"I'm crazy for her," Joe said. "What can I do?"

Regina swerved viciously to avoid another pothole or to shut his mouth. "Be ashamed. That's what. Be ashamed of yourself. She's listening to you, but God knows what she hears. But I agree with you. A crazy man is what you are. She's sixteen, for crying out loud." Exasperated, she dropped her voice, but it was needless, Marcy's wondrous peaceful smile going on and on. "All these years -- you need me to remind you she's simple? And you're -- you're forty-five -- a year older than me, with your dirty talk."

"What's dirty, Reggie? That I'm nuts for her? I'm not ashamed. I'd marry her tomorrow. I think I saved myself for her. She's sixteen. So?"

Reggie clenched her lips, her voice in second gear. "She's very slow. What can you have in mind? You're her uncle! What are you thinking of?"

"Am I a genius, Reggie, I should care she's slow? I work steel. I got a back. I didn't get a brain." Joe straightened his six-foot frame and craned to look again at Marcy in the rear view. He shook his head. "What you think, Reggie -- there'll be someone better come along? Who'll love her more? So she's slow. You'll lock her in the looney bin? What for? She can enjoy a life. If you say OK I marry her tomorrow afternoon."

Reggie turned her flushed face with the mole on the upper lip to him. "Stop it already. She's my daughter! Every time. I won't invite you again. You don't think it's crazy, her uncle, man forty-five years old, no hair for crying out loud, marry up with my daughter, Marcy, slow sixteen?"

"I got hair," he said, and showed the top of his skull where indeed there was a brown fringe, like a monk. "I love her, Reggie. You know that. Nothing disrespectful."

And pretty soon they were abreast of Andrew Carnegie High School and were lucky to find parking nearby so that they could deliver Marcy to the Drama Club, where she joined the others in Special Ed, who would all be bunnies in the annual Easter play. When they had parked, Joe hurried around, opened Marcy's door for her, helped her out and had her take his arm, Reggie glaring as they climbed the steps, Marcy dazzling the world.

*

Backstage business is eternally the same. How did they busy themselves, the Special Ed bunnies and elves? They weren't needed now, indeed not needed for an hour, only toward the end. The normal students congregated in tiny gaggles where they gossiped girl talk, boy talk. Marcy drifted in the dark from her Special Ed group and their supervisor, lost in her private reverie, as though she rode inside half a walnut shell, coasting smoothly on the waters of her dream, bunny ears, one up, one hanging ludicrously down. A chink of light from the torn old curtain called to her from the black surround. It was a minuscule window on the audience, the world. She kneeled and put her eye to it but could make nothing of the movement, changing shapes. Was she surprised by the shepherd with his starry wand who bent and helped her to her feet? She didn't register surprise. In fact, she didn't register at all, as though nothing of all that came in. Radiant, she waited to be guided, and even in the blackness, shone.

He was quite tall and leaned to whisper in the dark, brushing aside the bunny ear. Did she hear anything of what he said? Perhaps. And then he led her through the flats and props, odd obstacles, until they were in the postered classroom halls where even chalky motes were still, where their steps were soundless as they rose as if by magic to the second floor.

Here in the holiday intersession all was silent in the home room, timeless as the ragged clouds outside that fled as though a storm was on its way. Could she see him clearly now, this shepherd with his Frank Langella eyes, his wand topped by a single star? Or did she see some inner vision, hear just the murmur of her blood? He put the wand aside and lifted her quite effortlessly, perching her on Mr. O'Ryan's desk, eyes beaming into hers, throat purring like a pleasured cat as he deftly drew her panties off and raised her up so he could spread them under her.

Was she frightened by the lordly wand that jutted up from him, throbbing, urgent, red? She uttered one cry only as he entered her, but then was silent, head turned slightly toward the window and the clouds.

*

When they collected her from her group and were headed back to the car Joe spoke to her, she leaning on his arm. "Was it too much for you, Marcy? She don't look too good, Reggie. Look, what's all this color in her cheeks?"

"Who knows? They doll them up with lipstick, rouge. Don't make a bigger fool of yourself than you are. She's the same as when we brought her in." Reggie thinned her lips and shook her head, pawing in her purse for keys.

But Joe continued on. "Lean, Marcy. It's OK. You can lean on me. We'll soon be in the car. Maybe going home we'll stop for ice cream."

He opened the door for her to help her in. When she was seated properly Joe gasped and called out, "Reggie, Reggie. What's this? It's blood. She's bleeding, Reggie. Marcy's bleeding."

Reggied turned the motor on. "Get in, damn fool. She must be having her period and can't take care of herself. And you, you crazy man, who knows nothing, not even that, you'll marry her, take care of her? Get in."

