Happy Baby by Stephen Elliott Read Free Book Online Page A

gag, sliding her fingers inside my cheeks to pull the puck from my mouth. “I’m taking you home.”

CHAPTER THREE
ACHTERBURGWAL
     
    I’M DREAMING OF my wife. I’m remembering her when she was pregnant, and then when she wasn’t pregnant anymore. She was long and thin again after her pregnancy and I could fall asleep with her on top of me. She was so light I could barely feel her.
    I scratch at my shoulder blades as I wake up and hear water boiling over a pot and spilling into a fire. The cotton sheet rides to my knees. I remember that I’m in Amsterdam and I haven’t seen my wife Zahava in years. There’s a woman in front of me at an ironing board wearing socks that don’t reach her ankles, her legs naked until her shirt begins at her thighs. She’s looking down on me. Her white T-shirt is so bright it appears out of focus. I wonder if she is going to hit me with the iron.
    “I don’t know you,” I say.
    “You will,” she says. She stands the iron on its heels. Her calves stretching, she jerks the plug from the wall.
    Her name is Jessie and she’s a friend of my roommate Toine, who has left for work already. Toine and I share a small flat in the Jordan: two rooms with no doors, the shower hanging over the toilet, the kitchen the length and width of a plank.
    There’s a packet of croissants between Jessie and me with the plastic ripped open. We lean against the counters and eat from plates we hold with one hand. She’s taller than me but not as tall as Toine. She’s beautiful, I think, though I didn’t notice it right away. She’s big-boned, like the Dutch, but with black hair, and her skin is the color of sand.
    “Toine and I met in college,” Jessie says. “I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?”
    “We’ve only lived together for a couple of months,” I say. She watches me eating and I cover my mouth. “He’s moving soon. He never mentioned you.”
    “Of course not. Why would he? You’re just roommates, right?” She lays her plate on the counter, next to the wood block and the knives. “But we were very close. He wanted to marry me, except that we were political. Can you imagine Toine at a protest?”
    “No.” I place my plate in the sink and brush my hands together. “I have to go to work.” I squeeze between Jessie and the fridge to grip the tap, run a stream of water over my plate and pull the pan she cooked eggs in from the stove, wipe it twice with a rag and hang it on the wall. Jessie hasn’t moved; she’s waiting for something and I frown and smile at the same time to show her I’m in a hurry.
    “You don’t have to look at me like that. I have work to do as well. I’m not some crazy person, you know. I’m not a stalker.”
    “I never said you were a stalker.”
    “I’ve just returned from Africa,” she tells me. “Ever been? I was doing very important work there. There’s a report I have to write. Tell Toine I’ll still be here when he gets home.”
    ***
     
    It’s a damp Dutch day and the bricks in the street are wet. The tourists haven’t woken yet but the laundries are open and some of the hookers have turned on the lights in their windows. Toine is across from the fountain before the theater Casa Rosso, standing in front of the kiosk. He wears his dark blue suit and tie, his toes pointed toward the short rail that borders the canal. He seems to be considering what to do about the water.
    “Up early,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and spitting at the canal.
    “Up Simba,” he says and flips his cigarette into the canal. He looks the way he always looks, happy, disgusted, bored. “I was restless. I thought I’d leave you Jessie.”
    “What’s wrong with her?” I say. “There’s something wrong with her.”
    “She doesn’t know when she isn’t wanted. You would make a nice couple.”
    “She’s beautiful,” I say.
    “I’ll tell you something about beauty. She left Holland years ago to save the world. She thought she would spread a