by Gregory J. Wolos<\/p>\n
The pregnant woman with the pixie haircut seated across from me on the Red Line was giving me the eye while I scanned my notes in the margins of Thomas Cahill\u2019s book, The Gifts of the Jews<\/em>. I\u2019d be delivering a lecture in half an hour. I taught Jewish Studies classes at three different colleges, though I\u2019d earned my degrees in English Literature. The Dean of Humanities at my first job interview told me the Elizabethan Drama maternity leave post had been filled, and my first thought was to apologize for the Bell\u2019s palsy leer twisting the left side of my face. Before I could tell him I\u2019d been promised the paralysis would soon fade, he asked if I had a background in Jewish Studies — they had an unexpected opening there.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m a lapsed Episcopalian — \u201d I said, which wasn\u2019t exactly true — it was my parents who had lapsed, before I was born; I\u2019d been raised in a religious vacuum. \u201c — but I\u2019m well read.\u201d The dean was satisfied. Jewish Studies my specialty, I became an aficionado of Cahill, a Catholic, and his book about the legacy of God\u2019s chosen.<\/p>\n The young woman held her Buddha belly against the subway\u2019s jostle. Her dark eyes, as large as Spielberg alien\u2019s, caught mine as I peeked above the book I\u2019d gotten used to hiding my face behind: it had been years since the doctor said my features had returned to normal, but I didn\u2019t believe him. I was sure something was off. Uncharacteristically, I played eye tag with the expectant woman for a string of heartbeats, until her cheeks dimpled and she blushed.<\/p>\n The train jolted to a stop, and she pushed herself to her feet. \u201cThat\u2019s a silly-book,\u201d she chirped like a cartoon cricket, then handed me a business card, pink on one side, blue on the other. Maybe for a plastic surgeon, I fretted.<\/p>\n \u201cCall me,\u201d she said before waddling through the sliding doors onto the platform. The pink and blue sides were the same: \u201cJanie Johnson, Surrogate Child Bearer — professional, experienced. Specializing in implants — What\u2019s Yours is Yours<\/em>. References provided on request.\u201d She\u2019d circled her phone number.<\/p>\n I called that night. \u201cWhy me?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have a wise face,\u201d she said. \u201cAlmost kind. There\u2019s something else about it I can\u2019t put my finger on . . .\u201d The ghost of my palsy, I thought.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s silly about my book?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a God-book, which makes it as much about endings as beginnings. My business is only in beginnings. For me, it\u2019s always spring.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow many times have you done — what you do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis is my second time. First was on the West Coast. Listen, do you want to go to a movie or something? I\u2019d say coffee, but I\u2019m off caffeine. I have a whole list of things I\u2019m \u2018off\u2019 and I\u2019m \u2018on.\u2019 The clients are very particular, and it\u2019s their money. Decaf is okay, I guess, or a fruit juice — we can\u2019t really talk at a movie. But I\u2019m antsy. Tomorrow labor\u2019s going to be induced. The clients like to control whatever they can.\u201d<\/p>\n Starbucks it was, on Commonwealth Avenue across from the university dorms, though I still didn\u2019t like to eat or drink in front of people: what if I leaked down my chin without knowing it? I was grading papers when she toddled in, wearing a suit jacket patched at the elbows over a pink dress with yellow daisies that strained against her belly. I waved her over, and she deposited herself across from me like a sack of grain. She glanced about as if she were counting customers.<\/p>\n \u201cI really shouldn\u2019t be doing this. I\u2019m not supposed to — I could forfeit everything<\/em> — \u201d She tried to lean forward, and as I bent to her over the table, she gasped, then whispered in her cricket voice, \u201cCan you believe I get horny? But I\u2019m under contract. \u2018No physical intimacy.\u2019\u201d She threw another look at the entrance. Whether she was after sympathy or a flirtation, I\u2019d already succumbed to both.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to get you in trouble,\u201d I said. \u201cEconomically.\u201d<\/p>\n She sat back. Her hands sculpted her stomach as if her torso was made of sand. \u201cThere are gray areas.