*

In August Marcy began to show. Aside from filling out. The hot spell was so severe the small apartment was unbearable, it wasn't seven yet, breakfast not yet served. Reggie opened windows, door, but no relief. Marcy in her nightie slept right on. Reggie saw.

A hammer blow! How could this be? To whom to cry for help? The heat enough to drive her up the wall and now her Marcy full of child. Who could she turn to? She thought of Joe. And called with half a plan.

"Good. I'm glad I got you before you start your shift. Pour steel a day like this? I'm dying and I haven't even raised a finger yet. And what's ahead? -- the dryers and shampoo. Anyway -- I called because -- you come for supper and we'll talk."

It wasn't possible. Bring to school. Bring back. And absolutely never out. Except with her of course, a movie and an ice cream cone. So how? In school? But they were supervised. A grandmother -- she wasn't forty-five?

Was she a touch more gentle when she shook her daughter to get up? They had Captain Crunch and milk. Reggie studied Marcy across the kitchen table. "Marcy."

Marcy stopped with spoon raised. That face! From where? Her Andy had looked good until the day he had his heart attack, but never anything like this. And she -- she was OK in the looks department, except the mole. But Marcy! Hearts could stop. Now what? And the plan she had -- was it the best? What had she meant to ask -- of course! "When was your last period, Marcy?"

Marcy's brow remained unfurrowed but her eyes held questionings; rain clouds gathered there. Her skin glowed as though Renoir and Reubens had collaborated to color her, although she would have been too thin for them. Her eyes were charcoal gray. Her maroon-tinged chestnut hair cascaded to her shoulders in a single wave. Her figure wasn't full yet but what there was was softness, two small buds. An inch or so around the abdomen. It made her beautiful as womanhood itself is beautiful. "Some time," she said.

Reggie didn't snap as she did too often, wanting desperately to get through to her and frustrated every time. Snapping always shut her up. "You're right," she said. "Some time. Do you remember when? In spring?"

"Oh spring. The pretty spring." And then she smiled and the ugly little room lit up.

"So you think it was the spring." Could Joe have done this thing? Impossible. An honest person. Always had been. Protected her and mama too. Count on him. If he had any sin then it was his stupidity.

"Spring." Marcy took another spoonful, smiling as she chewed.

*

Marcy had gone off to sleep. Every window was open to catch whatever vagrant puff came through. Reggie cradled her cup of now-cold coffee at the kitchen table. Joe kneaded his hands as though he handled pizza dough.

"You saw? How can this be? And what's to do? She can't go back to school like this."

"What does she say?" Joe's eyes were worried, puzzled, trying to make sense of it.

"Say? What can she say? She doesn't even understand."

"So what is there to do? Me -- I'd marry her in a minute if you'd let me. If you don't -- I have no answer; how would I know what to do?"

So they had come now to the proper place. Reggie looked into her brother's eyes across the table. "You would take care of her?"

"Take care of her!? I love her, Reggie. I would work like forty men for her. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her. Who cares how this thing happened to my Marcy? She's carrying a life, maybe a son. The child would be our child."

Reggie was silent, letting his words reverberate, resonate, so he'd remember them. "You would do this, Joe, and wouldn't care it wasn't yours? You swear it, Joe?"

"Reggie. When I have to swear to you? I love her. I would treat her like a queen."

"Then I say yes."

*

And in mid-September they were married in the sight of God and man in the parish church, a run-down, gothic place, too large now the community had changed, gone bad, folks escaping taxes, crime -- well, violent crime. That is, the ones who could. From the suburbs they saw nothing of the Pittsburgh grime and smoke of monstrous chimneys.

Joe paid for everything, used mostly all his savings up. Flowers, dresses, and a limousine to bring her to the church. The bridesmaids were all relatives. The flower girls were Tessie's down the street.

From the sigh of wonder that went up it seemed that no one could have noticed her, she was that fresh to them. When she came down the aisle in white, escorted by his good friend Paolo, the congregation caught its breath as though they'd never seen before such radiance. A face that wore benignity and peace. It didn't matter that she did or didn't understand. She was serene. She blessed them with her eyes even if she couldn't quite connect. One could have sworn, as some swore afterward, an aura moved with her, although most probably it was her health, her blooming, carrying the fruit within.

Reggie wept along with all her friends despite the whispers about Joe, who was her uncle after all, and of course the way she showed, quite obvious by now.

The limousine took them to Joe's apartment house, the right-hand bannister now rusted through. He carried her across his threshold, lost in the whiteness of the veil and dress, the smell of her so close, this gift beyond compare, that had been granted by some stroke of Providence, this wife and child.

