Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

Gert-Jan says: “Let me cut right to it. I’m offering to buy the boy. For a sizable sum.” There’s a pause where he probably fans out a number of bills. Part of me wishes I could see exactly how much. “The boy is my property. It’s only right you should turn him over.”

The atmosphere thick with unspoken negotiations. I wait for the lid of the trunk to rise and those tender hands to encircle my windpipe once again.

“That’s a serious offer,” Ruth says. “But the kid isn’t here.”

Gert-Jan whistles a few high notes. His imitation of the spotted thrush. An attempt to recalibrate the tension in the room. He says: “So tell me, when is your baby due?”

“Could be any day now.”

Gert-Jan says: “You must be full of plans. I envy you having a child to bring into your home.”

Ruth bristles at the inflection of that last word. “This is a temporary situation.”

Gert-Jan says: “Of course, of course. But the main thing is the arrival of a new life. A new beginning. This is always something to celebrate.” A rustling sound. I can’t picture what’s transpiring. “Please accept this as a small token for imposing on you.”

“That’s nice and all, but I can’t drink.”

It’s probably a bottle of wine and no doubt a formidable vintage.

Gert-Jan says: “How silly of me. Instead let me treat you to a meal. A friend of mine owns a restaurant down the street. He cooks a great steak.”

An inscrutable silence follows.

He says: “Surely there is no harm in some good food. We are assured of good service. I will not take up but a little of your time.”

She finally assents with a few guttural murmurs. As the two sets of footsteps echo down the service corridor, my spirits plummet. Gert-Jan’s persuasions are more effective the longer he holds your attention. When I emerge from the stifling darkness of the trunk, I lie on the mattress and suck on the edges of the quilt, pulling at the loose threads with my teeth. I try not to imagine the deal he will have extracted from her before the appetizers are served.

Ruth returns sometime past dawn. She stumbles in alone and passes out on the mattress without a word. I stay awake all night. I pace the service hallway for hours hoping she’ll stir. Finally I sit myself in the entrance to her bedroom. I stare at her sleeping form and listen to her nasal wheezes. There’s something soothing about the rhythmic fluctuations of her stomach.

It happens in slow motion. I find myself creeping toward her. Each step is completely silent. Soon my hand hovers a few inches above her belly. I slowly lower my palm. Her belly feels unreal, like the rind of a ripe melon. Everything is placid, then I feel a tiny-but-definite kick. It’s as if the baby knows I’m here. It’s reaching out to greet me.

When Ruth wakes several hours later, no mention is made of Gert-Jan. She shuffles around her room, compulsively shifting, straightening, and reshifting every item. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles. The sort of convoluted and heartbroken expression that conceals entire histories. It feels like she’s about to confess something, but the moment passes. “You know, for a moment I could swear I saw what you looked like as a child,” she says. “It must have been pretty sad.” I can’t help blushing, not because of the words but the attention.

Ruth announces she’s going shopping. She hauls herself down the service corridor and pauses with her hand on the lock. “Some friends are throwing a party tonight,” she says. “You should come.” She turns the handle and vanishes onto the sidewalk. And just like that, the hinge of fate swings into place. This party must be where Gert-Jan has arranged to get me back.

Half in a daze, I wander into the dining room. I stare at the divots in the floor where the booths had been bolted. I stick my fingers in the gouges, wondering how difficult it was to dislodge these pieces and if the furniture put up much of a fight.

I’m not the only one watching Ruth dance. People marvel at the sight of a pregnant woman in this crowded loft, shifting her swollen belly to the morphing rhythms. Sweat christens her brow. Her cheeks flush crimson. The white crescents of her eyes shine between her lids. She looks exquisite. Each movement radiates a sense of pure abandon. Ruth is the only reason I agreed to attend the party. The night will probably end badly and watching her dance may be my sole consolation. But right now, it’s enough.

The loft spans the third floor of an old textile warehouse. A mirrored ball rotates from the ceiling, dappling the cavernous space with squares of light. It highlights the various factions on the dance floor. The kinetic exhibitionists whose bodies whip and reel in intricate spasms. The autistic introverts who rock rhythmically on their heels while staring blankly at the speakers. And Gert-Jan. My blood freezes and my irises turn pale, but the man with the blond crew cut rotates to reveal a different face.

As the song hiccups to a halt, Ruth shakes off her trance and squints into the darkness. I stand against the wall of industrial windows and flash an ungainly smile to indicate my presence. Ruth wobbles in my direction. She shakes the sticky curls loose from her forehead and takes the beer from my hand. She chugs the contents, then inspects the bottles lining the ledge. She finds one that’s almost full and knocks that back as well. She offers a defiant shrug. “What the hell,” she says. “You only die once.”

A concussive bass line shakes the wooden floor and Ruth shivers in recognition. She wades into the mass of dancers, unsteady on her feet but unwilling to miss another note. I need some air and stick my head out one of the cantilevered windows. Across the street, I notice another warehouse party is in full swing. Its smeared red lights pulse like a beacon from another world. I need to clear my head, but the music continues to pummel at escalating frequencies. It steadily builds toward an unknown climax.

There’s a commotion on the dance floor. Ruth is prostrate on the ground, writhing in pain. She must have launched herself into labor. Several men hoist her body above the crowd. She lies on her back like an Egyptian queen, her distended belly facing the ceiling as they ferry her toward the bathroom. Somebody briefly loses their grip and there’s the strange sight of Ruth’s disembodied feet kicking the air. The music continues to blare from trembling speakers. One of the men straining to keep Ruth aloft — this time I’m positive — is Gert-Jan.

Things begin to jumble. A dozen people encircle the wet spot on the dance floor where her water must have broken. A man in a tuxedo ambles into the crowd with upraised palms to assure everyone the situation is under control. Then the sirens start to wail. They originate from the street though I can’t figure how ambulances could have arrived so quickly. The DJ spins a sultry ballad to mellow the crowd, but the effect is undercut by paramedics plunging into the loft carrying a canvas stretcher. A small throng rings the bathroom. They block the entrance to the stalls. They strain on tiptoes to steal a view of the action. Somebody shouts the baby is starting to crown.

Gert-Jan must be inside the bathroom but there are too many bodies colliding from too many directions to tell. Nobody can even hear the paramedics, who shove their way into the stalls with enthusiastic brutality. I’m surprised Gert-Jan hasn’t come after me, but I’m not lingering to complain. As I stumble for the exit, the music vibrates in my teeth. The taste of vomit tickles my throat. I navigate the archipelago of people huddled in conversation and twitching in time to the slow-burn soul. A couple squirms on the drink table, knocking over bottles as they make out. Somehow I manage not to glance back at the bathroom.