The Nakeds Page 15

  “Don’t expect too much, Azeem. Remember, there’s no cure here, either,” she said.

  “Very promising treatments, though.”

  “And they don’t work on everyone.”

  “If you don’t want him to come, just say it.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “I want us to be realistic. I don’t want you—or him, for that matter—to expect too much.”

  They’d reached Malibu, passed the ocean and the trendy restaurants that lined Pacific Coast Highway, and were on their way up the hills into the canyon. They were passing the roadside poppies Nina loved, the orange flowers bowing down on both sides of the road. The sun was fat and yellow in the sky. When Nina placed her palm on the window it was perfectly warm and she felt, for a moment, lucky to be on her way to a place she liked to go to.

  A breeze kept the temperature down but also flung a number of bugs to the windshield. Each time a bug smacked the glass, Azeem waited a few seconds before flicking on the windshield wipers, which only smeared the dead bugs into a mess. Nina looked out the passenger-side window. She saw tumbleweeds tumbling the opposite way. She saw tall cacti and more poppies. She was wondering what Hannah was doing at her father’s house, if she was bonding with the baby she was so sure would bore her. She wondered why Asher hadn’t bought one of those ranch-style homes that spread out all on one floor. She hoped they’d make a bed for Hannah in a room downstairs, that they’d set her up with soft pillows and blankets, that they’d put a little table by her bed for her books. Nina wondered if Asher’s wife, Christy, was feeling better, or if, as Asher had told her on the phone, she wasn’t quite herself yet.

  Azeem mumbled something in Arabic, then turned the wipers on again.

  “It just makes it worse,” she said. “Look at the mess you’re making.”

  9

  THE BABY’S name was Duke because her father liked John Wayne movies and wanted his son to be tough, but the tiny boy in his pink bassinet and pink blanket was anything but tough. When Hannah called him Little Guy, Christy shot her an angry look. “Your brother’s name is Duke,” she said firmly.

  “It’s hard to say,” Hannah admitted.

  “I don’t know why it would be,” her stepmother said.

  They were sitting in the living room together, waiting for Hannah’s dad, who was in the kitchen preparing snacks. Hannah was on the couch with her foot up on the beige leather ottoman. Christy and Duke were sitting across from her, pressed together in the fat, beige chair. She held him awkwardly, adjusting him every few seconds. Every time Christy moved the baby from one shoulder to the other, she sighed, exasperated.

  “So this is your last cast?” she said.

  “Maybe,” Hannah said.

  “Your father says that Dr. Russo was pretty certain. He said it was your last one.”

  “I’ve been told things before.”

  “Yes, well.”

  “The doctors say all sorts of things.”

  “You should be more positive. A good attitude couldn’t hurt,” Christy said, surprising Hannah. She moved the baby from her left shoulder to her right, and he let out a squeal.

  Hannah shrugged. She wanted to change the subject. “Why’s everything of Duke’s pink?” she asked.

  “The stupid minister.” Christy rolled her eyes.

  Hannah looked at her, surprised, waiting for more.

  “When I was six months pregnant, he said the baby was a girl. The women at church told me he was always right.” Christy shook her head. More exasperation.

  From where Hannah sat she couldn’t quite tell where Christy’s body ended and the baby’s began. It was afternoon and her stepmother was still wearing her robe and slippers. She didn’t look like Christy anymore—the weight gain almost a physical improvement over her formerly hard angles and edges, Hannah thought. But something was wrong with her. Soft-spoken Christy, overly sweet Christy, had vanished. Even her voice, which had always been high-pitched, was coming out sort of manly. It was as if Christy had been eaten up by a soft, fleshy man and he was sitting in her chair, unhappily holding her baby and barking his hostile thoughts out of Christy’s mouth.

  “Minister Clay looked at my stomach and said he knew. He’s an idiot.”

  Hannah smiled, uneasily.

  “Seems a shame not to use what we’ve been given, though,” she continued. “And the kid doesn’t know what he’s wearing or sleeping on.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Your dad doesn’t like it. Thinks Duke’s going to get confused. Thinks he’ll turn out funny because he wears pink.”

