Mira Corpora (13 page)

She stares at the pools of water islanded across the floor. “Maybe it's some biological nesting bullshit,” she says. “But I swear it's a miracle I haven't choked on all this filth.” She reaches for the bottle of Murphy Oil Soap, but it's empty. She slops the rags in the bucket in a vain effort to soak up some remaining suds. Ruth struggles to her feet and retrieves a pair of tennis shoes from the corner. “Time for more supplies,” she says with an awkward grin.

After she leaves, I creep into the ruins of the dining room. I arrange myself beneath an automotive calendar that's two years old and still several months off. I'm only a few feet from the
front windows. Through the scrim of butcher paper, I observe the silhouettes of pedestrians rustling past in twos and threes. The hum of chatter, hiccups of traffic, and surges of music mix together into a tidal soundscape. At some point, I must doze off.

When I open my eyes, the street lights and neon signs have flickered to life. The nighttime noises have escalated to a frothy din. At first, I don't notice the rattling sounds behind me. Then I hear Gert-Jan's voice echo through the rear corridor. His pidgin accent is unmistakable. Ruth fusses with the lock and announces in a loud voice: “There's nobody else here.”

A burst of adrenalized terror rockets through my body. I dash for the bedroom and squeeze inside the oversized red trunk. It's a tight fit, but I've been practicing. Several moments later, Ruth enters and eases herself onto the mattress. She ignites several wicks. It's easy to imagine Gert-Jan positioned in the doorway, his legs casually crossed, surveying the surroundings for clues he can play to his advantage. I expect him to launch a charm offensive, but instead he speaks with halting uncertainty.

Gert-Jan says: “I much appreciate you talking with me. The boy on the fliers is an important friend of mine. I am distressed and following every information I come across. We had some terrible misunderstandings. They were my fault. I just want to apologize.”

Against my will, I detect a note of genuine loss in his speech. It stimulates a flooding sensation of guilt and regret. Then it occurs to me that Gert-Jan's words aren't solely aimed at Ruth, and I squeeze myself into a tighter ball in the darkness.

Ruth finally replies. She says she doesn't know who he's talking about.

Gert-Jan says: “In fact, I am the boy's guardian. So there is a legal obligation here. It may be true some unfortunate decisions were made. But the boy is in grave danger. Surely this is the most important consideration.”

Ruth repeats she doesn't know who he's talking about, but
her denial carries less conviction. I picture Gert-Jan circling the room, marking the circumference as if he owns it, as if Ruth is the one imposing herself in this scene.

Gert-Jan says: “This is the absolute truth. And it is a little sticky. I am the boy's father. Only recently I came into his life. I have tried to do my best, but the boy holds a grudge for the years I was missing.” I can detect the gears in his story grinding ever so slightly. His English improves whenever his temper flares. “Unfortunately the boy suffers from a terminal illness and refuses to accept the seriousness of his situation. I can only pray he is not dead already. It would be a terrible burden for his caretaker.”

Ruth says she wishes she could help, but she still doesn't know who he's talking about. Her tone is more uncertain yet. I wonder how much longer she can hold out.

Inside the trunk, my body has begun to atrophy. The story about my illness is a hoax, but I'm starting to feel its effects. My limbs clench. My head balloons. Orange-yellow spots burst across my eyelids. Or maybe I'm just running low on oxygen.

Gert-Jan says: “Let me cut right to it. I'm offering to buy the boy. For a sizable sum.” There's a pause where he probably fans out a number of bills. Part of me wishes I could see exactly how much. “The boy is my property. It's only right you should turn him over.”

The atmosphere thick with unspoken negotiations. I wait for the lid of the trunk to rise and those tender hands to encircle my windpipe once again.

“That's a serious offer,” Ruth says. “But the kid isn't here.”

Gert-Jan whistles a few high notes. His imitation of the spotted thrush. An attempt to recalibrate the tension in the room. He says: “So tell me, when is your baby due?”

“Could be any day now.”

Gert-Jan says: “You must be full of plans. I envy you having a child to bring into your home.”

Ruth bristles at the inflection of that last word. “This is a temporary situation.”

