“SHHH.”

“Ba … ba … ba.”

“Quiet. He’ll hear you,” I whisper in her ear. Then I cover her mouth with my hand. Not tight so she can’t breathe. Just enough so that baby talk she talking don’t give us away.

He knock on the door again. “I’m getting complaints about that kid. If you can’t keep her—”

“It wasn’t us. We just got back from a long walk. Maybe it was somebody else’s baby.”

Cricket is the only one in the building, he say. Then he tell me the lady next door asked to change rooms. Since we got back from our walk, Cricket’s been fussy. I fed her, changed her, rocked her, played a counting game with her—and she still whining about something.

I shove a chair under the knob to make sure he stay out. He brings up the rent. Says it’s overdue. “Everybody has to pay—no exceptions.”

“All right.”

“And if I get one more complaint. You and that baby are out!”

“Okay, all right.” I crack open the door. See him walking up the hall, stopping the elevator. It’s fixed for now, he told me the other day.

I tell Cricket she got to learn to be quiet. Only, she don’t listen so well. I end up holding and rocking her two whole hours. After she go to sleep. I go to work.

At home, I’d be doing what I’m about to do now—scrub the place clean. Plus, I had other duties—sit out ashtrays and shot glasses, count liquor bottles, make sure we had enough small bills for change and my tips. Otherwise, JuJu would need to make a bank run. I hated when she did that. ’Cause there was always somebody who’d come earlier than we’d want. And it would be me there by myself with some grown-ass man trying to get me to let him in. I’d stand with the door cracked. “We not open yet.” He’d try to force it open wider with his foot. “I thought y’all was always open.”

“Well—we still getting things ready.” That was my favorite line. It ain’t always keep folks out. The bat my daddy played ball with in high school helped. JuJu kept it by the door. All I had to do was reach over, pick it up.

“How many strikes?” one guy asked, like that was funny.

“I knocked a man out once,” I said. It wasn’t true. “Wanna see.” I swung. My father taught me how to pitch, hit, box, and throw. Guess he wanted a boy. People said I act like one sometime.

“Ahhh! Ahhh!”

I kick the door shut so I don’t hear her.

“Ahhh, ahhh.”

I lift glass shelves out the bathroom cabinet and sit ’em in bleach and hot water in the tub.

“AHHHHH!”

How she hungry again? Wet again? Crying again? Wanting to be held again?

I get on my knees by the tub. “And how you expect me to clean and wash the place, if you won’t be good and shut up?”

“Ahhhh!”

Ignoring her, I wash the shelves, dry ’em, put ’em back, then light a cigarette. She still yelling when the lady next door bangs on the wall. I snatch the door open. Throw a scrub brush Cricket’s way. It misses her, hits the window hard, but don’t crack it. That only make her cry harder.

I get to her so fast seem like I got wings. “I can’t do everything!” Grabbing her up, I carry her into the kitchen holding her away from me like a stinky diaper. “You gotta sleep longer, let me get things done.” I look at the list on the kitchen counter. Find a food bank, that’s there on the list, number three. Go to a church, see if they got free diapers. That’s number five. Number six is call JuJu. Ask her to send money. I ain’t get to nothing on the list yet. And I can’t because of her. She still crying. “All I do is babysit you. Do for you. Can’t you just—” I scream.

She get stiff as a deer in the road hoping not to get run down.

I take her to my bed. Make sure she got a bottle when I leave. Outside in the hallway, I sit on the floor with my back against the wall. ’Cause I don’t want to do nothing bad to a baby.