More Than Allies (2 page)

When she woke, it was dark. She could hear a television, the sound of voices, and kitchen noises. She smelled food, and she realized she was hungry.

She went across the hall to the bathroom and washed. As she stepped out, she saw a girl in the doorway of her room. The girl turned. She looked so much like Maggie, in size and coloring, her hair long and limp on her shoulders, there was an instant of recognition for both of them.

“I came to tell you supper's ready,” the girl said. “I'm Gretchen. You're Margaret?”

“Maggie.” She reached back to turn off the bathroom light.

“We're having chicken. Mother's a good cook.”

They both stepped into the hall. Maggie looked over Gretchen's shoulder. “Was that a boy's room?” she asked. Gretchen said it was.

“He didn't die, did he?” Maggie said. She didn't think she could sleep in the room of someone who had died.

Gretchen laughed. “He just went to the army,” she said. “He left the day after Christmas.”

It was a terrible thing to have said. “Don't tell your mother I asked that,” Maggie said.

Gretchen took hold of Maggie's elbow. “Don't worry about Mother,” she said. “Don't worry about anything. Really, that room is your room now. You're home, Maggie. Mother says an angel sent you. She can't stand an empty bed. She needs you. You'll see. She's got to have people to look out for. She's got too much energy for just Dad and me. You've come to the right place. I don't know what you've been through, why you don't have your own family to be with, but I promise, you'll be happy here. Don't tell Mom I made a big deal out of it. But don't worry anymore. You'll be happy.”

May 1992

Maggie heard the baby crying, but tunneled deeply into sleep, she thought it was from far away. A neighbor baby. She woke when Jay stood by her bed, shaking her shoulder. “I think Stevie's sick,” he said. With no more light than the night light by the crib, she could see that his Garfield shirt had a big stain on it. Grape juice, his current passion.

“I'm sorry, honey,” she told him. She squeezed his elbow. “Go back to bed.” He slept on a day bed in the living room of the little cottage. Stevie slept in an alcove made out of what had been the closet. Maggie sat up and rubbed her eyes. Stevie barked once, that awful croupy cough she'd had before, and then she made a soft, mewling sound. Jay stumbled off to bed.

As Maggie picked her up, Stevie tried to cry louder, but only a pitiful thin whimper came out. She was hot, her pajama top damp with perspiration. Maggie held her and walked over to switch on the lamp on the dresser. The way Stevie looked frightened her. She was pale and damp, and her lips were dark. She was gasping, sucking in air, her little chest heaving. Maggie felt her forehead and called Jay.

“Run in and tell Granny I need her, honey. Tell her to bring a thermometer.”

Her son groaned. Maggie reached out to touch him on the shoulder. “Then go to bed in the house, we'll be up out here. Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you, Jay-Jay.” As he headed out, his T-shirt billowed in the back, and Maggie could see his underpants drooping in the seat.

Polly didn't think they should fool around. She held the baby while Maggie dressed, then ran back in to dress herself. On the way to the hospital, Maggie said, “I can't let you pay for this. What'll they say? With no insurance?”

Polly said not to worry. The hospital had a sign up in the emergency room: We Serve Our Community. “I'll talk to them about it,” she offered. “They'll charge you something less, and Mo will send money. All that matters right now is to see to Stevie.”

The baby felt so warm against Maggie's chest, steam seemed to rise. “Shh, shh,” she soothed, though the baby was barely whimpering. Every once in a while she'd suck in air, then bark, then subside again to her pitiful sounds. “I'm scared,” Maggie said, but by then they were there.

They thought maybe the baby had swallowed something that was stuck in her windpipe, or even in a lung. Maggie couldn't think what that would be. They handled the baby all over, less gently than Maggie thought they should, but maybe it was the haste, the need, that made them seem rough. They said they had to take an X-ray, they didn't know what they were looking for. One of the nurses led her back into the sitting room, where she huddled against Polly.

