Hush Little Baby (11 page)

Things like — babies?

Things like — who is the father?

“I know what you mean,” agreed Rowen, whose mother and father were stickier than anybody. “But Kit didn’t go over to her mother’s.”

“Oh, I’m so glad. I just cannot get into explanations. I mean, so many people are going to be mad at me if I have to bring them into this, and I don’t want to.” She took a six-pack of Coke from the otherwise empty refrigerator and yanked two cans free from the plastic collar.

Rowen took his. He said, “Where were you? I mean, this afternoon. You’ve been gone for hours. Where did you go?”

She beamed at him. She put her long slender hand with its beautiful long slim nails up against the golden pouf of her hair and said, “I had my hair done. I just could not stand looking crummy one more minute. If anybody had told me what having a baby does to your figure and your hair, and what you have to go through after the baby is born, it’s so ghastly, Rowen, and I just needed time to myself.” Dusty sat gracefully on a high stool at a glossy counter and admired her hand around the Coke can. “It was so wonderful that Kit was here. It was meant. Don’t you think that things are meant? That forces beyond our understanding are there with us? Helping and guiding?”

The only force behind Dusty Innes was a low IQ.

Rowen was very glad that somebody was adopting Sam the Baby. He could not begin to imagine the life an infant would have with a mother as casual as this. A mother who walked away from her newborn and figured it was “meant.” He hoped Cinda was a wonderful woman, and that when Kit and Muffin came back, they’d report a happy home, and Dusty would just say, “Oh, how nice. That does give me time for myself.”

Row said, “No, actually, Kit took the baby to the new parents. Cinda and Burt.”

Dusty stared at him. Her smile dragged down and vanished, and she looked older. “No,” she whispered. “No! I told Kit to take care of him!”

“You didn’t tell Kit a single thing. You just drove away.”

“It isn’t my fault!” she said sharply, and suddenly Rowen could have bashed her in the face with the six-pack, and he had to step away from her, and fold his arms, and even walk back to the front hall. The glittering chandelier hanging from the second floor tossed his shadow over the black and white diamond tiles. He felt that Dusty Innes had no more substance than that shadow. But Sam — Sam the Baby — was all substance. Flesh and blood and vocal cords and staring eyes and waving toes.

“Don’t be mad,” she said.

As if Rowen had some power in this situation. As if Rowen mattered. “What’s going on, anyway?” he demanded. “Whose baby is this?”

Dusty Innes began to cry.

“It isn’t the baby that’s the problem,” she said. “It’s the money. It just didn’t work, that’s all, and they promised money, and I only got half, and I wouldn’t stand for it. I said, I’m getting all or nothing. So I ended up hiding out in that stupid motel waiting for them to get their money, but they don’t have it! They can’t have the baby. I won’t be cheated out of my other half.”

Rowen Mason understood very little of what Dusty was saying to him.

But one thing was clear.

She didn’t care about Sam. She cared about dollars.

Kit accelerated onto the gravel drive. Even with her brights on, she felt trapped; she could see several car lengths ahead, but she had little sense of the road. She could half remember the layout she’d come in on, but it was completely different going this direction; she could not get her bearings. Gravel spurted like BB shots. “What did you do that for?” she screamed at Muffin. “What did you tell them about your camera for?”

“They thought they were so great,” said Muffin, “and I wanted them to know they aren’t!” Muffin had loved leaning out the window. Loved her moment of bragging. It had been like yelling,
So there!
at a bully on the playground. But the trouble with bullies was, they were bigger. And in this case, the bullies had three cars. “I’m sorry,” whispered Muffin.

Behind them, way back, poked the double lights of a following car.

Who was coming after them? Or were they all coming, and she could glimpse only the first? She had no money. She could not supply Ed with his payment.

Sam the Baby had begun to cry. It was big lusty crying, as if he’d gained ten pounds, all in the lungs. The crying scraped Kit’s brain, and Muffin kept saying, “What’s wrong, Sam? What’s wrong? Kit, I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“As soon as we get on pavement, he’ll be fine. He doesn’t like being bounced like this.” They’re not coming after Muffin and me, thought Kit. They’re not coming after Sam, either. They’re coming for the camera. Suddenly she knew that.

