Beautiful Boy, ugly Boy, rat, rat, food for the rats, sick and sickening . . . it took two weeks for my thoughts to twist themselves into a membrane that I could break only by leaving, or by murdering the rat catcher. I’m not sure Charlie could have rescued me from that. And I think I decided not to love Charlie because I thought I had to be rescued. For practical reasons but also as a proof of love. It’s better that Charlie and I didn’t make an automatic transaction, love exchanged for rescue. All you can do after that is put the love and the rescue up on the shelf, moving them farther and farther back as you make room for all the other items you acquire over the years. This way a ragged stem still grows between us, almost pretty. Though really we should crush it now, before the buds bloom skeletal.
I didn’t say his name aloud to anyone. If Mia asked how he was, I pretended not to hear. But Charlie Vacic just wouldn’t let up. I’d think he was done, but a week or so later he came back ten times as strong.
Every now and again I’d look at Arturo, just look at him until he said “What gives?” He was a little surprised at me for not wanting to make my mark on the house, but I wasn’t interested in undoing what Julia had done. Across the years we accepted each other, Julia and I, neither of us exactly thrilled by the other’s existence, but there was enough difference between her and me to suggest that her Arturo wasn’t exactly the same as mine anyway. My puzzlement regarding him was greater: I didn’t understand how he could do the things he did. He took Snow cherry picking, he took me hiking around the lake, he swam at the pool with his father every Thursday afternoon, took Agnes Miller all the way to Baden-Baden because her chest wasn’t as strong as it used to be and he thought a spa week might help. He behaved as if he belonged with us, belonged to us. But he was crazy if he thought Julia was finished with him. I mean, it was bad enough with Charlie, and he was still alive.
Did I talk in my sleep? Was it the flag in my side of our closet? Somehow a corner of it always emerged whenever I reached for something to wear. Arturo and I never spoke about it, but somehow he knew that there was someone else. He must have, because it was around that time that Arturo began to make chains.
Ankle chains, wrist chains, necklaces made of heavy brass links. He laid the collection on a bed of red velvet, piece by piece, as he completed them.
“What do you think of these?” he said. And I told him they were ugly. I was angry with him for making such threats; I thought he should know better than to do that.
“Why don’t you try them on?” I said. I didn’t yell. If anything, I made my tone pleasant, modeled it on the way the rat catcher had spoken once, half a second before he grabbed my head and tried to smash it against a wall as if it weren’t even connected to my neck.
I think I unnerved him, because he did what I said. He put all the chains on, four bracelets on each wrist, anklets on over his socks, necklace upon necklace upon necklace. He held his hands out to me, and I tried hard not to grin, but it didn’t work. “Come on, Boy. I’m sorry.”
I undid the bracelets first. “Something to think about in future: Hinting that you think you can hold me against my will only makes me mad.”
“Got it.” He looked as if he was going to add something else, some excuse or explanation, then decided against it.
“You’ve got around eight months to become a new man,” I told him, dropping chains onto the floor. “I mean . . . is this the kind of father my child’s got to look forward to?”
“Eight months . . . ?”
“That’s what Dr. Lee says.”
He yelled “Gee whiz” so loud and for so long that Snow came running from Olivia’s house screaming, “What? What?”
We told her she was going to have a little brother or sister and she said: “Oh, good. Make it a sister, okay?” and ran straight back to her court of dolls.
—
i made my list of names in secret. Partly so that no one would know I was copying Julia’s idea, and partly so that no one would know how wild my hopes were. Olivia suggested Scarlett for a girl and Alexander for a boy, and I thought: Not bad. Gerald suggested Artemis for a girl, which made me suspicious that he’d somehow gotten hold of my list. I’ll never get into the habit of calling him “Pop” like he wants me to—I can’t make myself say it casually or kindly. The word comes out sounding like a deliberate insult, and I don’t want to apply that word to someone like him, someone who gets enthusiastic over English marmalade and Swiss fountain pens. The way his hair sits on his scalp makes me smile too—it’s all his, since nature can’t seem to do without its jokes. That luxurious mop is wasted on a bank manager. It ought to be grown a tad longer and then employed at a ritzy Parisian music hall, helping some showgirl hit the big time. From certain angles Gerald’s hair assumes the personality of a disarmingly earnest counterfeit, a Brylcreemed wig that would feel so happy and honored and gratified if you’d only say it had fooled you for a second.
“And for a boy?” I asked.
“Why, Girl, of course,” he deadpanned.
My reflection changed as I got bigger. Well, obviously it changed, but what I mean to say is that when I looked into the mirror, I couldn’t see myself. That’s not quite it, either. I’d look into the mirror and she was there, the icy blonde with the rounded stomach, the thickened thighs and arms—just as I’d become accustomed to wearing it, the snake bracelet wouldn’t fit anymore. I also went up half a shoe size, which pleased me because it was another bridge burned between me and the rat catcher. Come into town, rat catcher, come looking for your daughter, come holding a pair of the shoes she left. Say to everyone who’ll listen: “If the shoes fit, she’s mine.” Gather witnesses . . . the more the merrier. They’d see me wedge my feet into the narrow shoes, see how far my heels spill over the back of them. Then they’d hear me tell him: “I’m so sorry. Keep searching. Good luck.”
When I stood in front of the mirror, the icy blonde was there, but I couldn’t swear to the fact of her being me. She was no clearer to me than my shadow was. I came to prefer my shadow. She came into the shower cubicle with me and stood stark against the bathroom tiles, so much taller than I was that when I began to get backaches, I could find shelter crouched under her.
Snow was the one who came up with the right name. We were lying on the couch together, her chin on my shoulder, Arturo’s arm around us both as he read poetry to my stomach. He said he’d read poetry to Snow before she was born, and hey, if it ain’t broke, etc.
“Maybe Margaret for a girl?” Arturo said. “This Maggie sounds okay, doesn’t she?
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness.”
Snow yawned. “What’s a falcon?”
“It’s a bird,” I told her.
“And the other thing in the tower?”
“A hawk. It’s another kind of bird.”
“Bird for a boy and Bird for a girl,” Snow said. “Birds sing and fly.”
She was right. I put her to bed, and when I went next door to spin Julia’s lullaby around on the gramophone, she said: “No, you sing it to me.”
“Snow, you know I can’t carry a tune. And your mother has the loveliest voice, let her—”
“She’s tired of singing the same song every night,” Snow said, firmly. “And you’re my mother too. Aren’t you?”
I drew a chair up beside her bed and sang. All I do is dream of you the whole night through . . . It was a horrible rendition, and I quite enjoyed attempting it, setting the notes free from the song as each one went farther and farther astray. Snow was nice about it. I think she pretended to fall asleep faster than she usually did just so I’d stop. I switched off all the lights except her nightlight, then went downstairs and threw my list of names into the trash.
—
when I got too big and too distracted to meet the demands of being Mrs. Fletcher’s assistant, I stayed home, ate my way through the fruit baskets Mia and Webster sent over, and listened to Julia Whitman’s voice. You’re every thought, you’re everything, you’re every song I ever sing . . .
I hoped Bird would sing like that, would have a voice as strong and rich as the one I listened to, with all those teasing little trips and breaks in it. It was a voice Snow didn’t seem interested in hearing anymore—“I’m almost eight years old now,” she said, as if that had anything to do with it—but maybe in time Bird could make her listen again.
A simple solution, maybe. Just like running away from home, just like staying away from Ivorydown because of the woman I’d seen there. But the thing about these simple solutions is that they work.