Boy, Snow, Bird(33)

“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.