Josh and Hailey pop a bottle of sparkling rosé; they are so proud of their three-day-old boy—Theodore hardly cried during circumcision—and now, finally home at 10am, Josh silently toasts to his little protégé.
Someday, he muses, Theo will wear pinstripe suits and cordovan shoes, manage a lucrative telephone sales office, collect complicated timepieces—the kind that track the phases of the moon; he’ll donate to all the big charities, order his steaks rare, with a side of vegetables, not potatoes; he’ll appreciate single malts, cigars, flying small planes. Maybe, he’ll be a pioneer in interstellar tourism, vacation in the valleys of Neptune, have threesomes in zero-gravity. Theo will be rich, successful, acclaimed; his glass will never be empty.
Hailey doesn’t care for champagne. Bubbly upsets her stomach; alcohol spoils breast milk. She pretends to sip from her crystal flute, letting the fizz fall onto her upper lip. She sets her glass down, stares at rain drops snaking across the sun room window, feeling the bubbly snake into her mouth too. What she wants is her little man’s love and trust. Theo will be grounded, attuned to popular culture, in love with Disney movies, free of chlamydia and crabs. Hailey has purchased things to ensure this: an iPod and iPad, both loaded with cartoons and classical music; a newborn interaction camp membership, which instills healthy relationship management; the very best in child health insurance and playground safety gear, which will ensure he receives all those proper vaccinations and stays cooties free. He will be her prince, live happily ever after, make some girl feel safe and accounted for.
Hailey is prepared to purchase more things, too. Whatever Theo needs, he will get: a Gucci diaper bag, a navy Bugaboo Stroller, a white Nissan Murano. Theo will be pampered, stress free. Hailey’s breasts will be perky Mattel chalices; her milk will be untainted, organic, infused with the placenta she brought home from the hospital in that tacky Styrofoam container.
Though Hailey planned on encapsulating the placenta, the girls at the tennis club have dared her to do otherwise. Smoke it; make it into a pizza, a Bloody Mary, a sweet hash. Apparently, the internet is teeming with placenta recipes, and there’s a chef, you know? Something Wen Lee. He specializes in this kind of thing, comes to your house and everything. Delicioso! Did you read the op-ed about him in Parents? He’s a fox, a hound, a real catch and release situation, hung for a China man, Korean, whatever. His ching-chang-chong will make you break like a real fortune cookie. But Hailey wants to be graceful, not so desperate, not just another unfaithful tennis housewife, and, besides, we have a nanny, Lupita; she’s a fantastic cook, so simple, so ethnic! You should see the way she pencils in her eyebrows. Her parents came over on a raft or something. Isn’t that just the nitty-gritty?
Lupita is staying in the maid’s room; there are two rules she must comply with: keep your door open during the day and keep your religious beliefs to yourself. Her request to hang a gilded crucifix over the bed was hardly tolerated; it transformed that chic, modern space into a baroque broom closet, but Hailey doesn’t mind for the moment; she is willing to see past Lupe’s faith. After all, Lupe will get the dirt under her fingernails, make Theo bilingual, but Lupe is forbidden, verboten, vedado to worship saints at their home or in her own bed; she can worship Jesus, of course, bathe in his love and charity, but serpents are not welcome in the nursery; religious candles must be lit elsewhere: en otro lado. Otro lado, por favor. Por favor, Lupe. Josué no lo quiere.
In a lemon-colored nursery, emblazoned with zebra astronauts and lion rocket ships, Theo breathes. He watches Neptune clumsily eclipse Jupiter. He listens to A Space Oddity Lullaby on repeat. Overcome with exhaustion, Theo sleeps, only momentarily awakened by the rush of a warmth between his legs. The wetness is so familiar, so belonging.
Theo is lathered in moisturizer, but he feels the air drying him out; he misses the warm, wet, pitter patter of being lodged inside that place where his mother’s bowel movements were soft percussionist back rubs, whooshing alongside his body. Now, everything hurts; he feels so immobile, so clumsy. His nursery room overlooks Lake Michigan, but he can’t lift his head to see it or the sailboats or the cars that grind their brakes in traffic below―a sound that makes the roots of Theo’s eardrums convulse.
Though Theo’s eyes are shut, he senses the sun rising over the cusp of his bassinet, nictitating through the wicker lattice. Clouds stream over Chicago, making the sun seem like a slow burning strobe light. Theo is fascinated by the light―he’s closer to it now than he was in the womb—but there are so many shades of black and white, so many shapes, so he doesn’t cry; he opens his eyes and stares, trying to make sense of all that illumination.
