The Animal Hour Read Free Page B

what it felt like for a nice girl from Cleveland, Ohio, to lie curled on the kitchenette floor, trying to protect her womb with her arms while her husband punched her head again and again and again because it was her fault, all her fault, all of it, all of it …
    A good vehicle for Dustin Hoffman , she had been thinking. Well, hot shit.
    And then the phone had started ringing. The baby woke up and started to cry. The Shithead started pounding on the door.
    â€œWhen I get in there, Avis, you are going to be one sorry girl, you understand me? If you don’t open this door right this second …”
    Now, finally, her paralysis broke. She started for the bedroom, for the baby.
    â€œGet the hell out of here, Randall,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You can’t come in here. Just go away.”
    â€œAvis! Goddamnit!” He hit the door hard—with his shoulder it sounded like. The chain lock bounced and rattled.
    The phone kept ringing.
    â€œAah! Aah! Aah!” the baby cried.
    â€œI’m coming, sweetheart.” Avis pushed open the connecting door and ran into the bedroom.
    It was just like The Wizard of Oz. Stepping from the living room into the bedroom: it was just like the scene in the movie The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy steps from her black-and-white Kansas house into the colorful world of Munchkinland. The living room was Kansas. The peeling white walls, the faded parquet floor; the card table, the chair, the bare bulb in the ceiling. The bedroom—the nursery—that was Oz, or Munchkinland or whatever. There was a riot of color and decoration here. The walls were plastered with Mickeys and Goofys and Kermit the Frogs. The floors were lined with toys and cushions, unicorns and rainbows. And so many dangling mobiles—elephant mobiles, lamb mobiles, airplane mobiles—that Avis had to push them out of her way as she ran to the crib by the bright window.
    My apartment , she thought frantically. A good vehicle for Judy Garland. She reached the side of the crib.
    The baby was waiting for her there, standing, gripping the crib’s top rail. He was a sturdy ten-month-old boy with sandy hair and blue eyes. He had pushed aside his handsewn quilt and was jumping up and down amid his embroidered pillows. The moment he saw her, he stopped crying. His puckered face smoothed and cleared. He broke into his huge, half-toothless, baby grin.
    â€œGee-ee-ee,” he said.
    â€œOh!” Avis breathed. “It’s da baby! Did da baby come to say hello? Hello to da baby!”
    â€œAgga agga agga agga,” the baby said.
    â€œThis is bullshit, Avis!” She could still hear the Shithead screaming through the other room. “You cannot keep me out! This is not legal!” And— wham! It sounded like he hit the door with his whole body this time.
    The phone shrilled again, insistent.
    â€œAgga agga agga agga!” said the baby.
    â€œOh, da baby.” Avis hoisted him quickly out of the crib, held him against her shoulder.
    â€œI’m gonna break this fucking door down, Avis, I mean it!”
    He hit it hard again. The phone rang.
    â€œOh God,” Avis whispered.
    She held her baby’s head gently as she rushed out of Oz, back into the living room. She blinked hard as her tears made the bare Kansas walls blur. She ran toward the kitchenette, toward the phone on the wall.
    â€œAvis!” He was now hammering rapidly against the door with his fist: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang without stopping. “A-vis!”
    â€œI’m going to call the police, Randall!” she called out, crying. “I’m serious!”
    â€œGo ahead!” The fist kept hammering. ‘They’ll agree with me! You know they will! Go ahead!”
    The baby made a small, frightened noise against her shoulder. She patted his head as she ran. “It’s all right,” she whispered breathlessly.
    â€œAvis!” Bang-bang-bang.
    The phone on the