Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [47]
They reached the landing, panting. Beetle’s room was directly in front of them.
“He’s wet,” Tragedy explained, expertly picking up the baby from his crib. She rocked him back and forth, her Amazonian body swaying with motherly grace. “Aren’t you, bud? Well, I’m gonna fix it. Don’t you worry. It’s okay. I was a little squirt like you once. I remember how bad it sucks.”
Shipley and Adam stood mutely in the doorway as she laid Beetle down on the rug and removed the legs of his terry-cloth suit. His diaper was swollen and yellow.
“Lookit all that pee,” Tragedy crooned as she removed the soiled diaper and replaced it with a fresh one. Beetle had stopped crying. He smiled his toothless, goofy smile at his new adored aunty. “Lookit that little wiener. It’s like a worm. Just a little worm.”
“Thanks so much for coming over,” Shipley said. The doorway was narrow. She and Adam were practically touching.
“It’s hard to imagine how guys ever get to be guys looking at a precious little fucker like this, huh?” Tragedy zipped Beetle up into a clean terry-cloth jumpsuit. This one had orange and brown tiger stripes and four little points on the end of each of the footies, like tiger claws. “There you go, hot stuff.” She kissed the tip of Beetle’s nose and picked him up, flying him over her head like a human airplane. “One day I’m going to have at least twelve of these things. My own crazy crew. Babies and animals everywhere.”
Shipley and Adam stared blankly back at her, both focused on the humming centimeter of space between them.
“Why don’t you guys go make some coffee or something while I try to put him down?” Tragedy suggested. “Does he have a bottle?”
“Oh, I forgot about the bottle.” Shipley dashed downstairs and came back with the breast-shaped bottle from the fridge. “This is what they said to use.”
Tragedy took the bottle and held it against her chest. “Ha! Mine are bigger.” She sat down in the rocking chair in the corner and settled Beetle in her lap to drink his milk. She watched him drink for a while and then turned to glare at Shipley and Adam, still standing in the doorway. “Would you please get the fuck out of here?”
Adam backed away and headed downstairs.
“Are you sure?” Shipley asked, desperate to follow him.
“Uh-huh,” Tragedy said without looking up.
Downstairs Adam opened and closed the kitchen cupboards. Shipley went over to the sink and flushed the mound of cigarette ash down the drain.
“They don’t have any coffee,” she told him. “I checked.”
He opened the refrigerator door. “Are you thirsty?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me neither,” he said, closing it again.
It was dark outside. The house was quiet save for the rattling November wind. Shipley glanced at the radio, wondering if she should turn it back on.
“Did you see the scarecrow?” she asked.
“No. Yes. I’ve seen it before,” Adam said. “Pretty crazy.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Adam’s hair was a deeper red than Shipley remembered. It was auburn. And his freckles had faded a little. He looked thinner too, and taller. “Your sister got mad when I called. She said you were…upset.” She leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Are you…Is it…better?”
Adam watched her mouth move, reveling in the notion that it was moving for his sake. In his incessant Shipley fantasies they never did much talking, only kissing. He wasn’t prepared for talking.
“I was disappointed,” he admitted, pressing his back against the fridge. “Because I thought we were…friends.”
Maybe it was the wine and cigarettes going to her head, but Shipley was suddenly struck by how very similar this scene was to the laundry room fantasy she’d had at home while packing for college.
Her mother, who dry-cleaned everything except her underwear, insisted that Shipley learn to use a washer and dryer.
“There won’t be any cleaning lady at college, and you can’t use the laundry service