  Hannah nodded, wishing her father would hurry up. She felt foolish, wishing she had something to say, wishing the sticky-sweet Christy who she’d always complained about to her mother and Azeem when she returned home from a visit would appear. She thought about suggesting that they give the pink things to charity, telling Christy that maybe they should buy the baby some blue things, even if only to avoid confusing strangers, but decided to keep quiet.

  “Waste not, want not,” Asher said, coming into the room with a tray of tea and cookies. He sat down on the couch next to Hannah. All around them were silence and unease, the three of them nodding without saying a word. What a long and painful night this is going to be, Hannah thought. Maybe she should comment on the furniture or the fireplace or the lawn, or maybe she should comment again on the baby, whom she’d already said was beautiful and handsome and, even, a gift. She wasn’t sure why she said that, calling the baby a gift, it wasn’t even part of her vocabulary. She could tell her father was happily surprised when he heard the sentiment. And she was as surprised as he was when it came out of her mouth.

  “Well?” her father said. And then again, “Well?”

  It was a question Hannah wasn’t sure how to answer. “Well?” she said back.

  “Give me some of that tea,” Christy said, moving the baby back to her right shoulder. “Asher, pour us some tea, would you? And hand over those cookies.”

  He leaned forward and began pouring. “Yes, that’s great. Let’s have a little nosh.”

  The teapot was in the shape of a swan, and there was a matching creamer, white china cups, and sugar packets just like they had at restaurants. The cookies were shortbread, and when Hannah picked one up she couldn’t help noticing that even it was beige. It was tasty, though, and gave her mouth something to do other than talk.

  “Good?” her father said.

  She nodded.

  “I want those cookies,” Christy said, impatiently, and the baby started whimpering then.

  Asher took a cookie for himself and then scooted the box over to Christy so she could reach in and take them as she pleased. “So?” her father said.

  Duke’s whimpers grew, coming quick, becoming louder and louder, only magnifying the silence in the room. “Stop it,” Christy suddenly growled into the baby’s ear.

  Asher shot up from the couch and walked over to them. “Honey, let me have him,” he said, obviously embarrassed.

  “I’ve got it,” Christy said.

  “He’s not an it.”

  “I’ve got him, damn you.” Christy was on her feet too then, patting Duke hard on the back while he howled and squirmed on her shoulder.

  “Don’t damn me. Not in front of Hannah. I won’t go through this again.” Asher leaned forward, reaching for the baby, but Christy leaned back, resisting.

  “Oh no,” she said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Listen to your tone,” he said. “Do you want him to be afraid of you?”

  “You’re right, you’re right. I don’t feel like myself, Ash.”

  “It’s OK,” he said. “Give him to me.” Asher’s voice was soft but his action was deliberate. He reached out and pried the baby out of his wife’s arms. He rocked Duke back and forth, the baby’s arms bright red from where they’d been grabbed. Asher was stepping side to side with the boy in his arms, trying to soothe him. It’s OK, it’s OK, Daddy’s here.

  Han
nah watched Christy try to collect herself and calm down. “I’m tired. The baby’s tired. Let me take him upstairs to sleep,” she said.

  “I’ll take him,” Asher said, heading toward the stairs.

  Christy looked at Hannah. “I really am. I am. I’m so damn tired. I need some sleep myself.” She walked away from Hannah then and followed her little unhappy family up the stairs.

  Hannah didn’t know what to do or say. Christy was never her favorite person, but she was never mean. Hannah adjusted herself on the couch. She took a sip of tea. She ripped open a second sugar packet even though her tea was sweet enough already and poured it into the cup. She took another sip and waited for her dad to return, which he did fifteen minutes later.

  “All that baby needs is a little sweet talk. A lullaby—a song. Is that too much to ask?” He sat in his easy chair heavily and looked around the beige room. He looked older and sadder to her than he had in years.