*

Monahan was waiting at the time clock. "See you in my office, Joe?"

"What's up?"

"We'll talk."

Monahan was once like him, like them, a puddler in the old days, maybe twenty years ago. Now he was management. What could they talk?

He sat in the wooden chair but it felt fragile, as though he took up too much space, could bust it if he moved. Yet he, himself, felt fragile in the stillness, all the filing cabinets that Monahan was riffling through. His hard hat rested in his lap. Would he want management if it was offered him? Make steel is what he knew.

Now Monahan sat down, the file before him. They hadn't had a beer together in what -- ten years? "Been with us a long time, Joe. The reason I remember it so clear -- we come about the same time, maybe a month apart. Nothin' like the old days -- hey Joe? When the McLoughlin family dealt our specialty steels around the globe. Know somethin' Joe? I liked it better then. Well, time moves on. We've got to call it progress, Joe.

"I wanted you to get this straight from me -- the Union has just signed a deal with us. They've agreed that we can outsource, you know, subcontract out the work. Plus they're gonna let us bring new methods and equipment in. It's what we need to do to be competitive. A year from now the place won't be the same. Won't even look the same. Obviously, Joe, the work force here goes down. Even good men like you.

"Now what we've done, Joe -- with the Union's blessings and all -- we've put together a severance package for special men, been with us years. Tide them over till they find another slot. I hear Bessie needs good men. You can count on me for reference. Shit, you know more about this business than any ten young guys. Don't make 'em like us no more. Broke the mold.

"So," -- he rose abruptly. "Don't bother punching in. We'll do the rest by mail. I wanted you to get this poop from me direct -- we've been through a lot. You're a good man, Joe. You'll land on your feet."

Later, when he sat in Reggie's kitchen, he tried to put a better spin on it, but he knew from his bankbook and the numbers he had scribbled on an envelope that he had better find a new job soon. Unemployment ran out, package deals ran out. A kid was on the way and he had promised to protect the two of them, to care for them. Sorry now he'd bought the new red Miata, feeling crazy like a boy, right after they got married. What he needed was a beat-up old jalopy like the one that Reggie had. Couldn't make the payments on the Miata any more. Maybe he could trade it in.

"It's all computers, Reggie, what it is. Nothing at all to do with me, with what I know. They got a business to run -- hey, I understand. I got to find a company makes steel, the way I know. They say that Bessie needs some men. So maybe we'll move there. Don't have much time is all. We're due December, maybe January. No work here. Don't have much choice. Maybe have to move there, job or no."

Reggie felt the stab of fear that she could read in him. "Joe. Think carefully. You want to plan this right."

"Of course think carefully. What I gonna do? I got the head I got."

"You need some money - you know to call on me. But think -- how can I help you when the baby comes, you move too far away? A job in Bethlehem, 400 miles. A job you don't even have."

"But a job comes first. Now ain't that so? Agree? It's not LA, it's Bethlehem. Everything is riding on a job. My pregnant wife, my life is riding on a job."

*

Bell-ringing Santas brought in the blustery new day. It was goodbye to Pittsburgh. What kind goodbye? You said goodbye to things you carried close to you, to dogs were with you twenty years, to neighborhoods where you knew everybody, even cars you kept them till they needed too much work and fell apart. Goodbye to this apartment, sure, same one he moved into the week he took this job -- the job they just took back. Or disappeared it like the neighborhood. He was a stranger here.

He couldn't have done everything on time if Reggie hadn't helped, even though he had all day, every day. And yet he'd stop, even for a moment, every time he saw Marcy. She carried her baby and herself regally, even when she simply sat before the window staring out, the contents of the drawers and closets cartonned, taped, ready for the trip to Bethlehem and to the place that he had rented near the mill. No job yet but there were rumors of fresh hirings, and some to come.

He raced the clock, to tie up all loose ends, the money part, the rent, to close out the utilities, to set up what he could in the new place to make her comfortable, Salvation Army crib, layette from Reggie, rattles, diapers from his friends. And hung around the Works when he was there, to get fresh news, get to know the Local regulars, some looking for new jobs themselves. They said the jobs had all gone overseas but that seemed hardly possible. If they didn't give you any work how could you buy what they produced? It made no sense.

And this was it. Arrangements finished. Unemployment, banks -- although not much was left after the sale-back of the Miata and the miracle of finding an old Pinto for four hundred bucks. Racing up and down the stairs to get an early start this eight o'clock, the morning of Christmas Eve, so that the roads would not be so jammed up, hundreds of miles to go. The car packed tight as tight as could be, just space for Marcy in the passenger seat in front, not to crowd her in, so she could still be comfortable. Due any time but not immediate, they said.

