by Marilyn Kaye
Normally if she left so early in the evening, Ron would complain. And she’d tell him, for the millionth time, that she had to get up early to go to the diner. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, from six in the morning till two in the afternoon — that had been her schedule for two months now. Somehow he couldn’t seem to remember. But this time he didn’t say anything. She couldn’t really blame him. With the news she’d just given him, he’d be happy to see her leave.
But at least he got up. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘I can walk,’ she said. ‘It’s still light out. And I feel like a walk.’
She could have sworn he looked relieved, and she assumed that was because he didn’t want to talk. He did walk her out of the apartment though.
‘Ron …’
‘Yeah?’
‘What are we going to do?’
He shrugged. ‘I gotta think about this. I’ll call you.’
She nodded. He turned and went back inside. Not even a goodnight kiss.
It was hot out, and even in her sleeveless top and shorts she could feel the sweat trickle down the side of her face as she walked.
A baby. When the doctor told her, just that morning, she hadn’t known what to think. For a brief second images flashed before her eyes. A tiny, pink-and-white, soft-skinned and sweet-smelling bundle in her arms. Memories of holding the newborn Billy, just two years ago. Someone to take care of, someone to love.
But then there was the reality of the future. How would she support a baby? True, Ron had a job — for the moment — but could she count on him? Did she even want to?
She herself was making minimum wage working three shifts a week at the diner, and they probably wouldn’t want to hire her full-time anyway. Besides, with a baby to care for, how could she work at all? It wasn’t like there was anyone else at home to help out.
Her mother had taken off with some guy she met two weeks earlier. In a way, Donna hadn’t minded. She still had the trailer, and her father’s cheques paid the rent for the space in the trailer park. Funny though, how she hadn’t even mentioned to Ron the fact that she was now living alone. Maybe it was because she was afraid he’d want to move in.
As she approached the trailer she could hear the phone ringing, but she didn’t quicken her step. Probably her mother, she supposed as she unlocked the door. But the only reason she’d be calling would be to ask for money. It was still ringing when she entered, so she picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s me.’
There was a slight slur in Ron’s voice. How many beers could he have drunk in the twenty minutes it had taken her to get home?
‘Look, I’ve been talking to this girl here. And she knows a doctor.’
Donna was confused. ‘I told you, I’ve already been to a doctor.’
‘Not that kind of doctor.’
A wave of nausea came over her. But of course, this would be Ron’s solution. Don’t deal with the situation, just get rid of it.
‘But it costs,’ he said. ‘Three hundred. You got any money?’
‘About forty dollars,’ she whispered.
There was another muttered expletive. Then a sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’
When she hung up the phone, she sat very still for a moment. Then, even though she wasn’t hungry, she went to the refrigerator and took out the tuna salad she’d brought home from the diner. The mayonnaise was probably a bit off, but she forced herself to eat it anyway.
Then she went into the bedroom that had been her mother’s and turned on the TV. She found a Father Knows Best episode that had just started, and she settled back to watch.
It was a re-run, and she’d seen it before, but that didn’t matter. She loved the show about the Anderson family in their pretty suburban home with the white picket fence. There was the perpetually smiling mother, the wise, all-knowing father, the three kids, one of whom always seemed to have a problem. Inevitably the father provided some good advice, and the problem was resolved. The ideal family.
In tonight’s episode, daughter Betty wanted to break her date for a school dance with a nice-but-ordinary boy when a better-looking and more popular boy asked her out. Even if Donna hadn’t seen it before, she would know that ultimately, with her parents’ guidance, Betty would realize this was morally wrong. She always ended up doing the right thing.
What if Betty had come home and announced she was pregnant? What would the parents say about that? she wondered. What kind of advice would they give? She tried to come up with a scenario that would work for the Anderson family. But in the world of Father Knows Best, this kind of problem didn’t exist. Betty would never have sex before marriage. And certainly not with a boy she didn’t even love.
