I licked my lips, so they would be real red and shiny, and smiled at him. Inside I was praying that the light in the bulb would blaze so bright, so fiery it would burst. And them walls, pressing awful tight all around us, would just melt away. And the pane of glass would sizzle, and the window frame, it would turn to ashes—poof!—like dust into thin air, so anyone out there in the street could watch us, as if there wasn’t no walls, and we didn’t have no shelter. Then there would be no secrets no more. Nothing left to hide.
Here, Lenny, I cried inside, take a good look! Here I am—not only for your eyes, but for all eyes to see!
And for the first time in our ten years together I thought, he’s old. He’s the old man passing out there, somewhere in the dark, limping stiffly on his way to some other woman, some fake blond, I bet. At the sound of my
voice he would shiver, and look up. He would be unable to take his eyes off the boy. And the boy, he would just freeze there, in his seat, unable to take his eyes off me.
I hoped, with every bit of bitterness, that Lenny won’t miss the look, the shy look his son flashed at me, when I slid into my chair and—real slow and naughty—began crossing my legs.
Which at once, made Ben tense up. I met his eyes, and could feel my look shooting through him, like it was a poisoned arrow. Now my legs was crossed knee on knee, and my lips was wet and parted, ever so slightly, and I began lowering my eyelids. Slowly his face dimmed, like, it fell into a black nothing, and then, I went back to thinking about Lenny:
As a husband, he may lose his temper with me, from time to time—but as a writer, he totally gets what I need. He lets me talk, talk, talk for hours on end, keeping himself out of the way, like, real nice and discreet, so as not to stop me from pouring my heart out in front of his tape recorder.
Me, I put my faith in him, knowing that Lenny would keep his word, he won’t listen to nothing I say, ‘cause some words, they rattle in your head, and their sound, it can be jolting to anyone, I mean, anyone but you, because they’re yours. So you should hide them real good, keep them hushed up, like, under a blanket. Them words, they shouldn’t be heard by no one—especially not those you hold dear.
Which makes me trust the distance between us. It keeps me safe—but at the same time, it holds us apart.
So at this moment—when I started punishing him by raising my eyes, and giving Ben that which he craved, a cruel little smile—the best thing that could happen would be this: Lenny would come bursting in.
I can just see it in my head. He would be breathing hot fume straight into my eyes, making me step back and blink. His forehead would be, like, swollen with rage. And that pleat in its middle, which used to remind me of my pa, would grow deeper than ever. And the vein by the side of his neck would seem to be knotted. With an awful screech Lenny would shove the table off to the side, and flick the naked bulb hanging over its place, till it swung violently to and fro, to and fro.
My Own Voice Page 9
