In Trouble (12 page)

Think, Jamie. Think. Breathe. In, out, in, out.

A list. Paper. Pencil.

Time she said. Little time.

Hurry!

How do I find out for sure? Aunt Sheila’s doctor for the test. Please, no, please! I pushed the chair back.

I paced the room. I banged the bureau. My fist hurt. I looked at the paper. My writing was crooked. I sat down.

More crooked writing.

Tell Mom and Dad? They wouldn’t say I ruined everything. They wouldn’t send me away. Disappointed, that’s what they’d say. I hate that word.

I don’t want a . . . a baby. Not now. When I’m married.

I don’t want to get married. Not now.

I want to graduate next year.

I want to go to college.

Most of all I wanted to sleep.

131

24.

The phone ring jerked me awake. My stomach turned over, the old feeling from when Dad was away. But Dad’s here. I touched my stomach. Me? Pregnant? That’s crazy!

I sat at the edge of the bed, seven rings. I ran into Grandma’s room.

“Jamie?”

“Elaine? What is it?”

“I just bought a ticket. My train gets in in fifty-two minutes. Can you meet me?”

I stood up. My skirt was wrinkled with sleep. I’d change.

“See you.”

An hour later a definitely pregnant Elaine got off the train. Her sweater buttons and the holes were at war. We hugged almost long distance. I wanted to look at her belly 132

but didn’t dare. We headed for the Automat. I had coffee, Elaine had milk.

“You don’t drink tea anymore?” That was almost the first thing I said after the hurried hello in the station.

She didn’t answer me till we sat down. She ma-neuvered herself into the chair. I saw her through my sketching eye. She sat slightly tilted back and reached to put her glass down on the table. I so don’t want to look like that.

She put her hand on top of her belly and said, “Only good things for my baby.”

This can’t be happening.

“Elaine, hello. You don’t have a baby. You’ve got a pre-baby in you. Not a baby.”

“A baby, Jamie, it’s a baby and it’s mine.”

“Is a tadpole a frog?”

She looked appalled. “How can you talk like that?”

“How can
you
? Wait a minute, you’re right, I’m wrong.

A tadpole has a life, swimming around in the
outside
world.

That
,” I pointed at her, “is not in the world.” I didn’t stop.

“And besides, it’s not going to be yours.” She smiled, as if I were a radio program and she had turned off the sound.

“Elaine, what is going on?”

“I know in my heart that Neil will love this baby and he’ll marry me. This is Neil Jr.”

Am I crazy or is she?

133

“They’re sending you someplace where they will take the baby away from you. Take it away. Forever. You give it up. You sign papers. They even make you change your name, for Pete’s sake!”

She stared at me. “What do you mean?” This was so weird. Elaine was my oldest friend. I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

“Somebody told me that, I don’t remember who.” It was a little lie, not that it matters—but how many little lies make a big one that does matter?

Elaine tilted forward. “Did she go to a Catholic Services home?”

I must have looked puzzled.

She repeated the question slowly, emphasizing each word equally, as if talking to a five-year-old.

“Did-she-go-to-a-Catholic-Services-home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably a Florence Crittenton one,” she said. “They don’t do that in the Catholic homes.” She tilted back again with a satisfied smile.

“How do you know that?”

She drained the milk glass. Elaine, who was always so neat, sat with a white mustache and never lifted her napkin. “You wait and see. Neil will take me away, and we’ll get married.”

You don’t stare at someone you think is going crazy, but I did. “Your parents are okay with you and Neil getting married?”

134

She stopped smiling. “I haven’t told them yet. It doesn’t matter. I wrote to Neil and told him I’d send the address as soon as I’m there. He’ll come and get me.”

“Did he answer you?”

“He will.”

“I think I’m pregnant,” I said. It flew out of my mouth.

A reach for reality.

Elaine stared at me.

“I was . . . I was raped.” I said, “and I’m not getting married and I don’t want it and I’m going to find someone to help me.”

I can’t believe that came out of me.

“Oh God, Jamie. That’s awful!” She reached across the table and touched my hand. “You can come with me!” she said, a tremor in her voice. “You don’t have to be Catholic. They help everyone.”

