“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, his eyes lingering on the bubbles glistening against her amber skin.
In his presence, the noises of the house silenced themselves. Her fears shriveled.
“Stop playing,” she said. “Get dressed.”
There’s no such thing as a little bit pregnant.
Nikki was surprised at how true the old adage was, how completely pregnancy had changed everything, though she was only nine weeks and barely showing. Even now, as Jason helped her into her plush, vintage Mouton coat, she felt a tip in the balance between them, something she hadn’t known in their five-year marriage.
“Careful,” he said, as he tucked her into the Cadillac.
Nikki noticed how her own senses had become heightened, almost feral. As they walked up the marble steps to the Detroit Institute of Arts, the cold spotlight of the moon caused her to squint. She could almost hear the clacking of the brittle limbs overhead as the autumn wind tossed the branches. Jason’s cologne — the bottle she’d bought him on her last business trip to New York — was suddenly overpowering. She thought, too, that she could sense something uneasy in the way he guided her by the elbow into the Diaspora Ball.
No, she thought. It was her own insecurity. The long-coming surprise of a baby after two years of trying. The kind of doubts that a child can raise in even the most prepared couples.
Jason had been less than accepting when Nikki had presented him with the blue plus sign on the plastic stick. Maybe he’d been going along with her quest for a child because he’d come to believe that they’d never conceive. But the positive pregnancy test had called his bluff.
Suddenly, he’d been full of reasons why they shouldn’t have a baby: He traveled too much; they didn’t have enough savings; in Detroit, they’d have to commit to twelve years of private school, not to mention a nanny.
Nikki had listened to his rational arguments and smiled. At least he was thinking like a father, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to be one. Maybe what both of them needed was time to get used to the idea.
Since then, the baby had floated in the silent sea between them.
“Julie!” came Jason’s greeting as he planted the customary kiss on an acquaintance’s cheek. “Julie, you remember my wife? Nikki …”
Nikki smiled and offered a limp handshake. There was an effort at conversation — the Pistons, the mayoral election, the coming auto show — then on to another couple. Sipping club soda with a lime twist, Nikki soon found herself wandering away from Jason’s salesman-like energy. She needed to breathe.
She found herself where she always ended up whenever she visited the art institute, even when she came there for Thursday night jazz or Sunday Brunch with Bach.
The N’konde, a nail figure from the Congo.
It was like no other artifact in the African collection. Standing nearly four feet tall and carved out of ebony, its features were oddly un-African — a jutting chin, sharp nose, and bony cheeks. Against the palette of the smooth, smoky wood were the figure’s half-moon eyes, as white and dazed as a mummy’s. Nikki hadn’t noticed the cowrie shell belly button before. Suddenly it seemed to gape open rawly, like the figure had just been yanked from an umbilical cord.
What always drew her to the N’konde was its torso, jabbed and jammed with rusted nails, screws, and blades. According to the placard, when two parties reached an agreement, they’d drive a nail into its body to seal the oath. If anyone broke the promise, the N’konde’s spirit would punish him.
This N’konde’s body was a garment of promises, spikes sticking horribly from its chest, belly, shoulders, and even its chin. The figure’s mouth was partially open in a punctured surprise, its jagged teeth guarding a deeper darkness.
Nikki gazed at it in horrified fascination, wondering how the parties had decided where to impale the figure to seal a deal. What were they doing now, their contracts hijacked to this glass case, their promises forgotten and unaccounted for?
The din of the party nearly evaporated as Nikki stood there, entranced. The figure seemed to want to tell her something. She was suddenly aware of the low-grade nausea that was her constant companion. Her head started to swim.
Then came the sound — a man’s familiar laughter echoing in the empty exhibit hall.
“What else do you want me to do to you?”
Low murmurs. A woman’s muffled giggles.
Nikki thought she had heard that same sexy bass in her own ear many times. “Jason?” she whispered, as the N’konde stared, eyes hard white.
Her heart began to pound. Spinning around, she saw no one nearby. Wobbling, she wondered if she’d dreamed the voices. She fought to tamp the bile gathering at her throat. Heading into the crowd, she hoped to make an escape. She was nearly to the door when someone grabbed her arm.
“Nikki? I didn’t know you were here!”
It was her sorority sister, Terry Hines, dressed, as always, in shades of pink and green.
“Hey, Terry,” Nikki managed foggily.
“Girl, are you okay?”
Nikki blinked twice. Try to get it together. “I–I’m pregnant.”
As soon as it left her lips, she regretted the slip. Detroit was a small, big town. People were constantly cross-pollinating. Gossip took root quickly.
“WHAT???” Terry shrieked, her garnet lips shimmering against her dark honey skin. Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, she asked, “How far along are you? Do you need to sit down?”
Before she could answer, Jason was at her side. “There you are,” he said, exasperated. “I was wondering where you’d wandered off to!” He sidled up to her, lovingly planting a kiss on her cheek.
“My God, Jason, Nikki just told me!” gushed Terry, not catching the look of foreboding in Nikki’s eyes.
Jason glanced from Terry’s exuberant face to Nikki’s miserable one, sizing up the awkward pause.
“The baby?” Terry prompted.
Jason was taken aback, but tried to conceal it. “OH!” he said, smiling uneasily. “Yeah! Imagine me — a dad!”
“We’re not really telling people yet,” Nikki said. “It’s still early, you know …”
Terry’s eyes grew large and she covered her mouth as if to cap a secret. “Of course,” she said. “But I just know that everything will be fine.”
“I’d better get you home,” Jason said. “You look a little pale.”
Nikki nodded, letting him lead her toward the door, his hand firm around her waist. Her body went limp against his, seeking forgiveness.
Outside, the night air had turned frosty, the flat moon giving the ground its luster.
“It slipped,” Nikki said finally, as they waited for their car.
Jason nodded, but said nothing.
While they rode home, she glared at the sights along Woodward, the strange people with their nightshade business, shivering in the cold. She was tired, her bones heavy.
Jason noticed her trembling and turned up the heat. The fan only blew the freezing air harder and she reached up to close the vents. She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing to lighten the mood. The moon, yellowing as it rose, followed them home.
His silence humiliated her, and she wondered how he’d managed so quickly to turn the tables. Wasn’t it he who’d just backed another woman against a display case and fondled her? Wasn’t it he who’d suddenly been unable to come home on time like he used to, who always left her waiting, who wouldn’t return her calls?
He pulled the Cadillac into their driveway, got out of the car, and walked around to her side to let her out. On the porch, he was about to put the keys in the lock, but instead he turned and looked at her.