Any Minute I Can Split by Judith Rossner Page A

Some other stuff comes out first.”
    He was thoughtful.
    â€œWhat are the other people like?” she asked him.
    He shrugged. “They’re pretty old. Like you, maybe. De Witt’s wife is all right. Then there’s this girl . . . I’m supposed to go looking for kindling with her now.”
    A small pang at having been replaced in David’s heart without actually having reached there in the first place. That he found Mira nice she wouldn’t even think about.
    â€œDon’t let me keep you,” she told him.
    â€œI don’t really feel like it,” he said.
    â€œHow come?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “I think she’s a phony. She’s got this phony acid name.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBaby Butterscotch.” He grimaced.
    â€œIs she pretty?”
    â€œI don’t know, I guess so. But I think she’s a phony.” Without seeming to be thinking of what he was doing he reached out the same finger, touched her nipple again, sucked the finger for a moment.
    â€œDavid?” A girl was at the door, a pretty girl with a soft voice and hair the color of butterscotch.
    Margaret smiled in what she hoped was a benign fashion. The girl smiled back.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the girl said. “I just wanted to know if—”
    â€œDon’t be sorry,” Margaret said. David didn’t look at the girl. “Would you like to see the babies?”
    The girl nodded eagerly but seemed hesitant about actually coming into the room.
    â€œCome on in,” Margaret said. “They’re both sleeping.”
    The girl glanced at David, who was looking out the window. Then she tiptoed into the room and over to the cradle.
    â€œOh, she’s beautiful!” Baby Butterscotch exclaimed softly. “They’re both soooo beautiful.”
    It was the first time anyone had said to Margaret the thing people used to say about babies in the old days, and only now could she admit how she had craved to hear it. Margaret’s heart went out to Baby Butterscotch, who was certainly not a phony at all, just a lovely girl with the right instincts, but David fixed on the girl a gaze at once harsh and remote.
    â€œAren’t they really?” Margaret said. “Their names are Rosemary and Rue.”
    â€œOh, those are beautiful names,” Baby Butterscotch said. “Really beautiful groovy names.” She stood quivering with pleasure and admiration, seemed about toreach out to touch Rosemary but unsure that it was all right to do so.
    â€œYou can pick her up if you want to,” Margaret said, and was about to add that the baby’s head should be held so it wouldn’t wobble, but Butterscotch had already happily picked up the baby, supporting her head, cradling her, running her lips over the baby’s downy head. Finally she looked up and smiled at Margaret, the author of her pleasure.
    â€œGod, I love babies,” Butterscotch said.
    â€œHow old are you?” Margaret asked.
    â€œEighteen,” Butterscotch said. “I used to babysit a lot. Not just for the money, I mean I liked it. I used to think that was all I wanted, you know, to get married and have babies and have a house and a car and, you know, the whole suburban bit. It seems ridiculous now when I think of it.” She rocked the baby as she spoke.
    â€œWhy?” Margaret asked.
    â€œWell, you know,” Butterscotch said, “it’s just the whole suburban bit, that’s not my thing. My parents . . . I mean the whole nine to five bit . . . meeting the commuter train and putting in the flowers in neat little . . . well, the flowers, that’s okay I guess . . . but what I mean is, that whole routine, that life style . . . can you see me?”
    David said, “I can.”
    The girl’s eyes filled with tears. Gently, sorrowfully, she lowered the baby back into