Miranda July: The First Bad Man

“Do you need a TV?” I pointed to the curb. “The trash people won’t take it.”

“I have a flat-screen. You should get a flat-screen.”

“I keep meaning to take it to Goodwill.”

He scrunched up his face. “I’ll take it to the Goodwill for you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” He gestured to Jack in a way that made me feel uncouth, as if Goodwill were a house of ill repute.

He sat in the kitchen with Jack while I gathered a few more things for him to take. “Goo goo goo,” Darren said, making a silly face. “Ga ga ga.”

THE NEXT DAY HE BROUGHTme the receipt from Goodwill in a little envelope.

“For taxes. It was a tax-deductible donation.” He leaned on the door frame, waiting. I invited him in. The truth was, he explained while I did the dishes, he felt bad for me and Jack. “All alone and everything. If you want, I can check in on you. I don’t mind.”

“That’s very generous, Darren. But we’re really doing fine.”

Tuesdays were his usual day; he came after Rick left. He broke down boxes and put them in the recycling, he helped me reach tall things. He said I should see the top of his mom’s refrigerator — it was clean like a plate.

“You could eat off it. In fact, that’s a good idea — I’m gonna eat off it tonight. I’ll just put my spaghetti right on it.”

While he installed my tiny new flat-screen he told a long story about his cousin’s car. He didn’t seem at all worried that the story would bore me; he just went on and on, not even utilizing basic storytelling skills to make it interesting. Sometimes he played with Jack while I went to the bathroom or made food for us. He had to be careful because the baby was fascinated by his pimples. Once his grabbing little hand knocked the top off a ripe whitehead and puss and blood spurted out. Underneath the acne were good bones. Not great bones, but perfectly fine, serviceable bones. Tall too.

I remembered exactly where Ruth-Anne had put the card: the center drawer of the receptionist’s desk. If she was seeing a patient I could possibly slip in and get it without her even knowing. Jack looked at himself in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator, leaning his head back in the carrier. My heart was skipping beats as we made our way down the long familiar hallway. Ruth-Anne , I would say, can we put the past behind us? Better not to phrase it as a question. The past is behind us. That was good. Who could argue with that?

I swung open the door. The front desk was empty. I went straight for the middle drawer; it was an awkward reach with Jack in the carrier and the card wasn’t where I thought it was. And suddenly I realized I wasn’t alone — a young woman was reading a magazine in the corner. She smiled at us and said the receptionist had just stepped out. “I think she went to the bathroom. Dr. Broyard might be running late.” I nodded thank you and chastely sat down as if I hadn’t just tried to rob the place. Dr. Broyard. Had I unconsciously timed my visit to avoid Ruth-Anne? Ruth-Anne would say I had. I stared over Jack’s head at a new painting of a Native American weaver. Maybe it was by Helge Thomasson. The weaver was weaving a rug. Or unweaving it. She might have been taking the rug apart as a nonviolent act of resistance. I wondered if the new receptionist was very pretty. Poor Helge.

The young woman slowly turned the pages of Better Homes and Gardens . She kept glancing up at Jack in a way that reminded me of me — as if they shared a special understanding. It was sort of sickening. She put the magazine down and picked up another one.

It had taken a moment.

But now I recognized her.

She wasn’t wearing the shirt with the Rasta alligator on it, but the fluorescent lights were glinting off her John Lennon — style glasses, and her hair, though longer than in the photo, was blond and stringy. I wondered who she was — a friend’s daughter? His niece?

“Kirsten.” I said it to Jack, just in case it wasn’t even her name.

She whipped her head around. For a moment it seemed miraculous, like a doll or a cartoon come to life.

“We might have a friend in common,” I said. “Phillip?”

She wrinkled her forehead.

“Phil? Phil Bettelheim?”

“Oh. Phil. Yeah.”

Her face slowly tightened and she looked me up and down.

“Are you… Cheryl?”

I nodded.

She tilted her face up to the ceiling and took a long, dramatic breath. “I can’t believe I’m really meeting you.”

I smiled politely. “I guess we both learned about this place from Phillip. Phil.”

“I told him about Dr. Broyard,” she said. I rubbed Jack’s back to let her know I didn’t really care. She seemed like a very bitter and unappealing young lady.

“Phil didn’t say you had a baby, but I guess I haven’t seen him in a while. Not since you-know-what, actually.” She grinned a little, like she had a mean secret.

“I don’t think I do know what.”

“Not since you told him to”—she made a tube with her fingers and jammed another finger into it—“me.”

My eyes widened and I glanced around to be sure we were alone.

“I was so surprised”—she leaned forward—“that you did that. What woman would tell an old man to have sex with a child?”

It was like being accused of a crime committed in a dream.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t think you were real.” Or I did. And then I didn’t.

“Well”—she extended both her arms—“I am.”

It was hard to know what to say to this. Surely the receptionist would be back any moment. Kirsten quietly bumped the back of her head against the wall a few times.

“I hope it wasn’t too awful,” I said, finally.

“It wasn’t a big deal. He had to watch something first, on his phone. That took a long time.”

I had no idea what this meant, but I nodded knowingly.

“Hey.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s send him a picture of us together. It’ll freak him out.”

“Really?”

She held her phone out at arm’s length and leaned stiffly toward me. Her hair smelled like chlorine. Jack lurched toward the lens with his wet mouth, blocking both of us.

The flash popped, the door opened, and the receptionist returned to the front desk. It was Ruth-Anne. She froze when she saw me, just briefly.

“The doctor is ready for you, Kirsten.”

Kirsten swept past me without a glance.

We were alone.

“Hi, Ruth-Anne.” I stood up and went to the counter.

She raised her eyebrows, as if she wasn’t going to deny that was her name but she wasn’t going to confirm it either.

“I’m just here for that card. Remember? The one with the name.” I pointed at Jack and she blinked, seeming to notice him for the first time.

“Do you mean a business card?” She gestured to Dr. Broyard’s cards in their Lucite display, right beside her own.

“No, the card I asked you to keep. You put it in there.” I pointed to the middle desk drawer.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, but you’re more than welcome to take several business cards.”

Her big-boned androgyny was gone. She had carefully tipped a million tiny details in the girlish direction. The long hair was pulled back by a tartan headband. Her tight-fitting blouse was designed to minimize her broad shoulders and it did. Her whole body appeared shrunken. Sitting down, she actually seemed to be petite, a delicate woman.

Dr. Broyard popped out holding a file folder. As she looked up at him her whole bearing shifted; she became luminous. Not with the light of life, but like a husk lit electrically from within. She reached for the folder and he let it go — just shy of her fingers. It floated to the ground. Ruth-Anne hesitated and then awkwardly bent over to pick it up. When her face reappeared it was smiling with the hope that he had enjoyed the rear view, but he turned and went back into his office. Her smile widened with pain, and seeing her teeth I could also see the jawbone that held them, and her skull with its empty sockets and the whole of her clickety-clack skeleton. I could see right into her brain; it was shaking with fixation.