\u201d Then she froze. She winced, welts of rouge suddenly obvious on her pale cheeks. She snatched a breath, but couldn\u2019t blink away her pain or frustration.<\/p>\n \u201cBelieve it or not, I\u2019ve got to go to the hospital,\u201d she said. \u201cIf you could just help me get a cab — but that\u2019s all. No noble gestures. You\u2019re just nobody, if anybody asks.\u201d She bit her lip and pretended to look at a wristwatch. \u201cInduced-shminduced — it\u2019s like a damned sitcom!\u201d<\/p>\n I helped her into a cab and returned to my apartment, where I failed to distract myself with students\u2019 answers to the day\u2019s free-write: \u201cWhy religion?\u201d Two students had submitted blank papers, and I slashed a minus next to their names instead of the automatic check I gave everyone else. When my face was disfigured, I worried I would accidentally see one of the sketches I was sure students were doodling during class. These blank papers were worse — as if the culprits were winking at my insecurity, daring me to imagine my own self-portrait.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n I waited nearly two months before calling the number on Janie\u2019s card, reasoning that she would need private time for recovery, but by then it was no longer in service. My life moved along — the year ended, summer flew by, and in the fall I was still an adjunct at three schools, though I\u2019d picked up a fourth course. From time to time — when I saw a pregnant woman or a mother carrying a baby or pushing one in a stroller, I thought of Janie, and wondered if she\u2019d taken whatever sum she\u2019d earned for her surrogacy and found greener pastures.<\/p>\n Then, one evening, late, in the middle of Letterman\u2019s top ten, my phone buzzed.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, stranger — \u201d A child-voice — something melted in my chest. \u201c — it\u2019s Janie Johnson. You\u2019re a hard one to find.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou never had my number.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight. I called a lot of colleges. They don\u2019t like to give out information. The first two wouldn\u2019t release a thing. I told the secretary at the third I was your wife — that I was pregnant, and that it made me forgetful, and that I couldn\u2019t remember your phone number. She gave it to me. You\u2019ll probably get congratulations and questions. I hope I didn\u2019t make things hard for you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you?\u201d It didn\u2019t matter about my number. Adjuncts live in their own sunless universe. I knew my students and nobody else. Administrative details were handled through email.<\/p>\n \u201cAm I — ?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPregnant?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBack in business,\u201d she said. \u201cCoffee? It\u2019s not on the \u2018off\u2019 list, this time. Sex still is, though. But — \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd your last — situation?\u201d I asked, to fill the awkward pause.<\/p>\n \u201cResolved,\u201d she said. \u201cEverything was fine. I\u2019d rather not talk about it.\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n She beat me to Starbucks. I thought I spied her through the window as I approached, but it was another young woman with short hair and big eyes who caught me staring and scowled. I found Janie toward the back — she\u2019d grown out her pixie hair to shoulder length. She wore the same elbow-patched jacket and a skirt cinched around her slim waist. An over-sized mug of coffee steamed in front of her. I signaled her and she smiled and sat up straight. I ordered my coffee at the counter, then stood by our table.<\/p>\n \u201cI tried you, but your service was disconnected,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI was away. Halifax. Visiting friends.\u201d She looked tired — but I\u2019d never seen her thin.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s nice — \u201d<\/p>\n \u201c — To see me with a waist? It\u2019s only the first trimester — it\u2019s supposed to be bad luck to tell anybody yet, but — \u201d she shrugged, \u201c — it\u2019s not mine, right? I\u2019ve got a guarantee clause. Fifty percent for a miscarriage in the first or second trimester, full price for a third semester stillborn — on account of my effort.\u201d She tossed her hair. \u201cGod\u2019s a tough one. He doesn\u2019t give up. Things keep ending — \u201d She paused and took a swallow of her latte, and I watched the muscles work in her throat and the flutter of her lashes.