  Christy hadn’t been herself since the baby came, he admitted. He told her that he’d been having nightly phone discussions with Hannah’s aunt Emma, the psychologist, every night—he didn’t know what he’d do without her. Sometimes, he confided, he even called Hannah’s mother and asked her opinion. He found himself wanting to describe the situation to Nina, which really didn’t make sense to him. He told Hannah that his sister had assured him that lots of women got depressed when a baby came, even when it was all they’d ever wanted, all they’d ever talked about. Parenting wasn’t what they thought it would be. It was so much work. A new mother gets exhausted. Sure, Christy might seem sad or mean or impatient, but deep down she was really very happy and full of love. “Oh, I’m babbling,” he said, catching himself. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen you in months and here I am going on and on.”

  “It’s OK,” she said.

  “I talk to God, of course, but He doesn’t talk back.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Hannah said, smiling.

  Upstairs there was the sound of a door closing, and then another slamming. Asher looked at the stairs.

  Hannah told her dad that Christy didn’t seem that bad to her. “I’ve heard that it’s common for new moms to be cranky,” she said.

  “Enough about Christy,” he said. He looked down at her leg, which was still propped up on the ottoman. “That’s the biggest one I’ve seen yet.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “But it’s the last one, right?”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  10

  NOT DRIVING was fine in Las Vegas, no need, and so Martin drank after work with the busboy Elmer. When their boss wasn’t looking and the night-shift waiters had gone home, Martin and Elmer hid out inside the back of the restaurant after closing and slipped their first beers of the night from the miniature fridge they weren’t supposed to know existed.

  Elmer, who’d returned from Vietnam with a scar on his face—a keloid ring, like a second mouth right next to his lips—was so skinny it almost hurt to look at him. He reminded Martin of Sandy as a teenager. Skinny Elmer, all collarbones and pointy shoulders, all concave chest and cheeks, and big, dark eyes. Mr. Hero was the world’s slowest busboy.

  Martin liked Elmer fine as long as he worked in someone else’s station. He’d been hanging out with him a few nights a week, going to casinos after they left the restaurant, playing blackjack or Seven-Card Stud. After a few games, they’d find a bar where they’d guzzle another drink or two and sweet-talk a couple of girls.

  Time moved quickly, days became months became years, and one girl turned into another girl. They were drinking girls, easy in their halter tops and short skirts, which they happily stepped out of, easy in their chunky shoes or calf-high boots, and they were only passing through, with birth control pills in their pink purses, little tablets they sometimes pulled from plastic sleeves, popped out, and swallowed in front of him. The pills were a new thing, a discovery, and the girls were discoveries as well, each one so generous and agreeable, so far away from home, and Martin was agreeable too, always grateful in the beginning, with his head thrown back, accepting their mouths and bodies with all the grace he could muster up.

  It was dangerous when he had one too many beers or when he lost money, which, despite his good luck, sometimes happened, and on those nights, he’d grow agitated and talkative and wouldn’t want a girl. He’d think about home and his parents and Penny and even his friend Tony. He’d slur his words, stumble around the casinos, cussing and bumping into slot machines or waitresses, and Elmer would have to take his arm and steer him out of whatever establishment they were in, leading him down the street and home. He’d guide Martin to the couch and slip off his shoes. Martin would struggle, leaning up on his elbows, and try to confess, but his tongue was fat and his mouth was dry, and those first few very drunken nights only Hannah’s first name would make its way into the room. Within months, though, Martin was elaborating: naming the street where he hit her and describing the dent she left in his fender. And within the year, Martin, in an especially intense blackout, told Elmer the whole story: how he’d driven away and left her there, the white sheet he draped over his car that afternoon, and how he dropped off gifts at the hospital for weeks. He told him about the snow globe and paper dolls, the strange cast the girl was wearing on her leg when he saw her for the last time, just days before he left town.

  “Be quiet now,” Elmer said, drunk and guilty too. He covered Martin with a blanket and got him a glass of water and a couple of aspirin, which he insisted Martin swallow, standing over his friend until he put the glass down. When Martin was finally snoring, Elmer talked to the dark room. “You haven’t done anything worse than what I’ve done, you don’t know what I did,” he said.

