Hush Little Baby (12 page)

Muffin said, “Let’s go to Aunt Karen’s. She’ll know if Sam the Baby is just cranky or if we should go to the hospital.”

Sam’s crying had not diminished. He was an athlete for crying. He was Olympian; he had only a few pounds of himself, and they were all rage and sobs and heaves.

“Or maybe the police,” said Kit. She couldn’t think through the mud of the situation. It seemed amazing that she could be an honor roll student. Was she doing it without a brain?

Now she was immobilized, as if the best choice were just to sit here in the parking lot and not eat her bagel, while Sam screamed and traffic went by.

Muffin nodded. “Let’s call 911. On TV they’re always nice to you even if you are stupid. So even if Burt and Cinda
are
adopting, and
we’re
the kidnappers, 911 people will be nice to us. Yes. Call the 911 people. People in uniforms have sirens and their lights will twirl around.”

It was comforting to think of official lights twirling around. Of adults who possessed thinking abilities, and probably had rescued enough people that they didn’t have to do Dullness Training; it was dull to them; they would just say, Oh, another newborn whose mother sold him and another teenager who drove off into the night without a thought.

Without a thought.

She was truly in that position. She was without a thought.

“You’re right, Muff. I’m just going to make one more call before we hit 911.”

Kit called Dad’s house in Seven Hills, hoping desperately that Dusty would pick up the phone, because Dusty’s errands were over by now and Dusty would tell Kit what was going on and what to do, although Dusty was not known for being able to tell other people what to do — and Rowen answered the phone.

I
N FIFTEEN MINUTES, THEY
were back at Dad’s house, which was lit from every downstairs window, with the outside spotlights on, and a little row of ground lights illuminating the sidewalk like an airport runway. Muffin leaped out of the car as her brother flung open the front door, and Kit, in perfect imitation of Dusty hours earlier, struggled with the straps to scoop up the baby.

Sam was still yelling. His tiny chest heaved with effort, his lungs punishing big people the only way he knew.

Kit came in the big foyer, amazed by how much light there was: light from the enormous chandelier hanging from the second floor; light reflected from the gleaming black and white tiles; light bouncing off mirrors. The baby squinted, and she cradled him in the shade of her hand.

Dusty was upon her like an attack dog. “How could you do that, Kit? How could you go someplace? I trusted you! I counted on you to stay here! Cinda and Burt! I can’t believe you did that!”

Immediately things were normal. She had a thought. She had a ton of thoughts. “You’re the who can’t be counted on! You threw Sam into this house without a single explanation! He could have been a UPS package! A box with a bar code! You didn’t tell me one single thing. You didn’t even tell me his name.” Kit remembered now that she hated Dusty. And looking at this woman who had dumped her son, she thought, Dusty’s beautiful again! She’s had her hair done! Did she leave her baby so she could go to the salon? I don’t believe it.

“Why is he screaming like that?” demanded Dusty. “What have you been doing?”

“I don’t know why he’s screaming like that. He’s
your
baby.
You
comfort him.” Kit felt like shoving Dusty through the window glass or into the microwave. She closed her arms around Sam, sorry she had suggested that Dusty even touch Sam, let alone attempt to comfort him. She had not given Sam up to Cinda, or to Ed, and she was not giving him up to Dusty, either.

Her head suddenly ached. She felt physically terrible. Conked over and over again with a stone, maybe, right behind her eyes. Poor Sam the Baby. Did he feel this terrible?

Dusty quit having hysterics. The tantrum had been faked. Kit could remember whole rows of tantrums, back during the divorce. Dad simply got on a plane and found sanctuary on another coast. Kit remembered herself defending Dusty; being friends with Dusty; sympathizing with Dusty — and now she could see that it had been Dusty’s style, not Dusty’s heart.

Dusty’s lovely features came together in a pout, so she looked remarkably like Muffin, age nine, unwilling to touch icky diapers.

In Kit’s arms, the baby was sweaty and hot, and the sobs had diminished to a scratchy level, as if he were giving himself a sore throat. He needed a bath, he needed a flat place to lie down, he needed —

Everything, thought Kit. That’s what a baby is: need. Sam needs everything.

Her heart broke.