“I was attacked, Elaine. This is not the way a child should be born.”

We sat; neither of us moved or spoke.

“You’ve got a white mustache,” I said.

She blinked twice and carefully wiped it away. Something had ended.

“I came to tell you,” she said, “that I’m leaving in a couple of weeks, and this was my only chance to see you and say goodbye.” Her voice became formal. “The next time we meet I’ll be Mrs. Neil Jentiss.” 135

25.

It was a long subway ride home, and here’s what I saw. A play, not a movie.

Elaine’s in a room with a group of other girls, all with bellies of different sizes. Beds line the walls. Each bed has a night table. One girl leans against her pillows, reading. The rest sit, legs dangling. Bored.

I am definitely not in that room.

“I’m Emily,” Elaine says to the girls. She turns and talks directly to the audience: “I’m keeping the same first initial. It’s easier to remember than, say, Roberta. After all, I could wake up in the middle of the night wondering, did I pick Rachel, Regina, or Roberta? Emily’s better.” 136

A short girl, big belly, turns to the audience: “I used to be Sylvia, but I always hated it. Call me Solange.” She faces Emily-Elaine:

“Welcome to the baby factory.”

Emily-Elaine: “Oh no! Mine’s not from an assembly line.” She stares at the other girls:

“Don’t you want to keep your babies?” A hoody-looking girl with a boy’s slick duck-tail haircut: “Listen, sweetie, you pop ’em, they take ’em!” She turns to the audience:

“I’m Toni ex-Theresa.” She turns back to Emily-Elaine: “Hell, it’s better that way. If you keep the kid, they’ll call him a bastard. Besides, no way you can have it without a husband.” Her lips twist into a smile. “You need him, I guess, to help change diapers.”

Solange-Sylvia giggles: “Like he ever would.” Then her face crumbles: “It’s hard, though, when you feel the kicks.”

Emily-Elaine gently rubs her belly: I don’t feel him yet.

Me and Arthur Miller.

137

26.

Grandma was home, and the teakettle was whistling.

“Jaimele?”

“Yeah, Grandma, it’s me.”

Not today, Grandma, please don’t ask me about my day.

“So, tea?” She stood, rocking slightly on her heels.

That’s when I always hug her. I did, but I so didn’t want to talk.

I threw my jacket onto the couch and we headed for her room, me carrying the tray with the teapot, cups, sugar for her, two cookies for me.

She sat in her rocker and asked, “So how was your day?”

“
Oy vey
,” I said. It was one of the few Yiddish expres-sions I knew.

“Your accent is better than your father’s.” 138

“Mom’s Jewish, not Dad. Besides, he’s an atheist, Grandma.”

“Since when do you have to
daven
to talk Yiddish?

When you
daven
, you pray. You laugh, you cry, you argue—it’s Yiddish. You think God cares, so long as you can say ‘
oy vey
’?”

She always made me feel good. I went over and kissed her. “Grandma, when I move out will you come live with me?”

“I should live so long.”

That is so my grandma.

“Jamie,” she said, clearing her throat. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

Sometimes if I ask Grandma something, she tells me a story about the old country, and I’m tapping my fingers inside my pockets, waiting for her to get to my question.

Then suddenly the story turns out to be exactly what I wanted to know. One thing, though, she has never started with “I want to talk to you.”

I sat down.

“I want to talk—”

Stevie burst into the room, waving a paper. “I got the top mark on my English paper, Grandma! And it’s ’cause of you!”

She reached out to him. “An English expert I am, you see!”

“We were having a private talk,” I said to Stevie, “in case you didn’t notice.”

139

Grandma’s arm was around him. He wasn’t going to leave anytime soon.

“Jealous!”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“
Kinder
, please!”

“I’m not a child, Grandma,” I said.

If she only knew.

“So sorry, your Highness.” Stevie gave a deep bow.

“Ask her, Grandma, about her boyfriend Paul. He calls her ‘Hot Lips Jamie’!”

“You liar!” I swung at him.

Grandma started poking her hairpins.

“Shut up,” I said to Stevie. “Can’t you see Grandma’s upset?”

