Authors: Elizabeth Adler
She was sure the child would be a monster. How could it not, with a madman for a father and a mother who hated it with every inch of her being? Surely it could sense that loathing, even in the womb?
Afraid she would end up as crazy as her mother, she pulled herself together, put on the blue mohair sweater, and went for a long walk, asking herself every step of the way what to do.
She sat on the cliff, staring out at the gray ocean. It heaved sullenly under a low steely sky. She imagined her mother down there and thought sadly that in death, her mother’s surroundings were as gray and drab as in life.
She sat for a long time, trying to work out a plan. She wanted the alien embryo removed from her belly. She wished and wished for it to happen, and she prayed to God to expel it, but it was a long shot, she knew it. She would have aborted it if she had known where to go, who to ask—but she had no one. In the end there was only one thing to do.
She would drop out of college, have the baby, then give it up for adoption. But seven long months stretched ahead of her. How would she live? What would she do?
Mary Mallory scrambled to her feet. She gave one last long look at the sullen gray ocean. She stretched herself
tall, breathing in the sharp cold salty air, willing herself to have courage, to be strong. “You
will
win,” she told herself grimly. Then she blew a sad farewell kiss to her mother, turned on her heel, and walked back along the cliff road to the trailer.
She quickly collected all her mother’s things, her clothes and small personal belongings, and put them in plastic bags. She collected their few dishes and pots and pans, remembering the last time they had packed them so joyously for their new life. She added the half-smoked pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table and the almost-empty can of coffee and the remnants of food from the refrigerator.
She stood looking at the half-dozen plastic bags on the floor; they contained all that was left of her mother’s life. Overwhelmed by its pathos, she began to cry. After a while anger took the place of sadness. What had happened to her mother was not going to happen to her. Somehow she would get through. She would become “someone” if it killed her.
She piled the plastic bags into the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat. She turned for one last look at the place she had called home. Then she drove to the town dump and hurled the plastic bags, filled with the pathetic remnants of her mother’s life and memories, into oblivion.
She climbed back into the turquoise Chevy and headed out of Golden. She would never go back.
She drove north and east, as if drawn back by a magnet. She had only a little money—certainly not enough to pay for motel rooms—so she slept in the car and dined at cheap roadside burger stands until her squeamish stomach heaved in revolt. Then she bought Wonder Bread and Kraft cheese slices, and somehow the familiar childhood diet stayed down and she began to feel stronger.
Golden was a long way behind her, and the outskirts of a city were in front of her. She glanced at the sign:
TACOMA
10
MILES
. She looked at the gas gauge. There was less than a quarter of a tank left, and just like before, when the gas ran out, that was where she stayed.
She found herself in a suburb in the poorer end of town, but she couldn’t complain because she knew where she belonged. There were plenty of rooms for rent in the area, and she walked around looking at the signs until she found a house that looked cleaner than the rest. She knocked on the door.
A youngish man answered. He had a long face and large teeth like a horse, but a pleasant expression.
He smiled at her. “I guess you’ve come about the room?”
Mary Mallory nodded. “Can you tell me how much it is? Because if it’s too expensive, I don’t want to waste your time.”
He looked her speculatively up and down, then beyond her at the old car by the curb. “You have a job?” he asked mildly.
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “Not yet,” she said in a steely voice, “but I sure as hell will.”
Their eyes met, and he laughed. “You betcha, woman,” he said, still grinning. “Okay, there are two rooms. One’s kind of small, up in the attic, but it’s real cheap. The other is on the first floor. It has the big bay window you see above you and is more spacious and more expensive.” He told her the prices, then said, “Care to take a look?”
“I’ll take the cheaper one,” she said, already heading back to the car to collect her things.
“But you haven’t even looked at it yet,” he protested.
“I don’t need to. Your house is clean, and the price is right. Beggars can’t be choosers,” she added, lugging her duffel from the trunk.
He ran down the steps after her. “Here, let me help
you.” He lifted the bag easily and said, “By the way, my name’s Jim Fiddler.”