Whatever else had happened in her own family; whatever ways her mother had not measured up to what Kit had wanted; whatever ways her father and stepfather had chosen to behave — they were minor. She had been adored from birth, and nobody had ever abandoned her, or ever would.

Kit brushed past Dusty and went into the family room, where the big green leather couch still looked like a couch on the department store floor, and where nothing in the room felt affectionate, and warm, and right for a baby.

Rowen came after her. “Here’s what’s happening. Dusty’s cousin Ed arranged a private adoption. The couple are Cinda and Burt Chance. They’re paying Dusty fifty thousand dollars to get her baby, and they gave her half of it up front. They are also paying Ed fifty thousand. She signed papers selling her kid to them. She’s afraid she’ll go to prison for selling her baby if anybody finds out about it.”

Oh, Sam the Baby, thought Kit, and her heart and soul doubled over in pain for him. He
was
a sale item. He
did
have a bar code. Dusty
had
shipped him.

Kit walked over to the kitchen sinks: shining pale yellow porcelain, with a delicate pattern of flowers rimming the edges, as if the sink were a vase. She had no idea what was in the drawers around the sink, and began flinging them open. Sure enough, the decorator had filled the drawers. She pulled out a pile of lovely, never-used tea towels.

Everybody gathered around her at the sink, crowding up to her, as if she were the mommy, with the answers, or the dinner ready to serve.

“So Dusty doesn’t want police involved,” Row went on.

Kit unwrapped the damp flannel baby blanket, peeled off the wet diaper, and lay Sam carefully on a bed of dish towels. In another drawer she found a little terrycloth square, held it under just-right warm water, wrung it out, and began sponging him down.

If anything, Sam hated this more. His little muscles went rigid trying to fight her off, but he did not know how to use his tiny arms and legs and she held him down easily. Muffin opened the new diaper pack and unfolded one for Kit. Even in this terrible situation, Kit was tickled by the teensiness of the diaper and the baby who would wear it.

“But,” said Rowen, “Dusty does want to stop the adoption, because when she met them, she didn’t like Cinda and Burt.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that!” said Muffin, and Kit realized that Muffin, like Kit herself a year ago, was on Dusty’s side. What amazing abilities Dusty possessed! Dusty could charm people on to her side, even people as sophisticated and cynical as her own father. Even a little girl as sturdy and clear-eyed as Muffin Mason. “You are absolutely right, Dusty,” said Muffin. “There is something wrong with those people. They don’t have soap in their bathroom. They don’t eat anything but pizza and they steal cameras.”

“They steal cameras?” repeated Rowen, staring at his sister.

Kit flung towels around until she found a nice soft large one to wrap Sam in. It was warm in the house, but she didn’t want him bare. It looked drafty. He did not stop crying, however. Drafts were apparently not his problem.

“Sam’s mad at us for getting his life wrong,” said Muffin. “I would be pretty mad if my mother dumped me.” She looked hard at Dusty, and Kit felt better; Muffin
had
seen through this shallow woman. Kit found a smile rising to her face, the first one in hours. I love Muffin, too, she thought. I really did adopt a family this afternoon. Muffin is mine, Sam is mine.

She looked at Row to see if Rowen was hers, too, but Row was staring at his sister, with a tense frown and stiff shoulders. He was holding his breath. He gave the impression of Sam’s opposite: Sam could function only if he used his breath screaming, and Row could function only if he didn’t use any breath at all.

“And,” said Muffin, “the people who wanted to adopt him are in a witch’s coven.”

“Muff,” said her brother. “Nobody’s in a witch’s coven. They want a baby, is all. They want a baby enough to pay for it. Dusty didn’t like them and tried to break it off, and everybody went off the deep end. Of course they were frantic. This is just a matter of calming down.”

Dusty’s eyes flickered. Her lips moved, as if to correct Row, and then she looked away and shifted a Coke can in her lovely hands.

“Let me hold him,” said Row. He took Sam as if he held babies all the time. “Poor little guy,” he said crooningly. “People have really thrown you around today, haven’t they? You don’t know anybody good, do you?”

“
I
’
m
good,” said Muffin. “
Kit
’
s
good.”

Rowen wrapped the baby tightly in his little towel, fastening down the flailing arms and legs, and then he wrapped his own arms around Sam and rested his long heavy jaw against Sam’s tiny face.

