‘But is it working?’
‘The switch to the bottles?’
‘Yes. Are they maintaining their nutrient intake? Are you monitoring the total consumption levels?’
‘You know we are. It’s not any cheaper, if that’s what you’re getting at?’
Henry Bendell licked his top lip. ‘Look, don’t make this personal. It’s not about me. I’m paid to focus on the bottom line and those kids are costing the Centre a fortune.’
‘What do you propose I do about it? Throw them back out on the street because we can’t afford Krug and baby formula?’
‘No, I’m not suggesting that. I’m simply putting you on notice, that’s all. These renovations aren’t cheap. If we want to hang on to the babies, we’ve all got to tighten our purse strings.’
‘If we want to hang on to the babies?’
‘Yes. If we want to keep custody of the babies.’
‘Are you saying there’s been talk of giving them up?’
Henry pointed his finger at her. ‘No, you don’t. Don’t go putting words into my mouth. I’m just saying that we haven’t ruled anything out, that’s all. This is a cooperative decision, and as such, we all have to pull our weight.’
Back in the office, Jenny scanned the internet again for any reference to the babies. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s still no mention of them?’ she yelled to Candy Mack at the adjacent desk, who, even with the newly installed double-glazed windows, could barely hear her over the racket of the jackhammers outside. ‘The entire two and a half months, nothing. Not in the newspapers, not in the police reports, not even a footnote on missing persons. How do that many babies just up and relocate without a word from the mainstream media? Am I crazy here, or do you think it’s a little fishy?’
‘It could be that it’s so random no one’s put it together.’
‘Yes, but if that were the case, how did the babies derandomise and organise to congregate en masse at our doorstep?’
Candy Mack laughed. ‘It’s a conspiracy, is it? Next thing you’ll be telling me the same people assassinated Kennedy.’
‘Which one?’
‘See, there you go being tetchy.’
‘It was a reasonable question.’
‘I meant JFK, if you must know. What’s put you in such a foul mood?’
‘What?’
‘WHAT’S PUT YOU IN SUCH A FOUL MOOD?’ yelled Candy.
‘I’M NOT IN A FOUL MOOD!’ screamed Jenny.
‘Right. So what did he say?’
‘Who?’
‘Your boyfriend. The big H.B.’
‘Shut up. He makes my skin crawl.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, you know him, it’s always money, money, money. The babies are eating too much, they’re costing too much, if we don’t cut back there’ll be deep budget cuts and major menu changes. He also spilled coffee all down his pants.’
‘Good. You told him where to go, right?’
‘I don’t know, Candy. He’s got a point. This kind of capital development is enormous. And it’s all geared towards babies. But babies become toddlers, and then children, and then teenagers. And then before you know it they move out of home.’
‘Or someone comes forward claiming to be so-and-so’s mum or dad or grandfather or custodial guardian, and wants to schlep the kids back to wherever they came from in the first place.’
‘Yes. And what will we be left with?’
‘A lot of photos. Some good memories.’
‘And a huge, empty baby housing complex.’
‘Our own empty nest.’
‘Don’t joke. This is serious.’
‘Are you saying we shouldn’t be building it, then?’
‘No. I don’t know. Of course not. It’s just a lot to deal with right now. I mean it affects the very foundation of our project here. At minimum we’ll have to rewrite all the promotional materials. The catalogue itself will take months to reshoot. And then that in itself raises further questions, like do we include images of the babies or not?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.’
Jenny nodded. ‘I don’t think anyone has.’
The dining hall reeked of smoke. Someone had burned the toast. Jenny collected a tray and helped herself to a poppyseed bagel, a spoonful of homemade peanut butter, and a small French press of black coffee. She’d assumed the dining hall would be a quiet place to think, but at six am it was already buzzing. She took a seat by the window overlooking the construction site and opened her newspaper, automatically scanning for mention of the babies before returning to the headlines on the front page.
‘Good morning, there,’ said Stan Weinberg, chief Centre librarian. ‘More circular food, I see.’ He sat down.
‘Circular food? You mean the bagel?’
‘Yep. I’m a finger person, myself. Carrot sticks, fish sticks. Anything long and narrow. Asparagus. Gherkins. Those long, skinny pretzels. And I love a baguette. Look,’ he said pointing at his plate. ‘I even cut my toast into slivers.’
The lightly grilled wholemeal was dissected into six evenly spaced columns, its tiny pools of melted butter gently quavering at his touch.
‘It’s an old habit,’ continued Stan. ‘They said I’d grow out of it, but woops, never did.’ He picked up one of the fingers, closed his lips around the end of it and pushed the entire piece into his mouth. ‘So how’s it hanging, Miss Lypstock?’ he asked, his mouth full of toast. ‘Any news?’
‘No. Not yet. Nothing to speak of. Nothing you don’t already know.’
Candy Mack came over to join them. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she said, balancing her tray on her hip as she offloaded her Rice Bubbles, milk and orange juice.
‘Jenny’s perverse appetites,’ said Stan. ‘She’s gone from scattershot to round.’
