Pacifier
by Gail Konop Baker
It comes at her in thick piles. Smeared on. Torn. Stained with coffee, jelly donut, dried phlegm, frayed at the edges.They shove it at her. They need it right away.
She straightens the pile and begins. The phone rings. Somebody’s complaining. Why can’t she? How could they? They’re mad, raging, furious. She transfers the call. Watches it blink blink blink.
She types. Tap tap tap. Shit. She forgot the date. The phone rings. United Tracking. Another complaint. How come? What if? What will you do for me?
A Big One comes at her. She’s trying to hear the caller but the Big One keeps coming. He wants to know when she’ll be finished. Hasn’t started? He’s pissed. What’s she doing? The caller’s grinding her ear. She points to the phone, and the Big One storms away.
It’s lunchtime. While she organizes her work, she gobbles corn chips and chocolate milk. The Big Ones, on their way to lunch, glance at her piles as they pass. She promises to get it all done by three.
By three? one says. What’s three?
I leave, she says. To pick up my baby.
They leave. She calls the babysitter. She hears crying. Mama, she hears. She tries not to hear. How’s it going? she asks. Baby weeps. Choking on his tears. She wants to cry. She can’t. She wants to leave. Pull baby into her arms. She wishes she hadn’t called. Got to go, she says and she hangs up the phone.
Chomping corn chips. Sipping milk, she’s working through the pile. She’s cooking. Making a big finished pile beside the phone. It feels good, feels right. Dear Mr. Jones. Enclosed please find. I look forward. Sincerely. Tap tap. The phone rings. She answers. Mr. Taylor? He’s out to lunch. Would you like to leave a message? Another letter. Dear Ms. Ritter. It was a pleasure. I look forward. Sincerely yours. Dear Mr. Hardy. Thank you for. Tap tap tap tap. I await your reply. Sincerely yours. Working’s not so bad, she thinks. When you’re getting somewhere. When it’s smooth. Make your way to the bottom of the pile. The phone rings. She reaches for it and knocks chocolate milk all over the finished pile.
It’s the babysitter. Baby needs his binky. Where is his binky? Binky? She tries to think. The diaper bag? Car seat? The sitter’s tried everything. Can’t find it. She hears Baby. Binky. Binky. She reaches into the drawer for her purse. Rummages through cracker crumbs and pieces of wadded paper and finds the sticky pacifier. It’s in her hand. She tells the babysitter it’s in her hand. Binky. Binky. Mama. Mama. Mama.
The Big Ones are back from lunch. How could it be? She’s holding the phone. She looks down and sees she forgot to wipe up the milk. The pile is ruined. She has to go. Goodbye, she says. They’re all standing at her desk. Staring. Waiting. Just give me a few more minutes, she says. I’m almost done. They leave.
Two o’clock. She starts another letter. Tap tap tap. The phone rings. She lets it. She’s on a roll again. The work is moving. She’s got it now. She’s tackling that pile. One, two, three. She’s finding her stride and riding it. The phone keeps ringing. She picks it up, puts the caller on hold. Another line. Hold. Another. Hold. Until all the lines are blinking. No-one can interrupt now. The lines are busy. She’s busy. The Big Ones are busy. Busy. Busy. Busy.
A Big One is standing at her desk. She looks up, shuffles through the finished work, hands him a pile. He looks down at the switchboard. He can’t dial out. What’s the problem with the phones? Oh, nothing, she says. Press, hang up. Press, hang up. Press, hang up. She disconnects them all. Bing. Bing. Bing. He leaves.
Two forty-five. She delivers her finished work. They look at their watches. They look at her. Pick up my baby by three, she says. They nod, and she leaves.
In the car she remembers she needs things. Eggs. Milk. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. She’s nearly out of gas. There’s a Mobil Mart right across the street, and she pulls in and runs inside. Grabs things. Pays. Back out to her car. Fills up the tank. Throws the groceries in the car. Drips gas. Wipes it. It spreads and stains her knee.
She races to the babysitter’s. Again, she’s late. The babysitter opens the door and hands her the baby. The babysitter’s not happy. The baby’s not happy. He’s crying. She looks for the binky. Can’t find it. The baby says, Binky. She reaches deep into the corner of her bag. Binky. It’s dirty. Can the babysitter wash the binky? Well, I guess, the babysitter says, and she rinses the binky. The baby sucks the binky and falls asleep on her shoulder. The babysitter says three. Pick him up at three. Nine to three are my working hours.
She sets the baby in his car seat. She doesn’t want to wake him. She’s happy he’s sleeping. He looks tired and needs to sleep. She needs him to sleep. Driving home, it’s quiet. Relaxing.
At a red light, she closes her eyes and remembers she needs diapers. There isn’t a diaper in the house. She shoves her hand into the diaper bag. Gropes. Empty. She decides to stop at 7-11. She can pull right up in front, run in, buy the diapers. She can watch the baby the whole time from the big window: no need to disturb his sleep.
