Come Up and See Me Sometime

I drove to her house, a silty number in the worst neighborhood in town. There were bars on the downstairs windows. It was directly in front of a city park where I’d heard you could get a great deal on crack, if you didn’t care about quality. There was a liquor store next door, pocked with dirt. In front, a drunk man was talking to a woman in vinyl shorts and red high heels.

When I arrived, the sun had just set behind the mountains. David opened the door, kissed my cheek and led me inside. The walls were covered in cracked green wallpaper, and I said, “How wonderfully retro!” He showed me the garage, which had a workbench and tools all set up on hooks. David looked a little fatter, but healthy and so happy. He couldn’t think of anything to ask me besides, “Like my garage?” I laughed, “Yes!” We stared at each other, delighted.

In the center of a group of women, Mona was carrying a big baby in her arms. It drooled on her shirt, and she rubbed at the silk with a cocktail napkin, saying irritably, “Oh, Christ.” When she saw me, she smiled and held up the baby like it was an Oscar. We hugged, one-armed. Then she told me the baby’s name, which I immediately forgot.

It squirmed in Mona’s arms. I leaned down and said, “Hello.” It rattled a fat chew-toy in my face, then rubbed it gently against my cheek. The toy left a viscous smear of saliva and some kind of slime, maybe Gerber’s Candied Yams or mucus. The baby announced, “Buh buh buh” above the party babble. Mona said, “Buh buh buh” back, almost sarcastically. Then, “Hold her, will you? I’m starving.”

Suddenly, it was in my arms. A real baby. Wiggly. Soft. Yet scratchy.

Mona pushed past her guests and headed toward the kitchen. I wrapped one arm around the baby’s sweaty back and cupped its head with my other hand. “Huh,” I said, jogging it onto my shoulder.

I remembered something I had read once, that they’re supposed to have a soft spot in their skulls, so I started touching its head. Lightly at first, then pressing harder and harder. Nothing, just scalp. It wrapped its tiny hand, which looked like an imitation of a hand, around my hair, which looked real. It started chewing on the hair. I worried about the chemicals in shampoo and conditioner, and the toxins in hair spray. And the smoke from cigarettes, so I walked toward the open sliding glass door, away from the perfume and the microscopic mites that cling to upholstery.

A woman in the party had started to sing “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” a capella; it was a little performance. Everyone gathered around and someone switched off the stereo. The woman had a voice that was horrible in that trained kind of way. I stared, fascinated. The baby did, too. I felt the baby’s body grow taut as it took a deep breath. Then it started to scream.

Mona was somewhere else. Guests looked at us, irritated. I started toward David, but he waved his hand at me—away, away. He mouthed outside, and I nodded, just like I was his wife.

I stepped out the sliding glass doors to the shabby backyard. It was long and skinny, running along the house like a moat in front of the shrubs that distinguished the border of the park. I started walking back and forth along the yard in the dusk, my favorite time of day. The baby stopped crying and started pulling my hair again.

The baby was now talking to my hair, calling it buh-buh-buh with an occasional scream. It pushed against my stomach with its feet, and smashed its other hand against my collarbone. The rattle fell from its damp grasp and rolled into the dirt. My left arm was falling asleep. I bent down to grab the rattle, but couldn’t manage, so I kicked it out of sight.

That didn’t work. The baby was now looking for the rattle, calling to it with vowels of anguish and despair. I tried walking away, but it held out its hands, squirmed and cried. It wanted down. I placed it carefully on the grass near the door, after looking for bugs and broken glass. It stopped crying and crouched on hands and knees, head rigid. Oh boy, I thought.

I hurried across the lawn until I found the rattle, which now looked like a speckled pink egg. I thought of other mothers, and how they cleaned off a baby’s pacifier by putting it in their own mouths. I started to put the rattle in my mouth, but just couldn’t. Instead, I wiped it on my skirt, where it left a greasy stain.

I turned around to pick up the baby again, but it was gone. Impossible, I thought. I hurried a few steps back to where it had been, but instead of a baby, I saw only a patch of dying grass in the porch light. There was no baby anywhere on the lawn. It was really gone. Gone.

I went back inside to where the party was. One woman looked like she had the baby, but it was another baby. Similar to Mona’s baby, but not quite enough. Wearing a purple snuggie, not a green one.

I peered under the tables and chairs. “Did you lose an earring or something?” a woman asked me.

“Uh, no, I lost something else.” Nothing between people’s feet, in their arms.

“What exactly did you lose?” the woman asked.

It was nowhere in sight—not inside, and not on the lawn. That left only the place where the lawn ended and the park began. It must have crawled that way, toward the crack pipes and heroin needles. I felt sick. I rushed back outside and stepped off the lawn, plunging into the thick brush. My hands trembled as they pulled aside branches. The air grew dimmer.

A twig nearly poked me in the eye, but I swerved in time. I listened hard for baby sounds, then for any sounds at all over my erratic footsteps and the party noise filtering in through the trees. That woman was still singing.

“Baby,” I whispered, “oh please.”