And off they went in their Pinto, pretty much at the time he'd planned for, 9 o'clock to be exact, turnpike mostly all the way ahead, Marcy packed in pretty good and buckled up, her belly out to here.

Were there regrets as Joe headed down Broadway en route to 95? Not many. Just the usual regrets that life slips by, that days are numbered, that little is secure. And yet his heart filled up. For some, how very, very few, a miracle is given them. He smiled at Marcy. She at him. Their trip began.

*

Flat tire on the way. Joe cursed and struggled, Marcy standing by in the cold, great with child, uncomplaining in a heavy coat and shawl. Joe wondered how they'd managed years ago, people moving place to place, sometimes days to go just twenty miles. He thanked his lucky stars he had a spare, although, fast as he was, changing the tire and stopping frequently at rest rooms so Marcy could be comfortable and continue on did dreadful things to his timetable. It was eight at night when they hit the off ramp for Bethlehem. And it was at that moment Marcy cried out. Not a scream, as in some terrible danger or pain. A cry.

Joe pulled over onto the shoulder. "What's happening, beautiful?" He stroked her face.

She smiled at him and rested her right hand on her belly.

"The baby? Is he ready to come?"

She smiled and turned away.

What should he do? Go on? It was then he saw the H for Hospital. He took it as a sign for him to act and headed there. In the Hospital parking lot he locked the car securely and with his arm around her took her to the Emergency Room. "My wife is pregnant," he explained, "and I believe she's ready to deliver now."

The aide continued with her work although she answered him without raising her eyes. "Before you panic sir, what signs are there? How frequent are her contractions?"

"I don't know all that. She needs to be looked at right now." He thought briefly and then permitted himself to say, "She's slow. She can't say what's on her mind too good."

The aide nodded, her fingers busy with her paperwork. She stopped momentarily, plucked a form from a stack before her and offered it to him. "In the meantime, sir, if you'll fill out this form and have a seat. As soon as someone's free they'll look at her."

He sat with Marcy in the back row of the squalid room amidst the suffering, the life. In their row there was a blanketed child in his mother's arms, bawling mightily; a black man, chin touching chest, head bloody from a scalp wound, blood no longer fresh; two men holding hands, one all skin and bones, the other seeming in good health. On a gurney catercorner to them was a woman with her legs elevated on some pillows. In their dozens they waited to be healed, row on row, waited for the sound of their name. Joe took Marcy's hand and kissed her cheek, her neck, rubbed her back. He filled the papers out. Where employed? He put down unemployed, still covered by insurance.

Marcy dozed. Joe would have too, tired by the trip, but he had gone to overdrive, agitated by the clock directly over the clerk's desk. It was clear enough that time was going by and not many names were being called. The mass of people seemed to have grown, not shrunk. Some stood against the wall since the seats were all taken. Joe was at the desk every fifteen, twenty minutes. "Just as soon as someone's free. In pregnancies so many women think they're due and they're three days away. You know what I'm saying?" But he was back twenty minutes later.

Could he mistrust the signal of the H that had been plainly on the highway there for him? No. When Marcy had cried out she knew. When she'd put her hand on her belly she had told him all he had to know. He loved her now, needed to protect. He loved her in her roundness, carrying their child, her face in sleep, repose, and wonderful as though choirs sang in balconies. The clock read 12:01. He went to light a fire under the clerk.

When he returned Marcy was awake and a huge puddle of water washed around her feet. "Oh dear," the woman with the baby said, "her water's broke."

And Joe was racing to the desk, pounding on it like his hands were thunderbolts. "Her water's broke," he yelled. "What's wrong with you? I told you get someone."

The clerk ran down a corridor and there began activity. Nurses appeared and laid a sheeted mattress on the floor. Lights on poles. A doctor with a stethoscope around his neck. And there upon the chair, the doctor kneeling before her, Marcy was delivered of her child, a boy.

*

She was in a ward. The baby was sucking at her breast, his tiny fingers on her white skin. Joe sat staring at the miracle of his good fortune, watching every movement, hearing every sound, the rustle of the sheet.

The doctor stood before them in his whites. "It is our custom in this hospital that our nurses bring presents to the first born, here at least, on Christmas Day." As they came forward he announced them, "Nurses Tongi, Yamaguchi and Martinez. We welcome to our world your fine baby boy."

In her black hand Tongi held a Day Glo golden ball. Yamaguchi clutched a plastic fish. Martinez had a rattle that would make some noise.

 

This story was first published in Zone 3, Winter, 1999.