At least by the time the show was over it was dark out, and she could pretend it was bedtime. But that didn’t mean she’d be able to sleep.
She didn’t mind the job at the diner, even though it meant getting up before dawn. It wasn’t exactly a cheerful place — the boss was always yelling at the waitresses and the cook, and the smell of grease permeated everything. Lately the smell had made her nauseous, and she’d had to escape to the restroom every now and then. But the place was busy, and there was no time to think about anything but who had ordered their eggs over easy and who wanted them scrambled. And there were free saltine crackers on the tables — this was just about the only thing she could keep down in the morning. Most customers didn’t take them, so it was easy for her to swipe the packets.
Something else occurred to her that next morning as she dressed for work. There hadn’t been a uniform that fitted her thin frame, so she had to wear one that was too big, with a loose bib-style apron over it. Donna wasn’t showing yet, and she wasn’t sure when she would, but it was a comfort to know that in the weeks to come she would be able to hide her transgression, for a while at least.
On this Friday morning the diner was unusually busy, with truckers and a whole busload of tourists heading to the lakes upstate. She couldn’t even take her usual lunch break, but by two o’clock her apron pockets were filled with cracker packets.
She ducked into the restroom to change into shorts and a T-shirt for the walk back to the trailer. She was very surprised, when she walked out of the diner, to find Ron waiting in his car for her. The sight of him at two o’clock on a weekday was ominous. He’d only been at this new job for a few weeks — surely he hadn’t already been fired.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I got the money,’ he told her. ‘I told the boss I wasn’t feeling well so I could take you.’
For one blissful, very fleeting moment, she was confused. Then she understood. Her stomach turned over.
‘How did you get the money?’ she asked as she got into the car.
‘Borrowed it,’ he said.
She was about to ask, ‘From whom?’ but then she thought better of it. She had a pretty good feeling she didn’t really want to know.
They drove in silence. What could she say to him anyway? That she wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do? That she was scared? It wouldn’t matter. This was the only way to go — that’s what he would tell her. And she couldn’t disagree.
He stopped at a red light and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Four-twenty West Mulberry,’ he muttered.
‘The doctor’s office?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
But it wasn’t an office building that they found at the address. Four-twenty West Mulberry was an old, rundown, four-storey apartment building. Ron parked right in front, and then he looked at the piece of paper again.
‘Second floor, door on the right,’ he said. But he didn’t make any movement to get out of the car.
‘You’re not coming with me?’ she asked.
He made a face. ‘Look, I’m paying for it, OK? And I’ll wait for you. The guy said it only takes about twenty minutes.’ He took out his wallet and counted out the bills. �
�Here.’
Silently she took the money and got out of the car.
Inside, the building looked just as bad, with peeling wallpaper and ragged carpeting. She hadn’t eaten, and she was feeling weak, so she grabbed the rail as she started up the stairs. At the landing, the door on the right didn’t have any sign. Maybe Ron had the wrong address …
She rapped at the door tentatively. It was opened by a man in a wrinkled shirt.
‘Yeah?’
She wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I — I think I have an appointment.’
He stared at her, not blinking.
‘My name is Donna …’
Still he said nothing.
‘Ron called you … ?’
Finally he nodded. ‘You got the money?’
She held out the wad of bills. He snatched it from her and opened the door wider. Now Donna could see the interior. It was even seedier than the hallway had been. The floor was cracked linoleum. The one window was so filthy it didn’t even need the crooked and broken blinds that hung over it.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Something more like a hospital operating room, she supposed. Everything white and sanitary. But of course, this wasn’t a hospital. This man probably wasn’t even a doctor.
She stepped inside. Now she could see a table, with a sheet on it. And there was a chair, on which rested a pan filled with metal instruments. She looked away, and in the corner of the room she saw a mousetrap holding a dead mouse.
