Good in Bed (49 page)

“My neighbors must have loved that,” I said.

“Do you like it?” asked Lucy.

“It's …” I lifted my hands and let them sink into my lap. My heart was beating too fast, pushing pain into every part of my body that hurt. I thought of the word that I needed. “It's amazing,” I finally said.

“So what do you want to do?” asked Lucy. “We could go to Dmitri's for dinner …”

“There's a documentary about lesbians of size at the Ritz,” rasped Tanya.

“Shopping?” asked my mother. “Maybe you want to stock up on groceries while we're here to help you carry things.”

I got to my feet. “I think I'd like to go for a walk,” I said.

My mother and Lucy and Tanya looked at me curiously.

“A walk?” my mother repeated.

“Cannie,” my sister pointed out, “your foot's still in a cast.”

“It's a walking cast, isn't it?” I snapped. “And I feel like walking.”

I got to my feet. I wanted to exult in this. I wanted to feel happy. I
was surrounded by the people I loved; I had a beautiful place to live. But I felt like I was looking at my new apartment through a dirty mirror, like I was feeling the crisp cottons and plush carpets through thick rubber gloves. It was Joy—not having Joy. None of this would feel right until my baby came home, I thought, and I was suddenly so angry that my arms and legs felt weak with the force of it, and my fists and feet tingled with the desire to hit and kick. Bruce, I thought, Bruce and the goddamn fucking Pusher. This should be my triumph, goddammit, except how can I be happy with my baby still in the hospital, when Bruce and his new girlfriend were the ones who put her there?

“Fine,” said my mother uneasily. “So we'll walk.”

“No,” I said. “By myself. I want to be by myself right now.”

They all looked puzzled, even worried, as they filed out the door.

“Call me,” said my mother. “Let me know when you're ready for Nifkin to come back.”

“I will,” I lied. I wanted them out already, out of my house, my hair, my life. I felt like I was burning up, like I had to move or explode. I stared out the window until they'd all piled in the car and driven off. Then I pulled on a jogging bra, a ratty T-shirt, a pair of shorts, a single sneaker, and thumped out of the house and onto the hot sidewalks, determined not to think about my father, about Bruce, about my baby, about anything. I would just walk. And then, maybe, I'd be able to sleep again.

May drifted into June, and all of my days were built around Joy. I'd go to the hospital first thing in the morning, walking the thirty blocks to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia as the sun came up. Robed and masked and gloved, I'd sit beside her on a sterile rocking chair in the NICU, holding her tiny hand, brushing her lips with my fingertips, singing her the songs we'd danced to months before. Those were the only moments I didn't feel the rage consuming me; the only times I could breathe.

And when I felt the anger coming back, when I'd feel my chest tightening and my hands wanting to hit something, I'd leave her. I'd go home to pace the floors and pump my breasts, to clean and scrub
floors and counters that I'd cleaned and scrubbed the day before. And I'd take long, furious walks through the city, with my ankle in the increasingly filthy walking cast, charging through yellow lights and shooting evil glances at any car that dared inch toward the intersection.

I got used to the little voice in my head, the one from the airport, the one that had floated up to the ceiling and watched me rage at Bruce while mourning quietly that he wasn't the one. I got used to the voice asking
Why?
every morning, when I laced up my sneakers and yanked a succession of nondescript shirts over my head … and asking
Why?
again at night, when I'd play my messages back—ten, fifteen messages from my mother, my sister, from Maxi and Peter Krushelevansky, from all of my friends and then erase each one without ever calling back, until the day I started erasing them without even listening.
You're too sad
, the voice would murmur as I stomped up Walnut Street.
Take it easy
, said the voice as I gulped scalding black coffee, cup after cup, for breakfast.
Talk to someone
, said the voice.
Let them help
. I ignored it. Who could help me now? What was there left for me but the streets and the hospital, my silent apartment and my empty bed?