<\/p>\n I stepped away to pick up my coffee, which came in a paper cup instead of the mug I\u2019d asked for. It burned my fingers, even through the cardboard sleeve. \u201cSo, Halifax,\u201d I said as I sat. \u201cNever been. Nova Scotia.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, mm-hmm.\u201d Her eyes shone, and when mine met them, they dipped to something next to her mug. Lying on a black silk handkerchief was a tiny figure. It looked to be an infant Christ from a nativity scene. It was swaddled up to the neck in white and had a pink face and brown hair. If there were facial features, they were too small to see.<\/p>\n \u201cJesus?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOnce.\u201d Janie was grinning. \u201c \u2018Eye<\/em>-no,\u2019 now.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know what<\/em> now?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo — his name<\/em> is Eino<\/em>. He\u2019s the unknown Titanic<\/em> baby. He stands for all the babies that were lost when the ship went down. He\u2019s buried in Halifax, under a monument. Eino Viljami Panula. They knew the unknown baby was one of three, and they did a DNA test, and the lost baby turned out to be Eino. His family came from Finland all the way to Halifax after almost a hundred years to pay their respects. I was there. And I want you to hear something.\u201d From her jacket pocket Janie pulled a phone, which played a scratchy melody. \u201cShh — \u201d She put a finger to her lips. \u201cIt\u2019s called \u2018Songe D\u2019Autumne.\u2019 This is an old gramophone recording.\u201d She stifled something that might have been a giggle or a sob. Her head bobbed. \u201cOne-two-three, one-two-three, one-two three . . . It\u2019s a waltz, listen.\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded along, but squinted an inquiry.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s what the orchestra played while the Titanic<\/em> sank. I thought it meant \u2018Song of Autumn,\u2019 but it doesn\u2019t. \u2018Songe\u2019 means \u2018dream.\u2019 \u2018Dream of Autumn.\u2019\u201d She poked the ceramic baby with her little finger. \u201cIt would have been the last thing he heard.\u201d<\/p>\n I let my head sway with the waltz rhythm, but when I cleared my throat, Janie\u2019s eyes flashed. Had I made a face? In an instant she\u2019d pocketed the phone and whisked the baby, wrapped in the black handkerchief, from the table.<\/p>\n \u201cSo — \u201d she began, as if I\u2019d just arrived. Her gaze roamed the Starbucks. Halloween decorations — pumpkins, witches, ghosts — were taped on the walls. \u201cTell me about some of the costumes you\u2019ve worn, you know, for Halloween parties. Okay,\u201d she said without pause, \u201cI\u2019ll start. I wear the same costume every year. I have a dress — a gown — and a while ago I covered it with shellac. Then I drape some plastic wrap over my arms and legs and smear clear gel on it. I over-condition my hair, so it hangs straight down.\u201d She fingered a curl. \u201cIt works great when it\u2019s longer. Can you guess what I am?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWet?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA drowning victim! I\u2019m that folklore prom date, you know, the one that begs for a ride home at midnight in a rainstorm, and it turns out the girl died years before. Drowned. And what are you?\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019d never been much for costume parties even before my palsy issue, and after . . . October\u2019s a bad month for the disfigured. The closer Halloween gets, people stop looking away — they study your face, admire it, and smile with a nod, as if to say, \u201cGood job!\u201d I lied to Janie. \u201cOnce, in college, I wore a suit. I made a ring out of foil and kept it in my pocket. When I was asked who I was, I said, \u2018a best man.\u2019 Where\u2019s the groom? \u2018I\u2019m holding this for him.\u2019 And I showed the ring.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy weren\u2019t you<\/em> the groom?\u201d<\/p>\n I shrugged. \u201cA groom would have empty pockets. It wouldn\u2019t be a costume. I would just be wearing a suit.\u201d Then I remembered something: \u201cThat song — the Titanic<\/em> one — I thought the orchestra played a hymn when the ship went down. Not a waltz. A hymn — that would have been appropriate, right?