Third Girl from the Left (13 page)

Angela crossed her arms over her stomach and ducked her head to hide her eyes, which were suddenly full of tears. She let them fall. She could just barely feel the warmth through her jeans. “I thought if I didn't . . .”

“Didn't what? If you acted like it wasn't happening, it wouldn't be?'

Angela was silent.

“Look. I've been where you are. We can take care of it. It's not no big thing, just like the girls said it's not.”

Angela tightened her arms across her stomach. She looked out the window of the car, still crying. She had a sudden memory of being in church, her mother's firm shoulder next to her, Mrs. Hamilton's square brown neck and head, topped by a black straw hat, in front of her. All the things she'd done—slept with all these people, been Sheila's lover all this time, all these things. She was afraid of being a mother, but she was more afraid of what might happen to her if she didn't have the baby. Maybe she'd have to keep begging for something she was never gonna get. Maybe she'd be punished. Maybe she was being punished now. What if she died trying to have an abortion? And it might be nice to have a baby: Someone she created. Someone she could always hold. A reason to stop auditioning. She was so tired. “How much does it cost to do it?” she said, her voice flat.

“Usually it's about two hundred dollars. I've had it done a couple of times.”

She had that much socked away. Not a whole hell of a lot more, even with all the tip money. It just seemed to go in and go right back out again. She always looked good. But that cost money. Everything cost money. “Sheil, I could come up with that kind of money, but. . .” She drew a shuddering breath. “I just don't know. I don't know if I can do it.”

They were almost home now. Sheila spun the wheel confidently. “You'd be giving up everything, you know. You ever seen any pregnant Bunnies? Or pregnant girls in these movies out here? And do you think Rafe wants a baby? I doubt it. He's out here trying to get his break. Just like the rest of us.”

Angela drew another breath. “I know.” They were in the parking lot now. Sheila turned off the car but didn't open the door. Angela's stomach leaped and rolled, but she knew things had changed. She wasn't going to throw up anymore. She was just going to keep this slime at the back of her throat. “But what if I went ahead and kept going like this . . . and that break never comes? Maybe I'd be sorry.”

Sheila pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Well, girl, you better decide. You don't have long. What are you, about six weeks along now?”

“Yeah, that's what the doctor said.”

“OK then. You can't go to the clinic after twelve—too dangerous. You need to make up your mind.” She blew a stream of smoke out, her eyes narrowing. Angela didn't say anything. What was she going to say?

 

One night when Angela was about sixteen, sometime after she lost her virginity, her father came home looking shadowed and beaten. Angela was setting the table slowly. She hated setting the table. She was thinking about Warren Beatty, which she spent a great deal of time doing. Her mother continued her usual efficient progress around the kitchen, from stove to counter to table. “Hey, Johnny Lee. Supper be ready in two shakes. How was your day?”

“My day?” he said, his voice heavy. Mother and daughter both turned to look at him, startled by the rawness of his voice.

“What is it, Johnny Lee?” her mother asked. Angela didn't dare open her mouth. Her mother stood still, a casserole dish in her hand.

“I had to help Doc Taber with the Montgomery girl today. Lord have mercy. What a mess.”

Mildred put the casserole down on the table, went to her husband. “What do you mean, Johnny Lee? Help Doc Taber do what?”

He sat down, heavily, wiped his sweating face. Angela suddenly felt very aware of the smell of meatloaf cooking. “Well, I guess I might as well tell this in front of Angie. She gon' hear it 'round town anyway. And it's something a girl like her oughta know. Hilda Montgomery was in the family way.”

Mildred drew a sharp breath. Angela didn't say anything, her mind briefly full of images of herself and Bobby Ware making love every chance they got. Hilda was the same age as her—she went around with Henry Wright. She always had his letter sweater draped over her shoulders. Her father was still talking “. . . so she tried to take care of it herself—must have been six or eight weeks along. She used a knitting needle.” He trailed off, was silent for a short while. “God almighty, what an unholy mess.”

“Well, Johnny Lee, what'd the doctor need you for?” Angela's mother asked, her voice shaking. She set down her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. Angela had the sense that they were shaking too.