Lupita caresses Theo’s legs, places a glass of water beneath his bassinet, smiles, whispers sweet nothings in Spanish. Sparkling waves wash ashore on Oak Street Beach. People walk their dogs on a rosy surf. Navy Pier’s Ferris wheel gleams against the skyline; the shimmer of a pregnant woman at the top of the wheel smiles and points at the sun. Theo spits up and smiles too, reaching for a finger to squeeze.
+ + +
The rosé is cashed by noon, so Josh uncorks a bottle of Macallen 25, pours two sunny fingers into a gold rimmed tumbler; it’s not often that he has time off, let alone a week. The caramel and floral notes and full body of the scotch will complement the nanny’s sweet hash. Already garlic, oil, and the scent of seared blood encroach the dining room.
Lupita cares for the stove top, a white apron draped over her denim house dress. She has short oily curls that bounce above her stylized eyebrows and long gold hoop earrings that make her ears droop. She looks back into the dining room, ears jiggling: “Five minutes brunch, family.”
In the living room, Josh props a pillow under his legs and reclines on the chaise.
“Honey, don’t you want to hold him?” Hailey asks, her breast exposed; her nipple is dark, erect; her areola has spread like a cancerous mole. Hailey tries to find the most comfortable way to feed Theo, moving him from one forearm to another. “I think I’m supposed to lactate when he cries,” she says.
“Does this make us cannibals now?” Josh asks, gyrating his tumbler.
“The cloth, Hon.”
“I mean, what if we really like the placenta? Who will we eat next?”
Hailey snatches the cloth off the ottoman: “Please. Placentas aren’t people.”
“And who’s ever heard of such a thing? So unnatural, so barbaric.”
“Animals have heard of it because they do it.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of animals?”
“Like Apes. Apes do it.”
“Figures. Freaking Monkeys.”
Though Theo doesn’t have teeth, he can apply enough pressure on Hailey’s nipple to make her cringe, but she feels connected now; Theo is her little vampire, still sucking the life out of her. In the iridescence of Theo’s eyes, Hailey sees the man he will become: a good father, a compassionate husband, a considerate child, decent in the playground. She can feel the tissue in her breasts throbbing, pushing and pulling, but it hurts; it burns, and though she seems to purge milk, she fears that her mammary glands are all powder and mucus. Give him my milk, she prays. Oh, Jesus. Let me lactate until he is strong. Let me be a fondue fountain of motherhood.
“You think Lupita’s parents ate her placenta? Ask her. I dare you.”
“She can hear you.”
“Lupita. Do you eat placentas in your chimichangas?”
“Don’t be a jerk. Ignore him, Lupe.”
Lupe doesn’t respond, staring only at the grease and browned potatoes, infused with rosemary, even though she knows: Mr. Josue true. Devils and brujas eat their own. Maybe Hailey needs spend more time with being mom, less time being tennis bruja.
In end, nannies must be nannies. She has done what she needed to. Always side with child, Lupe believes. Parents too material, too distracted, which is how she switched the placenta with higado de puerco in the first place: so similar, still tasty. Also, she believes “placenta” is such dirty word; birth pouches, sacks, must be buried to ensure safety, salvation. How else will saints call for Theo? Sacks not just pieces of carne to eat; lost sibling, forgotten afterbirth, a child’s first mirror, bruised, soft, shimmering.
In Lupe’s country, birth sacks filled with holy water, rose petals, caramels; ripped flaps sown, threaded in white silk; good life, good soul forever. Mothers wrap placentas in white linen; beautiful day. Beautiful night. People are music. People are dance. People are poetry. They hand bundle to priestesses. Priestess goes to beach at night with turtles. She digs hole along surf. The birth sack buried, so is a rosary, topped with bed of green palm leaves to protect from cangrejos. One white candle burns above as offering—gesture to the saints for health and life. Flame must be high enough so waves not put it out, but low enough so devils do not see it.
Children who do not have birth sacks buried live short days. Their blood poisoned. Mold makes lungs into cottage cheese. The devil enters bones, makes hair fall out, poisons limbs, makes forgetful, blind, retarded. The devil makes little children join gang, gun violence, rape young woman, drown. Not happen right away, but happens. Always in America. It no wonder saints have shunned land. Now every man is devil, every dollar is fire, and the sun has made the Midwest a bowl of Wheaties.
Lupita shuts off the stove, sets the table with Hailey’s blue linens and spring china, careful to arrange the silverware to her liking. She places a cigar, a cutter, and a lighter next to Mr. Josué’s place setting. “Brunch ready, family,” she says. “Diced sweet papas, artichokes, bacon, placenta. Come now. Get it.”