“Mary Malone,” she said, shaking his hand.
“This is all you have?” He peered into the cavernous empty trunk.
“That’s it.” She slammed it shut and followed him up the steps. “About that job,” she said hopefully, “you wouldn’t happen to know of any around here, would you?”
“Try the supermarket,” he said over his shoulder, leading the way up four flights of stairs. “They’re always looking for help. You can’t miss it—it’s two blocks away. And if you strike out there, try the drugstore, or Burger King.”
As she panted up the final steep flight of stairs, she told herself sarcastically that she had really come a long way—from one supermarket to another. Then she stepped inside the small attic room that was to be her new home, and her decision to do better than this, to get out and move on and become someone, hardened into rocklike resolve.
The room was small, all right. There was just about enough space for a single bed with a scratched wooden headboard, and a chest of drawers that doubled as a nightstand with a wobbly, pink-shaded lamp. Metal pegs were screwed into the wall for clothes, with a sagging pink curtain that pulled across to hide them. There was a pink rug on the wooden floor, and a pink armchair in front of the dormer window that didn’t let in much light. Even though the chair was old, it looked comfortable, and there was a wooden standard lamp on one side of it and a small table on the other.
“Not much, but at least it’s color-coordinated,” Jim said with a cheerful grin. “This do for you, Miss Malone?”
“It’s perfect,” she said, and she meant it. All she
wanted was to kick off her shoes and sit in that old chair and not have to drive or even think.
He said, “The rent is payable one week in advance.” She looked around for her purse, and he added, “That’s okay, whenever.” He peered closely at her. There were shadows under her eyes, and she gave off nervous vibes. She looked very young and absolutely exhausted.
“Care to join me in a cup of coffee?” he asked casually. “It was just brewing when you arrived.”
She looked suspiciously at him through her big glasses, then decided he was only being kind. It was just that she wasn’t used to kindness.
She beamed gratefully at him. He thought, surprised, that when she did that, she lit up like the Fourth of July.
Mal followed him back downstairs. She worried that they might prove a problem in the coming months, but she pushed that out of her mind and settled for thinking only about the immediate future. That was the way she intended get through the next months: day by day, hour by hour, even minute by goddamn minute if she had to.
Jim’s apartment took up the entire basement. Another young man was standing in the kitchen, slicing a cake, and he glanced up as they came in.
“This is Alfie Burns, my partner,” Jim introduced him casually. “Mary Malone, our new tenant in the attic.”
“Welcome, Mary,” Alfie said, taking out an extra mug and pouring coffee.
He was very tall and very thin and
very
handsome, Mary thought, studying him over the top of her mug. The hot coffee steamed her glasses, and she took them off and rubbed her eyes.
Alfie said, “Hey, anybody ever tell you, you’ve got beautiful eyes? I’ve never seen such a deep blue.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Wouldn’t you just die for them, Jim? You should think about contact lenses,” he advised. “Shame to hide such beauty behind those big bottle-tops.”
He laughed, but it was a good-hearted kind of laugh, and Mary knew he wasn’t making fun of her.
They asked where she was from, and she told them Oregon, and that her mother had just died and she was dropping out of college for a year because she had no money and couldn’t cope.
“Poor kid,” Jim said sympathetically. “Listen, about that job at the supermarket—the manager’s a friend of mine. You tell him you know me and that you’re living here, okay? He’ll do his best for you, I’m certain of it.”
Jim was right. Mentioning his name to the manager worked like a charm, and the next day Mary had herself a job as a check-out girl. Everything seemed to be going smoothly—even the morning sickness had subsided, though she was careful to eat as little as possible in the hope that the baby would not grow and the bulge would not get much bigger. Sometimes she worked the morning shift, sometimes the evening, but either way by the end of the day, her legs had swollen and her feet ached.
She walked slowly back home and trailed up the endless flights of stairs to her room, where she sat with her feet in a bowl of cool water until the ache eased. Then she went to the kitchen downstairs, heated a cup of soup or made a sandwich, and went back to her room to read one of the books she borrowed from Jim. Occasionally he would pop his head out as she passed his door and say, “Hey, how about a cup of coffee and some gossip, Mary?”
