The Birthing House Read online

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, a nasty smile curling his lips. ‘Did you lose it, or did you throw it away? Or was it Jake’s? You know, I’m glad you lost it. Now I don’t have to raise the little fuck and wonder every day if he’s mine or if he belongs to the talentless asshole who fucked my wife while I was burying my father.’

  Something in her broke. The fight was gone. His tall wife was sitting on the floor, head buried in her knees, sobbing. He knew that if he wanted to, for the first time in their history, he could punish her. He could win. He could reach in and grab her emotions like apples from a tub of cold water and take them out one by one and smash them on the sidewalk. But she was already crushed.

  After a time she said, ‘I’ve never been unfaithful to you. Never. Jake was too drunk to drive. He never even made a pass at me, you fucking asshole.’

  She sobbed, and in her sobs he found her ugly. He pitied her then.

  ‘Joanna,’ he said, his voice soothing, eerily normal. ‘I’m sorry. This has been the worst three months of my life. I want you to understand, okay?’

  She looked up. Her face was turning gray again.

  ‘The truth is. I tried like hell to seduce her. I did. I was not myself, but that’s no excuse. How I got here, it’s . . . leaving Los Angeles was something we both wanted and needed, but something else triggered it. Maybe my father dying. I don’t know. When I was seventeen my girlfriend Holly got pregnant. I loved her in ways you will never let me love you. I wanted her to have the baby. She did too. We were going to make it. We almost made it. But her father. Jesus, our fathers. It’s always our fathers. I’m tired of blaming him. It’s my turn now, isn’t it?’

  Jo wasn’t crying. She was just staring at the wall, stunned.

  ‘She disappeared. I could have a son walking around out there in Portland, or Austin, or Denver. Or a daughter. I would have loved either one, but I never found out. Then I met you. And we have been drifting for so long, Jo. I don’t think you wanted to have a child. But it’s all I ever wanted. It’s all I want. I thought this house would change things. It was supposed to be our new start. I should have told you about Holly. But remember what you said about your cut in salary, how I really didn’t want to know? Well, this was like that. You didn’t want to know. I thought as long as we made a new life of our own, it didn’t matter. It was past. If you had been here right after we moved. I don’t know. I’d like to think I would have been happy with you. I would really like to believe that everything would have . . . healed itself . . . if you had never left. Can you understand that?’

  Jo swallowed, raising herself on coltish legs. ‘I’m, uhm, glad you’re finally talking to me, Conrad. But I think . . . I really need you to tell me now. What did you do with Nadia?’

  ‘It’s not Nadia. I mean, you can’t understand what this house does to you, Jo. Leon Laski. He knows. He tried to tell me. These women keep coming back. It was a birthing house, Baby. It wants to be one again. If you stay, you will have another child. That’s what it wants. That’s what we want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wait, are you telling me you tried to get into Nadia’s pants because the house wanted you to?’

  The anger was gone. He was excited. It felt so good to tell the truth. Now he just had to make her see.

  ‘Baby, that’s a very small piece of something much larger. Listen, do you think it’s a coincidence you got pregnant so soon after we moved here? Huh? No, of course not. It happened in this house. And I know what you’re thinking, but listen. The women in the photo - shit, you haven’t seen the photo! Why did I burn—it doesn’t matter. It’s a healing place. You should have seen my hand. And the dogs! The dogs were all cut up from the broken mirrors. She was here, the woman in the house is trying to get out—’

  ‘What mirrors?’ Jo shouted. ‘The dogs are fine, Conrad. Please stop saying these things. You—’

  ‘No, I know, they’re fine now. Listen. This is how it works. God, why didn’t I see this before? You were pregnant . . . then you left . . . and then you lost the baby. Don’t you see? Here, look—’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t you hear yourself?’

  ‘No, listen, this is going to work. I’m ready to be a father.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘Conrad, listen to me.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘I was pregnant before we left Los Angeles!’