She must have gone green, because the man suddenly asked, ‘Are you going to throw up?’ He pointed in the direction of a yellow plastic wastebasket.
She shook her head.
‘Well, I haven’t got all day, lady. Take off your pants.’
She didn’t move.
‘Look, you want to get rid of this thing or don’t you?’
This thing. That’s all it was at this point, she supposed. A thing. Smaller than that dead mouse.
She turned and fled, running down the stairs so fast she couldn’t even feel them under her feet. Running out the door, running to the car.
Ron stared at her. ‘It’s finished already?’
She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t,’ she whispered.
He hit the steering wheel with his fist. She flinched, as if he’d just hit her.
‘I couldn’t,’ she whispered again.
‘Where’s the money?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘You gave him the money?’ he asked in disbelief. A second later he was out of the car and running into the building.
Strangely, she felt calm, almost relaxed. She’d made a decision. Right or wrong, she was just going to let it happen, let nature take its course. It was out of her hands now.
When Ron returned, his face was red and he was rubbing his jaw as if it hurt. But he wasn’t angry. ‘I got the money,’ he muttered as he climbed into the car and slammed the door. He started the engine, but just let it run.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
She spoke carefully. ‘I had an idea.’
‘Yeah?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I have the trailer to myself now. My mother ran off with some guy.’
‘When did that happen?’
She hesitated. ‘Yesterday,’ she lied. ‘She left me a note. Anyway, I was thinking … you could move in with me. Of course, once the baby comes I won’t be able to work …’
He grimaced. ‘So I’ll be supporting us and the baby.’
‘But you won’t be paying rent any more,’ she pointed out. ‘That will help. And… and …’ she summoned all her courage. ‘If we got married, I could tell my father and he’d probably give us some money. As a wedding gift.’
She watched his expression. He was always complaining about the crowded conditions at the apartment, how his roommates got on his nerves.
Finally he spoke. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
Encouraged, she went on. ‘You don’t have to get me a ring or anything. I’ll even pay for the licence. We could go to City Hall right now and get the application. It’s not far from here — you just go up Mulberry and take a right on Hawthorne Avenue.’
He didn’t say anything, but he finally put his hand on the shift and pulled out of the parking space. And when they got to the end of Mulberry, he took a right on Hawthorne.
Sam had been ejected from Washington Square Park.
‘They’re setting up a weekend “art” show,’ he told Allison, wiggling two fingers to mime quotation marks. “Garbage” would be a better word for it. They threw us out — me and the bongo guy — and even that poor jerk who makes the balloon animals.’
‘That’s tragic,’ Allison declared fervently. ‘You’re the real artist.’
‘I knew we were going to be shut out for the weekend,’ he grumbled. ‘But this is Friday. How am I going to make it through three days with no chance to make any money?’ Then his brow furrowed. ‘Hey, that’s right, it’s Friday. What are you doing here? You get fired from your job or something?’
‘It’s the annual company party,’ she told him. ‘The big boss invited the entire staff to hang out at his fancy house with its swimming pool and tennis court on Long Island.’
‘So how come you’re not there?’
‘Because I have absolutely no interest in seeing how rich people live,’ she replied. She didn’t add that she was already too familiar with big country houses, swimming pools and tennis courts.
Sam grinned and put an arm around her. ‘That’s my girl.’
Her heart almost stopped. His girl? He hadn’t even kissed her yet. This was the very first time Sam had made any indication that he was beginning to consider her as a girlfriend.
‘How about setting up a show on a street corner?’ she suggested. ‘Eighth Street has all those shops — there should be a lot of street traffic.’ They started off in that direction, and she was very pleased that he didn’t remove the arm that was around her shoulders. But he took it off when they passed an open garbage can on the kerb.
‘Hey, look at this!’ At the top of the trash heap lay a tambourine. He picked it up and gave it a tentative shake. A couple of the metal discs were missing, but it still made a sound.
‘Wanna make music with me, babe?’ He held it out towards her. Allison took it gingerly between her finger and thumb.