“Where’s the camera, Muff?” she said. “We might just throw it at them, if they catch up to us.”

“Like throwing a steak to an attack dog,” agreed Muffin.

They reached the pavement. Kit turned in the direction of home. She felt like a carrier pigeon. Released from the cage of her stupid decision, she was going home. Home was a place she could find no matter what obstacles they put in her path. Even in the dark, even on strange roads, she knew exactly which direction home was.

I have three houses, she thought. Dad’s in California, Dad’s in New Jersey, Mom’s in New Jersey. But home is Mom’s. Mom and Malcolm’s. I hope they didn’t go out to dinner. I hope they didn’t go to a movie. I hope they’re home.

Not a single blank page of her Dullness Training existed within her right now. She was shaking and furious and afraid. The only thing that seemed to work well was her right foot, which slammed to the floor. She turned off Swamp Maple and onto Hennicot. I didn’t see any cars on the way here, she said to herself, so I’m not going to see cars on the way back.

She whipped down Hennicot.

Muffin said, “You’re going too fast.”

Kit struggled for the calm she had mastered. Where had it gone? Now when she needed it, how could it have left? She was a whole other person: she was a collection of ragged nerves, shaking hands, and one lead foot. I’ve got to think, she thought. I’ve got to think.

But the only thought that came to mind was getting home.

After the second scream of tires, she knew Muffin was right. A car accident was more likely right now than dealing with Ed and Cinda and Burt. This being a grown-up stuff was complex. You had to save the baby and also not crash the car.

What was on the camera that scared them? What had they been doing in their empty house that was more important than the arrival of their new baby? Why was Burt so urgent about leaving right now— why had Cinda known that they could not take the baby after all?

The baby was crying harder. His crying was raw, desperate, as if terrible pain assailed him.

“Feed him,” said Kit. “Give him that last bottle.”

But Sam would not put his mouth around the nipple.

“Cuddle him,” said Kit. “Rub his tummy. Kiss his cheek.”

Sam just yelled louder.

“I hate him now,” said Muffin. “I’m doing all I can and he isn’t paying attention.”

Kit knew nothing about babies. What if he was having appendicitis? What if his little insides had knotted up and split and gotten infected? What if she had given him old tired milk spouting with bacteria and viruses and dread disease?

Swamp Maple and Hennicot Road and Dexter Mill were much shorter going home than they had been going away. Was that literally true? Had she been crawling along before, trying to find the next turn? So that every mile seemed like ten?

Her mind spun. She felt like a kinder-gartner who had whirled in circles over the entire playground, until her brain had lost its hold.

She had forgotten about being followed.

How weird; how weird the loss of her calm was!

Get home, she said to herself very firmly. Just concentrate on getting home.

She had to slow down quite a bit for the entrance to Route 80. There were red lights, and turn lanes to get in, and she had enough brain to remember that she wanted 80 East, because that led home.

Muffin said, “Kit! They caught up to us,” and Kit froze. Now even her eyes did not work. They flared open and stuck there, as if they were pinned, and she could not use them anymore; she needed to blink to get focus, and blinks did not come.

A horn behind them began tapping. Not a furious get-out-of-my-face type honk, which was a New Jersey specialty — but a sort of friendly, hi, how are you? kind of honk.

Kit sat in the intersection without a thought in her brain.

It felt as if Sam the Baby’s screams were coming out of her own chest. She could no more think than Sam could: Infants had no vocabulary for thoughts; Sam could only yell; and
she
had no vocabulary for thoughts; Kit could only struggle to use whatever Muffin had to say.

“It’s Burt,” said Muffin. “Kit! Drive! He’s getting out of his car! He’s coming toward us! He’s walking on the road, right here in the middle of traffic!”

Kit managed to find her rearview mirror on the outside of her door. She managed to see a person in it. She read,
Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.
This did not comfort her.

The light stayed red. Many directions of traffic had to take turns. It wasn’t Kit’s turn.

Burt was striding forward, his hand was extended, and she knew that he wanted the door handle, and even though all four doors were locked and it would take crowbars to get into a locked Volvo, the thought of his fingers closing on her personal door was horrifying.

