Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [126]
She stopped in the median at Broadway and Ninety-first. Neena was standing at the fruit stand across the street, inspecting an apple. Plastic grocery bags were looped over her arm, and nestled inside an Indian print sling, a baby clung to her stomach. Eliza decided that she would wait here on the curb for Neena to see her. She would let her decide. But she didn’t look up. Would she even recognize her, another pregnant girl on a street corner in New York? Eliza flew across the street, in front of a bike messenger and a honking bus, and stood panting before her. She slipped her sunglasses back on her head. “Hi, Neena.”
The honking had stirred the baby, who fussed in its sleep. Neena took in the whole enlarged shape of Eliza. “It’s you. Goodness, you nearly run me over.”
“I saw you across the street. It must be a big shock to see me.”
“Your mother been very worried. Very angry with me for letting you go.” Neena, weighed down by the bags and the baby, did not offer a hug. “Where you been?”
It sent a strangely warm current over her skin, her mother’s familiar worry, her housekeeper’s familiar iciness. “Vermont, Florida. Everywhere. Who’s this?” Eliza nodded at the baby, who was wiggling in its sling. The baby had the same crimson dot on its forehead as Neena, and tiny gold studs in its earlobes.
“Grandchild,” said Neena. “My son’s.”
“It’s a girl?”
“A baby girl. Bala.”
“Bala.” Eliza reached, tentatively at first, and then as though she did it all the time, to stroke the baby’s head. It had as much hair as a full-grown man, and it was as silky and warm as the spun sugar Neena used to make. Her little eyes were closed, and she looked as though she were fighting a difficult battle in her dreams. Eliza had never, ever touched a baby.
Suddenly Neena unleashed the largest smile Eliza had ever seen on her face. “She making relief,” she said, bouncing the baby a little with her hips.
Eliza withdrew her hand.
“When your baby will be born?” Neena asked. Her smile vanished as quickly as it had come.
“September.”
“September when?”
“I’m not sure,” Eliza said.
Neena made a dismissive, horsey sound. “Your mother will be glad you home. I tell her when she calls.”
“No, I don’t want her to know,” Eliza said. “Where is she? She’s not home?”
“She looking for you. In Chicago. She call at my son’s house to check if you call. I helping with the baby.”
“She’s still in Chicago? You’re not staying at my mom’s?”
“I just there to cook in the big oven and water the bonsais.”
Now Eliza could see that Neena’s blouse was wet, where the baby had clamped its mouth on one of her breasts. It was hungry. Eliza lifted the keys from the chain between her own breasts.
“No one’s staying there at all?” she asked.
Nineteen
After weeks of sleeping in the van and in motels and on Rooster’s floor, moving into the air-conditioned sanctum of Di’s apartment felt like a luxurious crime, as though they were breaking into some movie star’s mansion and were waiting for the police to arrive. It was the size of Tower Records, and had things like a Macintosh computer, a laserdisc player, and a bidet, which Delph and Kram used immediately, reporting the details of their experiences. Delph and Kram took the two single beds in the guest room, and Matthew and Ben took over the living room. Johnny stopped by long enough to drop off his stuff in Neena’s quarters, where he had his own TV and minifridge and telephone line. He said, “I’ll stay at Rooster’s if someone else wants it,” and Eliza said, in front of everyone, “I’m sure you would,” and then Johnny left to meet Rooster at Tompkins to protest the curfew. Evidently the householders no longer cared about keeping up the appearance of sharing a bed. Jude took Di’s room, because no one else wanted to share with him, either, and because no one else wanted the responsibility