Short Story: "Win or Lose"

By Mary Grimm

Judy and I sit opposite each other, slapping address labels onto newsletters in the Women's Program office. The afternoon sun slants in through the window, solidifying the air in shafts of gold dust. It makes the office look mysterious, a stage set where something significant will happen.

"I'm thinking about getting married," Judy says. "This guy, the one I met last March, keeps asking me."

"Well, that's nice,” I say.

"Well, I don't know. He keeps talking about how he wants kids. Do these have to be in zipcode order?"

"Yes."

Judy gets up to move a stock of already labelled newsletters.

"You have kids." She bites her thumbnail and gazes at me. 'How do people decide when they're ready? How did you decide?"

"I was pregnant a month after I got married." Judy sits down, ignoring the newsletters, while I slap away at those labels.

"Well, you must have thought about it. Don't people think about it?"

"It doesn't matter whether you think about it or not. You just do it and then you find out if you're ready." I push my completed pile away and get up. "I've got to go. Lucy's team has a game tonight."

"Oh, is that the little one? I think she's a doll. What's the other one's name? Joan? It must be fun to have a kid who plays softball and you can go and watch."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Judy."

Later on the bus I think about it. Maybe you can decide. Weigh alternatives. Consider. Save up for a baby after you get a washer/dryer. Baby lay-away. Start a baby savings plan today. It's never too early. A boy I used to know when I worked at Lawson's gets on. He ducks his head and mumbles hello. I smile. He asked me out when I started working there, flattering me immensely since he guessed my age to be "maybe twenty-five." I am pleased to remember this, and then, quickly, angry. What kind of a fool am I, preening myself when some child knocks half a dozen years off my age? I am glad when the bus gets to my stop.

It is cool at first when I get home, but the illusion wears off quickly. I pour orange juice, light a cigarette, and look at the schedule. Lucy's softball game is at six-an hour and a half. I sit down in the 'rocker. Should I call Roger? I won't see him tonight. Roger likes me quite a lot, but he can't take the kids. He doesn't dislike them. They just make him nervous. He says he can't talk to them.

Lucy and Joan are with Jeff tonight. I sit and rock and think about all the things I don't have to do because they aren't here.

I don't have to make dinner (Joan doesn't like peas; Lucy hates tomatoes.)

There won't be any toys to put away. (Joan made me bring that out. I didn't even play with it.) I won't have to give them baths.

I won't have to pay attention to kid questions. (Can I try on your shoes? Why is that lady's hat green?)

I won't have to kiss them goodnight.

The sun slants farther along the floor. It's the time of day that everyone is hot and sticky and irritated. I can hear the woman next door screaming at her little boy. Her voice rises up higher, out of control. He cries, farther and farther away, as he runs to his room. Her husband comes home; his voice rumbles. He wants dinner, a beer, the TV, quiet. Why can't they afford an alt conditioner? Why can't they go to

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Page 8/What She Wants/April, 1981

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see her mother? Why does she always make hot dogs? Why can't he drink less? Why is that kid always yapping?

I stub out my cigarette and get up to look for the book I have to read by next week. I have just knocked a pile of books off the couch when the phone rings again.

"Are Lucy's tennis shoes at your house?" "No, they must be at your house. She had them with her when she left here yesterday."

"That kid can never keep track of anything." **Tell her to look under her bed."

"Joan, tell Lucy to look under her bed," he shouts.

"I'll see you later, Jeff."

"Oh. Are you coming to the game?”

"Yes. Why not?"

HOSA

"Oh. No reason. Well, Ann and I are coming.” "I promised Lucy I would come." "All right."

I am going to run to the softball field. I change into shorts and tennis shoes, loop a jacket around my neck. I'll have to carry my keys in my hand.

Running, according to Roger, who is a gym teacher, is as good as, if not better than, meditation. Much better for me. I do not want to think about Ann who is right now, perhaps, helping Lucy find her shoes under the bed in what used to be my house. I do not want to think about how irrational this. makes me feel.

