Dear Edward(29)
“All right.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Florida regards the young girl. Bobby had wanted a baby. She’d had to sneak birth control in order to keep from giving him one. She’d known, by the time the subject came up in earnest, that he wanted a child not to love but to mold in his image, to follow his orders. She’d folded as much of herself to him and his vision as she could, but he viewed the small parts she held back—her thoughts, her songs, her daily walks in the woods—as a criminal lack of commitment.
To survive after the breakdown of society, the failure of the dollar, or some kind of meteorological apocalypse, Bobby believed that he needed disciples. Florida believed that once she birthed a kid or two, he would phase her out. Phase her out of her own family, out of his plans, and hence his life.
Bobby had been working for an insurance company in downtown Manhattan when the Twin Towers were hit, and it changed everything for him. He’d quit his job, sold his suits, and worked as a waiter in Brooklyn, which is where Florida met him. She was a secretary at an acupuncture clinic and sang in an all-female blues band. She was drawn to Bobby because he talked about the importance of the truth; he was bright and well read, had a sexy little ass, and could explain exactly why capitalism was evil. He pointed out that the ninety-two-year-old woman in their neighborhood was being evicted from the apartment she’d lived in for fifty years, just so a new high-rise could be built and more money be made. It was the reason neither Florida nor any of her friends could afford health insurance—the industry had nothing to do with providing healthcare; it was designed to extract the maximum amount of money from each person. It was Bobby’s verbal precision—she’d known countless handsome potheads who concluded arguments with oh man, you know what I mean, right?—and his fine ass that had sealed the deal.
They had shown up at Zuccotti Park together during the first week of Occupy and stayed in the park until Bloomberg—that tin-pot fascist—sent in the garbage trucks four weeks later. Bobby was on several of the planning committees and was often sequestered in meetings. Florida cooked for the protesters and distributed blankets, toothbrushes, condoms, and tampons. She also joined one of the bands. This was her favorite part of that fall: so many good, hopeful, striving people, lifting their pure voices in song. She had always believed in the power of music, but now the proof was in front of her. People were changing, even shedding, their unhappy, enslaved lives to come to this park and sing about a better world. Their song was shaping their present, which created a full circle the likes of which Florida had rarely seen.
The plane gives a sharp bump, and Linda’s knuckles whiten where she’s gripping the armrest.
“I’m not ready for this,” she says.
“This,” Florida says. She thinks: This is the subject that defines women. Having babies. Will you have them? Can you have them? Do you want to have them?
“You’ll be fine,” Florida says, calling on her experience as a performer to shine confidence at the young girl, but her skepticism must have leaked through, because there it is, all over Linda’s face.
September 5, 2013
The school is only three blocks away, but Besa drives them. “Wingnuts and fools are going to follow you around and say things to you.” She addresses the rearview mirror. “They’ll forget and leave you alone by Christmas, though, so please know that it’s temporary. Reporters have the attention span of a fruit fly. The religiosos will be the worst; just smile politely while they tell you their fairy tales and then walk away.”
Lacey is in the passenger seat. She looks odd to Edward, perfectly still, as if she’s been turned to stone. When John was in the bathroom that morning, she’d leaned across the kitchen table and whispered, “Should I record General Hospital, and we’ll watch it together after school?” He’d nodded, and she nodded back, her expression grave. He wonders what she’ll do all day, alone in the house without him. He thinks he can see in the set of her shoulders that she’s wondering the same thing.
He notices Besa glance at Lacey too. Today is a big deal for them, he thinks. Them includes Lacey, Besa, Shay, and John, whom they left behind in the driveway, waving at the car as if they were embarking on a perilous journey from which they might never return.
Edward thinks this to remind himself about normal people’s behavior and to explain the weird charge in the air. A first day of school, even though he’s never been to a proper school, feels no more broken or uncertain than any other day. His heart beats steadily in his chest; his head clicks; he breathes.
“You used to go to church, Mamí,” Shay says.
“Before I came to my senses. I was brainwashed in Mexico.”
Shay fidgets under her seatbelt. She and her mother spent three days arguing over her back-to-school outfit and finally reached a questionable compromise: Besa’s choice of a pink ruffled skirt and Shay’s choice of a blue baseball T-shirt. Shay had allowed her mother to braid her hair for the occasion, though, and Edward had watched the process on the front steps that morning. Besa’s hands were deep in Shay’s hair; Shay’s head was tipped back, eyes closed, catlike in her pleasure. The mother and daughter were silent, a rarity, and peace had radiated off the scene.
Shay says, “You’re making Edward nervous, and he shouldn’t be, because the kids at this school are idiots. They’re not worth the energy. I should know—I’ve been with them since I was five.”