The Ditto List (25 page)

After changing clothes he fixed himself a drink and turned on the television. On the all-news channel a toothsome woman delivered the headlines and somehow managed to soothe him even as she read of riots and economic collapse. As she droned on he flipped through his mail and pulled forth a man's magazine and turned to the centerfold and wondered what was to be learned from such a specimen, whether it was conceivable that she knew as much as her body and her pose implied, whether such knowledge was a step toward perdition or salvation or merely a good time. Then he wondered why Michele had given him a subscription to such nonsense for his last birthday. To induce envy? Or regret? Or a longing for her own far-less-frightening physique?

The all-news became all-sports. Fights from Atlantic City. Bums. D.T. had won his last fight wager, so he was laying off, not pressing his luck. He watched the white guy get beat bloody, then listened to the list of the weekend's football games, calculated his bets, but decided to wait till later in the week to place them, when the spreads, he hoped, would lengthen. He flipped to a reprise of
Barney Miller
. Wojo dressed as a woman, a lure to muggers in the park. His first drink became his second. His doorbell rang twice before he stirred.

She didn't say a word, just shifted her bundle from one arm to the other and blinked at him uncertainly. “Hi, Mr. Jones. Remember me?”

“Sure I do. How are you, Lucinda?”

“Fine.”

Her shyness grasped his heart and rubbed it. “Come in, come in,” he babbled.

“You sure? I don't want to disturb nothing.”

“Nonsense. Everything in here needs disturbing.”

She stepped inside and he closed the door. As she passed close to him he smelled a dusty odor that harkened memories he couldn't quite identify. As she waited for him to join her she began to smile and to look from him to the package she cradled gingerly. “What's in the quilt?” he asked absently, guiding her to the living room, his hand resting lightly on the soft pillar of her back.

“My baby.”

He stopped short. “Really? No kidding?”

“No kidding.” Lucinda giggled and unwrapped her prize.

It was round and red and wrinkled in odd places, fast asleep, awesome. D.T. remembered his first look at Heather, displayed for him by a nurse who held her as casually as a cucumber. His heart raced now as then.

“He or she?” he asked.

Lucinda sat on the couch, as familiar with his rooms as a lover. “She.”

“Name?”

“Krystle.” She spelled it. “I named her after Linda Evans. You know, on
Dynasty?
She's the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“It's a pretty name,” D.T. said. “And she's a beautiful baby. Congratulations.”

Lucinda showed a blush, as though she'd heisted rather than birthed the child. “Thanks.”

“When was she born?”

“Three weeks ago. She come early. I was getting real tired of being pregnant so I climbed up on a chair one night, and jumped off a few times, and the pains come later on that morning.”

D.T. was amazed. “Well. How does it feel to be a mother?”

“It feels just wonderful, Mr. Jones. At least it does when I'm not scared to death about it. Seems kind of cheating that men can't feel this same way, you ever think of it that way?”

He had, in fact, but had reached no firm conclusion, birth being as ambiguous as death. After he nodded he asked if everything had gone all right.

“Well, everything went all right for me. But Krystle, she may have some kind of heart trouble the doctor says. It's why I had to come up to the city, to see some specialist about it.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

“Yep. This afternoon.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. He took a bunch of tests and said he had to wait till the results come back. Then he'll call my doctor in Reedville. Then maybe they'll get around to telling me. They had the poor thing all wired up.” Lucinda paused and looked down at the child. “Isn't she just all red and perfect, Mr. Jones? Don't seem possible there's anything wrong inside there, does it? Don't seem possible her heart could get broke so soon.”

D.T. sighed. “I'm sure everything is fine, Lucinda. They can fix almost anything these days, if it isn't.”

As if to dispute him, the baby began to cry. “She's hungry, poor thing.” Lucinda hesitated. “Would it bother you if I fed her, Mr. Jones? I mean, I can go if it would. I can't stay long, anyway. I just wanted you to see the baby 'cause, well, I knew you was worried that one time.”