\u201d<\/p>\n Janie\u2019s brow clouded. Her chair screeched back, and she hugged herself. \u201cSurvivors gave different accounts,\u201d she hissed. Her voice was so low I had to watch her lips. \u201cYou have to make a choice sometimes. You can\u2019t always have it every way. You have to pick something and believe it. I have to go.\u201d Without another word, she was out the door. The only evidence she\u2019d shared my table was a half-empty mug.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Seven months later, on my first free day after a school year busy enough to crowd out all thoughts of Janie, she called. She was crying — her slight, quivering voice chilled me. It was about the Titanic<\/em> baby. There had been more sophisticated DNA testing. Eino Viljami Panula was no longer the unknown child.<\/p>\n \u201cThey say now it\u2019s Sidney, the English baby. He was on his way to Niagara Falls with his whole family, who all drowned. But I don\u2019t believe it. Niagara Falls? That doesn\u2019t sound true. That\u2019s for honeymoons!\u201d She choked, and I searched for words of comfort, but found none. More sobs. \u201cEino\u2019s family<\/em> came. I saw them. We honored his memory together. We stood in the rain. You wait and wait to reunite with your family, and then, it can\u2019t just be gone, can it? Science can\u2019t do that. What happened to faith<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n Of course I offered to drive her to Halifax. What else did I have to do? It didn\u2019t matter that the trip would take at least fourteen hours and that Janie was only a week from her next induced delivery.<\/p>\n \u201cIf we don\u2019t show Eino the respect he deserves, who will?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n She met me in front of our Starbucks, wearing sweatpants and an orange hoody that made her look like a pumpkin. As I pulled up, she wrapped her arms around her belly and loaded herself beside me.<\/p>\n \u201cOnce a thing is found, and you come to love it, it can\u2019t be lost again, right?\u201d It sounded like a Disney cartoon moral, but I agreed. She pulled her little Eino out of her hoody\u2019s pocket and let it lie on her palm, as if she were showing the infant where he was. Then she tucked the figurine back, tenderly — it might have been a newborn marsupial burrowing for the nipple hidden deep in her pouch. Janie\u2019s hair now swept past her shoulders in waves that collected in her hood. Grief and a full-term pregnancy had reddened her eyes and face.<\/p>\n While I drove us out of Boston, she produced an iPod, and nodded toward my car stereo: \u201cSonge D\u2019Autumne,\u201d of course. Soon, my pulse beat along with the waltz, and we didn\u2019t bother to speak. Our private sorrows flooded together and time seemed suspended. We drove and drove. The sun arced above the windshield visor, only to sink to my rearview mirror hours later. But the weight of the blue sky never lessened. We stopped for Janie to pee at every other service area, and we bought sandwiches and coffee and ate them in the car. \u201cSonge D\u2019Autumne\u201d played over and over, and Halifax got closer and closer.<\/p>\n As we neared our destination, the shadows of oaks and pines pointed forward: the trees were lit by the low sun into brilliant greens. Everything in front of us glowed — the broken white lines, the double yellow ones, the blues, reds, and yellows splashed across billboards, the black lettering announcing exits and speed limits. The only muted color was the violet of the sky beyond Halifax. Far enough out, we knew, was the sea.<\/p>\n We entered the city limits. Janie directed me to the Fairview Lawn Cemetery, where more than two-hundred Titanic<\/em> victims lay buried among three-hundred years of Halifax dead. It looked like all other cemeteries. We passed through the gates. Blue gravel crunched beneath the tires. The grass around the white and gray markers was shaggy with late spring growth.<\/p>\n Janie filled her lungs, her breath shallow because of the baby nestled beneath them. \u201cYou can\u2019t see the harbor — but smell the ocean.\u201d The briny air unsettled me. I had to remind myself we were on solid land. \u201cIt\u2019s just ahead,\u201d she said. \u201cThey\u2019re all together.\u201d She arched her back for a better view, hoisting her belly up with her hands. I pulled up behind a blue car with New Jersey plates. We\u2019d passed other parked cars, but had yet to see anyone. When I stopped, Janie rocked herself onto the grounds, and I followed — our first walk together. She paused after a few steps, and I thought we had arrived. She pressed one hand to her belly, her other arm out to the side, either for balance or to signal me to stop. For a panicked moment, I thought her contractions had begun. But she wore a sad-sweet smile. \u201cDo you want to feel the baby kicking? I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s a boy or girl. This time it was in the contract for me not to know. Did you ever try not to wonder something?