Relatively Speaking

by Shirley O'Rourke

     What if, on Christmas Eve of all nights, little Carl never stopped crying? His sturdy legs, padded in baby fat, kicked in all directions, only pausing to let his heels batter the mattress. His hands seemed to have doubled in size into fists that punched the air. Wedged between the sofa and a chest decaled with ducks that had been his daddy's, his secondhand crib trembled from his fury.

    Ellie scooped him up, formed a straightjacket with her arms, and circled the small living room. In between her own sobs she hummed a lullaby that only made him cry harder. When he slammed his head against her shoulder, it took her mind off her stinging face. Moments before, his daddy, big Carl, had pinched her right cheek until she winced. Loading trucks for a Dinette City warehouse had given him fingers as hard and cold as the metal legs of the tables he hoisted. Unlike the other men working the dock, stuck in a job paying barely enough to survive, Carl never struck his wife. And always, after a pinch, he expressed regret and sometimes kissed the spot he had squeezed.

.    She should have known a pinch was coming. “I'm getting depressed,” he had said over dinner. “Christmas Eve. And what are we having? Scrambled eggs. I hate them.” He nodded toward the cramped living room. “And I hate this place. A man can't turn around.” Again that morning he had banged his knees trying to maneuver between the bed and wall to get to the bathroom. “I feel like I can't even breathe here, you know?” He stood and threw his fork into the omelet pan. The baby watched yellow hunks flying through the air, squirmed and scrunched up his face.

    “Hush,” Ellie had warned her husband.

     “It's Christmas Eve, Ellie.” He grabbed her arm. “I've spent the day loading cheap kitchen tables. One truck pulls out. Zoom, another pulls up. No room to breathe there either. And those idiot drivers get union pay for chugging coffee and watching me. You don't understand, do you?”

    When she didn't answer, he pinched her right cheek. She yelped and the baby bellowed. Carl beat his fist on the table. “Quiet him down.”

    She hurried to the crib to make kissing and clucking sounds and pump the chubby arms in their favorite game. Already the baby had the sausage fingers it had taken his daddy years of demeaning labor to develop.

    “You're such a rotten mother,” Carl had yelled from the kitchen, even though she kept walking the baby around the room until her arms cramped and she had to return him to his crib where he flipped over on his belly to wail and claw at the sheet. When he looked up at her accusingly, Ellie swore she could see his tonsils and it made her feel that something special was being revealed to her. The only reward for all her effort.

    Ellie checked her face in the bathroom mirror. Her cheek throbbed but Carl's fingertips had not left marks and she felt like a sissy for crying. She reminded herself that years ago, before the invention of rouge, women pinched their own cheeks to make themselves look healthy.

    Carl's face loomed above hers in the mirror. “Can't you do anything right?” When he gestured toward the bathtub, a dark curl, damp with sweat, flopped against his forehead. “I only wanted to change clothes and have a couple of beers with the guys before the bars close. Look at my favorite shirt.”

    Dinette City supplied blue shirts with his name on the pocket. One, clean and dry, hung from the shower rod. To Ellie, crouched over the tub, scrubbing their collars and cuffs, they were identical. But he wanted the shirt still soaking, water ballooning its sleeves. In a single step he crossed the bathroom, gripped her chin and pinched her left cheek until her teeth ached. She concentrated on the weak sputtering of the radiator and tried not to cry. But then he released her and gently stroked her face as though erasing all the evidence. “Look at us, honey. We don't have a Christmas tree. My son doesn't have a single gift,” he whimpered, forgetting he had insisted on not spending money since the baby didn't know it was Christmas. He faced the mirror and tried to pat down his hair that needed a trim, then sniffed his underarms. “It's okay. I'll wear this shirt even if it stinks. But why did we have to have a fight?”

    On his way to the door he said, “Sometimes I just want to be like everybody else.” He blew her a kiss. “Relatively speaking.” He bounded down the three flights, his work shoes pounding bare wood.

    Soon the baby sniffled and quieted. Without a fuss he let Ellie change him. While she wiped his flushed face with a cool washcloth, she decided once again that Carl had a right to be angry. All he wanted was a normal life.

    From a kitchen drawer she took two twenties she had managed to set aside. It ought to be enough for a small tree and a gift for the baby. A snowsuit, so she could take him in his stroller to the laundromat and Carl would have his choice of shirts. She loved the snowsuits with bunny ears, but Carl might accuse her of turning his son into a sissy. She smiled down at him in his crib, sound asleep on his tummy, and gently touched the little fist that had relaxed to baby size. To run across the street to the store and half a block to the tree lot didn't seem much different than scrubbing shirts while he napped. Ellie gave him a kiss, then slipped into her tweed coat with the worn velvet collar. Leaving on the kitchen light, she hurried down the stairs. The cold air filling the hallway soothed her sore cheeks.