She pulls into the lot. Parks right in front, turns off the engine, locks the baby in the car. Races through the double glass doors, looks out the window to the baby. He’s sleeping. She darts to the baby aisle. They’ve moved the baby aisle. Where are the diapers? She sees popcorn, salsa, bean dip. Next aisle: charcoal briquettes, soda pop, margarita mix. Then gum, candy bars, nail polish remover, napkins, diapers. She grabs a pack and heads to the checkout. At the checkout, she glances out the big window. Sees three old ladies hovering around the windows of her car, drops the diapers and runs out of the store.
Before she reaches the car they start yelling at her. How could you leave a baby in a car? Do you know a baby can suffocate? The baby’s screaming. He’s scared. She pushes the old ladies from her door, gets in the car, and turns to the baby. It’s alright. It’s okay. She finds the binky. Puts it back in his mouth. Rubs his head. He falls back asleep. She starts the car and pulls away. The old ladies shaking their heads, pointing their fingers.
She drives to the IGA near her apartment. Pulls in the lot and looks back. He’s sleeping peacefully. She decides to let him sleep awhile. They’ll just sit in the car together awhile. He can sleep and she can relax. Then she’ll wake him and buy diapers. They’ll go in together. She watches him breathe deeply, then turns around to close her eyes.
Then she remembers The Plumber. The Plumber is coming at 4:15. She looks at her watch. 4:00. Her husband will kill her if she misses the plumber. The toilet has been overflowing for days. How could she have forgotten? She throws open her door. Throws open the baby’s door. Grabs the screaming out of the car seat. Races into the grocery store. Brushes past a gray-haired man with a cane, past a huddle of skinny teenaged girls. She lunges for the baby aisle. Knocks over a display of Snacker Crackers. Finds diapers. Grabs them. Heads for checkout. Checks her watch. 4:05. She runs to express lane, edging past a plump lady holding a single serving diet frozen entree and a pack of Pall Malls, pays the cashier, rushes out the door and into her car.
Baby in car seat. Key in ignition. Accelerator down to speed home. The baby falls asleep. She pulls into apartment complex. 4:18. Gathers the baby, food, diapers, and runs into the building. She leaps up the stairs, finds a note taped to the door. I WAS HERE. YOU WEREN’T. Signed Stan (The Plumber).
She puts down her bags. Rummages for her keys. Unlocks the door. The stench from the toilet assaults her. She holds her breath, carries the baby, who is crying again, to his playpen. Puts the groceries in the kitchen. Opens all the windows. Takes a deep breath. The baby is crying. Mama. Pick up. Mama. Just a minute, she says. Mama. Mama. The baby throws a rattle over the top of the playpen. Mama. Then a book. A stuffed animal. A ball. She rushes to the kitchen, throws macaroni and cheese noodles in the pan of water set to boil. Puts frozen peas in another. Takes off her shoes.
The baby is screaming. Mama. Mama. MAAMAA. Working himself into a fit. Phone rings. It’s her husband. What’s the problem? What’s going on? Why is the baby screaming like that? What did The Plumber say? You what? You missed The Plumber? How could you do that? How stupid. You idiot. He slams down the phone.
She picks up the baby and hugs him, and he hugs back. He plays with her hair. She nuzzles his neck. I love you, she says. I love you. He laughs. Hugs her again and she breathes his skin in and thinks he smells good. She loves the way her only baby smells.
She hears a swoosh. Then crackling. She smells something burning. Runs to the kitchen with the baby on her hip. Starchy water from the noodles has boiled all over the stove. The peas are black and stuck to the bottom of the pan. She turns down the noodles. Throws the pea pan in the sink. Watches it sizzle. Takes the baby back to his playpen. He is clinging to her neck. Crying. Just a minute, she says. Mommy has to wash the pan. He won’t let go. Squeezing tiny fingers into her flesh. She takes him back with her into the kitchen. Balances him on a hip while she fills the blackened pot with water. She scrubs with one arm while the baby hangs on. She’s scrubbing, scrubbing. The baby tries to help. He reaches for the water. Tries to wriggle away. Dirty water splashes onto her face. She puts him down. He screams. She picks him up. He nuzzles her face. Play, Mama. Love, Mama. She turns off the water and takes him into the other room.
They snuggle and play on the floor. He brings her toys, then books. He crawls into her lap and giggles. This makes her smile. He kisses her. She hugs him over and over. He’s climbing into her lap with his favorite, Pat the Bunny, when she hears her husband’s key in the door.