Gert-Jan says: “Of course, of course. But the main thing is the arrival of a new life. A new beginning. This is always something to celebrate.” A rustling sound. I can't picture what's transpiring. “Please accept this as a small token for imposing on you.”

“That's nice and all, but I can't drink.”

It's probably a bottle of wine and no doubt a formidable vintage.

Gert-Jan says: “How silly of me. Instead let me treat you to a meal. A friend of mine owns a restaurant down the street. He cooks a great steak.”

An inscrutable silence follows.

He says: “Surely there is no harm in some good food. We are assured of good service. I will not take up but a little of your time.”

She finally assents with a few guttural murmurs. As the two sets of footsteps echo down the service corridor, my spirits plummet. Gert-Jan's persuasions are more effective the longer he holds your attention. When I emerge from the stifling darkness of the trunk, I lie on the mattress and suck on the edges of the quilt, pulling at the loose threads with my teeth. I try not to imagine the deal he will have extracted from her before the appetizers are served.

Ruth returns sometime past dawn. She stumbles in alone and passes out on the mattress without a word. I stay awake all night. I pace the service hallway for hours hoping she'll stir. Finally I sit myself in the entrance to her bedroom. I stare at her sleeping form and listen to her nasal wheezes. There's something soothing about the rhythmic fluctuations of her stomach.

It happens in slow motion. I find myself creeping toward her. Each step is completely silent. Soon my hand hovers a few inches above her belly. I slowly lower my palm. Her belly feels unreal, like the rind of a ripe melon. Everything is placid, then
I feel a tiny-but-definite kick. It's as if the baby knows I'm here. It's reaching out to greet me.

When Ruth wakes several hours later, no mention is made of Gert-Jan. She shuffles around her room, compulsively shifting, straightening, and reshifting every item. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles. The sort of convoluted and heartbroken expression that conceals entire histories. It feels like she's about to confess something, but the moment passes. “You know, for a moment I could swear I saw what you looked like as a child,” she says. “It must have been pretty sad.” I can't help blushing, not because of the words but the attention.

Ruth announces she's going shopping. She hauls herself down the service corridor and pauses with her hand on the lock. “Some friends are throwing a party tonight,” she says. “You should come.” She turns the handle and vanishes onto the sidewalk. And just like that, the hinge of fate swings into place. This party must be where Gert-Jan has arranged to get me back.

Half in a daze, I wander into the dining room. I stare at the divots in the floor where the booths had been bolted. I stick my fingers in the gouges, wondering how difficult it was to dislodge these pieces and if the furniture put up much of a fight.

 

 

I'm not the only one watching Ruth dance. People marvel at the sight of a pregnant woman in this crowded loft, shifting her swollen belly to the morphing rhythms. Sweat christens her brow. Her cheeks flush crimson. The white crescents of her eyes shine between her lids. She looks exquisite. Each movement radiates a sense of pure abandon. Ruth is the only reason I agreed to attend the party. The night will probably end badly and watching her dance may be my sole consolation. But right now, it's enough.

The loft spans the third floor of an old textile warehouse. A mirrored ball rotates from the ceiling, dappling the cavernous
space with squares of light. It highlights the various factions on the dance floor. The kinetic exhibitionists whose bodies whip and reel in intricate spasms. The autistic introverts who rock rhythmically on their heels while staring blankly at the speakers. And Gert-Jan. My blood freezes and my irises turn pale, but the man with the blond crew cut rotates to reveal a different face.

As the song hiccups to a halt, Ruth shakes off her trance and squints into the darkness. I stand against the wall of industrial windows and flash an ungainly smile to indicate my presence. Ruth wobbles in my direction. She shakes the sticky curls loose from her forehead and takes the beer from my hand. She chugs the contents, then inspects the bottles lining the ledge. She finds one that's almost full and knocks that back as well. She offers a defiant shrug. “What the hell,” she says. “You only die once.”

A concussive bass line shakes the wooden floor and Ruth shivers in recognition. She wades into the mass of dancers, unsteady on her feet but unwilling to miss another note. I need some air and stick my head out one of the cantilevered windows. Across the street, I notice another warehouse party is in full swing. Its smeared red lights pulse like a beacon from another world. I need to clear my head, but the music continues to pummel at escalating frequencies. It steadily builds toward an unknown climax.

