Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [113]
It gave Jude a sense of satisfaction, that his instincts to run had been right. But now, after this weeklong high, this breathless bodega-food binge, they were rocketing out of New York, light-years away from Vermont. They were reunited, and they had made another narrow escape, and not only from Tory and Di. They were safe also from the secrets they had kept from one another, and the secret they had all kept together. Johnny was a model husband. Eliza was a model wife. Jude was a model friend, his Converse straddling the engine between them. “What about Joan?” he asked. “For Joan Jett.”
They were discussing girls’ names for the baby, rock-and-roll alternatives to the southern, dour Annabel Lee. Theirs would be a punk rock baby.
Over the clamor of the engine, Johnny said, “Jett isn’t her real last name. It’s Larkin.”
“I don’t care what her last name is. I’m not naming my baby Joan.”
“I’ve always liked La Toya,” Johnny said.
“Belinda,” Jude offered.
“She’s not punk enough anymore.”
“You know Joan Jett ran away at fifteen?” Johnny, who was cupping a bag of sugared peanuts in his lap, tossed a handful into his mouth and passed them to Eliza. “Her mother was sleeping with her boyfriend. That’s when she formed the Runaways.”
“Like us?” Eliza wondered, adjusting her sunglasses. They liked to conceive of their situation in terms they were familiar with. Punk bands, musicals, young adult novels. Jude and Johnny were the Greasers fleeing the Socs, and Eliza was Cherry Valance, the girl from the right side of the tracks. They were the Runaways, betrayed by their parents, only they’d stitched their way into and out of so many states it was hard to keep track of which one they were running from.
“She’s also vegan,” Johnny said. “And she produced the Germs’ album.”
“Wait, what was Belinda Carlisle’s name in the Germs?”
“Dottie Danger.”
“Dottie Danger! That’s good.”
“And Lorna Doom. Lorna Doom played bass.”
“Or what about Exene,” said Jude, “from X?”
“Ooh, that sounds very edge,” Johnny said. “A straight edge baby.”
Would their baby be a straight edge baby? Jude caught a glance from Eliza in the rearview. Would their baby, Exene McNicholas, toking on her mother’s THC-rich umbilical cord, be received into the straight edge order? They’d made a pact, Eliza and Jude: he wouldn’t tell Johnny if she quit; she’d quit if he didn’t tell Johnny. What had she been thinking? Did she have a shred of self-discipline? Did she believe for a second she was mommy material? These were the accusations Eliza had spewed, not Jude, as she paced Prudence’s bedroom, holding her hair in her hands. Jude had listened quietly as she bawled herself out, and when she was done, there was little he could add. Then she’d answered herself with explanations: she’d just been so lonely, so hopeless, it was so hard for her to get out of bed, did he know what she meant? She’d never really been into pot—maybe it was Les pushing it on her all these years—but now she could see its allure, its sedative weight, it sent her on a vacation from herself. Of course she had thought about Annabel. But that was why she had done it—so she wouldn’t have to think about Annabel. It had been weeks since she’d seen her husband, months since she’d seen her mother, even Jude didn’t pay attention to her anymore.
That even had plunked on his heart, heavy as a nickel. As though Jude were the one she’d thought was a given. What else could he do but cover for her? And watch her like a hawk? There had been only one other time, she told him. All in all, she hadn’t even smoked a whole joint. Would that kill anyone? Harriet had smoked pot, Jude reasoned, and Prudence was alive. Prudence did not have three ears, or her liver on the outside of her body. The baby would be okay.
What made him furious—was this