She didn’t want to ask his name; they might have to shake hands. She did not want to touch him.
“Listen, it doesn’t matter about Dusty,” he said. “I’ve just come for the baby.”
He had come for Sam the Baby?
This pockmarked, fat-fingered man with torn shoes, infected fingernails, beer breath, and driving a ruined carcass of an automobile? She was supposed to turn Sam the Baby, tiny helpless Sam, over to this? Sam, whom she had cuddled and changed and fed, and who might be her very own brother? To this scum?
Kit felt such fury at Dusty that it collected in her eyes. She was blind with it. She had not felt this way since Mom had moved out to live with Malcolm years ago. She had been a child. Now she collected her calm and her dull as if they were asteroids flying about in space. “What baby?” she said to the cousin, her mouth drooping open to show confusion.
He dropped the doorknob, stepping back and squinting at her. She did not slam the door but inched it forward, occupying the space with her body, making it awkward for him to touch the door again.
“I don’t think Dusty left anything here,” said Kit. “I helped her pack.”
Now she began closing the door. So far, Sam had not made a sound. Any minute he might start, and large as the house was, distant as Sam on the green couch was, his little croaks would be distinctive.
“Dusty didn’t just drive up here?” he said. His mouth twitched, rippling over his teeth, and she could not tell if he wanted to sob or scream. Then his fist clenched and she knew he wanted to scream.
So did Kit. She had to get this door closed and locked. She said, “We haven’t seen Dusty in months.”
She remembered his name, suddenly. Dusty’s maiden name was Bing. Dusty Bing — it never sounded like a name, really; more like a mistake on everybody’s part. Her cousin was Ed. This man was Ed Bing.
“Oh,” he said. “I guess I was mistaken.” He backed up, much as Dusty had backed her car, without looking behind him. He didn’t trip. “Sorry I bothered you.”
Kit shut the door, turning the deadbolt so fast that the knob slammed her finger.
Now the house was a fortress — the only way in would be to smash a window.
She redistributed her calm, felt rational again, and now it crossed her mind Dusty might have sent Ed Bing. He was her cousin, after all. How like Dusty to send the wrong person on the wrong errand and have him say the wrong things!
She peered back out the door. Ed Bing hadn’t driven away yet. Should she just go ask him what was going on? But she didn’t want him to know about Sam, and besides —
Kit had a sense of movement at the corner of her eyes, and whirled toward the living room windows, but nothing was there. A muffled rasp came from outdoors, like branches scraping the house. Kit slanted forward and through the dining room windows saw Ed Bing moving along the side of the house, brushing against the shrubs.
What if Ed and Dusty really did use this house as a hotel? What if this man had keys to the other doors? What if—
Kit slid into the formal dining room. Nobody dined here. It smelled of furniture polish, not flowers or food. Ed Bing circled Dad’s house. He walked right up onto the slate terrace, right up to the window wall of the family room. He actually cupped his hands around his eyes to see past the glare and then he stared around the room.
The baby lay hidden by the high green leather of the sofa back.
But was the carrier hidden?
Ed Bing could see something. He kept arching his back and angling himself to get a better view. He knew she was right here! How could he trespass like this! With his footsteps and with his eyes! There was nothing calm about him. For a moment Kit thought he was going to put his fist through the plate glass and she even had time to plan her actions: Let him bleed to death; grab the baby and run out the other door.
The part of her that wasn’t thinking — or maybe the part that was — slipped into the kitchen and picked up a disposable camera.
She shot him as he turned away, and again as he walked off. She ran to the front window and snapped his car. Then she flattened herself against the wall so he wouldn’t see her as he emerged from the far side of the house.
He got into his car and slammed the door with enough force to unhinge it. Or unhinge his mind. He backed out of the driveway and, looking around, backed up more, until the island of flowers in the middle of the turnaround was between him and the way out. Then he slammed the gas down, driving on purpose over the flowers, yanking the car wheels from side to side so they totally crushed the little garden.
