Dr. Cone looked at Jimmy. “Maybe we can try a control test. You can’t do it alone.”
“What do you think, Mary Jane?” Sheba asked me, as if I should have an opinion. As if I knew anything about marijuana or drug addiction or getting sober. As if I’d ever even heard people discuss marijuana outside of the don’t-do-drugs talk at school once a year.
“Uh.” I felt a little shaky, but everyone was looking at me so kindly, I knew there couldn’t be a wrong answer. “I trust Dr. Cone. But, also, I just think it’s strange that marijuana is called Mary Jane. My name.”
Everyone laughed and my head went floaty and loose with feelings of foolishness. But foolish moments like this seemed worth the thrill and unexpected intimacy of being in on things with the adults.
After dinner, Mrs. Cone took Jimmy into the TV room, where there was a big, fluffy shag carpet. She wanted to show him a meditation technique she’d learned in California at a place called Esalen. I started to clear the table, but Dr. Cone said he’d clear and do the dishes if I’d put Izzy to bed.
Izzy climbed up onto my lap like a giant cat. She was sleepy and soft. And a little bit smelly. “Do you mind if I give her a bath first?”
“No, no, please do. That would be lovely.”
“I’ll go with you.” Sheba put her hand on my elbow and helped me stand. Izzy clung to me, her legs wrapped around my back. The three of us walked up the stairs together, Sheba humming the midget song.
In the bathroom, I put Izzy down on the floor, then turned on the faucet. Sheba sat on the closed toilet and started singing. “Midgets, they’re like you and me. Some go to church, some spend Sunday free. . . .” The bathroom had a black-and-white tiled floor and black-and-white wallpaper of swirling 3-D balls. Sometimes they looked convex and sometimes they looked concave and I was never sure if I was looking at the balls or at the space between the balls, which also looked like balls. If I moved my head around too fast, I felt a little dizzy.
While the water was running, I removed Izzy’s clothes and put them in the black wicker hamper. I suddenly realized I was singing along with Sheba, harmonizing. She sang a little louder, and so did I, and our voices echoed and reverberated through the bathroom. “Your doctor might be a midget too. Of course there are plenty of midget Jews. You know they buy teeny, tiny midget shoes. And the Black ones sing the midget blues. . . .”
Once the bath was ready, I picked up Izzy and placed her in. She splashed around, playing with the bucket of foam alphabet letters. When she stopped moving so much, I poured a palmful of Johnson’s baby shampoo into my hands and washed her hair.
Sheba sang, “I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair . . .”
I joined in. I knew the song from South Pacific, which was one of my favorite albums from the Show Tunes of the Month Club.
Izzy tilted her head back so the foam wouldn’t get in her eyes, and tried to sing along with us.
I pulled Izzy’s foamy shampoo hair into a horn on her head. “Look, you’re a unicorn.”
Izzy shook her head back and forth. “Do I look real? Like a real live unicorn?”
“Yup.”
“I’ve really been wanting a baby,” Sheba said.
I turned the unicorn horn into two horns that curled. “Now you’re a ram.” To Sheba I said, “Will you have one?”
“What’s a ram?” Izzy asked.
“A big male goat.” I thought of Dr. Cone and his sideburns. He would look perfectly natural with forceful curved horns.
“If Jimmy stays sober for five years, I’ll have a baby,” Sheba said. “You can’t have a baby with an addict.”
“Can witches have babies?” Izzy asked.
“Yes, but it’s mostly the good witches who do,” I said.
“Who are the mamas of bad witches?”
“Shut your eyes.” I laid a washcloth over Izzy’s eyes. She leaned her head back. I filled a dented saucepan that was lying next to the tub and dumped the water over Izzy’s head to rinse out the shampoo.
“I bet good witches are the mamas of bad witches,” Sheba said. “And even though they’re good mamas, their babies just turn bad.”
I filled the saucepan again and did a second rinse.
Izzy removed the washcloth and set it on her head like a scarf. “Mary Jane says the witch in this house is a good witch and that she gives us makarino cherries.”
“Maraschino,” I said.
“How do you like that?” Sheba said. “You’ve got a witch who leaves maraschino cherries.”