She remembers the boiling noodles and stands to return to the kitchen. The baby starts screaming again. Her husband comes in as she’s stepping over the kitchen’s threshold. What the hell? he says. Look at this place. What are we, goddamned pigs here? He follows her into the kitchen. She picks up the pan of gummy noodles, tosses them into the colander, throws them back in the pan. The baby’s sobbing. Bunny. Mama. He crawls into the kitchen. Her husband sniffs the sink. You think I’m going to eat that crap? What the hell happened to that pan? You burned it? You think pans grow on trees? She bends down, picks up the baby, goes to the refrigerator, gets out butter and milk. She stirs it into the noodles and adds the cheese. She takes out three plates and plops a spoonful in the middle of each. She puts the plates on the table, straps the baby into his highchair. This is dinner? her husband asks.
I had a hard day, she says.
You missed The Plumber, he says.
I had to stop at the grocery store, she says.
You only work part-time, he says.
I’m a mother, too, she says.
Congratulations, he says. You really are something.
After dinner, her husband says he’s going to use the bathroom next door at Joe’s.
Just the bathroom? she says.
Maybe I’ll stay for a beer, he says.
One beer?
What’s it to ya? You my mother?
He leaves. She puts the baby in his playpen in front of the evening news. Goes back to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Scrubs the pan hard with S.O.S. Puts her whole body into it. Works the layer of burnt food off the bottom with the force of her arms, knuckles, fingers--until her flesh feels raw. It feels good scrubbing grit off this pan, she thinks. Now it’s clean. Like new. She holds it up in the air to admire.
She passes by the baby jabbering to Tom Brokaw on her way to run the bath water. The stench overwhelms her. Stings her eyes. She gags but calms herself. Tries not to think about it. Goes back out to playpen. Picks up the baby. Carries him to bathroom and undresses him. Caresses a chubby leg, kisses a wiggly toe. Puts his dirty clothes in the overflowing hamper in the hall. Lowers him into the tub. He smiles and splashes. She sponges warm water onto his tummy, his back, his arms, his pudgy little toes. This little piggy went. This little piggy went. Wa-wa-wa.
Mama, the baby says. Fun. Mama. Piggy.
That’s right, she says. You’re talking. And this little piggy went wee wee wee.
The front door slams. Tromp, tromp. Drawers open. Drawers close. Shuffle. Shuffle. Goddamn it, he says. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. He’s in the bathroom. Where’s my undershirts? he says.
Probably dirty, she says.
The baby starts crying. All done, Mama. Out.
She lifts the baby out. Why? he says.
I didn’t wash them yet, she says.
What the hell’s going on around here? What the hell’s the problem?
There’s a lot of work to do around here, she says. She takes the baby into his room to dress him.
Bull, her husband says, following her. You got a dishwasher. You got disposable diapers. A washer and dryer in the laundry room. The problem is, you don’t like housework.
I do my best, she says. It’s hard.
It’s not good enough, he says. It stinks. Nothing gets done.
Fuck you, she thinks. I’ll work on laundry tonight, she says. He tromps into the living room and puts “Sixty Minutes” on TV. Tick tick tick tick tick.
She dresses the baby. Carries him into the bathroom, lets the water out of the tub. Takes the baby into the kitchen and puts his bottle in the microwave. Get me a beer? her husband says. She waits for the beep. Grabs a beer. Carries the baby with her into the living room. Tosses her husband the beer and sits on the Lazy-Boy with the baby and his bottle. The baby sucks milk. Her husband drinks beer. She puts the binky in the baby’s mouth. The baby sucks and sucks and falls asleep.
She carries the baby into his crib and turns out the light. Picks up the hamper full of clothes, jar of laundry change, box of detergent, and carries it all toward the front door. Where you going? her husband says.
Laundry, she says.
Toss me another beer before you leave, he says.
My hands are full, she says.
Damn, he says. You’re right there.
She puts down the hamper, grabs a beer and throws it at him.
Whoa, what a tough woman liberator, he says.
She leaves. Walks to the laundry room. Separates lights from darks. Delicates from permanent press. Puts each load into a different machine. Pours detergent into each washer. Fits money into the slots. Click. Click. Chuga-chuga. Click. Chuga-chuga. The machines are all on. All the laundry is in. She feels good. Lucky to have all these machines. All hers. At once.
She sits down in the metal folding chair. Puts her feet up on the long wooden table and closes her eyes. Hears water filling the machines. Hears the swishing. Imagines the clothes relaxing. Warm water penetrating their seams. She’s drifting off to the rhythm of the wash cycles.
Tromp. Tromp. Her husband in the doorway. Standing beside her. Breathing on her head. The baby’s crying, he says.
What? she says.
The baby’s crying.
What’s the matter?
I don’t know. He’s crying. Come on.
She rises, heart beating hard, races up the stairs and back into the apartment. Her throat feels stuck. Short of breath. She rushes toward the baby. He’s standing in his crib crying Mama. She picks him up, feels his head, rubs his back. Shhh. It’s okay. Mama’s here. She rubs and rubs and he falls back asleep.