‘That’s news to me,’ said Candy. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Yes,’ said Stan to Jenny. ‘What’s his name?’
Jenny laughed. ‘Don’t be crazy. I don’t have time in my life for romance. B-A-B-I-E-S,’ she spelled out to the tune of Tammy Wynette’s ‘ D-I-V-O-R-C-E ’ . ‘Babies, babies, babies. I’m all about the babies.’
‘Good,’ said Stan. ‘You’re perfect for the job. Now when is that darn baby housing complex going to be finished? The construction noise is unbelievable and it’s such a mess out there. Every time it rains I end up covered in mud.’
‘We’re working on it,’ said Jenny. ‘Believe me, we’re doing everything we can. If they don’t get it finished pretty soon I’m going to be farming out the children to people’s bedrooms. So keep your fingers crossed or you might end up with a cot by your bunk.’
‘That’d make Lucille happy,’ said Candy. ‘Apparently she’s sleeping in the nursery as it is. I think she’s the only resident not looking forward to the end of this construction phase.’
‘Isn’t she one of those vegan, bongo playing, twenty-first century hippies?’ said Stan.
‘That she is,’ said Candy.
‘The personal is the political is the global is the universal,’ said Jenny.
‘Whatever that means,’ said Stan. ‘A licence to do whatever she likes, I suspect.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Candy. ‘I think the girl might have religion this time. She really hasn’t left the nursery for weeks. I had to go down there yesterday and she wouldn’t shut up: motherhood is her life, everything else seems so unimportant by comparison, she can’t imagine what she’s been doing with her time until now. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.’
‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ said Jenny. ‘So un-Lucille-like. But she gave me the same spiel. She actually called the babies her family.’
‘How long’s this been going on?’ said Candy.
‘At least a month.’
�
��Well I’ll be damned,’ said Stan. ‘A hippie changes her spots.’
‘Or not,’ said Candy. ‘There’s probably some guy involved. Let’s see how long it lasts.’
By three and a half months two-thirds of the babies were sleeping through the night and the whole mood of the Centre changed. Dining services resumed regular meal schedules, roommates were able to coordinate lights-out, and members began to lose that harried, pale look of the chronically exhausted. The sense of relief was palpable as people returned to their old routines, eschewing jumpsuits for regular clothing (at least for extra-Centre activities), and once again taking a certain pride in their grooming and appearance. The Centre’s beauty spa had never been busier.
Clive Roundtree stood at the door to Jenny’s office sporting a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His nails had recently been buffed. ‘You should take that thing off,’ he said, pointing at Jenny’s BabyBjörn. ‘At least when you’re typing. It can’t be comfortable.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway, by the time I get it off I invariably have to strap it back on again, and when it’s only me around, well, let’s just say I don’t have the dexterity.’ She minimised the Gateway to the Big Apple website, pushed herself back from the computer, and swivelled around to face him square on. ‘So Clive, come on in. What’s on your mind?’
Clive Roundtree pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you,’ he said. ‘It’s about the babies.’
‘The babies?’ Jenny recrossed her legs and leaned forward. ‘What about the babies, Clive? Is there something the matter?’
‘No, no, it’s nothing serious. Not like that. It’s just, I’ve been talking with the election committee, and with the construction project effectively completed and the elections coming up, and in light of all the work you’ve done, we want to nominate you for the baby housing complex coordinator.’
‘Me? But I’m a terrible public speaker,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve never run for anything in my life.’
‘Stan warned me you’d try to smokescreen me with objections.’
‘They’re not objections. I’m just not confident that I’m the best candidate. There are a lot of good people out there.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’d be a shoo-in. People are very impressed by your organisational abilities. The babies were weaned in record time, and that large-scale vegetable mashing initiative was so clever. And inexpensive. The collection drive for the additional sieves was an inspiration.’
‘Oh Clive, I don’t know. It’s a lot of responsibility. I’m already so busy.’
‘Yes, but you’d have an aide, and most of your current tasks would be reassigned. We feel strongly about this. It’s time for a changing of the guard. Do you know the current Centre administration has been in office, on and off, for the last ten years? Think about it. Ten years. That’s a long time.’
‘That is a long time. It seems like only yesterday I was watching them being sworn in.’
‘I know. The older we get, the faster time flies.’
‘Has it really been ten years?
Clive nodded. ‘Really. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘Where did the last decade go?’
‘Yes. Or, time to get ready for the next one.’
‘That’s very persuasive of you. But then I guess you knew that.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, if I did do it, what sort of time commitment would you be looking for?’
‘That’s hard to say. To some extent it’s up to you. It wouldn’t have to be ten years. But then again it could be.’
‘Ten years? Gosh, Clive, I don’t know. I really hadn’t seen myself moving in that direction.’
‘No? Well, what direction did you see yourself moving in?’
Jenny paused to think. It was hardly the time to announce she’d been contemplating leaving the Centre, and talk of vacations was clearly inappropriate. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she finally said. ‘Another direction.’
‘Well, will you at least consider it? There are a lot of people behind you on this one.’