    Instead of lovely snow, it had been raining lightly all day. She stepped over the gutter that slowly carried a paper cup and a spiral of striped ribbon toward the corner. Across the street, the owner of the variety store beckoned. Since Thanksgiving, old Fay Lamb had stood on the sidewalk luring shoppers. Tonight, instead of a coat, she clutched closed a green sweater embroidered in golden bells. Carols crackled from the loudspeaker over her head. For weeks the jingly tunes had lulled Ellie to sleep while Carl tossed and muttered, restless for a beer or sore from stacking chairs perfectly so their vinyl seats wouldn't rip.

    Cheap imported vases filled the store window, except for a rack in the corner displaying chipped but colorful dog bowls. Ellie looked up at her own lit windows. If Carl came home and found his son alone, he was sure to really hurt her.

    Fay frowned. “You're shaking all over. You think this is cold?”

    “I'm in a hurry, Fay,” she said. “I need a gift for my baby. It's his first Christmas, but of course he doesn't know, and I was thinking of getting him a snowsuit. Not one of those bunnies,” she babbled on. “Maybe an Indian chief or football player?”

    “I don't have anything like that. Anyway, Santa never brings snowsuits.” Fay laughed and steered Ellie inside where she pointed to a few toys scattered under an outdated aluminum tree, its branches bent every which way. “How about those building blocks? Good for a baby, teaches it stuff.”

    The open box held only a few wooden blocks. Fay might give a discount, but Ellie pictured the baby screaming and using the letter A to pummel himself. She shook her head and said, “I need something soft.”

    “All babies love blocks,” Faye said firmly. “What's the problem with your kid?”

    Ellie sighed. “Most likely the problem is me. He has crying fits. When I talk to him, or sing, or walk him around until I'm about to collapse, he only cries harder.” Looking for snowsuits, she spotted on the counter a stack of white shirts gleaming under the fluorescent lights. One had been fitted to a mannequin of sorts, the upper half of a broad-chested man. But he lacked arms, so the sleeves had been creased in half and the cuffs pinned to his shoulders. His blue glass eyes beamed straight at Ellie. He looked a lot like Carl except for his painted smile.

    “I want that shirt,” Ellie blurted. The loudspeaker screeched and the music stopped. She held her breath, listening for the baby's wailing or Carl's angry shouts, but heard only the gurgling of the gutter. “And please hurry.”

    “What size?”

    Ellie tried to recall the numbers stamped inside the blue collars. “I don't know. Average.”

    Faye flipped through the pile to pull one from the middle.

    “The shirt on the model will be absolutely perfect,” Ellie said.

    “Can't. It's a display.”

    “Please?”

    “Do you want this one or not?”

    Ellie nodded and pulled a twenty from her pocket. “Is this enough?”

    “Absolutely perfect,” Fay grinned.

    “How much is that aluminum tree?” Ellie asked. Shapeless and tarnished, it would be better than nothing.

    “Display.” Faye frowned and gently touched Ellie's left cheek. “You have a nasty little bruise there.”

    Was that possible? From a pinch? “Oh, I think the baby did that. You know how they grab at you.”

    “I never had kids. Probably for the best.” She thought for a moment, then said, “You see, Mr. Lamb used to shove me around now and then. I knew I ought to get away before something awful happened. But it was the fifties. You made your bed, you slept in it. That's what everybody said, including my mother.”

    Ellie thought she heard their outside door slam. “I'm sorry that happened to you, but I need to get home.”

    Fay snapped open a Lamb's Variety bag and stuffed in the shirt. “Wait one minute,” she said and disappeared behind a pile of flattened purses. She returned cradling a white teddy bear that filled her thin arms.

    “How about this for your kid? Soft as you can get,” she smiled and stroked the plushy head. “The bank gave it to me for making a big deposit. That was a while back, but it's like new. Take it, please. No charge.”

    Ellie grabbed it by the paw. “Thank you then. Good night. Merry Christmas.” But instead of leaving she asked, “Did Mr. Lamb ever, well, really hurt you?”

    Shoving up the left sleeve of her sweater, Faye said, “He broke this wrist and I divorced him. I didn't give a hoot if my mother never spoke to me again, and she didn't by the way. I kept running the store by myself like I had all along. It was mine to begin with, my aunt left it to me.” She pointed to the plastic bag holding the shirt. “Mr. Lamb's only contribution was ordering about a million of those ugly bags. A cute saleslady convinced him the red was eye-catching.”

    Ellie looked out the window, peering over the outlandish vases. The lamp in their living room seemed to be flickering as it did from Carl's pacing.

    “So you see,” Faye was saying, “I don't even mind nights like this. Christmas Eve, and you're my only customer.” She ambled from behind the counter and turned Ellie's collar up to cover both cheeks. “There. Now you're a little Christmas queen. You rule. And you'll know what's best to do.”

    “But don't you ever think about Mr. Lamb?” Ellie asked.

    “Every time I look at one of the bags. But it would be an awful waste to throw them all away, wouldn't it?” She followed Ellie out the door and pressed the twenty into her hand.

    “You need the sale,” Ellie protested.