As he bounced down off the curb, a red zinnia caught in the license plate.
Muffin was very grumpy with her brother. “You had no right to do that!” she shouted at him.
“Just get in the backseat,” said Rowen.
“What did you have to go and have a fight with Shea for?” demanded Muffin. “I didn’t have a fight with Shea. Let me stay here. I don’t care what you do. Shea’s my cousin, too, I don’t have to have you along.”
“We’re not staying,” said Rowen irritably. “She’s too annoying.”
“What are we going to do?” said Muffin. As usual, she had not been listening. She did not know what the argument with Shea had been about or who had been right, although in the case of her cousin and her brother, Muffin had observed that usually neither one of them was right.
She must not cry. That would irritate Row a whole, whole lot, and they did have to be together all evening. She must convince Row to cool off by driving around (Row loved driving without going anywhere). Then she would convince Row to go to Shea’s after all.
Muffin took off her seat belt and her shoes and flopped down on the floor of the car. She liked how the raised pipework in the middle arched her back. She put her feet up against the windows and wiggled her socks at invisible cars. She liked staring out the windows and seeing only the tops of things and not being able to recognize anything.
She liked not being able to see her brother, who wasn’t worth seeing.
The sun cast its gold on the big back windows, so the half-moon prints of Ed Bing’s cupped hands were as visible as etchings. Kit wanted to find paper towels and Windex him off her windows, but Sam the Baby began to cry.
It was a skinny undernourished little weep, which conversely filled Kit entirely. There was no appetite in her now to fret about a creepy cousin and whatever stupid strategy Dusty had in mind, sending Ed Bing around.
She drew the drapes, set the baby and his stuff into the carrier, hefted the whole thing, and got it upstairs to her own bedroom. The baby’s eyes flew open much wider but didn’t focus. His little face crumpled in distress. His cry gained volume and became a true sob. A wrenching noise, maybe the worst Kit had ever heard, because every sob was her responsibility.
She had meant to examine the bedroom for evidence of Dusty or strangers or creepy cousins using it as their hotel, but she forgot.
“You know, Sam the Baby, if you’re going to be Dusty’s son, you’re going to have to be tough stuff. Here you are only a minute old, or a week, or a month, and Dusty’s wandering around the state somewhere. She didn’t even remember to introduce you. So toughen up, kid.” She read the back of the formula bottle to see if she could still use what was left in the bottle, but she couldn’t. She should have refrigerated the open bottle, so she fixed a new one. After hardly an ounce (it was marked on the side of the bottle), Sam the Baby slept again, little mouth fallen open, little chin damp.
She eased the baby onto her bedspread, kissing him. Oh, Dusty! she thought. Dusty, you’re so lucky! He is so beautiful!
They lay together on her bed while she admired Sam’s perfection — his beautiful little flat nose and curly mini-hands.
Should Kit telephone Shea? Let her know that things were not on schedule? But Shea was the kind of busy person who, if Kit came at six o’clock or at eight, would be fine about it because Shea’s own projects wrapped up when they wrapped up, and not according to what she
might have told other people. Shea did not live in the kind of household where anybody even remembered to change clocks for daylight saving until they had been late or early ten days in a row. So there was no need to alarm Shea.
Kit would baby-sit and everything would be normal in a minute or two, because Dusty would be back and have an explanation for this.
When Kit woke up, an hour had passed.
She and the baby had napped peacefully. She woke up with her heart racing.
What if Dusty had kidnapped Sam the Baby?
No.
Dusty was dim and half wired, but she wasn’t bad.
This was her son, and the reason she looked so awful was that she’d recently given birth. An event known to be tiring.
Unless the reason she looked so awful was that the baby wasn’t hers, and Ed Bing was her partner in crime.
Kit sprawled over the bed and grabbed her remote.
New Jersey News came on public television at six. Although Kit had come to terms with the move from California, she made a habit of not watching New Jersey News. It seemed the right moment to change her ways.
