Milk by Emily Hammond Page A

put in your arm?”
    â€œYou mean Norplant,” I say.
    â€œThat’s it.”
    Subject dropped. He thinks I’ve got Norplant, and I let him.
    We circle the room—there’s no place to sit, just a piano bench and the leather chair depleted of stuffing—the desire between us like live electrical wires, which I try to ignore, a little ridiculous since we’re not wearing any clothes, and when Gregg catches up with me, I give up, he knows I’m ready, and we head for the bedroom again.
    â€œAm I acting now?” I say.
    â€œNo.”
    He leans into me so that over his shoulder I see John Lennon’s head, the size of a coin.

N INE
    The next three nights I spend at Gregg’s, lugging along my Powerbook and all my layouts, hoping to get some work done while Gregg’s out playing.
    But each night instead of working I fidget and wait for him, napping, fantasizing.
    I almost forget I’m pregnant. I keep going back and forth with this, as if it’s negotiable, not quite accepting it. I call Dr. Grimes’ office to find out about my HIV test and while I’m on hold awaiting the results, I start counting how many men I’ve slept with, like other people count sheep, the men jumping over a fence without a backward glance.
    â€œMrs. Mapes?”
    â€œMs. Mapes,” I correct her.
    â€œYour HIV test is negative.”
    â€œMeaning I don’t have HIV or AIDS.”
    â€œThat is correct.”
    I don’t say anything for such a long time that finally she inquires, “Will you be needing anything else, then, Ma’am?”
    â€œNo, I’m just—are you sure?”
    â€œYour test results are negative. Would you like to speak with the nurse?”
    No thanks, I tell her.
    I call my brother. “Where have you been?” he asks. “I keep leaving messages at the Alta Vista.”
    Next I call Dad who says more or less the same thing. “Just checking in,” I tell him brightly.
    â€œHave you called Jackson?”
    Jackson. I resist the very thought of him, but now, hearing his name, I can’t help wondering what he’s doing right now. Leaving the house to go teach? Classes have started up again. I imagine his worn canvas briefcase, if you can call it a briefcase. It’s a simple canvas bag with a strap that goes over his shoulder and across his chest—an object for which I’ve always had a tender, almost sexual attachment. It’s what men feel when they think of women’s belongings, perhaps—shoes, clothing, lingerie. It makes them weak. That’s what Jackson’s bag does to me now.
    â€œTheo, have you called Jackson yet?”
    â€œI will, I promise.”
    â€œI’m holding you to that.”
    â€œRight. Bye, Dad.”
    I hang up quickly, then call Aunt Lyla, having no idea what I’ll say. I’m not sure why I’m calling exactly—something to do with having a baby and Aunt Lyla being my only living female relative, a last link to my mother.
    â€œI’m just in town,” I say vaguely.
    â€œWhy don’t you come over, dear.”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œFor an early dinner, won’t you? It’d be lovely to see you.” As if we’d been in touch all these years.
    When I get there the back door’s open, the alarm system switched off, as she said it would be. Aunt Lyla isn’t in the kitchen, of course. Although she’s expecting me, it’s mid-afternoon so she must be resting upstairs, or bathing, dressing, preparing for the evening ahead. Meanwhile, dinner simmers, awaiting us, as if prepared by unseen hands. I check: sure enough there’s a roast in the oven, a platter of slivered fruit in the fridge, sun tea out on the patio—a simple supper, which is not to say Aunt Lyla hasn’t gone to a lot of trouble.
    Aunt Lyla always went to a lot of trouble, meanwhile denying it. Parties especially. “We’re casual tonight,”