Sam snuffled.

Sam hiccuped.

Sam slept.

They rejoiced in the silence. Sam went from being a nightmare to being his beautiful little self again.

“You have a future in child care, Row,” said Kit.

She saw him so clearly as a father; saw him nestling up next to his own baby boy; saw him coming home early from work to do his share, to cuddle his kid. Then she backed up from the father vision and put herself and Row in a wedding together, and then she backed up from that and gave them a first date.

All this took one second.

She found herself laughing.

“The guys had to take a course last year,” explained Rowen. “It was called ‘Boy, Oh, Boy — Babies!’ We didn’t learn a single thing about babies because no mother was willing to donate a baby for us to learn on. We were supposed to use dolls, but none of the boys would touch them.”

“But you got an A, didn’t you?” said Muffin, happy to see Sam snooze. Just when you decided an older brother was good for nothing except the garbage disposal, he proved he could do something right. She was very fond of Row right now. This was an unusual sensation for both of them. She would tell Mom, who would be thrilled to learn that this particular brother and sister had liked each other for five minutes.

“I flunked,” said Row. “I wouldn’t touch the dolls, either. But the instructor said that eventually a baby always stops crying. So now must be eventually.” He sat on a big leather footstool, resting Sam on his lap, tiny feet against Row’s stomach, head lying on his knees. Sam’s mouth hung open and he breathed steadily and silently. “Fix me a bottle, Muff,” said Row, “would you? Just in case he wakes up. I’ll give him a late-night supper.”

Dusty said, “Here’s what. We just won’t tell anybody anything, okay? Now, don’t call your father, Kit. I’ll just sort of camp here, okay? He won’t come till the weekend, will he? I am sick of motels. I have more baby stuff in the trunk of the car, and this afternoon I stocked up on important things, like shampoo. I’ll be fine, you won’t have to worry about me at all, Kit.”

Muffin pulled her features to the center of her face, lips, nose, eyebrows, and cheeks all meeting in a huge dramatic pout. “Nobody’s worried about you, Dusty. The rest of us are worried about Sam the Baby.”

At that moment, Kit Innes became a full person again. She was not dull and she was not calm, but she possessed some of those assets. She could think, even with the headache slamming against her skull. She needed facts. “Okay, Dusty,” she said. “There’s a lot more to this than you said to Row. You tell us the truth now, and don’t you wiggle around and tell lies. Who exactly are Cinda and Burt? What are they afraid of? What are they running from? Why didn’t they come to the hospital to get Sam? Why did you have to hide out in a motel? Who is Sam’s father? You start talking, Dusty!”

Dusty burst into tears. “I don’t know why you’re being so hostile! I’ve had a terribly, terribly hard year, I was absolutely, utterly heartbroken when your father just walked away from our marriage, and dating again was so hard, and being pregnant was awful, and I had to work for Cinda and Burt, and I had to make so many decisions all by myself, and you just have to trust me. Cinda would be a wonderful mother, but they have problems. They’re personal problems, and we can’t get into them now, because it’s none of your business. But I don’t know why you have to be so mean about it. I don’t know why people are always so mean.”

Dusty did not actually have tears. She just had a tearful expression.

“Dusty, how can you stand there and not want to hold your baby?” said Muffin.

“I’m way too upset,” said Dusty, “and Rowen is doing a wonderful job.”

“Have you ever held Sam?” asked Muffin.

“Of course I’ve held him. That’s not his name, though.”

“What is his name?”

“Well, I didn’t give him one, because Cinda and Burt were going to give him a name. But they — well — things started to go sour — and —” Dusty sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

Kit said, “Cinda and Burt were very upset that Muffin and I took pictures of them. They were so upset that Burt actually snatched my camera and put it in his car. What was that about? What were the things going sour?”

Dusty got up. She straightened her skirt and tugged a few locks of hair into different positions. “I don’t think we ever talked about cameras,” said Dusty. “Does anybody else want a Coke?”

“What do Cinda and Burt do for a living?” asked Kit.

“Who cares about that?” said Dusty, heading to the refrigerator. “They’re not going to take the baby after all, so they don’t matter.”

“Dusty!” yelled Kit. “Answer me!”

“They’re in computers. Banking. They make tons of money.”