\u201d<\/p>\n I had never touched Janie before I lay my palm on the tight orange fabric. I had to remind myself that what I was feeling for belonged to somebody else. But before I felt anything, I saw the couple looming before us and lifted my hand.<\/p>\n The failing light flattened perspective, and the man and woman appeared as a tableau: he wore khakis and a red sweater over a white shirt, she a denim jumper and a yellow jacket. They were about my age, and they held champagne glasses. The bottle stood on the plinth of a blunted obelisk no taller than my shoulder. They had neat brown hair and features like catalogue models, including identically clefted chins. Brother and sister, I guessed.<\/p>\n \u201cYou missed most of the toast,\u201d the man had a trace of an English accent. \u201cAnd we only have a pair of flutes. You\u2019re welcome to what\u2019s left, if you don\u2019t mind drinking out of the bottle.\u201d He nodded toward the monument, and I read its inscription: \u201cErected to the Memory of an unknown child whose remains were recovered after the disaster to the \u2018Titanic\u2019 April 15th<\/sup> 1912.\u201d<\/p>\n Nobody had brought flowers. I shook my head. Janie\u2019s contract would have prohibited alcohol consumption. And who knew who or what the couple toasted, though I had a suspicion. I shielded Janie, but felt her heat behind me.<\/p>\n \u201cTo Sidney,\u201d the man said, catching my eye and tipping his glass toward the monument.<\/p>\n \u201cEino,\u201d I murmured, so Janie wouldn\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n \u201cOf course you do,\u201d the woman said. \u201cEveryone knows.\u201d She dabbed her eyes with a pink tissue. The pair stood like plaster statues.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know the words to \u2018Nearer My God to Thee?\u2019\u201d the man asked. \u201cI can hum the tune, but I\u2019ll be damned if I can remember anything past the first verse.\u201d<\/p>\n I shook my head again, vigorously, and the woman stared at me, cocking her head: it had just dawned on her that I might be dangerous. The doctor said no, but I was sure that when I was tired my face shriveled, and I wanted to touch it, but instead reached back for Janie\u2019s hand. I half expected to feel the little ceramic Eino, but warm fingers joined mine. The man began to hum. The melody was familiar in the way of all hymns. Maybe I was<\/em> dangerous. Smashing the plaster couple would be as easy as smashing the bottle at our feet. Then my hand was empty, but I didn\u2019t turn. The man had fallen silent and was also eyeing me uneasily. I smiled — an expression certain to exaggerate my grotesqueness.<\/p>\n A car door slammed, distant, as if the dwindling light couldn\u2019t support the sound. Janie had retreated. The couple was safe — whatever emptiness they hoped to fill was their own. When I stooped to pick up their bottle, both flinched; the man spilled some of his champagne.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks,\u201d I said. I weaved through the tombstones back toward the car, and I pictured Janie waiting inside. Maybe she\u2019d taken out her figurine, set it on her belly, and watched it tremble with the kicks of the child she\u2019d promised to others.<\/p>\n \u201cGo forth,\u201d Abraham heard God command, and he led the Jews to Canaan, and so, according to Cahill, launched Western religion. Why not a road trip for me? I had a champagne bottle and my car was ripe for christening. The summer lay before me, and maybe all of Canada, depending on which direction I drove. Maybe I\u2019d have company. Maybe we\u2019d get somewhere — at least to the other side of something.<\/p>\n GREGORY J. WOLOS<\/strong> writes about mysterious and troubling matters from his home on the Mohawk River in upstate New York. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The<\/em> Los Angeles Review<\/em>, PANK<\/em>, the anthology Surreal South \u201811<\/em>, and many other journals. Visit his website at www.gregorywolos.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Gregory J. Wolos The pregnant woman with the pixie haircut seated across from me on the Red Line was giving me the eye while I scanned my notes in the margins of Thomas Cahill\u2019s book, The Gifts of the … Continue reading