‘There are? Who? Which people?’
‘The committee, of course. But many of the members as well. When we canvassed your name there was overwhelming support.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly! You know I wouldn’t joke about something like this, Jennifer. Child rearing is a serious business. The most serious business there is. And it’s up to caring people like us to do it right. There are thousands of little lives at stake.’
All this talk of promotions had given her a headache. Rather than swallow aspirin, Jenny decided to go out for a walk. Fresh air was always restorative. She meandered through the Centre grounds way up past the meditation gardens to the summit lookout, from which vantage she could see the entire valley. It was barely dusk, but already lights were blinking in the town.
She sat there for a long while taking slow deep breaths until her headache started to subside. Is this what Lucille meant when she talked about her essential stillness? Lucille was always badgering her to join her morning yoga group, but marching up the hillside at dawn to greet the day in upward facing dog wasn’t her cup of tea. Or at least it hadn’t been. Perhaps she should give it a try?
By the time Jenny got back to her room it was dark. Even though it was getting late, she telephoned Clive Roundtree. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you like this, Clive, but I’ve been thinking about this all day and this baby housing complex coordinator job, it’s not for me. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to withdraw.’
‘Really? Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I am,’ said Jenny Lypstock.
‘But the banners. We’ve already ordered the banners.’
‘You have? So fast?’
‘Yes, of course we have. Jenny Lypstock for Baby Housing Complex Coordinator. Jenny Lypstock for Centre Management. Jenny Lypstock Rules.’
‘Jesus. That’s taking things a bit far.’
‘You gave me the impression you’d be going all the way. When I approached you, you said yes.’
‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘And then you said yes.’
‘But come on, Clive. It was a tentative yes at best. I didn’t expect you to go off and start organising campaign materials. Not without further discussion. I certainly didn’t expect you to schedule a media conference.’
‘Well, what did you think was going to happen? We’d sit around with the babies sharing stories over cups of tea?’
‘Don’t be like that. There’s no need to get nasty.’
‘Need? You say you’re going to do something and then you back down. Back down! What are we supposed to do now?’
‘I was thinking maybe you could find someone else to step in. I believe Lucille is very committed.’
‘Lucille? Hippie Lucille? She couldn’t organise her way out of a paper bag.’
‘No, that’s not true, I understand she’s very clear-sighted. And she’s deeply involved in the parenting process. In my opinion she’d be very good.’
‘Be that as it may, the committee wanted you. We approached you.’
‘Look, Clive, I’m really sorry, but my decision’s final.’
‘Final, final?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Final, final, final?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m afraid it is.’
Jenny put down the phone, stood up, unclipped her double BabyBjörn, then lay down and stretched out fully on her bunk. It felt good to lie flat like that, without the bulk of the baby support bunching up and distorting her posture. She had grown so accustomed to it that she had equated its absence with a certain discomfort, but now that she was free of it she immediately felt lighter, looser, more fluid in her movements.
She waited for the guilt to kick in, but it didn�
��t. She gave it five extra minutes to be absolutely sure, then she sat up and put on some lipstick.
Maybe she should take up Candy’s offer to teach her to drive, she thought as she examined her face in the mirror. That would be interesting. Then she could go wherever she wanted whenever she wanted without ever having to wait for a lift. She could even ask Henry Bendell out on a date. ‘Come on, Henry,’ she imagined herself saying. ‘I’ll pick you up in my truck.’ And if all went well then maybe one day they could make a baby too, a real one of their own, and possibly buy a house and a minivan and run errands together, slip-knotting through the suburbs.
Sabbatical
California is notoriously unsafe – earthquakes, conspicuous body hair, dangerous surf. One day we’re in Melbourne going about our business, then next thing you know we find ourselves living right near the San Andreas fault which slips and pulls and tears at the earth’s crust a hundred times a day. I’m under the shower when I feel my first tremor. At first I don’t know what it is, and then just as quickly I do. I manage to jump out and wrap a towel around myself while the house is still shaking.
‘Did you feel that?’ says my husband, Toby. We’re both so excited we don’t know what to do with ourselves. I grab my bathrobe and we go outside.
The whole street is out there. Stephanie and Warren, our immediate neighbours, are talking with Gabriella and Liam, the extremely tall patrician-looking couple who live on the other side of them. We’ve actually run into Gabriella and Liam several times before (at Safeway, the cinema, once at Kmart), but they say nice to meet you like this is the first time we’ve met. I am suddenly very aware of my dressing-gown which, despite its cute little kangaroo with joey embroidered on the right breast pocket, looks decidedly shabby now that it’s out of the house. We shake hands and say stupid out-of-towner things about the Governator and earthquakes and how exciting it is to be living in California. Then we take bets on our tremor’s Richter Scale rating, and then the conversation stalls and we all go back inside.
Later that night Toby calls his mother. When he tells her about our 2.4 ‘seismic event’, she bursts into tears and begs him to come back home. ‘What am I supposed to do if something happens to you over there?’ she cries.
Like Being a Wife Page 12