I have a dread of running into Ann and Jeff and the kids when I'm not ready for it, at the supermarket, or the park. Once I did see them at a restaurant that I went to with Roger. He and I were sitting there in a booth for two. I had on a new dress, I felt slender and desirable. I held a wine glass in one hand and we talked about a book I had read, a movie we had seen. Then Jeff and Ann came in with Joan and Lucy, and I felt as if I was turning grey, withering. Roger looked less like a man, more like a gym teacher. They sat at a big round table and argued

over the menu and what Joan could order and if there was chocolate milk (I couldn't hear, but I knew) and I felt like wailing, howling, in the dark, alone. I didn't say anything to Roger. He pretended he didn't notice. Roger likes to deal with my feelings in a package labelled "Concerns of Women Today." He prefers to tackle them at appropriate times.

The sun is in my eyes as I run. I look at the sidewalk disappearing under my feet. I breathe hard deliberately. I pump my arms. I do not feel loose. But the pounding of my feet and the painful rush of air in my lungs fill me up. You need only think about your body when you run, the pull in your knee, the pain in your chest, whether you can make it to the next driveway, the next corner, at all.

When I get to the field, the game has just started. I wave, still running, to people I know. They are too far away for me to have to say hello. I manage to run all the way to the last diamond, although I am gasping. When I stop, I see that I will have to talk to Mary Lou Ericson.

"Why, Carla! I haven't seen you forever. You look like you've lost weight. How's your new job?" "It's fine. Nice people."

"Aren't you going to be graduating soon?" "In December."

"Oh, I think that's marvelous. You'll have your degree. Will you still work at that women's place?" "I can if I want to.'

'Well, it all sounds just wonderful. I can't imagine how you manage." She squints at me admiringly, shading her eyes from the sun.

"How are the kids, Carla? I saw them with Jeff andI saw them yesterday at the pool."

I knew that Mary Lou would like to ask me about Ann. She has a look in her eyes that I recognize. She is greedy, yearning for information. How do I feel? Why did I leave? What did he do? What do I think of Ann? And how about the kids? Everyone knows, she might say if I gave her the chance, that divorce is worst for the children. She is more than willing to commiserate. Oh, she could tell me stories about her husband, but he isn't as bad as some, she wants to tell me.

She does ask me about Roger-he's so tall and wherever did I meet him? I tell her that it was in a bar. Her eyes light up-all her best and worst expectations are verified. A romantic meeting over drinks, a deliciously sordid affair with a stranger. Roger has acquired glamour.

After I say goodby, I walk over to behind Lucy's team's bench. I spread my jacket out on the grass among the other parents' lawnchairs and the playpens and baby seats and tricycles. I wave to Lucy who acknowledges me with a nod. I look around for Joan, my other baby, but she is not there.

Sitting there, at the far end of the field, I can look through three softball games to the swimming pool a block and a half away, into the sun. Everyone has a halo, an outline of gold. Swimmers leap into the pool in a golden cloud, they jump up in a fountain of shining drops. The yellow dust blows metallic across the diamonds. Blue and green and red and yellow team shirts, like gumdrops or jewels-the colors gather together and disperse, inning by inning.

Lucy is up. She waves to me from home plate. Two strikes, four balls, she walks to first. I let out a breath.

Then Tony is up at bat. Everyone tenses: you can feel it. He walks like a little old man. He can't wear the batting helmet, he says it hurts his head. The whole field, both teams, everyone, is quiet. The mothers lean forward in their lawnchairs. Let the kid get a hit. He misses twice-then the ball dribbles off the bat. They yell and cheer-he's out at first. He doesn't care-he's grinning as he walks back to the bench. Way to go, Tony, someone, says. His father watches him, arms crossed, holding onto his elbows, not quite running up to help.

I imagine briefly how I would feel if Joan, or

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