‘I don’t know how to use a tambourine,’ she protested.
‘Nothing to it,’ he said. ‘You just hit it in time to the music. Hey, this could be cool — girls always get more money thrown at them.’
They’d reached the corner of 8th and Fifth Avenue, which looked like an ideal location. There was space on the sidewalk, and just a few feet away there was a coffee shop with outdoor tables, all of which were occupied. They had a captive audience.
Sam opened his case, took out the guitar and threw the strap around his shoulder. Then he placed the open case on the sidewalk, and to let passers-by know why it was there, he reached in his pocket and threw a couple of coins into it. He strummed a few chords, and then went right into what Allison thought was his very best song, the one about the seasons.
He hadn’t even got to the end of the first line and Allison hadn’t even shaken her tambourine once when a man in an apron came out of the coffee shop.
‘Beat it!’ he yelled. ‘You’re annoying my customers.’
‘You’re crazy, man!’ Sam yelled back. ‘I’m entertaining them!’
Unfortunately a policeman happened to come along just at that moment and he offered up another objection to their presence on the street.
‘Sorry, kids, you can’t do that here.’
‘Why not?’ Sam challenged him. ‘It’s a free country!’
‘A free country with laws,’ the policeman replied patiently. ‘No begging on the streets.’
‘Come on, Sam, let’s go,’ Allison muttered, tugging on his sleeve.
But Sam was furious. ‘This ain’t begging, man! I’m providing a service! I’m doing these folks a favour!’<
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‘Yeah, well, the City of New York sees it differently,’ the policeman said, and it was clear to Allison that his patience was wearing thin. ‘Now move along.’
‘Where?’ Sam demanded to know. ‘Where can I legally make some music in this godforsaken town?’
‘Try Carnegie Hall,’ one of the customers from the coffee-shop terrace yelled, and everyone started laughing.
Now Allison got nervous. Sam’s face was turning red, the anger in his expression was unmistakable and the policeman’s eyes narrowed. His hand moved towards the baton that hung from his belt.
‘Sam, please, let’s go,’ she urged.
‘Better listen to your girlfriend,’ the policeman said. Maybe something in Allison’s frightened expression touched him, because his tone softened. ‘Look, I’ve seen kids like you performing in the subway.’
‘Is it legal?’ Allison asked.
‘Not sure,’ the policeman admitted. ‘But it’ll be the transit authority’s problem, not mine.’
‘You’re the problem, man,’ Sam growled. ‘Fascist.’ But he started to walk away.
A couple of customers from the coffee shop applauded. Allison tucked her arm through his. ‘Ignore them,’ she said. ‘Think of all the great artists who have suffered. Some day you’ll be recognized.’
Sam just continued to mutter about the unfairness of it all. But at least he took the policeman’s advice. When they reached the entrance to the West Fourth Street subway station, he started down the stairs. Once they were on a platform, Sam went through the whole procedure again, taking out the guitar and tossing a few coins into the empty case.
People waiting on the platform glanced his way, but no one seemed particularly interested. Sam had barely strummed two chords before a subway train tore into the station and drowned out the music.
‘This won’t work,’ Allison told Sam, yelling to be heard over the noise of the train. He agreed and they climbed back up the stairs to the entranceway. The trains running below them could still be heard, but not quite so loudly.
Once again, Sam set up his case and dropped some change into it. He began to play, and Allison began hitting the tambourine in time to the song. It was surprisingly easy. And when a couple of passing guys tossed some coins into the guitar case, she was pleased — even more so when Sam rewarded her with a smile of approval. A wonderful sense of well-being came over her. This was where she belonged — not in her parents’ snotty Beacon Hill townhouse, not at the sumptuous Long Island mansion of the Hartnell family — but here, in the smelly, gritty New York subway, with a real folk-singing beatnik. Who might just be on the verge of becoming her boyfriend.