We’re out of time, Burt had said. He had meant real time: wristwatch time. He and Cinda, but apparently not Ed, were facing some deadline. Something that required them to pack by hurling their possessions into their cars, not sorting, not stacking. Their cars had been facing out. Ready for what?

Ready to go somewhere without a baby.

Because the cars had not had space for a passenger.

Kit gave up trying to think clearly. She couldn’t even think muddy. Kit drove through the red.

There was opposing traffic. A huge double truck, jointed in the middle, was approaching the ramp where Kit had to drive. Behind it, two cars and a van were lined up. Kit prayed for room, passed all four of them on the right — the worst and stupidest thing in driving — because the other drivers did not expect you and would flatten you. But the ramp was slightly uphill, the truck had gathered no speed, and she made it. She got ahead of the double truck, and Burt did not even get on the ramp.

“Wow,” said Muffin. “Do they give you medals for that, or arrest you?”

Kit flew down the road. Route 80 had enough traffic to stock the East Coast. She did not risk a glance at her speedometer. She didn’t want to know. She felt like a heroine and like a total jerk. She felt clever and supremely, hideously stupid.

What is happening? she thought. Are these bad guys? Are they really Burt and Cinda Chance? Did they make up being cousins? I bet they made up the name Chance. Nobody’s last name is Chance.

Were these people taking some great Chance? Were they involved in some huge gamble? Was the Chance a chance to get a baby? But if that was the Chance they were after, why would Burt have ignored the baby? So it was some other Chance.

We’re out of time.

A huge rectangular sign with sparkling night-light letters proclaimed an exit in half a mile. Now Kit realized that the edge of the road was peppered with signs. She had been way too busy not getting into a crash to do any reading. At this exit would be restaurants, gas, diesel fuel, telephones, motels — the works. Kit whipped herself into the slow lane, turned down the exit, and got off 80.

“What are you doing?” cried Muffin. “We aren’t home! This isn’t home! We can’t get off here! We don’t even know where this is!”

Kit turned right and merged into light traffic. There were fast-food places, superstores, convenience stores, and lights. Many, many lights. Her plain old navy blue Volvo looked like one leaf in a leaf pile. She pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour store and backed into a slot. If Burt showed up, she’d know.

But her bet was that Burt would still be flying down 80.

He would not try to find her on 80. He would assume she was going to her father’s house. He would try to intercept her there. Probably Burt had a car phone. Ed knew about Dad’s house, so if Ed wasn’t driving right along in Burt’s path, which he probably was, Ed would tell Burt how to get to Dad’s house.

But Dad’s was difficult to find. In the dark, only luck would bring Burt to the right golf course entrance, the right circular road, the right dead end, and the right house. Kit doubted if Burt could locate it.

Then she thought, No. Burt will give up. He’s out of time. Whatever’s on the camera, he’ll just have to shrug about. They can’t take the baby, somehow both he and Cinda knew that. Even Ed knew that, but he was pretending to himself that they would take Sam and he would get paid.

What could be on that camera film?

She herself had photographed the people, the flowers, the cars —

Cars.

She had gotten their license plates.

Two different states. The numbers and letters, which Kit could not remember, had been clear when she focused the camera.

Who cared if somebody knew their license plate number?

Enough time had passed. None of her possible pursuers had gotten off Route 80. They were safe here. Kit went into the convenience store and bought a new pack of diapers. Then she got bagels and cream cheese for Muffin and herself. It turned out that she was too nervous to eat, but Muffin wasn’t.

There was a telephone for drivers to use out their windows, so she pulled up to it and called Mom. No answer.

Kit had known there would be no answer. Mom and Malcolm loved movies. With Kit safely spending the night at Shea’s, heavily chaperoned by a dozen pets and the always vigilant Aunt Karen, Mom and Malcolm could go to two movies, back to back, and they would not think about Kit for a minute.

She called Dad in California. No answer. There was a three-hour time difference, though. He’d be at work. She called his office. They said he was in Seattle. She said what hotel? They said he wouldn’t have checked in yet.