Page 55 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
I shouldn’t have talked about falling down the stairs with Toddy. There were things I shouldn’t talk about, shouldn’t think about. This was one of them.
I tried to roll over, but Riley was asleep on my legs like a seventy-pound blanket. It was still dark, but that didn’t mean much. At this time of year, it was dark until almost 9 a.m. My guess was it was before six. Emerald hadn’t woken yet. In just a little while she’d get restless, and I’d go down the hall and pick her up. I’d change her, then bring her downstairs and make a bottle for her. I’d try another mashed banana and some rice cereal.
I wondered if my mother was ever coming back. If past was prologue, she would be back. Once things were a little easier. I have to be honest and admit there are definitely worse people than my mother—and she had a habit of attracting them. By comparison, she often looked good. I don’t think she did it on purpose. Yes, she was manipulative, but choosing people who were bad enough to make her look good was genius level manipulation. And I don’t think she’s a genius. She’s just unlucky in lucky ways. That’s all.
Down the hall, Emerald let out an exploratory cry. The day was beginning. As I changed her, I wondered about what I should try to accomplish. I had a report to write, which meant I had to do things that allowed me to ignore that. Important things that would allow me to say, I couldn’t possibly write up that report, I was doing the important thing. I just had no idea what that was.
The truth was, there wasn’t much to do. It was looking more and more like our client, Melanie Frasier, was in the clear. She hadn’t been arrested. They clearly didn’t have enough evidence against her. If this wereLaw & Order, Melanie would be suspect number one, at fifteen minutes we’d learn that she couldn’t possibly have done it, and after the commercial break, we’d move on to another suspect—also not the killer. The killer was never discovered until the forty-five-minute mark, leading to a long and dramatic confession, a few ironic remarks from the detectives and a lot more commercials.
When Emerald and I arrived in the kitchen, Nana Cole was already sitting at the table with a cup of tea in front of her. I said, “Good morning” but got no response.
I got Emerald into the high chair, and she immediately began to bang the tray, as though demanding her breakfast. I put a saucepan on the stove with some water and turned it on so I could warm up her bottle. Then I mashed up a banana in a bowl.While I waited for the water to warm, I sat across from Emerald and stuck a spoon full of banana into her mouth.
“Are you not talking to me?” I asked Nana Cole without turning around to look at her.
Silence was my answer. I ignored her for a long time. Once I’d heated up the formula, I used a bit of it to make the rice cereal, and tried to figure out which to give her first. The food thing was still new. Should I do one after the other or should I intersperse them? Adults, most adults, like to have some liquid with their meal and food: liquid, food, liquid. Did babies do the same? I decided to follow our pediatrician’s advice and let Emerald lead. I got some cereal into her, some banana, and then offered her the bottle. She took it.
That left me wondering how to get it away from her. Should I coax it away or just let her finish. I decided to wait for disinterest. While I waited, I made my grandmother a simple breakfast. Most mornings she didn’t have much more than an apple and some peanut butter. Occasionally, she might have toast or an English muffin. Once in a while, some scrambled eggs.
I cut up the apple, smeared a coupled of tablespoons of peanut butter onto the plate and set it in front of her.
“If you want something else, just say so.”
I sat back down across from Emerald again. I really wanted to make a pot of coffee, but that would have to wait. My sister had lost interest in the bottle and plunked a hand into cereal bowl, mushing the contents between her fingers. I took her spoon and scraped some of it off her hands and put it into her mouth. She looked uncertain but kept moving it around her mouth.
Behind me, Nana Cole said, “This is all your fault.”
I was pretty sure I knew what she meant, but said, “Babies are messy. I’m sure I’ve heard you say that a few times.”
“Everything’s different since you got here.”
“That doesn’t make anything my fault.”
“I think it does. I haven’t figured out how, yet. But I will.”
This was a particular kind of thinking I was familiar with, though she hadn’t applied it to me before. Whenever something happened that she didn’t like—the cost of Medicare going up, groceries prices rising, a pothole in Masons Bay, whatever—it was always the Democrats’ fault. She could seldom explain why—until she’d watched Sean Hannity, though even then the explanations were shaky. She knew who she wanted to blame and blamed them. Logic be damned.
“Your friends didn’t catch lesbianism from me, if that’s what you think.”
I kept my focus on Emerald. I wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t about to throw both of us into the street. Everything she believed would be telling her that’s the right thing to do. I regretted not having my convertible roof fixed. I suppose if I just filled the car up and drove south we’d be in warmer weather in a day or so. Maybe it wasn’t such a disaster. Though couch surfing in Los Angeles would be a lot more difficult with a baby in tow. I’d need to get a job pretty quickly. One where I could bring the baby with me. I certainly couldn’t afford daycare. I didn’t even want to think about how little there was left in my bank account. Of course, I could take Nana Cole’s credit card with me. It would take her a few days to cancel it.
Jesus Christ, how did women do this?
And then, I heard the crunch of Nana Cole biting into her apple. This was how we Coles did things. We moved forward, usually vowing to ignore whatever the problem was. Apologies were not offered, lessons were not learned, secrets became things that never happened. It’s not a bad coping mechanism, particularly since I didn’t want to end up floating around the country in a leaky convertible with an infant.
“I played trivia with Patty Gauthier and Brian Belcher the other night. Do you know much about them?”
After a moment, she said, “I know they live next door to each other. Patty was married once long time ago. Sheriff Crocker’s cousin, I think. No one thought it would last. She didn’t even take his name. Wouldn’t commit. The Belcher boy lost his mother long time ago, then his father last winter sometime. Cancer, both of them, I think. I’m surprised he’s still around. Most younger people would sell the house and move on. Summer people are paying a lot for houses on the water.”
“Patty told me Bobbie LaCross killed a man. Did you ever hear that?”
I still wasn’t looking at her. Wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Our truce was delicate and newborn; I didn’t want to ruin it. Besides, Emerald was doing an excellent job on her breakfast.
“No, I never heard anything like that.”
And then, I put two and two together.
“Oh shit.”
