Other People's Children

Sam Blue spends a couple of hours a week sitting in the outskirts of his old home-town, watching it twinkle in the distance; a far, blurred image that seems the same as it was when he was young, though he knows it is not. Sam sits in his van on the edge of a farm, beer at his crotch and elbow propped solidly in the window frame. He prefers to go just after work at sundown, likes to see the shape of the town, how it shadow-points like a finger toward the purpling darkness, reaching. It makes him cold, still he goes.

He lives in Wichita now. It is too big for him, though he knows it is nothing compared to places like New York or Chicago. Sam has never been outside the Midwest. He does not consider Chicago the Midwest.

Sam lives with his wife Barb on Peachtree Street. Every house on Peachtree is a one-story bungalow. Barb is from Wichita. She has not quite recovered from high school. She does not wear make-up much anymore, nor does she style her hair. When Barb goes out, she feathers her hair like she did when she was seventeen. She wears blue eye shadow and bubble gum lip gloss. She discourages Sam from joining her and the girls. Her friends are all at least five years her junior. They call her “Mom” and tell her about their gynecological problems over cocktails. Sam is not disappointed when Barb leaves him at home.

Sam has friends but, like himself, they are all married now. He tries not to reminisce too much about “the old days,” before love came stumbling in, blew out the T.V. with a shotgun and stole all the good albums. He tries to remember that it wasn’t always a big party, that sometimes it was a major drag. Instead, he sees them all in Greg’s smoky basement, stoned mindless and deeply listening to Styx on the record player. One of the guys starts to snicker at nothing in particular and it sets off a regular group-giggle that sustains itself until they all gasp and are lightheaded and need to light up the bong again.

When Sam spends those few hours a week up on the hill, he does sometimes think of those days. He knows they were fruitless, meandering, pointless times but understands how the memories gain measureless relevance when he stops thinking about Barb and starts thinking about before-Barb.

Sam sips his beer slowly, lets it tingle down his throat in foamy streams, likes the acrid smell of hops and yeast weaving tendrils up his nose. He waits until the sun has set to get moving, knowing he will find Barb curled on the couch watching the Dukes of Hazzard with a bowl of half-dried remnants of ice cream smearing the sides. He will kiss her cheek and ask her how her day went and she will say “fine.” He will make Hamburger Helper and she will salt her plate until his eyes water and they will watch the fat fish swim languid strokes through the tank while they sip Country Time and smoke. They usually only fight in the morning.

Sam sighs and crumples the can under his seat. He pulls out onto the dirt road and heads toward highway 51, feeling as though something warm is drawing away from him, sending him tumbling into an unnamable darkness he feels should be familiar by now but is not.

***

Lincoln Elementary School is situated directly across from Sam’s house. Barb earns supplementary income by baby-sitting five or six kids from Lincoln before and after school. Barb dreams of having her own day care center some day and Sam would like to give her at least that much, but they are only making ends meet with his handy-man company. Sam’s company is not thriving, but it gives him a sort of satisfaction that nothing else in his life does.

Sam can do everything. He installs linoleum, repairs minor plumbing problems, cleans gutters, paints interiors and exteriors, erects bird houses, lays concrete for patios, and so on. He learned everything from his Uncle Dan, who let him follow along all throughout Sam’s childhood and adolescence. Uncle Dan had a knack for the miscellaneous; he understood how the little things worked when no one else would bother to care until that small convenience broke. Uncle Dan was Sam’s mother’s brother, the oldest of the five siblings. He disliked most children except for Sam, whom he tolerated because the boy was mercifully quiet and infinitely awed by everything his uncle did and knew. Uncle Dan hated Sam’s father, who had slinked out of town soon after Sam was born.

“Stinking son of a bitch,” he’d say as he laid new tile or installed shelving in some old lady’s kitchen. “I told your mother, I told her. But she says, ‘No, no Danny. He’s not like that,’ she says. Fit to drive me sick, sometimes, watching her curl her pinkie finger through his hair, looking at him like he’s some kinda John Travolta or what-have you. I’ll tell ya, Sammy: the greatest day of your life was the day that stinking son of a bitch walked out on your Mama. God knows it near destroyed her and that ain’t nothing to celebrate, but you were both better off. His leaving was proof enough of that. A real man stands his ground, that’s what I say. A real man doesn’t go leavin’ his family to sink or swim on their own.”

If Sam closes his eyes he can see the butt in his Uncle’s teeth, and the smoke snaking up the side of his salt and pepper stubbled cheek, twisting around his ear and threading through his Brylcreemed hair. He can hear him as well as the wind against the side of the house. “I couldn’t hardly stand watchin’ her sugaring him up with that sweetie talk and what-not, you know, huggin’ on him and gazing into his eyes like he’s Elvis come home again or some shit. We all knew he’d blow it. Everyone but her. Ah, well. Hand me that hammer, kid.”