    Fay shrugged. “I hope the shirt makes him happy. But don't count on it.” She rubbed the wrist that Mr. Lamb had broken, then threw back her shoulders and jutted her chin. “There ought to be snow for Christmas instead of this lousy rain.”

    “I sure hope your business picks up.”

    “And I won't count on that,” Fay said tiredly, studying the sky. Grateful to find the baby sound asleep, Ellie bent over him whispering apologies for leaving him. Then she toured the apartment turning off lights, tiptoeing into the bedroom in case Carl had passed out, his feet, still in work shoes, dangling off the bed. Finally she sat on the sofa listening to a medley croaking from Fay's loudspeaker. Carl would hate the white shirt, call it wimpy. When he realized she had bought it instead of a tree, she might be in for a dreaded pinch on her soft upper arm. She propped the white bear below the window, in the spot where a tree ought to be glowing.

    A heavy thumping up the stairs drowned out the tinkling from Fay's loudspeaker and ended in shuffling and scraping in the hallway outside their door. Ellie took a deep breath and moved to the edge of the sofa. Carl sounded drunk. He must have borrowed beer money or maybe the other guys had treated.

    The door swung wide. “Hey, you're awake,” he slurred. “Good. I forgot to say I was sorry. Before.” He flung the door shut and walked unsteadily toward the sleeping baby. “Hello, son,” he said loudly. He pawed at the wooden balls that spun on a bar of the crib. “It's raining again,” he told the baby, then said to Ellie, “Guess what. I brought you a present.” He zigzagged back to the door and dragged in two kitchen chairs with metal legs and red vinyl seats. “I found these in the storeroom. Extras from the mix and match aisle. One of the guys helped me carry them home.”

    Maybe everything would work out after all, as long as she didn't give him the white shirt. “Thank you,” she whispered, and used her toe to shove the Lamb's Variety bag under the crib.

    "And look what Santa left,” he whooped and headed toward her. She held her breath but he picked up the bear. He tried to toss it into the crib and missed. He bent, grabbed its ear and said, “Wow. I see another present. Oh man, Santa's incredible.”

     “It's nothing,” Ellie said too loudly. At the sound of her voice the baby jerked and his eyes blinked open.

    Carl tossed the bear in the crib, narrowly missing the baby, and pulled out the bag. A dingy white cuff stuck out. “What the heck,” he frowned.

    Blood rushed to Ellie's face and her bruised cheek burned. “It was free,” she said weakly.

    “You got this? For me? You had this stuff hidden and I never came across it. Amazing, in this dump the size of a cracker box.”

    She wondered if he was trying to trap her into admitting she'd gone out. Then he would have a reason to hurt her. But he was holding up the shirt for the baby to see. He made the sleeve wave bye-bye. The baby creased his forehead and whimpered.

    Now Ellie saw the old-fashioned wide cuffs with slits for oversize studs like her father used to wear. The lamplight revealed its collar as bent as the aluminum tree. It must have been on that counter for years, attracting dust and growing steadily out of style.

    “I'm so happy,” Carl shouted. “It's Christmas and I got this great shirt. Imagine, me dressing up.”

    Noisily sucking breath, the baby readied himself for a tantrum.

    Carl's grin faded, his arms tensed and he dropped the shirt to ball his hands into fists. “Don't let him cry, Ellie, not now.”

    She barely heard him over her thudding heart. Would she have the courage to leave him? Or throw him out, as Fay had done to Mr. Lamb at a time when you had to sleep in the bed you had made?

    The baby bawled and slammed his foot into the bear's head.

    Grimacing as though he had just finished hefting a truckload of tables but could handle a hundred more, Carl commanded, “Stop him.”

    Ellie remembered how comfortingly her velvet collar had brushed against the bruise when Fay raised it to make her a queen who would know what needed to be done. She stood and squared her shoulders just as Fay had in the green sweater. Stepping over the outdated white shirt, she looked her husband straight in the eye. Over the baby's wailing she shouted, “I can't stop him.”

    Carl blinked and stared back, then nodded.

    Suddenly weak in the knees, Ellie sat on the nearest Dinette City chair. Clumsily he shoved the other one next to hers. Against the bare floor the rubber caps on its metal legs echoed the loudspeaker's squeal. One cap fell off and rolled toward the crib. The baby stopped crying and turned on his side to watch it travel across the floor.

    “I'm sorry we don't have a tree,” Ellie said. “Like everybody else.”

    “I'm sorry I couldn't find a table. Maybe next Christmas.” He took her hand and gripped it tightly, but in a pleasant way. They watched rain trickling down the window.

    “These chairs are beautiful,” she said.

    “I love the shirt,” he said in return. “Say, maybe you could wash it in the tub, so I can wear it for Christmas.”

    “I don't think so.”

    He grinned, took a deep breath and then another, and leaned back in his chair that tilted slightly from the loss of its tip. He closed his eyes. “Do you think our son will outgrow this?” he murmured before he dozed off, still smiling.

    “Definitely,” Ellie finally answered. Although he could not see it, she smiled back at him. Her Christmas king on his lopsided vinyl throne.