  He gaped at her.

  ‘I knew right before we left. When you came home and saw Jake there, I knew what you were thinking. But you just shut down. I wanted you to have time to grieve, but not like that. I thought it would be too much. You weren’t ready. I wanted to be sure we could get through this. The way you were holding your father’s money over my head, buying this house. It wasn’t like you. We were supposed to do all these things together. Everything together.’

  ‘You were pregnant before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I’m not pregnant now. You need to see somebody, Conrad. Oh, I knew—’

  ‘But the snakes.’

  ‘What snakes?’

  ‘The Boelen’s pythons. Shadow dropped nine eggs.’

  ‘You bought more snakes? Why?’

  ‘Because they are beautiful. I wanted to invest in something, and I had the money to do something I had always wanted to do.’

  ‘This was your surprise project in the garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’

  ‘You thought they were stupid. You told me to grow up. But I knew. I knew they would help us one day.’

  ‘I’m not sure how keeping snakes helps us.’

  ‘She laid nine eggs, Jo. A virgin birth. The house wants life.’

  ‘Stop saying that.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ Jo’s face had taken on a vacant stare, after seeing his fervor. Her words became disconnected. ‘But I don’t like all these secrets. I think I should go.’

  She turned her back to him.

  ‘None of this would have happened if you stayed here,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see that?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have changed anything.’

  ‘It’s okay, Baby. It’s past. You’re home now. We can do it again.’

  She walked to the kitchen entrance. ‘The neighbors are waiting for their daughter to return.’

  ‘Jo, wait. She said she wanted to run away. I admitted I tried to seduce her. But I didn’t, and I don’t want her now. I want a family. I want you. Why would I confess all this and lie about the rest?’

  ‘I don’t know who you are or who we’ve become.’

  ‘I’m the father of your child.’

  ‘There is no child.’ She disappeared around the corner, into the living room. ‘There is no child.’

  But she didn’t sound certain of that, either.

  36

  He was hungry.

  After days of feeding that girl soup and sitting in the library waiting for the walls to open up, he was salivating, ravenous, his thoughts honed to a single goal: food. He searched the cupboards and in the empty spaces he conjured grilled T-bones smothered in sautéed mushrooms and peppercorn sauce, bowls of creamed spinach, piles of hot garlic cheese biscuits, salad drowning in Italian dressing and chocolate ice cream by the bucket.

  He grabbed the car keys and looped around into the TV room.

  ‘I’m going to the store. Do you want anything?’

  Jo was sitting on the couch, petting Alice, staring at the TV. The TV was off.

  ‘The store,’ she said.

  ‘Look, we’re not thinking clearly. You’ve been through a lot. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in days. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make you a lunch you’ll never forget. We’ll eat, we’ll rest. Then we’ll talk. I promise, we’ll do whatever you think is right.’

  ‘What will I do?’ She said this to the blan
k TV.

  ‘We just need to eat first. You look pale, Baby.’

  He turned and headed for the door.

  ‘Tell me about the snakes again,’ she said.

  He stopped, came back.

  ‘The snakes? I’m blind with hunger, Baby.’

  ‘Where are you keeping them?’

  ‘I told you they’re in the garage. I’ll show you the eggs later, after we eat. I don’t want you disturbing them now. If the temperature drops even a few degrees, it can damage the embryos. And then it’s bye-bye ninety grand.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  He drove fast and the store was only half a mile away. Inside, he filled the shopping cart with seventy-nine dollars’ worth of food, yanking steaks from the cooler like a bear pawing salmon from a stream. He dumped potatoes into the child seat without a bag. They fell to the floor and he grabbed more, throwing asparagus and cauliflower in with them. Bananas. She needed potassium. He raced to the other end of the store. Three kinds of cheese. Milk. Frozen corn, peas, okra. Okra? Fuck, why not okra? A Mrs Smith’s blueberry pie, Breyer’s vanilla bean. He was in the checkout line when he remembered the wine. Once they had some food in them, the wine would grease the wheels for the rest ‘One second,’ he told the kid in the apron punching the register.