When she sat up, the mattress shifted, and poor Sam the Baby thrashed desperately, as if he felt himself falling. “Oh, Sam!” She picked up the sweet perfect little guy, resting his little chin on her shoulder, and Sam threw up everything in his tiny tummy.
Curdled hot stinking milk ran down her back and soaked through her shirt. “Sam!” She held him up in the air, her two hands straddling his back. His eyes opened all the way, and he seemed to spot her and consider the meaning of this huge set of hands and this huge face.
There was a large circular wet spot on her bedspread.
“Sam!”
She undid his diaper. It was completely dry. “Okay, I’m catching on. I didn’t tighten it enough. When you peed, it ran out the side.” She yanked off her own filthy shirt, washed her back, put on a new shirt, and mopped the baby up with a warm damp washcloth.
New Jersey News began.
A little box in the corner of the screen said 6:01 P.M. Dusty had left a newborn baby with her ex-stepdaughter for three hours.
The baby began to cry. This was real. Not a whimper. He was a very little guy, very new to this world, but he could announce his problems a lot louder than a new kitten could announce its problems. Kit had no idea how to comfort him or quiet him. If being dry didn’t help, and being fed didn’t help, and being cuddled didn’t help — what were your other options?
“Don’t cry like that,” suggested Kit.
Newark schools were having financial difficulties.
“Ssshhhh!” she said. “Be a nice guy, Sam.”
A power plant was having minor but meaningful failures.
She, too, was having a failure. She hoped it was minor. How did you know with babies whether you were in big trouble or little trouble? Sam began to turn red from shrieking. She patted his back. She rubbed his tummy. She kissed his forehead.
He was not soothed.
A state representative was resigning under mysterious circumstances. State police were closer to solving a rash of ATM crimes.
The baby’s yelling dwindled. He gave her a sad look and threw up on her again.
The weather was to continue fair and seasonably warm. Stocks were up.
At least she knew if there had been a kidnapping, it had not been reported to NJN.
“Dusty,” she said out loud, “you’d better come back here fast, or I’m going to do something.”
Yeah? she said to herself. Like what?
The baby slept, or else slid into a coma. She could not see his tiny chest lift, nor hear air drawn into his lungs. What if something was wrong?
The phone rang.
Kit was so startled by the ring she quivered like the baby, halfway to shudders. She rushed to grab it, so a second ring wouldn’t startle the baby. “Dusty!” she shouted. “You better get back here! I am so mad at you! What am I supposed to do with the baby?”
There was no answer.
No sound at all.
Very gently the caller hung up.
It was Ed Bing, she thought.
No, if it was Ed Bing he’d talk to me. He’d say, How come you pretended you hadn’t seen Dusty in months?
So who was it?
A telemarketer?
A wrong number?
She was abruptly, completely afraid. Swallowed, immersed, drowning in fear.
She could hardly hoist Sam, she was shaking so badly.
I’m going home before I suffocate, she decided. Dusty expects me to be here, but when she finally arrives and I’m not here, surely even Dusty will know to go to Mom’s house instead.
Kit flung the baby’s things into a school backpack that hung on her closet door, wrapped the blanket around the baby, and went downstairs. Slowly, even though she wanted to race, because she had never carried this kind of burden before. She didn’t take the carrier; she was walking home. She would not go by the road. Ed Bing and his awful long low derelict car were out on those roads. She would slip along the edge of the golf course, and it would be safe and beautiful, with sunlight and green grass and golfers choosing their clubs.
The doorbell rang.
Ed.
She was shocked by her weakness. With an infant in her arms, she could not fight, use a phone, run, blockade — anything! The presence of the baby rendered her helpless. Faced with an opponent, she could only hunch her shoulders over the infant and hope for mercy.
This time she peeked through the view hole high in the center of the front door.
It was Row, with his little sister.
