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BY STEPHEN ELLIOTT - - - - It's 6:30 in the morning, and Maria is still asleep. I'm awake before the alarm goes off, but I don't move yet. I just stare into her nest of hair. Her back, with its thick pale scar, is pressed against my chest. I have to be careful when I get up. If I move too quickly, Maria will startle awake and want me to stay, and I can't miss another day of work. We can't afford that. I want to get inside her now, but I resist. Our place is on the North Side of Chicago, in an area known alternately as Rogers Park and the Jonquil Jungle. There are thirteen apartments on every floor. We live on the third floor, in a small room with a kitchenette, a half fridge, and one window, but we have our own bathroom. The paint in the hallways is dark red and cracked. The girls that work the sidewalk in front of the bookstore on Howard all live here, five or six to a room. They bring their customers in and out, and their customers come from everywhere. We've changed the locks on the door three times. I raise the window shade to let in a little light and pull on my pants. I boil water in a saucepan, fill my coffee cup, two spoonfuls of instant coffee one spoonful of creamer, and sit at our table. My caseworker told me they're replacing the furniture at the day center, so Maria and I might get a new table and some other stuff this weekend. Maria sleeps naked on the mattress a few feet away. The blanket has slipped off her shoulder, and her breast is exposed. She looks as if she's having good dreams. This is rare. Normally the blanket is pulled tight around her shoulders, gripped in bunches in her hands. She sleeps with her eyes pressed shut and her mouth wide open, and she talks in her sleep. I drink my coffee slowly and take one of Maria's paperbacks off the shelf. I read two sentences, then put it back. She's always reading. She likes romances. I told her she should write a romance about us, but she said nobody would be interested, because we don't have nice things. She reads while she's filling in at the branch library, and she summarizes the stories for me when I get home. I take one last look at her before leaving to catch the 7:15 train. She'll wake up soon and call me at work. But now she's breathing easily, and I think she should always be able to sleep this way. "Most file clerks don't stick around," Ms. Ward says. "We have a high turnover because of the monotony." Ms. Ward wears her thick red hair in a tight ponytail. She has a small mouth and pointy teeth, and she questions the minutes on my timecard every week. She's thirty years older than me and was once married, but now lives alone in an apartment in Lincoln Park, not far from the zoo. "You don't have to worry about me leaving," I tell her. "I'm not going anywhere." I'm working on benefits for overseas employees. The rows of filing cabinets are endless: half a floor of a building downtown. I work slowly but steadily under the long fluorescents, organizing the folders by location, then specialty, then last name. The file cabinets are in the middle of the building, far from the windows, and are ringed by offices that nobody uses. On each office door there is a nameplate and a whiteboard and a marker for leaving messages. Occasionally, when no one is looking, I'll write a joke message on someone's door. I read through the enormous sums of money, salary, compensation, and per diems the overseas employees receive. They all come from good schools; it says so on their résumés, attached to the files. The receptionists keep plates full of apples on their desks. The firm consults for governments. It has copywriters stationed in China writing political billboard ads. Ms. Ward tells me I have a phone call. "When are you going to be home?" Maria asks. "I don't know. It's all the way out there by the western suburbs. The brown line stops running after seven. I'll have to come back through downtown." "I never should have encouraged you." "You were trying to be supportive. Look on the bright side: after today I'll be home every day by six." "I'm not going in to work today," Maria says. "I'm going to see Jackie instead." Jackie is Maria's therapist. When you turn eighteen, as Maria and I both did recently, you lose your status as a Ward of the Court, but you still have access to social services for a year. If you're good, the state will even pitch in on your rent. "Don't tell her about Gracie, OK?" I say. "Jackie thinks you should be in therapy, too. You're more messed up than I am." "I hope not." "I could get in trouble if you get caught," Maria says. "I could lose my privileges. I need my therapy." I can picture her holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder and squeezing her arms together. Ms. Ward is standing at her desk, watching me. "Theo?" Maria says. "Yes?" "I wish when you left for work that you would tie me up like a pig. You could use the electrical cord. I'd have to wait here for you like that." Ms. Ward brushes past me. "I want you to hit me so hard I have bruises everywhere," Maria says. "You don't hurt me enough." "Tell Jackie about that." "I can't. She'll think I'm a slut." "I've got to get back to work." Maria's sigh comes through clearly over the phone. Before I leave work, I finish organizing all the employees in Japan. Ms. Ward asks me if I would like to contribute to the bagel pool. Everybody pitches in two dollars, and on Fridays we have bagels and cream cheese. "But I'm a temp," I tell her. "But you eat the bagels, don't you?" "I'll have to talk to the agency about that." "You know, Theo, you shouldn't be on the phone so much at work." - - - - To purchase Happy Baby, click here.
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