He leaned against the rocker. I sat down.

No more hairpin poking. Grandma folded her hands in her lap. “It is not upset I am. Just you should know”—

Grandma looked right at me—“I want you to know you can always talk with me.”

“See,” Stevie turned to me, “she’s not upset.”

“Forever dumb,” I said.

Grandma held her arms out. “Come.” We stood on both sides of her, pressed in tight. She smelled warm, like mashed potatoes.

Stevie lasted maybe thirty seconds. “I got homework,” he said, and bolted.

“I’m a mess, Grandma.”

140

Her arm was still around me. “I have loved you from the moment you were born. When you want, we talk.

That’s all I wanted to say to you.”

I sat back down on the floor, facing her. She rocked slowly. And I, too, rocked back and forth.

141

27.

Paul knew. Not about being maybe pg, but about—That Night. He and Lois and Elaine. Paul had hugged me. Lois should have done something. Elaine, hopeless.

I sat in the
Record
office. My article was due, but I hadn’t been able to write the lede.

Paul stood in front of me. I hadn’t heard the door open.

I looked at him. “Last year did you see
I’ll Cry Tomorrow
, with Susan Hayward?” I said.

He didn’t move. He waited. I could wait too.

“Jamie, what’s going on?”

I pushed my chair back. It fell over and I walked to the window. What do I say? I’m maybe like Elaine. She’s crazy. Maybe I am. Everything’s falling apart. I gripped the windowsill.

Paul rushed over and reached out as if trying to stop something.

142

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump.” I leaned against the radiator and tried to smile.

He looked worried. “Jamie, that’s not fair. Talk to me.” He gripped my arms.

“Not fair? You . . . you . . . what do you know!” I punched his chest. “Leave me alone! Go away! Forget your stupid article! I quit! Let go! Let me go!” I yelled and shook. I did not want to cry. Me and Susan Hayward.

Paul pulled me close and held me tight. “For what it’s worth, I don’t accept your resignation.” I pulled away.

He led me back to the chairs and steered me into one.

“Talk to me.”

Simple as that. Talk to me.

“It’s not simple.”

We sat, silent, right through the first bell. No way I was going to trig. Paul could go if he wanted.

“I’ll tell Mr. Morabito we need a pass,” he said. “We’ve got a hot report to file. He’s good that way. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” He left.

I couldn’t have moved anyway.

When he came back, I said, “There is something else.” He put down the two passes, pushed aside the calendar, and sat on the front desk, hands folded in his lap.

“I need someone to go with me to the doctor.” I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t breathe.

“Doctor?”

I didn’t say anything.

143

“Jamie,” his voice was grave, “you’re not saying . . . I mean, you don’t think you’re . . .”

I heard him get off the desk and come over to where I was sitting.

“Don’t touch me, please don’t touch me!” I focused on the floor. “I have to get tested, and I have to say I’m married.”

I don’t remember what else I said. It wasn’t a lot, except that I had to make an appointment for the test with the doctor Aunt Sheila told me about.

He pushed a chair next to mine. “Your aunt is a special lady.”

“I know.”

We sat like that for a while, and then he said he’d come with me.

144

28.

I was at the front door of the library as fast as I could get there after school let out. I tapped the bell at the front desk, and Mrs. Finley came out of the back office.

“Ah, Jamie Morse. I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

I immediately change the subject when someone says,

“How are you?”

I nodded and tried to smile while pointing to the re-source shelf behind the desk, “May I have the
Readers’

Guide to Periodical Literature
?” The funny thing is, Mrs. Finley was one of the few people I talked to when Dad was named and arrested. She couldn’t have been more decent, and it wasn’t because she agreed with all of Dad’s politics. She was very clear about that, but said she believed in the Constitution and free 145

speech. “Self-evident” were her words. Mrs. Finley actually hugged me once. It was like sinking into a feather pillow, wrapped in safety.

She can still snap, of course, but she knows her library stuff, that’s for sure. You don’t see the pillow side of her a lot.

Not unless you’re in trouble. I am in trouble, but with this kind, who knows what she would say. I couldn’t stand her looking at me with “for shame!” written all over her face.