The yellow kitten wove in and out around his ankles. Jake chugged stale coffee, read the instructions on the back of the spaghetti box, and worried. Esther’s backpack was on the table and an uneaten tuna sandwich on the arm of the sofa. She must have already come home from the demonstration and gone out again, in a hurry. She usually left him a note. Something was wrong.
No doubt that something was connected to the two policemen who were waiting at the curb when he got home. They asked for Esther but wouldn’t say what they wanted. When he looked through the slats of the Venetian blinds a moment before, their cruiser was still double-parked on the street below.
Should he start the spaghetti now, or wait for her to get back? He was famished; on surgery rotation he never managed lunch. He ate the sandwich, ignoring the places where the kitten had nibbled, and rummaged in the cupboard. Where did she keep the canned clams? When he heard the apartment door open, he tossed the box on the counter. Good, she could take over making dinner.
Two cops flanked Esther. Molly was fretful, working up to a meltdown. Jake looked from one officer to the other, then at Esther, trying to control his expression and his breathing.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“Ask your wife,” the tall cop answered.
“Help me with her.” Esther struggled with the infant wrap. Maggie had learned to tie the khanga in the Peace Corps in Togo and insisted it was the best way to calm a fussy baby, but sometimes the fabric twisted with a diabolical mind of its own.
Jake extricated Molly while Esther settled in the rocking chair. “It’s okay, Monkey,” he whispered. “Dinner’s coming.” He turned to the cops guarding the doorway. “Would you give my wife some privacy while she nurses?”
The tall cop tapped his watch. “Ten minutes.” He followed his partner into the living room.
Jake sank back against the counter. Dread found its familiar home in his stomach, where it roiled and soured on the brink of nausea. He opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. He picked up the spaghetti box, stared at the gibberish instructions and then back at Esther.
“What happened?”
“I guess you didn’t see the news.” Esther reached for Jake’s hand and pulled him close. “There was a street fight, mounted cops beating up demonstrators. It was awful. Rosa and I threw apples at them.”
“Apples?”
“Little hard ones.” She rested her head against Jake’s hip. “We must’ve hit a horse. A cop was hurt.”
Jake stared at his wife. That sounded like Rosa, but Esther?
“How did they know it was you?”
“A newspaper guy took our picture. It was on the news.”
“Oh, baby. What’s going to happen?”
“Don’t know. I told Mama and Pop. They’ll call some lawyer cousin. And Rosie went home to talk to Allen.” Esther paused. “If I’m not back when you have to leave for work, call my mother. Or Mrs. B.”
“Molly and I’ll be okay. I’m worried about you.” Jake kneeled on the floor next to the rocker and put his arms around her. Together they listened to Molly’s small sounds, the sucks and sighs, until the tall cop appeared in the doorway.
“Time’s up.”
“But I only nursed on one side.”
“Like I said, you should have thought of your kid before assaulting a police officer.” He grabbed Esther’s arm and pulled her up. “Let’s go.”
Esther kissed Molly’s forehead and handed her to Jake. “She’s probably still hungry. There’s breast milk in the freezer. Then call Allen. He’ll know what to do.”
After Esther left, escorted by a cop at each elbow, Molly immediately began to fuss. Jake took a bottle of breast milk from the freezer, and put it in a pot of hot water to thaw. He paced with Molly, jiggling her as he circled the kitchen; sometimes that calmed her. This was all Rosa’s fault. She could take risks. She didn’t have a baby depending on her. Dragging Esther into this was reckless. Negligent, really. Just what you’d expect from Rosa.
Molly cried louder. She didn’t usually need to be burped anymore, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do while the milk thawed. Patting her back, he walked through the living room, kitchen, bedroom, then negotiated a tight turnaround in the little end room where Esther had pushed aside her paintings to make space for the crib they rarely used. The canvases were dusty and abandoned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a work in progress on the easel. Certainly not since Molly was born, maybe not the whole pregnancy. But that wasn’t Molly’s fault; that was Rosa’s influence. “You’ve got talent,” Rosa had urged Esther. “Use it for the movement. Posters and T-shirts and banners change more minds than framed paintings hanging in a fancy museum.”
Pacing the long hallway, he wondered if he should have insisted that Esther finish her art degree, even though it would have meant her staying in Ann Arbor while he moved to Detroit to start his residency. He had been relieved at her decision to move with him. His brain could master the science of medicine just fine, but his hands needed Esther’s body to study the art of it. His fingers learned anatomy on her flesh. He explored the resistance of the veins inside her elbow for the best IV sites, palpated the bones and tendons of her ankle joints, investigated the valleys between her ribs for imaginary chest tube placement. Still, they could have managed it if Esther stayed in Ann Arbor that extra year; it wasn’t like they had much time together anyway. By then, Rosa was already in Detroit with Allen. Maybe a year apart would have broken Rosa’s spell and avoided this mess.
Molly’s complaints escalated. Jake found a clean rubber nipple and attached it, then sprinkled a few drops of milk onto the inside of his wrist to test the temperature. He sank into the rocking chair with Molly.
No, if it hadn’t been for Rosa, none of this mess today would have happened. Esther was usually reasonable and responsible. When she was under Rosa’s influence, she became someone else, someone reckless, unpredictable. And look where that landed her.
Molly choked, coughed, and spit up onto Jake’s shirt. Poor kid, she’d probably picked up on all the stress of the afternoon even though Esther had the sense to leave her at home. Babies were intuitive. Molly probably understood that their contented family life was threatened. Jake wiped her face with the kitchen towel, offered her the bottle again. This time she drank slowly, sucking herself to sleep in his arms. He put her in the cradle in their bedroom and rocked her.
“Don’t worry, Monkey,” he whispered. “Nothing bad will happen. I won’t let it,” he promised.
Big talker, he scolded himself. A stronger man would have intervened, not just watched the cops take his wife away. Allen would have done something. What right did he have to promise his daughter anything? His promise was worthless. Bad things happened to little kids, all the time.
No. He stopped himself. In comparison to meningococcemia or malignant brain tumors, how bad could this be, throwing apples at cops? Still, he dreaded telling Esther’s parents that she’d been taken downtown, presumably arrested.
First he’d figure out that spaghetti. One of these days, after he finished his residency and had a real job, he’d learn to cook. Once he had some food in his stomach, once he could think straight, he’d phone Allen, see what wisdom Rosa’s legal eagle had to offer. Then he’d call Esther’s parents, reassure them that Esther and Rosa would be fine. He’d make arrangements for Molly. It would probably all be settled by tomorrow.