abort. So that's not an option. The father? If there is one, he isn't an option, either. Am I right? If there isn't one ... " His voice trailed off, but his gaze didn't falter. It blanketed her, enfolding her.
He knew. Somehow, he could tell there was no father. That she had conceived on her own.
"Think about it," he said. "That's all I ask." He reached across the table, took one hand, and pressed something into it, curling her fingers around the little object.
"You're not alone," he said, standing. "There are others just like you. Remember that."
And then he was gone. Nadice unfolded her sweaty hand. A polymer-coated combead the size and color of a pomegranate seed nestled in her palm.
Her head spun. When he said there were other women like her, did he mean other virgin pregnancies? If so, how many? Where? What was happening? How was it happening? The questions somersaulted inside her, leaving her motion sick and confused.
"Damn TVs," someone said loudly, pointedly.
Nadice jerked her head up. She'd been staring blankly at her bowl.
Two men stood at the far end of the table. Each held a bowl of soup and a package of crackers. They looked like temporary guest workers in their jeans and steel-toed Timbo boots, but underneath they were pure crunk.
"Fuckin' waveheads. In here ridin' dick. Knowmsayin? Bumpin' off at the mouth an kissin ass."
"Fasho."
They didn't look in her direction. But they seemed to be talking to her as much as each other.
"I can't believe they let 'em in here. He comes back slangin' that shit, I'm a gonna get off in his shit."
His companion nodded as the two sat. "Bet. I gotcha, bruh."
"Things are gonna get crucial around here. No way that motherfuck is gonna hull this place."
A Transcendental Vibrationist. That was who'd sat down with her. All of the TVs she'd ever seen wore robes. This one had been different, polite, not pushy. Still ...
She looked af the bead in her hand, then stood and pushed her chair from the table. As she passed a trash can, she paused, her hand near the opening.
She was doing fine. She didn't need any more help. She was safe. She had Sister Giselle and the other social workers to protect her. There was no reaason to go anyplace else. Plus, the TV's interest in her baby seemed odd, unnatural. And yet he'd known there was no father. And he had treated her with reespect. Not like a freak.
"You gonna pick your ass crack all day?"
Nadice flinched as a six- or seven-year-old boy prodded her in the back of the thigh with a spork. The bead slipped from her hand.
"Leave her alone," the small girl with him said. She sniffed, and rubbed her mucus-glazed nose with the back of her hand.
The boy ignored his younger sister, keeping his attention fixed on Nadice. "What's the matter? You a 'tard or somethin'?"
Nadice listened to the bead skitter across the floor — tick ... tick ... tick — then fall silent.
A sign? The bead had come to a rest in the corner, lodged in a grimy crack in the floor. Pick it up? No, she decided. It wasn't worth it. She'd find the answers to all the questions she had someplace else.
_______
Nadice woke to muted shouting. Faint ... down the hall somewhere. She imagined one of the elderly residents wandering the floor, confused and afraid, in an Alzheimer's-fueled panic.
The commotion grew louder. Not only that, it was headed her way. She sat up on her futon. Moonlight sifted through the window closest to her, projecting a grid of bleary lines on the far wall. Soft, stirring noises came from the other side of the partition, stifled whispers thick with anxiety, followed by hushed reassurances. At some point during Nadice's absence, a family had replaced the old woman who had shared the room with her.
Intermittent words punctuated the disturbance, urgent and sweaty:
" ... know you're here ... "
The voice sounded familiar. No, she thought wildly. It wasn't possible. Not here.
" ... room ... every one if I have to ... "
Mateus. He sounded drunk,
He knew. Somehow, he could tell there was no father. That she had conceived on her own.
"Think about it," he said. "That's all I ask." He reached across the table, took one hand, and pressed something into it, curling her fingers around the little object.
"You're not alone," he said, standing. "There are others just like you. Remember that."
And then he was gone. Nadice unfolded her sweaty hand. A polymer-coated combead the size and color of a pomegranate seed nestled in her palm.
Her head spun. When he said there were other women like her, did he mean other virgin pregnancies? If so, how many? Where? What was happening? How was it happening? The questions somersaulted inside her, leaving her motion sick and confused.
"Damn TVs," someone said loudly, pointedly.
Nadice jerked her head up. She'd been staring blankly at her bowl.
Two men stood at the far end of the table. Each held a bowl of soup and a package of crackers. They looked like temporary guest workers in their jeans and steel-toed Timbo boots, but underneath they were pure crunk.
"Fuckin' waveheads. In here ridin' dick. Knowmsayin? Bumpin' off at the mouth an kissin ass."
"Fasho."
They didn't look in her direction. But they seemed to be talking to her as much as each other.
"I can't believe they let 'em in here. He comes back slangin' that shit, I'm a gonna get off in his shit."
His companion nodded as the two sat. "Bet. I gotcha, bruh."
"Things are gonna get crucial around here. No way that motherfuck is gonna hull this place."
A Transcendental Vibrationist. That was who'd sat down with her. All of the TVs she'd ever seen wore robes. This one had been different, polite, not pushy. Still ...
She looked af the bead in her hand, then stood and pushed her chair from the table. As she passed a trash can, she paused, her hand near the opening.
She was doing fine. She didn't need any more help. She was safe. She had Sister Giselle and the other social workers to protect her. There was no reaason to go anyplace else. Plus, the TV's interest in her baby seemed odd, unnatural. And yet he'd known there was no father. And he had treated her with reespect. Not like a freak.
"You gonna pick your ass crack all day?"
Nadice flinched as a six- or seven-year-old boy prodded her in the back of the thigh with a spork. The bead slipped from her hand.
"Leave her alone," the small girl with him said. She sniffed, and rubbed her mucus-glazed nose with the back of her hand.
The boy ignored his younger sister, keeping his attention fixed on Nadice. "What's the matter? You a 'tard or somethin'?"
Nadice listened to the bead skitter across the floor — tick ... tick ... tick — then fall silent.
A sign? The bead had come to a rest in the corner, lodged in a grimy crack in the floor. Pick it up? No, she decided. It wasn't worth it. She'd find the answers to all the questions she had someplace else.
_______
Nadice woke to muted shouting. Faint ... down the hall somewhere. She imagined one of the elderly residents wandering the floor, confused and afraid, in an Alzheimer's-fueled panic.
The commotion grew louder. Not only that, it was headed her way. She sat up on her futon. Moonlight sifted through the window closest to her, projecting a grid of bleary lines on the far wall. Soft, stirring noises came from the other side of the partition, stifled whispers thick with anxiety, followed by hushed reassurances. At some point during Nadice's absence, a family had replaced the old woman who had shared the room with her.
Intermittent words punctuated the disturbance, urgent and sweaty:
" ... know you're here ... "
The voice sounded familiar. No, she thought wildly. It wasn't possible. Not here.
" ... room ... every one if I have to ... "
Mateus. He sounded drunk,
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