“No, no. That would be fine,” D.T. said, eagerness heating him like a wind. “Go right ahead. Do you need anything?”

“I got it all right here,” she said, laughing marvelously, perhaps to mock him, certainly not to tease.

He watched her lift the hem of her blouse above her massive brassiere, unsnap a flap, and expose a nipple that was stretched to disturbing dimensions by its function. The baby reached for the tit eagerly, closed her eyes, soon sucked noiselessly. Lucinda wore an expression D.T. had seen only on someone in a spell.

Fascination overcame his embarrassment and his yen. He continued to gaze upon the scene even when Lucinda opened her eyes and caught him. “It'll only be a minute,” she said, reinserting the nipple as it popped away from the tiny mouth. “Sometimes I wish she'd keep at it longer. I think these things is about to bust.”

D.T. was enraptured. Michele's breasts had somehow malfunctioned, and Heather had been raised on bottles and formula and soy-based liquids out of cans. “What does that feel like?” he asked, compelled to say something.

“I can't explain, exactly. It's just so … warm. Like when you get a puppy, maybe. And hold him and think he's always going to be there and love you and do what you want him to.…” Lucinda's voice trailed off. D.T. wondered what had happened to her puppy. The baby slipped from sustenance to sleep.

“You know what I wonder, Mr. Jones?”

“What?”

“I wonder it tastes like. My milk, I mean.” She started to reach down and snap her flap, then looked at him. “Do you know?”

He shook his head.

“I thought maybe you'd had a taste when you had your baby.”

“My wife's milk didn't come. Something went wrong.”

“Oh.” She fumbled again with her clothes. “That's real sad.”

“How about you?” he said, the words as thin as his courage. “Do you want a taste?”

She laughed. “They're big but they ain't
that
big.”

“You could put some in a glass. Do you want me to get one?”

“I … is it bad? To do that?”

“How could it be?”

“Well. Sure. It's just, I been wondering, you know?”

He went to the kitchen and took a goblet from the cupboard, the most delicate he had, and took it to her. She lowered her flap and grasped her breast with one hand while the other raised the glass to the bulging nipple. She squeezed once, and then again, and a thin white fluid leaked forth, accidentally it seemed, and dripped slowly into the glass, its droplets making the only sounds in the room beyond the baby's peaceful wheeze.

She squeezed thrice more, inspecting only her work. “I feel like a big old Guernsey,” she said after a minute, not looking at him.

“Everybody needs milk,” he said inanely.

When there was half an inch of nectar in the bottom of the glass Lucinda stopped milking herself and raised the goblet and inspected it. “Kind of funny-looking.”

“Maybe you haven't been eating enough grass.”

She smiled and looked at him. “Are you sure it's all right?”

“Sure.”

She tipped the glass and wet her lips, then licked them, then frowned. “What flavor?” he asked, his sense escaped.

She took another swallow, then extended the glass to him.

“No.” Their eyes locked.

“Yes. I want you to.”

“No, Lucinda.”

“Please? It's the only thing I got to give you.”

He took the glass and closed his eyes and drank the smallest drop he could. Its taste barely stained his whirling mind. Mysterious. Chalky. Watery. Warm. Unearthly. “Thank you,” he said, and offered her the glass.

She shook her head. “It ain't good enough for seconds.”

He took the goblet to the kitchen and started to rinse it out, then put it back in the cupboard instead, just in front of the cereal boxes, where he would see it every morning and monitor the evaporation of its contents into the very air he breathed. Then he went back to the living room.

Lucinda had redressed her bosom and laid the baby on the couch, snug in its lively quilt. Like a wound, a dark stain spread across Lucinda's blouse at the point over the nipple that had fed them all. “Can I get you something to eat? Or drink?” He looked for signs of shame and found none. He wondered what he showed himself.

Lucinda shook her head. “I'm on a diet. I put on a bunch of weight while I was carrying and I got to get it off. Besides, I got to go. I just wanted to come by and thank you again for being so nice to me that night with Del.”

“It was nothing. Forget about it.”