  The liquor aisle was ten feet away. He searched labels and tried to remember what kind she liked. White, he knew that much, but there was no such thing as white wine. There was Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc. He had always bought whatever was on sale, but now he wanted to get it right. For her. All the labels had kangaroos and dogs and moose on them. What the fuck was going on here? Had some genius in marketing realized we see ourselves as cute little cartoon animals like kids with cereal boxes? He reached for something with a koala bear on it and changed his mind, tipping the bottle off the shelf. His arm shot out and the koala bear smashed on the floor, sending a geyser of sour juice up his leg.

  ‘Fuck!’ He jumped back, crunching glass under his red sandals. Gashed his big toe. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ the kid in the apron said, coming round to help. ‘Just watch your step so you don’t cut yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Conrad said. ‘I’m just trying to find the right one.’

  Something in his eyes made the kid stop and look at him.

  ‘I’m sorry. My wife is not well. Can you help me?’

  ‘Sure, yeah, it’s no problem. What are you looking for?’

  ‘White wine. Just any white wine. But a good one.’

  ‘Maybe this one? It’s pretty popular.’ The kid pointed to a large bottle with a gorilla on the label. The price tag said $14.99.

  ‘Sure, that’s fine. Great.’ Conrad reached for the broken glass.

  ‘Just leave it.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’

  ‘I appreciate it. My wife just got home from a long trip. I’m kind of in a hurry, you know?’

  Not much time now. She could be ovulating.

  ‘Sure. Totally.’

  He almost turned the car around when he realized he had forgotten the charcoal briquettes - then he remembered they owned a gas grill.

  He made it home twenty minutes after he’d left. He felt like he was walking on air. His stomach had shriveled into a tennis-ball-sized knot. It was going to take another fifty minutes to prepare the meal, but it would be worth the wait. She would appreciate it.

  He was halfway across the front porch when the door opened and Jo popped out, her rental car keys in one hand and a small backpack in the other. It was her old forest-green L.L. Bean from grad school, the one she used to pack an extra bra and panties in when she stayed the night at his crummy little apartment. Panties in the pack. God, she had been beautiful. And wild, too. Now she looked pale, haggard.

  ‘Where you going?’ he said, standing five feet in front of her.

  She jumped slightly. ‘Oh, you’re back.’

  ‘I have food.’ He held out the bags for her to see. ‘Some steaks, wine. You need to eat, Baby.’

  ‘No, right, that sounds good.’ She looked over his shoulder, up the street.

  ‘Where are you going?’ He thought of all the acceptable answers: to return the rental, to refill my prescription, to lend Gail a cup of sugar.

  ‘Oh, I just don’t feel like myself.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He looked at her hand holding the strap slung over her shoulder. ‘What do you need? Do you need a doctor?’

  Again, on that one word she flinched.

  ‘No!’ She blinked, and he waited. Then, in a calmer but still pleading voice she said, ‘I’m not myself, Conrad. Ever since I came home I don’t feel like myself. Please . . .’

  He took a step closer.

  ‘We should work this out together, Jo. Until they find Nadia. It’s dangerous out there.’

  ‘I never felt like myself here,’ she said absently. ‘That’s why I went away.’

  Conrad waited.

  She continued to present her case. ‘I’m not mad at you any more, honest. I’d just feel better if I got some rest. I can’t sleep here.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not mad. Okay. Good. ’Cause when I saw you come out with your bag over your shoulder, I thought . . . I know I dumped a lot of this crap on you. You must have come home and thought I’d lost my shit here without you.’

  She was breathing hard, and worse, trying to not to.

  He stepped back and cocked his head to one side. ‘I understand, Jo.’

  ‘What?’ She tried to smile.

  ‘I understand how you feel. But the bag gave you away.’