Polly put her arm around her. She stroked her hair and shushed and whispered. Maggie felt like the child. She needed to feel that way; it was too overwhelming to see her own child struggling to breathe. Jay had never scared her like this. He had had all the things babies have: colds and diarrhea, earaches and rashes. He had been a screamer, too, yowling when a diaper rubbed him the wrong way or he was hungry, but Mo had loved that, loved to say, Listen to that kid, won't you! Stevie was different, not fragile or sickly, but quiet and watchful and almost sad. Maggie thought it was because Mo left when he did, just when Stevie started to walk. She liked to toddle back and forth across the room, but she had to go between Maggie and a chair. Her daddy was gone.

The ER doctor came out and sat in a chair across from Maggie and Polly. Maggie's heart threatened to thud out of her chest. He smiled, though. He said whatever it was appeared to be over. “Baby is breathing freely,” he said. They thought that a cold virus had come on so suddenly and fiercely, Baby had coughed up a knot of phlegm and it had plugged her throat, like a chunk of carrot or a quarter, cutting off her airway. With all the handling, and her attempts to cry, the phlegm had finally been freed and spit up. “She's really quite all right,” he said. “You can take her home.” He had more to say—not to give her aspirin for the fever, to give her plenty of water—but Maggie couldn't concentrate. She didn't have to. She knew Polly would know what to do.

At home, they laid Stevie in the crib at the end of the hallway, against the linen closet, between the doors to Polly's and Gretchen's rooms. Polly said she thought they could use a cup of cocoa.

They sat companionably at the polished round table, both of them facing the windows so they could look at the hills and watch morning come on. Maggie said, “I don't know what I'd do without you.” She couldn't believe all the years that had gone by. She still felt, often, like a child, though she was twenty-eight and twice a mother herself.

Polly said, “You're stronger than you know, dear.” She got up and pulled out canisters and bowls and the beaters. “I might as well make something hot for breakfast,” she said. “Jay-Jay likes muffins so much.”

Maggie watched her work, enjoying the rhythm of her movements, the crack of the eggs, the whirr of the beaters, the sound of the spatula scraping the sides of the bowl. Polly put two pans in the oven, then turned and leaned back against the counter.

“I'm going to have a foster baby soon,” she said. “Maybe by the end of the week.”

Maggie felt as if Polly had smacked her. Polly helped with the children—did as much as Maggie, really—and was a respite caretaker for a hospice. She was on committees at the Grange and church. Why did she need a baby?

Polly's fist pressed against her breast. “It's like a little cry that tugs at me right here, babies being born these days to mothers who can't take care of them. Babies sick before they're even born.” She smiled. “It's vain of me, isn't it? To think they need me? To think I could do something important, taking care of one of them.”

Maggie glanced at the clock by the oven. It was almost seven. “I'm supposed to sub this afternoon. The teacher's going to a drug conference.” She yawned.

“Maybe you should call in,” Polly suggested.

“I don't think they want to get subs for their subs,” Maggie said. “Maybe if I got a little nap.”

“I can get Jay off to school,” Polly said. She didn't look nearly as tired as Maggie felt. “And Gretchen will be up after a while. She can watch Stevie while I sleep.”

“That's great, about the baby,” Maggie said. “Lucky baby.”

“Maybe Stevie will be pleased, too,” Polly said. “Maybe she'll feel big with an infant in the house.”

Maggie gave Polly a hug. “Sorry about last night. The false alarm. I really was scared.”

“Why, so was I! There are no false alarms with children. Worry is always real.”

Maggie nodded, and left. She thought she was just beginning to understand what Polly meant. Worry seemed to be the main verb in Maggie's life these days. She worried about her children, about money, about her moribund marriage, she even worried about politics. She would be depending on Polly until one of them was dead.

San Marcos, Texas

Querida
,

You haven't written to say if the money I sent you arrived, and whether you will come here, at least to visit, as my mama has written so many times to beg you, and now I too plead. It was a wonderful feeling to write out a money order to you, out of the very first money I earned since I was released. I am working with mi hermano Ricky, making the wheels of asadero cheese I missed so much these past years
.

