Babyman

BABYMAN / Brent Spencer IDID TIME AT FAIRHOPE Men's Correctional Facility in Pennsylvania . Not hard time. Time. I thought wanting something bad enough was all that it took. I thought a move or two would put me in the clear, where no one could touch me. I was young and stupid and I didn't know anything, but by the time I realized that, it was too late. Three weeks into my sentence, Ronnie came to see me. She was the only person I put on my list of approved visitors. After "Relationship" I wrote "Wife," even though we never made it legal. Four years has to count for something. In the beginning we spent all our time in bed, out of breath, blood pounding, just drank each other up. But near the end we took turns trying to kill each other, slow secret killing, the kind of crime only married people can commit. She was sitting halfway down the long table in the Visitors' Room, her hands clapped over one of the clear plastic purses they make women visitors use. As I crossed the room, my mind went back to our first night. We met on the dance floor at a bar called The Hour Glass. Later she took me to her place. She made me turn out the light before she'd take her clothes off, but I flipped it back on and saw this naked woman lifting the top of her head off. She was wearing a fall, a big horse-tail of brown hair. Remembering that night made me laugh. "What's so funny?" she said, eyes flashing, always ready for the fight. "Nothing," I said, "I'm just glad to see you." Her hair was longer now, and she was letting the blond grow out. I forgot how much like a kid she looked. One of her front teeth was crooked and crossed a little behind the one next to it. When she was nervous, she'd slide her tongue over it. She was doing that now. The stall on our right was empty. On the other side, an old black woman was crying because she spent all week cooking for her grandson and now they wouldn't let her bring the food in to him. The kid kept saying, "It's OK, Grammy. It's OK," but you could tell he was missing that fried chicken and pecan pie. The Missouri Review · 53 Ronnie asked me how was I and were they treating me OK and all that. Small talk. But that ran out long before our time was up. We just sat there staring at each other over the glass partition, listening to that old woman. "Meatloaf with lots of onions and pickle relish in it and German potato salad and a whole big bag of butter cookies. ..." Ronnie was chewing the side of her fingernail, where the skin was already torn and sore-looking, but now she forced herself to put her hands back on the purse. "Ray," she said. Her voice was a tight whisper. "When we were together, you know, just before they put you away . . . well, I'm sorry but it looks like you got me pregnant." "... a dozen deviled eggs and a jar of them black olives you like, the ones with ..." "Ronnie," I said. She looked down at her hands and her hair fell across her face. She was talking faster now. "I know what I need to do, but it costs money, you know?" My heart was climbing up my throat. A baby. She looked up then, looked straight at me. "Five hundred dollars is what I need." I said, "Honey, are you sure you ..." "Listen," she said, standing up quickly, "if you don't want to help me, just say so. I don't even want to be here." I reached over the partition and held the ends of her fingers. Her eyes went away when I did that. I said, "I'm sorry, honey. I don't know what to say. I'll get you the money. Don't worry." At the end of the room, the guard stepped out his cigarette and hiked...