***

This morning is like many others: the fighting starts around eight, when Sam’s head is still muddled from sleep and Barb is naturally angriest. When he rises at seven, he does not try to kiss her awake or bring her coffee in bed; he knows only that he must tread lightly and breathe shallowly. Usually, they fight because he breathes too loudly, or he dirties too many clothes and the stains won’t come out, or there is never enough money for nice things, like Barb’s mother owns, shining in the window and gleaming in the china cabinet. They fight because he does not smile when their glances meet, or he does smile and she sees a guilty, cheating glint in his eyes. They fight because he spends too much time at work while she is locked away in the dim rooms of their rented bungalow, sorting laundry, following the soaps and the Hundred Thousand Dollar Pyramid. They fight because he is under her feet, taking up space, looking at her wrong, not noticing her gentle beauty, not making her heart beat fast enough, and making it beat too fast when he is not home before seven. She worries and frets, pulls out her hair and lets the tears well in her eyes. When he arrives, breathless and dirt-tired, she calls him an ugly name and tells him to never, ever do that again.

Sam cannot recollect the number of times he has lunged out of the bedroom, a nail-inflicted nick on his forehead drizzling blood or a red, sore blotch forming into a bruise on his cheek because Barb is nothing if not a Damned Good Shot. She has broken many trinkets against his wearied flesh, shrieking at an inarticulate pitch until a deep, smelling animal twists within him, a bull gleaming with sweat and streaming blood down its back, and he charges her. He sees that flash, a carnal, welcoming glow that settles in her eyes and twists her mouth into a tiny, insectile smile. In the mists of darkness, where deep inside he is still himself, a calm, thoughtful human with much capacity for warmth and careful love, he looks at her, both of them panting and silent, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him. Later, Sam thinks about it as she sleeps defenseless next to him. He sweats and tries to strangle the image, the implications.

Of all the subjects to fight about, having children is the worst. “I’ve said ‘no,’ okay? I’ve said it again and again. Why isn’t that good enough?” Barb had said last night, rolling her eyes and running her fingers through her hair much like her cocktail friends did whenever some hot shot with four hundred dollar cowboy boots strutted by their table at a club. “Jesus Christ, will you please stop looking at me like that? You look like some lost fucking puppy.”

“I’m not a lost fucking puppy.”

“Well then what.”

“I want more than ‘no.’ I still want to know why.”

“Why do you have to keep pushing me? I do your laundry, I cook your meals, I clean your house. I give you sex whenever you want it, for God’s sake!”

“Why won’t you?”

“Stop pushing me!”

“Why won’t you?”

“Fine! Fine! Fuck you, then! You want to know why? Fine. I don’t want to have your kids, okay? Satisfied? Are we done now?”

Sam remembered darkness and a jungle smell that he was sure came from him. He felt a sharp pain in his hand, the world grew bright, and he saw his wife fastened to the flesh of his hand, biting hard as tears ran down her face. His hands were around her neck. He shoved her away, his eyes wide as she began to cough, leaning against the wall, hands to her knees.

Sam left, shivering in the winter frost, and revving his van’s engine until the defroster kicked in. He drove up and down the canal route, squinting at the white streetlights and the overlapping graffiti on the canal walls. “Led Zep,” “Alicia and Tony 4-ever,” “Loverboy,” “’78 Rulzz,” “God is dead.”

***

Now, as he butters his toast, he watches Barb sweep on a housecoat to answer a knock at the door, kicking old, unwrapped newspapers and coasters out of the way. Her wrinkled, sour face loosens as she opens the door to the brisk winter light, and she brightens in a miraculous smile of greeting. She speaks in cheerful, “good morning glory!” tones that draw smiles from the tired parents’ faces, despite their hurry and exhaustion. The children do not smile. He watches them carefully.

When the door closes, the children sit on the couch and watch T.V. until it is time to leave for school. They do not squirm around, and stay painfully silent. Barb sometimes gives them Twinkies, but today she retreats to the bedroom to stare at the wall as she holds the pink teddy bear her daddy gave her for Easter when she was six.

Barb’s favorite is Leslie, a sallow, skinny fourth-grader with knowing eyes. Leslie does not stare and makes very little noise, often losing herself in inexplicable games that Sam does not understand. Her favorite is peeling the foil from old gum wrappers, rolling the pieces into balls and flattening each ball with the width of her little nails. She gathers them into piles, whispering unintelligible words as she transfers each collection from one side of the coffee table to the other.

Of all the children in Barb’s care, Leslie is the only one that makes Sam uncomfortable. Although Leslie does not stare, she seems to have no trouble looking directly into Sam’s eyes. Sam has the irrational notion that she understands more than she ought to, and he is shy of her.

Barb buys Leslie gifts, telling the little girl to keep these things secret from the other children. Sam is annoyed at the sight of “Hello Kitty” paraphernalia; little plastic coin holders, tiny pencils, and other pink trash that Barb delights in buying, as if these trinkets were for her, instead of the little girl she baby-sits. They can afford the occasional treat for Barb’s favorite “client” (an expression that forces Sam’s jaw to clench savagely, no matter how many million times he has heard it), and Sam is not too irritated that Barb dotes on the girl. Sam wants children. Barb is content with other people’s children.