But it was Alfie who would do all the gossiping, about their friends and the parties they went to, and who was going out with whom. She liked hearing about it, even though she didn’t know their friends; it made her feel a part of their lives.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Mary?” Alfie asked casually one evening a few months later. He was drinking beer, and she and Jim were drinking coffee. She took a sip and said, “Oh, no. Definitely no.”
“But you’re not gay,” he continued.
She looked shocked. “Of course not.”
He smiled at her. “Mary Malone, you are the most unworldly innocent I have ever met.”
She stared at him, suddenly realizing what he meant. “I—that’s all right …” she stammered. “I—it’s just that I never met anyone before. …”
They laughed, and Jim said mockingly, “Of course
I’m
not prejudiced. Some of my best friends are gay.”
“The thing is, Mary, how did such an innocent like you get yourself pregnant?” Alfie asked gently.
The heat of embarrassment flushed from her toes to the top of her head. She was nauseated with shame as she realized they knew. She hung her head, fighting back the tears, saying nothing.
“Have you seen a doctor?” he asked. His voice was kind and without a hint of criticism.
She shook her head. “No.”
They looked at each other, eyebrows raised, sighing with exasperation. “Sweetheart, this is not going to go away like a cold in the head,” Alfie warned. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, make arrangements, decide what you’re going to do.”
Mary lifted her head. They were sitting at the kitchen table opposite her, staring at her with concerned eyes. “Arrangements?” she asked nervously.
Jim sighed again—she was from another planet. “For the birth, Mary. You can’t have it here.”
She hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t been able to face up to the fact that one day the child would be born. That it would live, and she would be its mother.
“Maybe you want to tell us about it,” Alfie suggested, but when she looked at him, horrified, he said quickly, “Okay, okay, you don’t have to. But we’re concerned about you, Mary, and we want to help you before we go.”
“Before you go?” she repeated, her jaw dropping.
“Jim and I have decided to put the house up for sale. We’re off to live in paradise, on a tropical island in the South Pacific. We can’t just leave you here, like unfinished business, and not know you’re going to be okay. We’d be lying on the beach wondering what the hell happened to you. So we want to help. But in order to do that, you have to fill us in on a few details.”
“Like when is it due?” Jim prompted. He reached out and took her hand. “Come on, Mary, get it over with. ’Fess up.”
He held her hand while she told him. The baby was due in three months, and she didn’t know what she was going to do because she couldn’t bear to think about it. But she did know she wanted to give it up for adoption. “I never
ever
want to see it,” she cried passionately. She looked apprehensively at them, but they didn’t seem shocked.
“I did a little research,” Jim said. “There’s a place out in the suburbs that takes care of young women in your delicate condition. I hear it’s very pleasant, a big old house set in some gardens. It’s not luxurious, but it’s well equipped and peaceful. And it’s free.”
“A home for unwed mothers,” Mary said dully.
“They don’t call it that anymore,” he said briskly, not allowing her to indulge in despair. “Be practical, Mary. They take you in and look after you. Your baby will be born there, and they will take care of the adoption procedures. In other words, sweetheart, they take a load off your shoulders. Just look at it this way—in three or four months you’ll be able to go back to college. They won’t even have to rehabilitate you and get you a job.”
“I still have my scholarship,” she said, as a ray of hope penetrated the gloom of the future.
“Sure you do. So here’s the number, and there’s the phone. Why don’t you give them a call? Alfie and I will take a walk around the block. Perhaps we’ll go pick up a
bottle of wine. We’ll drink to our tropical island and your future at college. Okay?”
Mary could have kissed him, but she was too shy. She waited until they left, then took a deep breath and made the phone call.
A pleasant-sounding woman answered, and she explained nervously who she was and what her circumstances were.
“Come and see us tomorrow, if you can make it,” Mrs. Rhodes said briskly. “Places go fast here.”