  She stopped smiling. Her eyes went to his hands, to the bags he was holding.

  ‘That’s your overnight bag. You aren’t planning on ever coming back, are you?’

  ‘Conrad. Please.’

  He saw her think it through, weighing her odds. ‘Nope. Not this way. Maybe out the back, but out here you don’t stand a chance.’

  She slumped, letting her backpack fall from her shoulder.

  He reset the groceries in his grip and took another step forward.

  She ducked, clutched the strap, swinging wide and up. The sound of nylon against his head was a dull whap, but he felt like he’d been hit with a sack of grain.

  ‘Ah, sonofabitch -’ He staggered into the siding.

  Jo darted forward, all six feet of her waist-high. He kicked his leg out and surprised both of them by connecting with her neck. It was like kicking an iron pole, felt like he broke three toes. Jo fell down, coughing, then she was on her hands and knees scrabbling about on the porch like one of the dogs in a way he might have found funny if some last remaining sane part of him did not recognize she was still his wife.

  ‘Stop it,’ he hissed, disgusted. ‘Do you want the neighbors to see this?’

  ‘Stay away from me,’ she coughed, pulling herself up, rubbing her throat. ‘Stay away from me, you piece of shit.’

  ‘You’re not leaving,’ he said, idly swinging the bag with the wine bottle. ‘Just turn around and go back inside so we can talk.’

  She looked past him again, looking for a way around. Then all the fight was gone and she was just standing there.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She nodded, rubbing her neck. ‘Fine. You win.’

  She took a breath, looked next door and kicked for his balls. She missed, but connected with his thigh and wheeled, darting back into the house, knocking the door open as she blew into the kitchen.

  He dropped the groceries on the floor and missed her shirt by inches as she fled out the back door. He pounded down the wooden steps to the yard, glancing wild-eyed over the fence to see if Gail and Big John were getting an eyeful, and took the deck in three giant strides.

  She was making a beeline for the -

  (birthing shack)

  - garage. He realized that in all the years he had never seen her ru
n. It was something to watch, all that woman pumping her arms like a track star. She didn’t look back.

  She can’t make the fence, he thought gleefully, and the garage is locked. She’s fenced in!

  ‘Jo, don’t!’ he yelled, closing the distance.

  She was twenty feet from the garage. Closing. Long legs, thighs shuddering like a thoroughbred. Fifteen feet. Ten feet from a nasty surprise - the door was locked. He saw the rest, how it would play out. It was like it was scripted. As if he had made it all up and now it had come to life. He could see the beats forming on paper the way he used to write them.

  The WIFE, an attractive brunette in her early 30s SLAMS into the warehouse door, YANKING to no avail. Her HUSBAND, disheveled in a handsome, dopey way, gives chase.

  She WHEELS, her eyes as black and large as a doe’s, then back to the door, KICKING as if her life depended on it. Which of course it does.

  HUSBAND

  Baby, stop, just please stop!

  WIFE

  (shrieking)

  Stay away from me!

  CLOSE ON: her SHAKING hand, clutching the

  doorknob. It won’t budge.

  HUSBAND

  (deranged; paying homage)

  The dingo ate ma’ bayyyyyy-beee!

  The door would not open. She would be forced to turn and fight him on the lawn. The scene would end badly. How could it not? That was the rule of conflict, the stuff of good drama.

  But this wasn’t scripted and, instead of finding the door locked, she hit it hard with one shoulder and banged it open.

  He jogged across the rest of the lawn, mindful of that first step before the door. No way was she strong enough to break the padlock.

  Someone must have left it unlocked. And it wasn’t me.

  The garage was dark inside - not even red. What happened to the heat lamps? He heard fumbling sounds, a shovel falling to the floor as he pounced over the two steps down and he was inside, landing on the carpet. The sliding garage doors were shut and he could see her moving past the cages, searching for the handle.

  They were trapped.