His mistake before leaving is trying to apologize. He finds her curled tight on the bed, arm locked around her bear, eyes wide open. He bends to meet her and her eyes target him, following his movement like an angry dog will watch its owner after being beaten past despair and into the realm of survival. Face to face, Sam frowns at her expression, bewildered by her ability to make him feel guilty and insulted at the same time. She glares at him. Sam decides to touch her, say something soft and good, perhaps make an effort for the smile he knows she keeps only for special occasions or times when he surprises it out of her. His hand reaches to stroke her hair, but before he can begin, she recoils, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Sam is too astonished to answer. His face closes down; his mouth straightens, his eyes flatten, the pupils contract as though he is lost in thought. Sam stands and turns to leave. Barb sits up, her orange-socked feet stomp to the floor. “What? You’re playing mind games now? You’re fucking with me?” Sam is leaving, he is leaving this room. Barb lunges off the bed and grabs his arm. If he does not look at her, this will stop. He looks at the door. “Answer me, goddamn it! Say something! Why are you doing this to me?” Sam shoves her hard. He means for her to land on the bed but she falls short of it, scraping her back against the bed frame before she hits the floor.

When Sam emerges from the room, he makes sure the children are all right, knowing they are not, but needing to see that they are not crying. He finds them dry-eyed, offering him flinching glances and silence. The new ones almost always cry the first time. Sam learned not to be the one to comfort the crying child; it only creates an escalated hysteria and invites a second round with Barb. As far as he knows, none of the children in Barb’s care has ever enlightened a parent to the goings-on at the baby-sitter’s house. Sam feels he should be astounded by this, but is too tired to try.

***

Sam is convincing himself that he does not know why he brought her up here. He knows if she is not back by seven when her mother comes for her, someone will scream kidnapping and it isn’t what he wants. He knows that.

Leslie sits placidly next to Sam as he drives down the dirt road outside of Forest Hill toward the farm. In the distance, he sees the tree he always parks under and a shiver snakes up his back. He looks nervously at the little girl but she is distracted by the neon green, lime ice-cream star he bought for her at Dairy Queen on the way out of Wichita. It is nearly gone now and she is licking stray juice on the inside of her arm.

Sam knows Barb will be furious, whether he brings the kid home now or ten days from now. This thought splits him; a mean-spirited joy intermingles with a strong shot of guilt that makes him angry and sorry at the same time. Before Barb left for the store, she made it clear that she was trusting him to look after the little girl. He knows this should mean something. He distractedly glances at Leslie and sees that she is looking at him, her knowing eyes revealing not what she seems to understand, but only that she senses something about him. A hot flash of sweat breaks out under his arms and he tells himself to stop being so paranoid.

Sam pulls his van under the tree and turns off the ignition. They sit quietly and watch the horizon. He knows he should say something. She might start to freak out; kids did not usually seem to like him. “I used to live there,” he says, gesturing to the pointed finger of Forest Hill.

“Oh.”

They sit for a few moments in silence. Sam is sweating freely now, a growing sense of panic rising in his stomach. He reaches under his seat. “I’m going to have a beer.”

“Okay.” She seems nonchalant, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Sam has never been alone with Leslie and he wonders where her cool comes from, what sort of life she’s seen.

“You want a beer?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

She stirs in her seat and flashes him a nervous look. “No thanks.”

“Don’t like beer?”

“It tastes like pee smells.”

Sam laughs, a strong gut-laughter that rocks the van. Leslie smiles, too. “Now how would you know what beer tastes like?”

“Well,” she says, turning her face toward him more directly, her skinny frame seeming to relax somewhat, “My Uncle Beau makes us drink it when he doesn’t wanna fix us a drink from the kitchen. He drinks Coors. It’s gross.”

Sam laughs again. He feels more relaxed.

“Sam?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Why are we up here?” Her voice is light, but thin, a thread of panic lacing her level facade. “When are we going home?”

Sam pauses for a very long time. He thinks about holding Barb, drawing her close to him they way he had when they were nineteen and drunk off tequila shots in the back of his grandmother’s LTD; how she had looked at him with moonlit eyes and he had seen their future together: a home, a tiny creature with her pale brows and his wavy hair. Sam wants children very badly. The pain is a sharp blade behind his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Sam thinks about it. He thinks about his uncle, the way his father skipped town and how he’d learned years later of his incarceration for petty theft, a reduced charge. Sam thinks about those burning nights after, lying awake and wondering about legacies, genetics, nature, control. He thinks about his father and his own little girl waiting at home, angrily clutching the pink, worn-out teddy bear, a memory of her own father, as she stares at the wall and plans the next battle.

Sam starts the engine and pulls away from the tree, winding their passage through the pale remnants of his childhood, toward home.