“Needed something to stop the bleeding. Nothing in his bag was workin'. Sent that boy, that Eddie that lives next door to him, over to get me from the store with some cotton wool and some alum. He used up every damn thing he had in his bag. But wasn't nothin' gonna save that girl.” He stopped again. “I ain't never seen so much blood. Not even in the war. She musta bled out right there on the floor.” A harsh, sudden sob escaped him. “There wasn't nothin' we could do. Not a damn thing. You hear that, Angie?” Angela stood in the corner, gone to stone. “Couldn't do a thing. Folks'll be talkin', but I want you to know what can really happen if you start messin' around. You can end up dead. You understand me?” Suddenly he rose, and in two strides, stood directly in front of her, his face so close she could smell his grief-soured breath. “Dead. You got that?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Her voice a whisper.

“All right, then.” He left the room without another word, silence lying between mother and daughter. They never talked about it. But it lay between them. They sat together at Hilda's funeral, her mother's arm around Mrs. Montgomery's heaving shoulders. When Angela walked up to Hilda's coffin, she thought about how she'd known that girl all her life. Her face looked gray and waxy under the make-up. She had none of the beauty she used to possess. There was nothing of Henry's in the coffin with her. She was wearing her best churchgoing dress. Angela stood there until the breath of the next mourner was on her neck. But Angela didn't stop making love to Bobby. She just made damn sure he had a condom on every time he came anywhere near her.

 

And now, here she was, pregnant by her own stupid mistake. She sometimes thought she should have just kept on with Sheila, and stopped with Rafe. Then nothing like this ever would have happened. Time went by. One week, then two. Sheila didn't say anything, but Angela could feel her counting off the days, watching. Three months. It was too late now. Her pants were getting tighter. She could hardly fit into her Bunny costume anymore. One afternoon, a hot afternoon kind of like the one when they had cut their hair all those years before, they sat on the sofa, watching TV, legs entwined. “So you're going to keep it,” Sheila said, her eyes not leaving the television screen.

Angela didn't look away either. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

The room was quiet except for the yammer of the television for a moment. “Gonna tell Rafe?”

“I guess I'd better.”

“I guess you should. Let me know what he says.” Sheila sat up and rubbed Angela's feet experimentally. Then her belly. “Well. My Angie Bangie a mama. How about that?”

 

She went over to Rafe's one night after this, maybe thirteen weeks along now. He'd been away on location for three weeks (his first location shoot), so she'd been able to avoid this moment. She had to pull over to the side of the road once to throw up for the first time in weeks. She lit a cigarette as she mounted the stairs to his apartment. This was a new habit. She never used to buy them, just take hits off the other girls' cigs. She buzzed, walked in, but as Rafe went to kiss her, she turned her head away, afraid of what her breath must smell like.

“What's up, baby? You ain't seen me in three weeks and you can't give me a little sugar?”

“Just not feeling sweet tonight, I guess.” She pushed past him to come in. He scowled but didn't say anything. She went straight to the couch, picked up the wine he'd poured, drank. “I mean, I missed you and all, baby. I just had a bad day.”

“Still, I ain't seen you in three weeks and you're all . . .”

“All what?” She couldn't stop the evil tone in her voice.

Rafe closed his mouth, drew his lips into a tight line. Angela could almost see him deciding not to talk. She'd loved him so much once. “I don't know, you just seem a little upset.”

Angela leaned back on the couch, closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers into them until she saw the orange-red blood pulsing through. Nausea overcame her again. She leapt up and barely made it to the bathroom, leaving Rafe astonished on the couch. When she came out, shaky, angry, embarrassed, Rafe stared at her. “That's right. I haven't had my period in thirteen weeks.” She almost screamed it. “Damn you. I don't want your damn baby. I don't want anybody's damn baby.” She crumpled to her knees like a soul singer, the sobs she'd been keeping to herself suddenly pouring out. Rafe did not get up from the couch. He stared as her ragged voice filled the room. “Fuck you. All right, fuck you. I'm an actress, not a mother. I'm an actress.” Now she was screaming. Her eyes hurt. Her head hurt. She wanted Rafe to put his arms around her, but she thought she'd never ever be able to get up from the floor again if he did. She stopped screaming, looked right at him. He loved her, she knew suddenly. But not enough. And she didn't love him enough either. He sat on the couch as she continued to kneel on the floor, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands like a child.

