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Fate

Mike Schneider

    When the phone rang that evening, Mosley was sitting at the kitchen table, looking into the dining room at the hutch he had built 45 years ago of native black walnut lumber, that now held Blanche’s most prized cookie jars. Included among them was a Regal China Company majorette in her bright red hat, Shawnee Winnie Pig with gold decoration, and the ever-popular Hull Little Red Riding Hood. The first was made in Illinois, the other two in Ohio. They were still shiny and beautiful with a mid-20^th century charm all their own, but without Blanche they lacked the special luster she gave to them, and all things in their lives, just by being there for the past 56 years. On the third ring he put down the piece he was holding, lifted the receiver from its cradle and put it to his ear.
    “Hello.”
    There was silence on the other end.
    “Hello. Anybody there?”
    “Is that all you have to say?” a young woman’s voice asked.
    “That’s how I always answer the phone.”
    “Really? I expected something more original from the suicide hotline.”
    “Suicide hotline! Oh my God! I’m not the suicide hotline but if you’re thinking about it, don’t do it!”
    “Why not?”
    “Because you’re obviously a young lady with your whole life ahead of you.”
    There was a momentary silence before she spoke again.
    “My life is over,” she said. “It’s my only out.”
    “There’s always another out,” he said. “What’s your name?”
    “Brianna.”
    “How old are you?
    “Almost 16.”
    “Well, Brianna, why do you think you must kill yourself?”
    Again, she was silent. He decided to not push her but allow her to respond when she was ready, providing she didn’t take too long. While waiting, he eyed the head vases that encircled most of the kitchen on the shelf above the cabinets. Like the cookie jars, they were mostly from the 1940s, ‘50s, and ‘60s, with a few extending into the ‘70s. Although Blanche had only been in the ground seven weeks, many of the things she held so dear had already lost meaning to him. As had many other things.
    Finally, he said, “You’re very quiet, did you suddenly realize you don’t have a compelling reason to do yourself in?”
    “No. I have plenty of reasons. I’m 14 weeks pregnant and starting to show, I’m white, my boyfriend’s black, and my parents are white supremacists who have about as much respect for black people as they have for mosquitoes; they’d just as soon slap them out of existence. I can’t bring myself to live with them any longer, have no place to go.”
    “Oh my goodness! That, indeed, is a problem, several problems, to be sure. But there is no reason you can’t get through them and go on with your life. My children are all in their 50s so perhaps I’m ill-informed, but I thought kids today knew how to keep from getting pregnant.”
    “We do but I did it on purpose because I was mad at my parents. I timed it. We went to Jafari’s house every day after school for a week. I told him to fuck me until we made a baby. He did, and we did.”
    “Well, I won’t ask you why you were mad at your parents because it no longer makes any difference. Now it’s time to look to the future. Have you decided whether to have the baby or abort it? Adopt it out? Raise it with your parents? With Jafari’s parents? On your own? Are you getting prenatal care?”
    “Jafari’s mother has been taking me to the free clinic. So far everything’s chill. And no, I haven’t thought about what to do with it. Or about it.”
    “It sounds like you have made up your mind to abort it.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because if you die, your baby dies, too. Is that what you want, to kill your baby.”
    “No. I want to kill me.”
    “Do you realize all the things there are to live for in addition to raising your child? I’m 79 years old and really don’t know a lot about everything kids are into these days but there are so many great things in life: Ice cream, chocolate cake, cherry pie, Pink, Kanye West, Lady Gaga, cell phones, tablets, video games, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends.” He paused briefly, trying to think of more. “Dogs, cats, sunsets, movies, television, swimming, pizza, Chicken Nuggets, Taco Bell, concerts, and babies. There are millions of things, Breanna. You don’t want to cash out now when the whole world is about to open up to you.”
    He thought about getting another Pabst Blue Ribbon from the refrigerator, however, she didn’t stay silent nearly as long this time.
    “But what about my parents?”
    “Well, what about them? They’re certainly not going to like you having a mixed-race baby, no matter how beautiful, cute, handsome, or how much you and Jafari love it. So maybe it’s time for a restart, to restart your life. Jafari’s parents seem to be ok with it, are looking out for both you and your baby. Perhaps you could take up residence with them.”
    “Mrs. Morgan has suggested that. Me and Jafari like it, too. But my parents sure wouldn’t. They’d be mad as hell. Maybe even violent.”
    “Regardless of what they think, it sounds like you’re ready, in your mind at least, to move in. Is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    While figuring out what to say next Mosley absently petted Leif Erikson, who was lying on his side on the table, the gentle black and white Norwegian Forest Cat stretched out the length of a yardstick.
    “Are you still there?” she asked.
    “I am and I think it would be a good idea to talk things over thoroughly with Jafari’s parents. Go to your school counselor, see what help is available in school, like self-help groups of girls in the same situation. There are also services in the community, outside of school. I would think you would qualify for Medicaid but don’t know for sure. However, there are organizations out there to guide you in the right direction and to the right places.”
    “Yeah but what about my parents? And my brother?”
    “How old is your brother?”
    “A year younger than me.”
    “You will still see him at school. As far as your parents, if they don’t come around and accept you as you now are, you might have to split from them. There is even a way to do that legally. It’s called emancipation of a child, kind of like a divorce. A neighbor girl down the street did it about 25 years ago, got away from her burnt out, cocaine-sniffing mother and father, actually made something of herself. The most important thing right now, in regard to your family, isn’t your mom and dad and brother, it’s your son or daughter. It’s not just you anymore. You have someone else to be responsible for. You can do it. I know you can.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Well, now you’re thinking about more than killing yourself, aren’t you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s it then. You’re no longer thinking about it. Congratulations, on deciding not to use a permanent solution to resolve a temporary problem.”
    “Thanks for talking me out of it.”
    “And you me,” he said as he hung up, unloaded his Colt .45 revolver, put the cartridges back in the box, and returned the gun to the high cupboard above the stove.

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