I began to run, twigs lashing my arms, dead leaves under my feet. I ran in concentric circles. Nobody was there. My feet broke everything I stepped on, snapping dry beneath me. I started to cry. All the colors merged together into varying shades of gray in the twilight. I ran faster.

I nearly stepped on something glowing next to my foot, the shine of tearable flesh. I stopped. That baby was there, sitting perfectly still on a bare patch of ground, eyes open. Yes, the right baby. Not some random baby in the woods.

I bent over and carefully picked her up. We were both shaking. I held her by the armpits and inspected her all over in that raw twilight. I felt her firm, real body beneath her clothes. This little person.

She moved in my hands and looked back at me. Straight in the eyes, just like she was waiting for me to name it. You know. The damage.

Drugs and You (#ulink_5e36b882-1b84-59b7-b893-7529b9c5e1e4)

He who hesitates is last.

—Mae West

Sometimes he made me tell people how we met, which I hated. He’d make me tell the story in a bar, where you’re supposed to be funny, with a punch line. Close to the end, I took him aside and said, “Cliff, our relationship has no punch line,” and he said, “Yet.” So I told the fucking story, and I’ll tell it now that the story’s over.

I was new to Santa Fe, looking for a job and friends. I had moved there partly because it was beautiful, and partly because I had lived in Iowa my whole life. Santa Fe had cacti, yet it also had snow. It had a bunch of interesting people who wore silk scarves around their necks during heat waves and hiked in cowboy boots. I wanted to know what made people do things like that. I was almost twenty-five.

It’s hard to meet people in Santa Fe because everyone just assumes you’re a tourist and doesn’t waste time on you. So I mostly took walks alone, or drove around alone, or ate mushy chile rellenos alone in a restaurant called Dave’s Not Here. They named it Dave’s Not Here because they were sick of people asking for him, Dave. Nobody knows where he is, or, by now, who he is.

One evening in the early fall I was driving down St. Michael’s Drive when this man stepped backwards off the median, right in front of my car. I stood on the brakes, but I knew instantly that there was no way, that it was too late. His head turned and our eyes caught through the windshield. My mouth opened. Before the car slammed into his body, he jumped into the air. A football dropped from above and nested itself firmly in his arms before he disappeared.

He was gone. I hit a man, I thought, and sent him to Heaven. I don’t believe in Heaven. The car was still skidding forward.

Then the most tremendous thud dented in the car roof, right above my head. I screamed. The car stopped.

Everything was very quiet. I looked up at the roof. I realized that I would have to get out and look at it, the corpse on the roof of my car. I would have to look at the unfamiliar face of a man I had killed. For a second, I wondered how I could die, kill myself, without ever opening the car door.

There was movement above. A sneaker appeared in front. It gingerly reached down the windshield. It snaked around. It jiggled the windshield wiper. Then the whole body slid down onto the hood in a blue blur.

The man was now standing on the ground, feeling his body and neck with one hand. The football was still in the other hand. He looked at it, then dropped it on the pavement. He walked around the car, toward me, and tapped on the window. He asked, “Can you open the window?” He asked, “Are you okay, ma’am?” Then, “Can you answer me?” Other people started running up and pulling out their cell phones.

The man finally opened my door himself. Dust blew into the car and I squinted through it at him. His blue eyes were earnest. “Ma’am? I’m okay. Are you okay?”

I reached for him. He stepped forward to help me. “Ma’am?” I kept reaching past his outstretched arms. My fingers touched the rough fabric of his clothes and I put my hands underneath them, on his skin. I stroked his entire body—his legs, chest, arms, hips, groin, with a kind of wonder at the way a body can just be, or not be. He didn’t know what to say. Before I fainted, I touched his face once, twice, three times as if it were the holiest thing I had ever seen.

THAT DAY, after I almost killed Cliff, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I followed him home. Really, by foot. He kept turning around, saying, “I’m fine.” After a while, he let me walk with him. He tried to get me to tell him my name, my job, all that. I said, “I’m worried about your head. Don’t fall asleep,” and he asked, “Ever?”

“Listen, I’m feeling just fine,” Cliff said once we walked up to his apartment door. “I just have some bruises on my legs. Don’t worry. Let it go.”

“I can’t. You must be hurt. I hit you with a whole car.”

“I have to do some work now.” He unlocked his door and stood with his hand on the knob.

“Can I watch you?”

Cliff sighed through his nose.

“I don’t really know anyone else in town,” I said.

He waved me inside. While he got me a glass of water, I looked around. I noticed the giant photograph of Karl Marx hanging over the kitchen table, and the bumper sticker over his desk: “Jesus, protect me from your followers.” His TV was sitting inside a kiva fireplace in the corner. There was a framed photograph of Ho Chi Minh next to a scrawled picture in magic marker of a big green monster wearing an orange sweatshirt. Written above the googly eyes and jagged head was the word “Gog.”

“My niece,” Cliff said. “I don’t know what that means, Gog.”

He sat down at his desk. The chair squeaked. I sat on the floor and studied him. He had deep blue eyes and short, light brown hair. Maybe in his early thirties.

“I really have to finish this chapter.” He held a piece of paper in his hand.