earbud.
“I’ve been thinking of aborting,” I told Moira from the bed, where I was still sitting akimbo. “What’s that?” I gestured to the cord.
“This?” She held it up, the gold circle dangling. She didn’t seem fazed by anything, and I decided I really admired that about her. “It’s a contact microphone. It catches the sound directly from the instrument’s body.” Moira efficiently inserted the contact mic back in its place. “I have a friend in Brooklyn. She might be able to help you find a clinic. She’s been here a while. In Williamsburg. I don’t know if she knows these things or not, but she might.” She closed the case. “What’s your last name? So she can get in touch with you?”
“Hayes.”
Moira repeated it. “Hayes. Hazel Hayes.
H-A-Y-E-S
?”
I nodded.
I had noticed she did that: repeated things, or sometimes said them out of sequence, like that morning when she’d told me “Here” before she brought me the toilet paper to wipe my nose. I wondered if it was a musician thing, something to do with timing and thought processes. Or maybe she was just a little drunk and tired.
I thought about the fact that Moira hadn’t told me not to abort. She hadn’t offered advice either way.
“Have—?” I began. “Have you ever—?” I let the words hang.
Even if I’d had the words right then, whoops and hollers interrupted me from the window. It was noise carrying from the gay bar on the street out front. A man with a shrill voice screamed, mock-seriously, “Come on, bitch. I dare you, I dare you!” It was that time in the morning when people had drunk or inhaled too much and were being pulled home by their friends.
Moira gathered her hair between her hands and pushed it back behind her neck. She peered at me. “Wait …” She gestured vaguely, one hand extended, moving in circles. “Something’s different. Glasses—no, you did have those this morning.” I could see her squinting, cataloguing me.
“My hair.”
“How was it before?”
“Brown.”
“Brown, brown. And now you’re red. Here—” She came around to the front of the glockenspiel and reached toward me. She plucked a lock of hair between her fingers. “It’s coarse, but not as coarse as mine.” She let the section fall.
I told her I had used lye once to tame it. The first time it straightened my hair and gave me slick baby-doll locks. The second time it gave my hair a plastic texture every time it got wet, and strands broke off when I tried to run a comb through them. My mother had cried to see me. Eventually I had shaved all my hair off in one go.
“Wash it as infrequently as possible, or use conditioner instead of shampoo,” Moira said, nodding.
I didn’t tell her my mom cut hair for a living. I didn’t tell her about the eggy fumes of perm solutions that were the smell of my childhood, or that I had heard every piece of hair advice there was as if it were gospel.
“The other thing you can do is gather it in a ponytail and just wash the outside strands,” she continued.
Then, as if the alcohol had caught up with her, Moira swayed and moved away. She retreated from the bed and closed up the glockenspiel for the night, as if putting a bird to sleep by covering its cage. “I’m sad to say I leave early tomorrow morning.” She folded up the legs of the makeshift pedestal and snapped them into place so that the whole contraption was just a briefcase again. She held out her hand to me, and we shook. She had calluses on her fingers.
I suppose if Moira hadn’t stopped by my room that night I might have phoned someone, crying, to talk about the pregnancy, the girl I’d seen killed. I might have had less pride. But Moira calmed me. When I look back it’s easy to hypothesize about the course my life might have taken. I might have made it back here sooner, and Karl and I might even have worked things out, one way or another, together. But who knows? Maybe if I’d left the city sooner, I’d
“I’ve been thinking of aborting,” I told Moira from the bed, where I was still sitting akimbo. “What’s that?” I gestured to the cord.
“This?” She held it up, the gold circle dangling. She didn’t seem fazed by anything, and I decided I really admired that about her. “It’s a contact microphone. It catches the sound directly from the instrument’s body.” Moira efficiently inserted the contact mic back in its place. “I have a friend in Brooklyn. She might be able to help you find a clinic. She’s been here a while. In Williamsburg. I don’t know if she knows these things or not, but she might.” She closed the case. “What’s your last name? So she can get in touch with you?”
“Hayes.”
Moira repeated it. “Hayes. Hazel Hayes.
H-A-Y-E-S
?”
I nodded.
I had noticed she did that: repeated things, or sometimes said them out of sequence, like that morning when she’d told me “Here” before she brought me the toilet paper to wipe my nose. I wondered if it was a musician thing, something to do with timing and thought processes. Or maybe she was just a little drunk and tired.
I thought about the fact that Moira hadn’t told me not to abort. She hadn’t offered advice either way.
“Have—?” I began. “Have you ever—?” I let the words hang.
Even if I’d had the words right then, whoops and hollers interrupted me from the window. It was noise carrying from the gay bar on the street out front. A man with a shrill voice screamed, mock-seriously, “Come on, bitch. I dare you, I dare you!” It was that time in the morning when people had drunk or inhaled too much and were being pulled home by their friends.
Moira gathered her hair between her hands and pushed it back behind her neck. She peered at me. “Wait …” She gestured vaguely, one hand extended, moving in circles. “Something’s different. Glasses—no, you did have those this morning.” I could see her squinting, cataloguing me.
“My hair.”
“How was it before?”
“Brown.”
“Brown, brown. And now you’re red. Here—” She came around to the front of the glockenspiel and reached toward me. She plucked a lock of hair between her fingers. “It’s coarse, but not as coarse as mine.” She let the section fall.
I told her I had used lye once to tame it. The first time it straightened my hair and gave me slick baby-doll locks. The second time it gave my hair a plastic texture every time it got wet, and strands broke off when I tried to run a comb through them. My mother had cried to see me. Eventually I had shaved all my hair off in one go.
“Wash it as infrequently as possible, or use conditioner instead of shampoo,” Moira said, nodding.
I didn’t tell her my mom cut hair for a living. I didn’t tell her about the eggy fumes of perm solutions that were the smell of my childhood, or that I had heard every piece of hair advice there was as if it were gospel.
“The other thing you can do is gather it in a ponytail and just wash the outside strands,” she continued.
Then, as if the alcohol had caught up with her, Moira swayed and moved away. She retreated from the bed and closed up the glockenspiel for the night, as if putting a bird to sleep by covering its cage. “I’m sad to say I leave early tomorrow morning.” She folded up the legs of the makeshift pedestal and snapped them into place so that the whole contraption was just a briefcase again. She held out her hand to me, and we shook. She had calluses on her fingers.
I suppose if Moira hadn’t stopped by my room that night I might have phoned someone, crying, to talk about the pregnancy, the girl I’d seen killed. I might have had less pride. But Moira calmed me. When I look back it’s easy to hypothesize about the course my life might have taken. I might have made it back here sooner, and Karl and I might even have worked things out, one way or another, together. But who knows? Maybe if I’d left the city sooner, I’d
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