Brenda's Got A Baby

This Be The Verse
-Phillip Larkin


They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.





The Van Yoders
800th Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 1007

“Elina‘s sick.”
“Who?”
“Elina-the nanny, the one with the gap tooth. She’s sick and can’t come in and take care of our sick fucking kid. Fuck.”
Her coffee spills. They watch in slow motion as the dark espresso splashes upward and then by the pull of gravity down, down onto her crepe pantsuit. The coffee soaks into the ivory fabric, ruining what is a very expensive, very chic outfit. “Fuck.” She slams the mug onto the island’s granite countertop. It is the only note of color in the entire kitchen. Everything else is white or stainless steel, it was the interior designers idea, “The island should be the central focus,” she said. They agreed. They had no choice but to trust her. “I can’t take off today, I’m meeting Jeff to renew NBC’s contract with us, lots of paper work, can’t reschedule.” He straightens his tie. He means business. He shoots his wife a look that says this conversation is over. She knows this look well, submitting to it on just two occasions. One was after graduate school, when they painted the bedroom of their first apartment. It was a one bedroom in Queens. Little Jamaica, they had called it. She had tried to convince him that lime passion would be great for the walls, then parakeet lime, then any shade out of the green spectrum. When they moved out, the walls were eggshell.  Two was six years ago, when she told him she was pregnant. She had told him she was pregnant and had cried. Eight months later Dane Jonathan Van Yoder II was born.
“Well, I can’t stay here, I have lots of errands to run. I have to go to the drycleaners uptown because of this,” she motion to her suit, “and then I’m seeing Dr. What’s-His-Name about my back and then lunch with Patrice and Marie at Verlaine’s. It’s too much, fuck, why did it have to get sick today of all days.” There is silence between the two. Silence flows throughout the house with the exception of a faint childlike cough coming from a distant room. A cough that submerges the kitchen walls and floods their eardrums. “Dane is not an it, Carol, he’s our son, our responsibility, ours. You’re not twenty-five anymore, Christ, you’re not even thirty-five. Grow up, if not for your sake, at least do it for him.” She stares at her hands. Her hand modeling hands. Porcelain with long, tapered fingers. She wears no ring.  Silence, again, but heavier, uninterrupted. Just them, just Mr. and Mrs. Van Yoder separated by the island with its granite countertop. They’re disjoined, their unit is cut into halves, broken.  She looks out the glass sliding door leading out to the terrace. Down below is Central Park. The view is spectacular. She looks back to her husband. His salt and pepper brows are furrowed in thought.
“What do we do?”
He does not answer.
“What do we do?” She repeats.
His face relaxes.
“Call Elina, Tell her we’ll pay double.”






The Washingtons
193rd St. Hollis Street
Queens, New York 11423


“Ow. Owwie, Grammy that hurts.”
“No it don’t Shaya. Be quiet.”
Pershaya keeps quiet. Her eyes watering with each pull, twist, coil and tightening motion. Pershaya wanted braids for the first day of Kindergarten. Braids like her mother had: a mane of thin, long strands that met the middle of the back.
“Where’s Mommy?”
“School, baby, school.” She coos, loosening the death grip on her Granddaughter’s braided hair. She backs up a few steps, inspecting from afar. The southern style biscuits are rotating round and round in the microwave.  Supermarkets are foreign to Little Jamaica. The McDonald’s breakfast menu is a staple in the Washington’s household. McDonald’s is a staple for every meal. The one bedroom apartment is home to Pershaya and Dia. They sleep on separate sides of the pullout couch. Pershaya is prone to nightmares, and when these nightmares occur, Dia holds her in a tight hug, a hug so tight that it protects her from the monsters and demons of the night.  She hands Shaya the purple handheld mirror. “Ok, you good.“
Shaya stares at her reflection. She is the spitting image of her Mother at six years old. Pretty, sweet, innocent, with a big gappy tooth smile. Innocent. There’s a crash.
“Baabbbbbbbbby”
It’s Jasmine, Dia’s daughter and Pershaya’s mother. She is with her new boyfriend. They stand in the doorway. Both pairs of eyes are red. Jasmine’s arms are wide-in embrace stance.
“Mommy!” Shaya jumps out of her chair to greet her mother. Dia stands her ground, arms crossed. They hug. “Don’t you look pretty baby girl.” She smiles, running a finger through her daughter’s hair. She looks up at her mother. “Grammy did a good job.”
“Yes, I did” Dia says. There is a chill in her tone. Jasmine stops smiling.
“We need money, ma.” The boyfriend nods. He walks further into the kitchen.
“How much do you need.”
Jasmine wraps her arms around Pershaya. “Just a twenty, I wanna buy my baby something really special.” Pershaya purrs.
“I don’t have that kind of money Jasmine, you know that.” Dia is strong. She will not cave in, she will not cave in, she will not cave in to her crack-addicted twenty-one year old daughter.
“I need it.” She pleads. Pershaya’s eyes dart between her mother and her grandmother. She starts to cry.
“No, child.”
Jasmine peels Pershaya’s tiny hands off her waist.
“You’re a fucking bitch. I’m trying to do something nice and you can’t even help me out, Ma. I ain’t need this bullshit. Come on.” She motions to Jamal. He unplugs the microwave with the breakfast biscuits still inside. “Oh no you fucking don’t. That’s my microwave. I paid for that. That’s mine. MINE” Jasmine pushes her mother against the wall, restraining her, chipping the eggshell paint. The boyfriend carries it away. He walks out the door. Dia screams, Shaya screams, Jasmine screams. Screaming. Jasmine lets go. She runs after her boyfriend. The door slams. They’re gone. Silence. Heavy, heavy, silence. Dia turns to Pershaya. Pershaya shakes. Tears continue to make their way down her cheeks. They drip off her chin and onto the floor. “Come here baby.” Dia opens her arms, swallowing Pershaya into a tight squeeze. A safety net. A squeeze so tight that it shields the two from the monsters and demons of the night.