I let the voice mail keep taking my calls. I instructed the post office that I would be out of town for an indefinite period and to please hold my mail. I let my computer gather dust. I stopped checking my e-mail. And on one of my walks, I dropped my pager into the Delaware River without missing a single step. The cast came off, and I started going on even longer walks—four hours, six hours, meandering loops through the city's worst neighborhoods, past crack dealers, hookers of the male and female variety, dead pigeons in gutters, the burned-out skeletons of cars, without seeing any of it, and without being afraid. How could any of this hurt me, after what I'd already lost? When I ran into Samantha on the street, I told her I was too busy to hang out, shifting from foot to foot with my eyes on the horizon so I wouldn't have to see her worried face. “Getting things ready,” I explained, waiting to be off again. “The baby's coming home soon.”

“Can I see her?” Sam asked.

Instantly, I shook my head. “I'm not ready …I mean, she's not ready.”

“What do you mean, Cannie?” asked Sam.

“She's medically fragile,” I said, trying out the term I'd heard over and over in the baby intensive-care ward.

“So I'll stand outside and look at her through the window,” said Sam, looking perplexed. “And then we'll go have breakfast. Remember breakfast? It used to be one of your favorite meals.”

“I've got to go,” I said brusquely, trying to edge my way around her. Samantha didn't budge.

“Cannie, what is going on with you, really?”

“Nothing,” I said, shoving past her, my feet already moving, my eyes fixed far ahead. “Nothing, nothing, everything is fine.”

I walked and walked, and it was as if God had fitted me with special glasses, where I could only see the bad things, the sad things, the pain and misery of life in the city, the trash kicked into corners instead of the flowers planted in window boxes. I could see husbands and wives fighting, but not kissing or holding hands. I could see little kids careering through the streets on stolen bicycles, screaming insults and curses, and grown men who sounded like they were breakfasting on their own mucus, leering at women with unashamed, lecherous eyes. I could smell the stink of the city in summer: horse piss and hot tar and the grayish, sick exhaust the buses spewed. The manhole covers leaked steam, the sidewalks belched heat from the subways churning below.

Everywhere I looked, I just saw emptiness, loneliness, buildings with broken windows, shambling addicts with outstretched hands and dead eyes, sorrow and filth and rot.

I thought that time would heal me and that the miles would soothe my pain. I waited for a morning where I woke up and didn't instantly imagine Bruce and the Pusher dying horrible gruesome deaths … or, worse yet, losing my baby, losing Joy.

I would walk to the hospital at the break of dawn and sometimes before, and walk laps around the parking lot until I felt calm enough to walk inside. I would sit in the cafeteria gulping cup after cup of
water, trying to smile and look normal, but inside, my head was spinning furiously, thinking knives? guns? car accident? I would smile and say hello, but really, in my head I was plotting revenge.

I imagined calling the university where Bruce had taught freshman English and telling them how he'd only passed his drug test by ingesting quarts and quarts of warm water spiked with goldenseal that he bought from a 1-800 line in the back pages of
High Times
. Urine Luck, the stuff was called. I could tell them he was showing up stoned at work—he used to do it, probably he still was doing it, and if they watched him long enough they'd see. I could call his mother, call the police in his town, have him arrested, taken away.

I imagined writing to
Moxie
, including a picture of Joy in the NICU, growing bigger, growing stronger, but still a pathetic sight, run through with tubes, breathing on a ventilator more often than not, with who knew what horrors strewn in her future—cerebral palsy, learning disabilities, blind, deaf, retarded, a menu of disasters that the doctors hadn't mentioned. I'd gone online, to sites with names like preemie.com, reading first-person stories from parents whose children had survived, horribly damaged; who'd come home on oxygen or sleep apnea monitors or with holes cut in their throats so they could breathe. I read about kids who grew up with seizure disorders, learning disabilities, who never quite caught up, never quite got right. And I read stories about the babies who died: at birth, in the NICU, at home. “Our Precious Angel,” they'd be headlined. “Our Darling Daughter.”

I wanted to copy these stories and e-mail them to the Pusher, along with a photograph of Joy. I wanted to send her a picture of my daughter—no letter, no words, just Joy's picture, sent to her house, sent to her school, sent to her boss, to her parents if I could find them, to show them all what she'd done, what she'd been responsible for. I found myself planning walking routes that would bring me by gun shops. I found myself looking in their windows. I didn't go inside yet, but I knew that was next. And then what?