Hailey hands off Theo, fixes her breast, and sits at the table.
“Nothing more?” Lupita asks, cradling Theo.
But Hailey’s mouth is already stuffed with hash, and she can only purr.
“Thank you,” Josh says. “Leave us for now.”
+ + +
Josh thinks the placenta was gamey, like reindeer or gator; he wants more, but considering how important it is to Hailey’s lactation, he backs off, pouring himself an aperitif, a pinch of grappa, and retiring to the media room where he will open a window and smoke his cigar. Now, he will watch back-to-back episodes of The Deadliest Catch, secretly wonder what it would be like to quit his job and move to Alaska. There would be no paperwork, no paper trails, just claws, fresh glacial air, and that one time in the year when supermodels unfold and undress on ice. But this is all fruitless thinking; Hailey wouldn’t move; she’s tied to the city, tied to the shops; it’s a symbiotic relationship. I mean, she buys so much crap, then she returns it, so she buys more, returns more. Is there even tennis in Alaska? Alaska might seem too desperate, too dangerous for Theo, and she would be right; Theo should be worried about Santa, not polar bears.
It’s hard for Josh to relax; there’s so much business on his mind. Turnover at the office has been especially high, commissions low. Consumers are simply not interested in continuing to pay for landlines, archaic things. Why should they? Cell phones, internet, Skype are changing the landscape, eating up all the telephone wires. It used to be everyone memorized a call number, a series of digits that meant home, but now every person is a name in a digital address book. God forbid an emergency, a disaster. God. Whose name will we select then when cell phone towers and electricity fail?
After the hash, Hailey retires to Theo’s room where she meets Lupe, who is softly swaying from one leg to another, singing to Theo in Spanish.
“What was it like?” Hailey asks.
Lupe is confused. “He is fine now, but crying early then.”
“I mean to cook the placenta.”
“Fine. You want me cook, I cook.”
“But was it too much? Was it too strange?”
“No good?” Lupe asks.
“It was good, surprisingly tasty.”
“Hold him, Señora.”
Hailey sits on a Belgian linen couch adorned with stuffed animals. An oval area rug, a series of stripes swirled like a suspended whirlpool, reminds Hailey of what it’s like to be out at sea: could she handle Theo on her own? If it was just she and Josh and Theo, would she be able to navigate, and what if another baby came? There are no other bedrooms; they would have to move, somewhere far away, hopefully—a city is no place to anchor a family.
While passing Theo over to Hailey, Lupe drops the burp cloth. Hailey takes Theo, but it’s when she crouches down to pick it up, that she notices the glass of water beneath his bassinet.
“Strange place to leave a glass of water, Lupe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Glass of water. Strange. We talked about this. Really not fine.”
“No. I no sleep until nine. I have plans. I be back at night.”
“Oh really?”
“No funny business, Señora. No worries. No man. Just outing abouting.”
Theo is exhausted, but he likes being close to Mom. He wants to stay awake, but he’s burping and fading, yet he can sense something is wrong. His mom is anxious, nervous; he still can’t tell when he’s awake or dreaming and soon he’s back in that dark, warm place, weightless and swimming. There’s a cord connecting him to the placenta, and he’s tugging at it, kicking and punching at patches of rose colored light. Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 in E Flat plays, muffled, though he doesn’t know what it is; each note is a viscous vibration, slowly accumulating, cluttering, making the womb shiver and tremble, making the womb drop. The shadows of hands sweep over his pool, which is now draining, and Theo sinks back into the dark, away from the light and sounds, until he’s up against flesh and bone.
+ + +
Shortly after 5pm, Josh wishes they had a butler too, someone who could prepare a sandwich and a stout for him—a nice cold black one to wash down the liquor. Theo is still sleeping when Josh enters the nursery. Hailey shushes Josh, whispers, “Look at our little guy.”
So Josh looks again, except now Josh is staring. He kisses Hailey’s forehead, rubs her hand. Theo trembles.
“He’ll be up soon,” Hailey whispers. “He must be dreaming.”
Josh mimes making a sandwich and pokes at Hailey. He pokes her again and kisses her.
She nods and silently enunciates “Thank you.”
Josh smiles. He is proud. He is a father. Crossing the condo, tiptoeing back to the kitchen, Josh notices the maid room door shut. He explicitly told Lupita to keep her door open.
He’s always been a curious guy, and he knows that Lupe won’t be back for some time, but he wants to be respectful, though he’s a little tipsy, and maybe he wants to know what she does in that little room all to herself, so he enters her space.
