Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

I curl myself into the alcove of the service entrance and wait to see if anyone will arrive. It’s nighttime before a woman with a grocery bag totters purposefully in my direction. She hobbles as if she’s sprained an ankle. It takes a few seconds to realize that she’s hugely pregnant. The woman distractedly digs through her purse for the keys. She doesn’t notice me sitting at her feet. Instead of attempting to explain myself, I have a simpler plan: I scream.

The woman clobbers me over the head with the groceries. She frantically unlocks the door, then claps a hand over my mouth and tugs me into a concrete hallway. After securing the door, she stares at me wide-eyed. Her lips contort as if forming words, but the only sound that escapes is a violent wheeze. The grocery bag tumbles to her feet. Her features clench in a contorted grimace. She slides onto the floor and clutches her stomach. This must be a contraction.

The woman huffs and pants. Her face gleams with sweat. When the pain subsides, I help lift her to her feet. She waddles down the service corridor without a word. I scoop up her bag and follow a few paces behind. She turns into a cave-like space that must have once been the freezer. It’s been transformed into a bedroom, complete with a ratty mattress, flannel quilt, and stepstool that doubles as a bedside table. The woman lights some candles to chase away the shadows.

She collapses onto the mattress. Her hands rest flat atop her enormous belly, monitoring the frequency of the amniotic vibrations. I perch on the only other item of furniture in the room, an oversized red trunk. The woman introduces herself as Ruth. A black bandana highlights her tufts of tangled blond curls. The flowing gypsy dress accentuates her stomach and the tattoo of an insecticide can on her shoulder. I can feel her eyes examining me.

Ruth unpacks the groceries: A vial of prenatal pills, a package of beef jerky, a sleeve of crackers, and a jar of peanut butter. She scoops a fingerfull of peanut butter into her mouth. “I’d kill someone for a steak dinner,” she says. She unlaces her black combat boots, peels off a pair of sooty socks, and stares at her bloated red ankles. “Have you been on the streets long?” she asks. “I can’t believe I’m still doing this.”

I find myself staring at Ruth’s pregnant stomach. I can’t help myself. “You want to touch my belly?” she says. “It’s okay. It’s not like a big deal.” The thought makes my heart sweat, but I shake my head. There’s a long silence. One of the candles sputters out. “You can stay the night,” Ruth says finally. “Just keep out of sight.”

After she falls asleep, I blow out the cratered candles and explore the restaurant. The place reeks of mildew and burnt plastic. The bathrooms have been stripped of ceramic tiles, but the sinks and toilets remain. The dining area is marked with the ghostly footprints of ripped-out appliances and the exposed steel of load-bearing walls. I crawl beneath the service counter and arrange my body on the chalky floor. Noises emanate from the surrounding structure, softly rattling the loose ceiling tiles. I think of Ruth and imagine the sounds are her child’s heartbeat resounding within the cinderblock walls. The reverberations lull me to sleep.

Shortly after sunrise, a series of fliers slide under the front door, all of them emblazoned with my face.

I spend the day trying to distract myself. It’s pointless to fixate on images of Gert-Jan prowling outside the service entrance, trading cigarette cartons for stray ends of information. Instead I help Ruth clean. She seems to enjoy the company as she kneels on the floor next to a plastic bucket and pile of wet rags, scouring every inch of her bedroom. “Too bad you didn’t know me before,” she says. “When I was thin. I was really something.” She’s a peculiar sight with the tattoo and violet sweatpants, hugely pregnant and scrubbing the cement. But there’s also something unmistakably sexy about her oval belly and plump ass.

She stares at the pools of water islanded across the floor. “Maybe it’s some biological nesting bullshit,” she says. “But I swear it’s a miracle I haven’t choked on all this filth.” She reaches for the bottle of Murphy Oil Soap, but it’s empty. She slops the rags in the bucket in a vain effort to soak up some remaining suds. Ruth struggles to her feet and retrieves a pair of tennis shoes from the corner. “Time for more supplies,” she says with an awkward grin.

After she leaves, I creep into the ruins of the dining room. I arrange myself beneath an automotive calendar that’s two years old and still several months off. I’m only a few feet from the front windows. Through the scrim of butcher paper, I observe the silhouettes of pedestrians rustling past in twos and threes. The hum of chatter, hiccups of traffic, and surges of music mix together into a tidal soundscape. At some point, I must doze off.

When I open my eyes, the street lights and neon signs have flickered to life. The nighttime noises have escalated to a frothy din. At first, I don’t notice the rattling sounds behind me. Then I hear Gert-Jan’s voice echo through the rear corridor. His pidgin accent is unmistakable. Ruth fusses with the lock and announces in a loud voice: “There’s nobody else here.”

A burst of adrenalized terror rockets through my body. I dash for the bedroom and squeeze inside the oversized red trunk. It’s a tight fit, but I’ve been practicing. Several moments later, Ruth enters and eases herself onto the mattress. She ignites several wicks. It’s easy to imagine Gert-Jan positioned in the doorway, his legs casually crossed, surveying the surroundings for clues he can play to his advantage. I expect him to launch a charm offensive, but instead he speaks with halting uncertainty.

Gert-Jan says: “I much appreciate you talking with me. The boy on the fliers is an important friend of mine. I am distressed and following every information I come across. We had some terrible misunderstandings. They were my fault. I just want to apologize.”

Against my will, I detect a note of genuine loss in his speech. It stimulates a flooding sensation of guilt and regret. Then it occurs to me that Gert-Jan’s words aren’t solely aimed at Ruth, and I squeeze myself into a tighter ball in the darkness.

Ruth finally replies. She says she doesn’t know who he’s talking about.

Gert-Jan says: “In fact, I am the boy’s guardian. So there is a legal obligation here. It may be true some unfortunate decisions were made. But the boy is in grave danger. Surely this is the most important consideration.”

Ruth repeats she doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but her denial carries less conviction. I picture Gert-Jan circling the room, marking the circumference as if he owns it, as if Ruth is the one imposing herself in this scene.

Gert-Jan says: “This is the absolute truth. And it is a little sticky. I am the boy’s father. Only recently I came into his life. I have tried to do my best, but the boy holds a grudge for the years I was missing.” I can detect the gears in his story grinding ever so slightly. His English improves whenever his temper flares. “Unfortunately the boy suffers from a terminal illness and refuses to accept the seriousness of his situation. I can only pray he is not dead already. It would be a terrible burden for his caretaker.”

Ruth says she wishes she could help, but she still doesn’t know who he’s talking about. Her tone is more uncertain yet. I wonder how much longer she can hold out.

Inside the trunk, my body has begun to atrophy. The story about my illness is a hoax, but I’m starting to feel its effects. My limbs clench. My head balloons. Orange-yellow spots burst across my eyelids. Or maybe I’m just running low on oxygen.