I didn't let myself answer the question. I didn't let myself think beyond the image, the picture that I treasured: Bruce's face when he
opened his door and saw me standing there with a gun in my hand; Bruce's face when I said, “I'll show you sorry.”

Then one morning I was burning past a newsstand and I saw the new issue of
Moxie
, the August issue, even though it was only just July, and so hot that the air shimmered and the streets turned sticky in the sun. I yanked a copy off the rack.

“Miss, you gonna pay for that?”

“No,” I snarled, “I'm going to rob you.” I tossed two bucks and change on the counter and started flipping furiously through the pages, wondering what the headline would be. “My Daughter the Vegetable”? “How to Really, Really Screw Up Your Ex's Life”?

Instead I saw a single word, big black letters, a somber incongruity in
Moxie
's light-hearted, pastel-heavy lineup. “Complications,” it said.

“Pregnant,” says the letter, and I can't read any more. It's as if the very word has poleaxed me and left me paralyzed, save for the icy crawling along the back of my neck, the beginning of dread.

“I don't know an easy way to say this,” she has written, “so I'll just say it. I am pregnant.”

I remember sixteen years ago standing on the bimah in my synagogue in Short Hills, looking over the crowd of friends and relatives and mouthing those time-honored words, “Today I am a man.” Now, feeling this rush of ice to my stomach, feeling my palms start to sweat, I know the truth: Today, I am a man. For real, this time.

“Not quite,” I said, so loudly that the homeless people loping along the sidewalks stopped and stared. Not hardly. A man. A man would have called me. At least sent a postcard! I turned my attention back to the page.

But I'm not a man. As it turns out, what I am is a coward. I tuck the letter in a notebook, stuff the notebook in a desk
drawer, lock the drawer, and accidentally on purpose, lose the key.

They say—“they” being the great philosophers, or possibly the cast of
Seinfeld
—that breaking up is like pushing over a Coke machine. You can't just do it, you have to set the thing in motion, rock it back and forth a few times. For C. and me it wasn't like that. It was a clean, swift break—a thunderclap. Intense and awful and over in seconds.

Liar, I thought. Oh, you liar. It wasn't a thunderclap, it wasn't even a breakup, I just told you I wanted some time!

Then, less than three months later, my father died.

I went back and forth with the telephone in my hand, her number still first on my speed dial. Call her? Don't call her? Was she my ex or my friend?

In the end I opted for her friendship. And later, when a houseful of mourners picked over deli trays in my mother's kitchen, I opted for more.

And now, three months later, I am still mourning my father, but I'm feeling as if I'm over C., truly and completely. I know what real sadness is now. I can explore it every night like a kid who's lost a tooth and can't stop tonguing the pulpy, wounded, empty space where the tooth once was.

Except now she's pregnant.

And I don't know whether she's set out to trick me or trap me, whether I'm even the father, whether she's pregnant at all.

“Oh, this is unbelievable,” I announced to Broad Street at large. “This is fucking unbelievable!”

And the thing is, I'm too chicken to ask.

It's your choice, I imagine I say with my silence. Your call, your game, your move. I manage to silence the part of me that
wonders, that wants to know how she chose: whether she went to the clinic on Locust Street and marched past the protestors with their pictures of bloody dead babies; whether she did it in a doctor's office, whether she went with a friend, or a new lover, or alone. Or whether she's marching around her hometown right now with a belly as big as a beach ball and books full of baby names.

I don't ask, or call. I don't send a check, or a letter, or even a card. I'm done, empty, dried out and cried out. There's nothing left for her or for a baby if there is one.

When I let myself think about it, I get furious at myself (how could I have been so dumb?) and furious at her (how could she have let me?). But I try not to let myself think of it too much. I wake up, work out, go to the office, and go through the motions, try to keep the tip of my tongue away from that hole in my smile. But deep down I know that I can only postpone this so long, that even my cowardice can't stave off the inevitable. Somewhere in my desk, tucked in a notebook and locked in a drawer, there's a letter with my name on it.