There's a commotion on the dance floor. Ruth is prostrate on the ground, writhing in pain. She must have launched herself into labor. Several men hoist her body above the crowd. She lies on her back like an Egyptian queen, her distended belly facing the ceiling as they ferry her toward the bathroom. Somebody briefly loses their grip and there's the strange sight of Ruth's disembodied feet kicking the air. The music continues to blare from trembling speakers. One of the men straining to keep Ruth aloft—this time I'm positive—is Gert-Jan.

Things begin to jumble. A dozen people encircle the wet spot on the dance floor where her water must have broken. A man
in a tuxedo ambles into the crowd with upraised palms to assure everyone the situation is under control. Then the sirens start to wail. They originate from the street though I can't figure how ambulances could have arrived so quickly. The DJ spins a sultry ballad to mellow the crowd, but the effect is undercut by paramedics plunging into the loft carrying a canvas stretcher. A small throng rings the bathroom. They block the entrance to the stalls. They strain on tiptoes to steal a view of the action. Somebody shouts the baby is starting to crown.

Gert-Jan must be inside the bathroom but there are too many bodies colliding from too many directions to tell. Nobody can even hear the paramedics, who shove their way into the stalls with enthusiastic brutality. I'm surprised Gert-Jan hasn't come after me, but I'm not lingering to complain. As I stumble for the exit, the music vibrates in my teeth. The taste of vomit tickles my throat. I navigate the archipelago of people huddled in conversation and twitching in time to the slow-burn soul. A couple squirms on the drink table, knocking over bottles as they make out. Somehow I manage not to glance back at the bathroom.

When I reach the stairwell, the narrow steps sway under my feet, so I shut my eyes and blindly grope my way down toward the street. Behind me, the DJ cues a new song.

 

 

It rains constantly the next few days. I stay out of sight while maintaining a stealthy vigil near the abandoned fast food restaurant. It's hard to understand why Gert-Jan didn't grab me at the party, but I'm not taking any chances. I camp in the alley across from the service entrance, folding myself into the shadows and huddling among the overflowing trash bags. The restaurant is uncannily quiet. The only evidence of life is a pair of contractors who tape a building permit across the front door.

I'm attuned to the slightest indication of pursuit, but so far there's no ripple of activity. Gert-Jan is usually more efficient.
Behind the bus station, I spot a raft of familiar blue fliers that have been battered by the weather. They're bleached and near wordless. Lonely black smudges left behind to keep lookout. A teenage girl staples handmade posters about a lost dog over them. Only one flier remains visible on the wall, but I don't tear it down.

Each day I spend a few hours panhandling for change. I mark up cardboard signs with random chapters and verses from the Bible. John 45:12. Matthew 6:55. Luke 36:3. People assume they reference some profound message of charity, so I do pretty well. I even manage a few extra items with the money. I buy a plastic baby doll for Ruth's new infant. Plus I pick up a five-inch switchblade for protection.

I'm consolidating my change one afternoon when I spot him. Gert-Jan cuts a decisive path through the waves of weary tourists and commuters. We share a frozen moment of eye contact. Instinctively, I crumple into myself like a hermit crab. My body tenses for the worst, but Gert-Jan brushes past as if I'm another face in the hustling crowd. When he pauses at the corner, I see he has something in his arms. The traffic light changes and he hurries into the grid of the crosswalk. As he strides in front of the idling barricade of taxis, it's obvious. Gert-Jan is holding a baby. Its tiny bald head pokes from a blue wool blanket. The infant doesn't look more than a few days old.

For several stunned moments, my body remains paralyzed. Then I find myself bolting across the avenue in pursuit. A sea of undifferentiated figures stretches in front of me, but Gert-Jan and the baby can't be more than a block ahead. I dodge the horns of oncoming autos and crane my neck for a better view. The crowd briefly thins to reveal a guiding glimpse of Gert-Jan's crew cut. I bound past concrete planters filled with mums, swerve around trash cans and light poles, push aside businesswomen on their cell phones. Then abruptly I lose sight of them.