  In the morning, Martin woke up, not knowing how he got home or what he said or did, and he found Elmer asleep in the hallway outside the bathroom. They had mutual headaches and complained about the terrible taste in their mouths. They complained about the weather, not even nine a.m. and already ninety-five degrees outside. “Fucking desert,” Martin said.

  “It’s worse than ’Nam,” Elmer said.

  “No one’s shooting at us, though.”

  “Yeah, well.” Elmer paused. “Why didn’t you have to go? How’d you escape all that?”

  “Flat feet and color-blind.”

  “Both?”

  “Yep.”

  “Lucky you,” Elmer said.

  “Lucky,” Martin agreed weakly.

  Neither of them mentioned the conversation from the night before, Martin because he didn’t remember and Elmer because he did. They headed to a diner down the street from the apartment. They sat at the counter, side by side, Martin spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth, Elmer chewing a piece of dry toast. They sat, sipping coffee, quiet as strangers.

  • • •

  Hours later, at work, Martin complained about Elmer’s performance with extra venom. “You’re too fucking slow,” he growled. “Go bus Jack’s station.”

  “And you, you’re a—” Elmer began.

  “I’m a what?” Martin said, suddenly afraid.

  And Elmer walked away, but not before flipping Martin the bird.

  11

  WHILE DUKE slept upstairs, the three of them ate an uncomfortable dinner at the dining room table. Hannah and her dad were dressed in day clothes, but Christy wore a fuzzy yellow robe. On the wall, just above Hannah’s chair, the baby monitor transmitted every sound the boy made. When they first sat down, he cried a little, and Christy ignored him and Asher jumped up and rushed to the monitor, leaning over Hannah while she peppered her steak. He shushed them both, which wasn’t necessary because they weren’t talking.

  When Asher sat back down, he made an effort at conversation. It was all so stilted and made Hannah miss her mom and Azeem—even when they bickered or disagreed or roamed the house naked.

  “I bet you’re looking forward to getting out of that thing, Hannah. You’ve been through so much,” Asher said, looking over at Christy. “H
asn’t she been through a lot?”

  “She has,” Christy said unenthusiastically.

  There was silence.

  They cut their meat.

  They chewed.

  They passed the bowl of peas and avoided eye contact.

  Christy buttered a piece of bread, her eyes moist, looking like she was about to cry.

  Asher reached around Hannah to grab the mashed potatoes. He scooped an extra-big serving onto his already very full plate. “Have another slice of meat, Hannah,” he said.

  “No, no, I have enough,” she said.

  “She doesn’t like it,” Christy said, more to herself than to anyone else.

  “I have enough, that’s all,” she insisted.

  “Delicious,” Asher said.

  Hannah nodded in agreement, smiling weakly.

  There was more silence.

  And some more.

  Christy adjusted her heavy breasts in the robe and sighed.

  Finally, Hannah asked him about what it was like being a new dad, and he said, “Remember, I was yours,” and Hannah said, “I forgot,” not meaning that she really forgot but that it must have been different now because he was older and more attentive and living in a beige house in Irvine and his wife, who used to be too sweet, was sour and scary, but she just said, “That’s not what I meant. I meant, he’s a boy.”

  When Christy finished eating one piece of bread, she quickly reached for another. It seemed she was in a race. At one point, she reached into the basket, searched around, and found nothing. “There’s more,” she said, jumping up from her chair and hurrying away. Hannah heard the oven door squeak open and slam shut, Christy’s slippers slapping on the kitchen tile, and then she was back at the table, setting the basket down. “There’s more where that came from,” she said.

  “I’m sure,” Asher said.

  “What does that mean?” she snapped.

  “There’s more bread is what it means.”

  Christy reached into the basket, pulled a piece from the loaf, then used a flat knife to slather a slice with butter, and Hannah could see the tip of her pink tongue at the side of her mouth, anticipating.