He brought food over after work, a gesture that sent her riot-weeping. He sat on the bed and the floodgates opened, she talked about the dead baby, the proof sheets were all over the bedcovers, she pushed them toward him but he didn’t feel now was the time to look. He gathered them in a neat pile and set them on the bureau — a gesture that was executed with such civility that of course it elicited a (not so) fresh jag. Albie was patient, God bless; he wanted her to empty herself out. The blood came back into her body. She sat up against the headboard on the 4 pillows that he with warm and perfect faggotry had fluffed up & rearranged, alternately drinking the chicken soup he brought (Jerry’s Deli!), & reading aloud from the glossy Sears portrait studio booklet not meant to be taken home by customers but only flipped through, called These are a few of our favorite things, reading aloud in a comic delirium of relief brought on by his visit, the sociability of it, of one who shared her experience, who loved her and cared.
A baby was on the cover, but now all babies looked dead; this one had a superfluous hair band, a decorative touch that to her jaded eye made it look even deader. She read aloud from the Book of Sears.
NEW BABY/BIRTHDAY
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The scandalous irony of the read did the job of catharsis in a different way than expected, she thought it would end in hilarity but the moment was as they say too soon, her policeman said flow my tears, copious antediluvian tears of remorse, & depthless worry not just for all martyred funerary mothers throughout time but for her own, remorse & tears for her baby, the one she disappointed, the one demoralized and demolished, the one who stole from her, her precious baby Jerilynn Reeyonna, 16 & pregnant somewhere in Hollywood wandering like a fugitive doing god knows what, the daughter who walked the streets as Jacquie’s own stillalive stillborn.
She called Jerzy again, she got the idea to call him and asked Albie if he’d sit with her while she did (well of course he would, he wasn’t going anywhere), she said she wanted—needed to get in touch with Jerilynn Reeyonna, had to see her, no matter what. (The gift of focus a dead baby can bestow.) She told him how grateful she was for having that experience, the privilege of it, & grateful again that he came to see her unasked, she thought she was losing her mind just a little, & there he was with the chicken soup & now she was feeling so much better. (They hugged. He said he would make tea. She said to wait until she called her son.) Jerzy didn’t answer. She hung up. Albie said to leave a message. She called again. She tried to be stoic yet impart urgency, the urgency that was her right, the Mother’s Prerogative. Jerry, please call me back. Then, Jerzy, can you please call? More plaintive that time + craftily using the name he preferred, hoping the tactic wouldn’t backfire. Why didn’t I call him Jerzy, ever? I resented that he wanted to change the name I had given him. . O Albie, I am a lunatic, I am a stubborn & terrible woman, I am a terrible mother whose children have become monstrous with hatred & anguish. She didn’t care if the Jerzy tack did backfire, she was tired of fucking around, she wanted to see her baby. Albie, should I arrest her, should I have her arrested? For stealing my things? Albie, should I? Should I just call the police?
He said yes, knowing that she wouldn’t.
In this moment, she had an awakening: time to assert. Get that Mom mojo workin. She phoned Rikki’s fosterparents, they hadn’t recently connected, yet another thing that made her feel remiss, she’d been standoffish because she knew her daughter loved them not her, maybe not loved but respected, always Jacquie’s pride rampaging like Mothra, she phoned and Jim answered & while they were talking she wave/whispered to Albie it was OK to go make tea she really wanted tea so he left the room. Jim sounded cheerful, she always had the sense he was careful in their dealings, as if thinking of/knowing her to be a bit of a loose cannon, Jim said that Reeyonna o my god he actually calls her that why didn’t I call her that was staying with Jerzy he called him that lord what was wrong with her she was the only one Mothra the Destroyer and his girlfriend?roommate. That apparently, according to Rikki who was the source of all their information, they all moved from where they used to live, which wasn’t per Rikki so wonderful, to a much nicer place called Mt Olympus in the Hollywood Hills. Jacquie right there lost her cannon & said too-assertively Enough! This is enough already, as if it all were Jim’s fault — grew suddenly imperious, that talk-to-servants voice she hated in herself all the more pathetic for never having had servants, still she rationalized it was all right to use that tone, tone in the major key of Mother’s Prerogative, she was trying to turn the engine over, engine of her Mothra-sized mojo, I think we should just go & get her. (Noting even as the words came out that she said “we” not I as in I am just going to go get her.) Jim said he understood her frustration, they’d had a lot of that themselves (he & Dawn) (of course they had) but the engineer said he thought it would be a mistake, he told her they’d already put an invitation on the table, already invited ReeRee he actually called her that! the diminutive of a name that she, Jacquie, never gave her what is the matter with me what is wrong to come live at the house. For a second she got pissed, thinking Jim & her daughter must be in open communication, chatting it up on the phone as he waged his little campaign, a campaign she hadn’t even been privy to, so she asked if he was/had been directly in touch with Reeyonna, & Jim said only once when her daughter called him at the house. He went on in that analytic way to suggest that the best strategy was to wait them out. Let’s give it a few more days, Jacquie. I really do think she’ll get tired of struggling out there, she’ll get tired of running around, & I think that as time goes on, she will find our offer more conducive. We’re praying on it, anyway. That’s what we’re praying on. She reluctantly agreed but not for more than a week (mojo only a quarter workin but hey). The kettle whistled, a cup of tea sounded divine, served by her dear friend/servant right in bed, she could taste the honey, this new Australian honey she was all hung up on.
The conversation wound down. She rote-asked after Dawn. Jim said his wife was just back from the hospital and something in Jacquie remembered, barely, but enough to cause her to stifle the impulse to ask why, why was Dawn there, she had that scintilla-recollection, an inpatient stay would be of the nervous/mental variety, briefly awkward, then Jacquie’s rote awkward wishing of Dawn well, Jacquie’s rote kneejerk invite for the two of them to come for lunch or tea or supper or drinks or something, Jacquie’s end-of-call attempt at humor re the whole fucked up situation being possibly/absolutely brightened by a grandchild at the end of the rainbow, & right when she hung up again came the remorse, guilt over her narcissistic ways, it was always about her, and there was Jim, so stoic & kind, the weight of manifold worlds upon him.
. .