Finally, he leaned forward, years older than he had been when she walked into the apartment. “You're keeping it,” he said finally.

Angela continued to kneel on the floor. “Yeah.”

“Why, for God's sake? Nobody gotta have a baby these days if they don't want to.” His voice cracked, broken.

“I just . . . I don't know. It ain't anything wrong with having an abortion, but . . . I'm scared to have the operation. I couldn't decide. I been feeling like nothing's gonna happen for me in the business anyway. Like maybe it's time to make a change . . . I didn't mean for this to be the change I made, but . . . sometimes stuff just happens.”

He stood up and went to the big window that overlooked the parking lot. “Yeah, stuff happens. But this . . . I'm not gonna be a daddy. I'll tell you that right now.”

Angela eased up off her knees but not off the rug. She pulled her legs up under her chin, fetal position. “I didn't think you would be. I wasn't even sure I was going to tell you. Sheila thought I should.”

“Sheila.” His back was still to her.

“Yeah.”

“Well.” A long silence fell. Rafe continued to look out the window. Angela finally rose from the floor. The room smelled faintly of vomit and cigarette smoke. “I guess that's it, then,” Angela finally said.

Rafe turned around. His eyes were dark and sorrowful but not giving. The moon shone behind him like a streetlight, so bright. “Yeah. That's it, then. You take care, baby.” He turned back to the window and looked out of it until she gathered her things and left. He never once touched her.

S
HE LOST HER BODY. IT WAS UTTERLY CHANGED
, not her own anymore, not that long-legged, tawny shape that had elicited so many looks and made her feel so magnificent. Gone now. Now was swollen ankles, constant indigestion, elbows and knees poking her every which way from inside every time she moved, a jiggly butt, saggy breasts with huge, round, flat nipples. She couldn't imagine ever wanting to have sex again. She was so disgusting. Who would want her now?

And she had to go back to Tulsa. She'd tried to stay in Los Angeles. Dear Lord, she'd wanted to stay. But once she started showing, the Playboy Club sure as hell didn't want her and she couldn't temp looking the way she did and auditions were out of the question and Sheila wasn't earning enough money and she needed to eat more, not less. Pregnancy made you so damn hungry. She'd never thought so much about food in her life. Finally one day she stared into the refrigerator thinking she
had
to eat something
right now
and all that was in there was a quart of milk (milk, she hated milk, but the doctor at the clinic told her she had to drink it), an old carrot, and a half-eaten can of tuna fish. She had $152 to her name. What she had managed to save had vanished in the last few months. She was six months pregnant. And she was so hungry. She burst into tears. Sat down at the kitchen table and sobbed like a child. Why had she gone ahead with this? What was she doing? Then she did something she hadn't done in nearly three years. She picked up the phone and called her mother.

“Mama, it's Angie.”

“Angie.” The voice on the other end of the line broke into a million shining fragments. “Angie, is that you?”

“Yeah, Mama. It's me.” She was clutching the phone so hard her hand hurt. She heard her own breath, the growling of her stomach.

“I ain't heard from you in so long . . . I didn't know what to think. You still in them pictures?”

Angela pressed her free hand to her temple, hard. “No, Mama. I ain't been in a picture for a while.”

“Hmm. Well. I know you wanted to be in pictures, but you know I didn't raise you like that. I'm glad to hear you ain't doin' that anymore. I couldn't hardly hold my head up.”

Angela's own head was starting to pound. “Mama. I got something I need to ask you. I'm . . . Mama, I'm gonna have a baby. In just a few months. And I want to know . . . I want to know if I can come home to have it.”

An absolute silence followed her words. Angela listened to the faint, sublunar hum of the telephone lines. The silence probably lasted five minutes. “You got nowhere to go?” Her mother finally said.