Chapter 5
ROWEN MASON HAD DRIVEN around, and he and Muffin had had an ice-cream cone and stopped to look at new sports cars at three dealerships, while Muffin whined and complained and wanted to go back to Aunt Karen’s and see the movies after all and be friends. By now Rowen had forgotten what his fight with Shea had been about, and Muffin had not known in the first place, and Row called Shea to see if Kit had arrived yet, and Shea said, No, and furthermore she wasn’t home, and her parents weren’t home, and earlier today Kit had been headed for her dad’s empty house to pick up some clothes, and why didn’t Row drive over there and round her up and bring her on over so they could decide which pizzas to order. Rowen liked this assignment, which allowed him to get Kit without looking as if he’d chosen to come get Kit. He even liked having his baby sister there as backup, and even admitted it to himself.
It did not look as if anybody was home. The place had that vacant expression common to Seven Hills, every house just plunked down, not attached to the ground yet; they needed fences and shrubs and old swing sets to look permanent. But while the windows of other houses exhibited neatly tied drapes or hanging bits of lace, Mr. Innes’s house looked sealed, every drape drawn tight, nothing showing but the plain vanilla linings.
Kit, like Rowen, dressed well. That made them exceptions in school. Kit had her share of torn jeans, sagging pants, old T-shirts, and ripped sweats, and she did wear them, but more often, she wore exactly what Rowen wore: catalog clothing. Beautifully put-together clothes crying out for photographers and a spot on page three.
It came to him that he and Kit even had the same haircut; but Row’s hair clung to his head, thin and silky, while Kit’s puffed around her head, thick and generous. She wore tiny earrings, no shape or meaning to them, just a dot of sparkle.
They were both in marching band, and he had been there while she tried on band uniforms. Everybody looked splendid in band uniforms — white creased pants, scarlet jacket, gold buttons, and shoulder fringe. Kit played flute, along with about thirty other girls. Flute was a girl instrument. He himself was a drummer and, in Row’s opinion, the other instruments were just there for looks: Across a football field, you could hear the percussion, and a whiff of brass, but you never heard the flutes except maybe a piccolo.
Shea played piccolo. Hers was the shrill scream of notes that rose above everything. People who
played piccolo had no fears.
He loved marching band. The swoop and maneuver of the band on the field was so beautiful. Wind might whisk away the sound of the trumpets and the trombones from half the field, but it could not take away the gleaming beauty of the horns.
He thought maybe he and Kit could start with a band conversation, talk about the new pattern they were learning, the new conductor they weren’t so sure of, the upcoming schedule, the bus they’d take. He was surprised by how worried he was over talking with Kit. It had suddenly assumed huge proportions, as if on this speech hung his future and his hopes.
The door opened. Kit was not holding a flute, but a squalling, screaming, quivering red-faced baby.
All speech was driven from his mind and mouth.
“I wish I had a hand free to photograph you, Row,” Kit told him, “because your expression is priceless.”
“Where’s the camera?” said Muffin. “I’ll take his picture.”
“Too late,” said Row. “I’m no longer surprised.” But he was. What was Kit doing here with a little teeny baby? Wasn’t Kit his cousin’s best friend? Wouldn’t Shea have mentioned it if there was a new baby at Kit’s house? Whose new baby? Wasn’t her father on the West Coast? Anyway, weren’t they pretty old for having babies?
He finally looked at Kit again, and she said, “Oh, Row! I am so glad to see you, I have had the strangest afternoon.” She gave him a sweet smile and he fell into it. It was that smile that had drawn Row, because she seemed like a person who meant to smile a lot more than she did. She was too serious.
Kit let them in and they automatically moved to the back of the house. The front rooms were so formal, so much the property of the decorator, that nobody could imagine actually bothering with those rooms. They flung themselves down on a vast green leather sofa. Rowen had never seen such large furniture. There was so much to look at. Kit. The inexplicable baby. The house, which seemed so un-homey for a girl like Kit.