She tucks him in, watches him breathe. Then she walks into the living room and stands behind the sofa. Her husband is sprawled. Surrounded by more beer. A box of Better Cheddars. Watching “America’s Most Wanted.”
Why didn’t you check the baby? she asks.
He wanted you, he says.
That’s because I always go to him. I was busy.
Come on. You were on vacation. Snoozing.
He reaches back, pulls her arm, brings her down on the sofa with him.
Don’t do that, she says pushing him away.
I’m kidding. Lighten up. Damn.
But her husband’s still holding tight.
I’ve got to finish the laundry, she says.
Come on, he says. Relax. You’re so uptight.
I’m busy, she says.
Come on. You’re looking for excuses. You know what your problem is? You don’t know how to relax.
He presses his thick cheddary lips into the tender flesh of her neck. Sucks hard. She squirms and tries to twist away. He wedges her firmly into the corner of the sofa. His arms encircle her. He sucks flesh between his lips.
Stop it, she says. I don’t like hickeys.
Come on. You taste good. Loosen up.
I have to check the laundry, she says.
It can wait.
Not the delicates.
He grinds his groin into her leg. Do you feel it? he asks.
Let me up, she cries.
Not yet. It’ll feel good.
He works his rubbery lips down her neck into the flesh at the top of her bosom. He grinds and grinds. Begins to groan. She pushes him away.
Come on, he says. She tries to get away. He yanks open her shirt.
You ripped my shirt, she cries.
It’s sexy, he says. He works his lips down to her nipple and sucks hard.
That hurts, she says.
He groans and reaches for the zipper on her pants.
She can’t move. She tries to think of something else. The toilet stench thickens. She gags.
MAMA, the baby cries. MAA. MAAMAA.
Damn it, her husband says.
She pushes him away and rushes to the baby’s room. The baby’s standing, arms reaching for her.
What’s the matter, Honey? she says. Picks him up and pulls him into her chest.
Mama, he says. He snuggles into the gully in her neck and falls back asleep. She hugs him with her quivering arms. She rocks him. He rocks. They lull each other. She walks with him over to the stuffed chair in the corner of the room and sits. Hugging and crying. I love you, she says. I love you.
Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Her husband’s standing over her. What the hell? he says. I told you earlier I don’t have a goddamn clean T-shirt.
I fell asleep, she says.
No shit, he says.
She stands up, puts the baby back in the crib, tiptoes out of the room. She walks to the living room and toward the front door. He follows her.
I mean I deserve clean clothes. A person deserves clean clothes.
She opens the door, about to leave.
And hurry the fuck up, he says. I’m tired. I’ve got to get up in the morning and work a long day. Then he grabs his t-shirt over his head and says, And I had to wear this shirt two stinkin days. He shoves it in her arms. Wash it, he says.
She’s in the doorway, almost gone, when she turns and says it: Fuck you.
What? he says.
Go fuck yourself, she says. You’re not the only one who works. You finish the laundry. I’m going to bed.
What?
He walks over.
What the fuck? he says. He yanks her back inside and closes the front door. What the hell is your problem?
Problem? Problem? My problem is I’m tired. And I’m sick of doing everything around here while you sit around and do what the hell you want.
Come on now, Honey. You know I need to unwind at the end of the day. Anyway you’re so much better at all this stuff. I don’t know how you do it. You’re amazing. You know I’d ruin the laundry. All those pretty little tops you wear.
She stands near the door. So tired she can barely think. So sick of his shit she thinks she could strangle him.
She glares at him a second, opens the door, walks out, slams the door. Heads for the stairs that lead to the laundry room. He sticks out his head and shouts, Don’t pull this shit on me!
In the laundry room, she opens all the washers. One. Two. Three. Places the baby’s clothes in one dryer on high heat. Puts her delicates in another dryer on air. Yanks her husband’s clothes out of the washer and throws them and his dirty stinking t-shirt on the floor and grinds them under her feet. She bends over and finds his favorite work shirt and spits on it and rolls and twists it into a convoluted pretzel and bangs it hard against the wooden table. Then she kicks all his clothes into the corner. She watches the baby’s and her clothes spinning in the windows of the dryers. They’re flying round and round. Buttons and snaps bang against inner walls. Ping. Scrape. Ping. Ping. She looks over at her husband’s clothes and notices something peeking out of a breast pocket. She gets up and, as she approaches, she sees it’s the binky. She walks over, picks it up. Then she sees everything. Her husband’s mouth at her breast. His manipulations. His cruel pleasures. Her collusion with him to create anger and pain.
Gail Konop Baker's work has appeared in Xanadu, Womansong, Pudding
Magazine, Glass Review, and an anthology funded by the Ohio Arts Council. She recently completed her novel,
The Me Nobody Knew. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
|