Her bed is made—white sheets. The night table is clear, except for what seems like an annotated Spanish gossip magazine. Seeing Jesus gilded and crucified over the bed is somehow comforting for Josh, though Jesus’ eyes follow him as he crosses the room; he is happy that at least someone in the condo has faith, but he’s seen movies too. These kinds of ethnic woman can practice the dark arts—Santería and Voodoo— and is there a dead spider behind that crucifix? Are there maggots living inside her pillow shams? Do locusts nest beneath her bed? Does she keep voodoo dolls in her armoire or the heads of chickens in her sock drawer?
Nope. None of that. But she does keep salted caramels on a wooden tray.
Josh is about to leave when he sees a pillow case is missing. There’s bloody thumb print on her down insert. It’s small, fresh, not yet browned and dried. He doesn’t want to know where the blood came from. Innocent, he thinks.
Not quite.
He opens her bathroom door, a small room with a half shower. The bathroom is clean, all black tile, except for the white sink. There’s pink ice in it, lots of it, and caramels and rose petals. A needle and white thread snakes along the edge of the sink.
Josh gets Hailey, mimes that she should come with him. Hailey shushes Josh, mimes that she is confused; she doesn’t think it would be appropriate for them to enter Lupita’s room, but Josh has already done it; he drags her in, so they stand in the bathroom, looking at the pink ice settling in the sink. Under the sink is the small tacky Styrofoam container, which the hospital provided to Josh and Hailey so they could transport the placenta; it’s hidden under a towel.
“I’m sure she can explain it.”
“Have you heard her speak English?”
“We really can’t do this without her. Not yet.”
“Really, Hailey. What kind of animal is this woman?”
“She’s Cuban or Mexican, I think.”
Theo cries from the nursery.
“I’ll check up on Theo,” Josh says. “You clean this mess.”
“You’re drunk,” Hailey says, touching his arm.
“I’m just feeling good. This is still a day to celebrate, isn’t it?”
“Should I suck on this ice?”
“Gross. Gross. Really Gross, Hailey. Don’t do that.”
“We need her, Josh. We really need her.”
“We never needed any of this,” Josh says, and he kisses Hailey’s forehead. “We will be fine. We will figure this out on our own. Theo will be immaculate. He will never remember this day. He will never see that animal again.”
+ + +
As the sun sets behind the Gold Coast, some units turn on their lights, which makes it seem like the sun shines through them. Dressed in a long brown coat, Lupita stumbles across the beach, watching the Ferris wheel lights dance in the reflection of the waves. All around Lupita, couples lay scattered about the beach. They are wrapped in blankets, making out, doing it, dancing, smoking hash. One police car patrols the lake path, occasionally using small search lights to peer past the lovers, unconcerned with all the romance.
Along the edge of the surf, Lupita sits, digs a hole with her hands as she used to when she was a child, making sandcastles along the shore. The sand is so cold, so rough against her skin. She isn’t a priestess; she doesn’t have holy water, but she knows right over wrong. When the hole is deep enough, she rolls the white pillow case into the hole. She quickly buries it, smoothing it over with sand. Spotlights search along the beach. At one moment, Lupita stares right into a searchlight, but it quickly moves beyond her.
A young couple dancing and kissing nearby play reggae.
“Perdon,” Lupe says. “What happened with policía?”
“Oh. Hey, vieja,” the young shirtless man says. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened today.”
“What happened then?”
“Apparently, they found a dead woman here yesterday.”
“Dead and pregnant,” the boy’s lady friend says, grinding up against him.
“Terrible thing,” the man says.
“Yes,” Lupita says. “Terrible terrible things.”
Lupita sits alone on the beach, the sound or reggae fading into the sounds of the waves. She lights a candle for Theo and for the poor woman, but the wind quickly blows the flames out. Looking up at the condo, she sees Theo’s lights are off; he’s asleep, dreaming. The lights in Lupe’s room, however, are on. She hadn’t left them on.
Inside Lupe’s bathroom, Hailey grabs handfuls of ice and dumps them into the toilet, taking only one cube of pink ice to suck on. Josh sits on the Belgian linen couch, rocking Theo in his arms.
Lupe trudges back to their condo, her shoes filled with sand. Theo, she muses, will be good kid. He will be strong, protected from mirrors and devils. When looking out window at black, black lake, he will feel safe, accounted for, even when seeing lightning strike lake. His prayers will be answered; he won’t know why, but he will know no suffering. He will not struggle when finding well paying job. He will find fertile woman with flowers in hair, and he will kiss her on that beach—her lips sweet as caramel, and this woman will never look after other people’s children; they will have their own. She will be strong, brown, round; she will only cook for her own family, and she will have milk, rivers and rivers of sweet milk.