“Well, I haven't noticed many people in this town going out of their way to help someone. Not without wanting something back they shouldn't have. You're special to me, Mr. Jones. I wanted to tell it to your face.”

D.T. fidgeted, not knowing what to do but thank her. Lucinda rewrapped her child and gathered it in her arms. “So how's your love life, Mr. Jones?” she asked with a twinkle.

D.T. laughed. “Occasional,” he said. “How's yours?”

Lucinda shook her head. “Pregnant women aren't in heavy demand down in Reedville,” she said. “And besides, I think I'll stay away from that stuff for a while. I had me an epee—”

“Episiotomy,” D.T. offered.

“Yeah. Right. How did you know?”

“My ex-wife had one, too. She sat on a doughnut for a while.”

“Well, I didn't let them give me one of
them
,” Lucinda said, “but I don't feel much like loving, either.”

“Which reminds me,” D.T. said. “There's a little problem in your divorce case.”

Lucinda frowned. “What kind of problem?”

“We haven't been able to locate Del. Which means we haven't been able to serve him with the petition, to get things started. There are other ways to do it, but because Del seemed so wild about the whole thing I wanted to try to serve him personally, to avoid any technical problems later on. You don't happen to know where he's living now, do you?”

“I … no. No, I don't.”

“Are you sure?”

Lucinda didn't say anything.

“When did you see him last?” D.T. asked, under sudden strain. “Have you seen him since the night he beat you up?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Where?”

“He come down to Reedville. Him and my brother got in a fight the last time and he ain't been back.”

“Did he tell you where he was living, Lucinda?”

“I guess.”

“Where?”

“Houston Street. They repossessed his trailer so he got an apartment.”

“What number?”

“Twenty forty-two.”

“Lucinda?”

“Yeah?”

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“I … home.”

“It's a long way to Reedville.”

She drew her baby to her more firmly. “I know. That's why I got to get going.”

“Are you staying with Del tonight, Lucinda? Is that where you're going from here? To Del's place so he can batter you again?” His anger frightened and surprised her.

“I … he ain't seen the baby, Mr. Jones. He has a right to see the baby.”

“Even after what he did to you?”

“Even after that. I mean, in a way he done it 'cause he loved me. In a way. And he's real sorry about what happened. Really.”

D.T. sighed. He could have debated and argued and pleaded, and with some women it might have done some good, but not with this one. “Then let me go with you.”

“No. I couldn't do that. No.”

“Then wait till tomorrow.”

“He works days, Mr. Jones. Night's the only time he's got.”

“Goddamnit, Lucinda. I just wish you wouldn't go over there.”

She grinned as though he had cautioned against crossing against the light. “I'll be all right. Really, I will.”

“I'll be here, if you need to call,” was all he said.

“Thanks, Mr. Jones. You're just too nice to me.”

“You're easy to be too nice to.”

He helped her stand and accompanied her to the door. She waved good-bye and left. D.T. found himself gazing for a long time at the door through which she'd vanished, dreaming dreams that disturbed him.

Two minutes later he got up and went to the phone, raised the receiver and heard the buzz that told him it was working, would transmit a call for help. Then he made himself a sandwich of Skippy and grape jelly and went back to the TV to watch the Monday night game, Cosell off, his thoughts on a kind of violence that wasn't part of games, remembering articles he'd read earlier—“Defense Strategies for Battered Women Who Assault Their Mates”; “Battered Wives' Dilemma—To Kill or Be Killed”; “Conjugal Violence—The Law of Force & The Force of Law.” At halftime he went out to the garage, got in his car, and drove to Houston Street.

The number Lucinda had given him was a four-unit box much like his own, cheap and featureless. D.T. parked down the block and walked to the door and checked the mailboxes. None of the names were Delbert's or anything close. He walked around the building along a slab of parking spaces and looked in as many windows as he could. No humans could be seen, just the things they liked to live with, curtains and cats and hanging plants. In the farthest parking place from the street he saw a shiny car, an early fifties Ford, a common rock that had become a jewel. The number painted on the asphalt beneath it was 2.