You don't know what I have suffered, I don't want you to know, and I promise not to talk about it to you or Gus, except to answer questions if they come up, because I don't want to pretend something didn't happen when it did. My son will soon be a man. Don't you think I could grow up, too? I know I wasn't good to you, and I know I was an idiot, a true fool not to be serious and not to be afraid enough of the consequences of temper and bad luck and bad judgment, but if I did or did not deserve what I got (and I think I didn't, but it is a waste to be bitter), still I chose right, to become a better person and a better chicano, instead of a hard man. I am strong now, inside and out, although my mama likes to fuss over me like I only left last year when I was fifteen, and I am smarter, too, because I know to pay attention, and besides, didn't I do a year of college courses to have something to show for all the time?

I understand why you have drawn around you a shawl of silence and privacy, and I do not criticize you, but I ask, how is your attitude
—
that you must fit in, although only on the edges
—
any less fatalistic than the poorest indio's? If you do not yearn, and reach. If you do not believe you are in control of your life, if you do not think you can see Gus grow strong and well and happy, with some fair share of bounty, then you, who has cut herself off from her own people, are the oppressed peasant
.

It is beautiful here. What a fool I was, a crazy boy, to leave it, but if I had not, I would never have known you, I would never have had Gus, life has its way. But I see now how lucky I am, because my family has made a good life here. There is hope here. Land for the family, independent and good work, neighbors and friends, and oh, the cows and goats and chickens. You and I should be together. There is a reason you have never divorced, and now you must think what the reason is. Maybe it is only Gus, and not love, but Gus is a reason. Maybe all I can hope for is to be with him, and maybe only time to time, but I tell you what I want, to be a family. Not overnight, but in time
.

I ask you with humility and love, be open. See for yourself and do not feel pushed. Se lo pido de corazón: perdón
.

Recibe un abrazo y muchos besos para ti y mi hijo
—

Gustavo

p.s. Send photos

Dulce pulled the heavy spread off the bed and piled it on a chair, then began stripping off the linens. You could go for weeks, every room perfectly routine, and then there would be one like this. Right in the cleft between the pillows was a used condom. One of the pillowcases was stained—a bloody nose?—and all the trash in the room—papers, magazines, cups, disposable razors, tissues, bottles and cans—was on the floor. The trash baskets were pristine. The towels were on the bathroom and dressing room floors, sopping, and the corner of the bathroom mirror had a lipstick drawing of what Dulce assumed was meant to be a penis. They had had a good time. Lovers, you supposed. Married people didn't act like this.

By noon she had done the nine rooms assigned her. The housekeeper told her they would be able to put her on a five-day schedule in June, for the summer. She would earn some sick time, some vacation time, too; they let her carry the sick days season to season, while they laid her off during the winter, and she always took the vacation pay at Christmas. She said that would be fine. She didn't know how to be enthusiastic; the housekeeper didn't expect it, anyway. They knew she'd show up every morning, she'd do the work, she'd never complain. She was surprised to hear they would give her a thirty-cent an hour raise in June, too. She had worked for the motel three years; this was her second raise.

She drove home slowly, uneasy about the car, which had been overheating the last few days if she went above twenty miles an hour. At home, she ate a cheese sandwich, then showered and changed into a skirt and sweater. She walked over to the grade school. Her son Gus was in fourth grade, in the “tri-level classroom,” a melange of children from grades three through five. The principal had recommended the placement last year, because there was so much range in Gus' skills—he was a whiz in math, a little behind in reading, and practically illiterate in his writing. She explained that there would be a lot more flexibility in Gus' grouping for instruction, and less pressure or possible embarrassment about working in skill groups “perceived to be below grade level.” Dulce thought a little pressure might be exactly what Gus required, but she always lost her tongue at school, even though everybody there was as nice as they could be. Besides, she assumed they knew more about teaching than she did, though she hoped she knew Gus best. The teacher, Jack, said she shouldn't worry. He thought Gus would read and write just fine when he was ready. He was nine years old; how ready would he have to be? Sometimes she thought she ought to take away his colored pencils and pens; he drew endlessly, and read comic books, though with better weather, and his friendship with Hilario, he was outdoors a lot more than he used to be.