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“IT WAS A FIX-UP!” I said aloud, largely to underscore my own amazement. “What do you think of that?”
Bound to happen, babe.
After I finished wiping off my borrowed mascara, I slipped into one of Rip’s old t-shirts and a pair of his knit boxers. Fideaux was already asleep on his former master’s pillow. I plumped up mine then wriggled under the covers.
Still savoring my evening out, I replayed some of George Whatizname’s lame attempts at conversation. Benign, most of it. Almost sadly ordinary. Yet his gut reaction to his son-in-law had secured my attention, albeit not in a good way.
Then he’d gone and asked me to babysit his grandson.
Me. Babysit!
It might be fun.
More and more Rip was sounding like a Monday morning quarterback. However, he had a point. He always did.
I pulled the sheet over my shoulder and turned onto my side.
Precisely eight hours later I sat up and stretched, eager as always to do something. Anything. Even babysit, if it came to that.
By seven-thirty I’d dressed in work clothes, packed a lunch, and driven Fideaux to the nearby woods for his daily exercise. Although it was still early, a Jeep I didn’t recognize took up half the shallow parking strip on the eastern border of the park. A little disappointing, but chances were good we wouldn’t cross paths with the owner and his or her dog—or dogs—in the two-hundred acre forest. Nothing against people in general; I just find nature more restorative when I have it to myself.
Twenty yards in I released Fideaux and we set off at our usual speeds—me, a steady stride, he in his preferred lag-behind/run-ahead pattern. With little breeze to disturb the morning haze, the woods could have been a calendar photograph. Tall oaks, maples, and beeches blotted out most of the sun and discouraged undergrowth, so the eye-level view was mostly tree trunks and the litter of last year’s leaves. Designated paths led uphill or down, following either the contour of the land or a shallow creek lined with multi-colored pebbles. Squirrels, chipmunks and deer lived here, also a Great Horned Owl, much to the dismay of the chipmunks. None of the above were in sight this morning, however, and the stillness reminded me of a Hollywood soundstage.
While Fideaux was off sniffing an interesting hole in the ground, I draped his short green leash around my neck. It occurred to me that I shouldn’t be so accommodating to a potential attacker, but although Rip’s death had made me more cautious in some respects, it had made me lax in others.
Just past the first turn, a German Shorthaired bounced toward us. Not quite keeping pace was a man with receding blonde curls and black-rimmed glasses. He seemed older, but not old. Probably still a full-time member of the workforce, judging by the hour he’d chosen to walk his dog. I noted pursed, baby-like lips and drooping shoulders when The Hunter, as I dubbed him, stopped to admire Fideaux.
“What breed?"
“American," I answered, as usual.
"American?"
"Melting pot..."
"Got it. You come here often?” That old chestnut.
“Once in a while. When I have time.” So what if the man had been dressed by Nordstroms and owned a not-inexpensive hunting dog; we were alone in the middle of a very large woods. I wasn’t about to give him my schedule.
“I just moved here from New York.” He smiled as he glanced around. “Beautiful place you’ve got here.”
“Yes,” I agreed. So slick.
Much to my dismay, the smile was now aimed at me.
A silence developed, and I noticed those pink lips twitch. At my expense.
Was I suddenly giving out “single” signals? And why did my cheeks feel so hot?
The dogs had finally completed their get-acquainted circle, so I waved Fideaux on ahead. “Have a good day,” I told The Hunter over my shoulder.
“Until we meet again...”
Yeah, right.
When both man and dog were out of sight, I said it out loud. “Been there. Done that.”
Fideaux appeared to be relieved.
***
BY ELEVEN A.M. I’d begun to see phantoms in the gray, faux-fieldstone tiles the way you see whales and pumpkin heads in the clouds. The majority of the kids’ kitchen floor was done; only the tedious edges where every tile required its own paper pattern remained. Using the waxed paper peeled off the last square, I traced the needed shape onto the next piece. Then I cut the soft vinyl with scissors and hoped for the best. All while my bored brain screamed like a caged monkey.
The day was sunny but moderate, so I opened a side window and the door to the outside. The screened door would keep Fideaux in.
Now, along with the expected sounds of trash trucks, birdcalls, and distant traffic came the strident, I-need-mommy wail of a young baby. I shut my eyes and let the precious memories flow.
I was reliving the first day we brought Chelsea home when the real-life crying escalated. Next came a thump, and the distressing wails abruptly stopped.
My skin went clammy. I didn’t like any of the scenarios my imagination conjured up, and the frontrunner I really didn’t like.
Did I dare invent some pretext to find out if the baby was safe? It was the Mrs. Zumstein dilemma all over again, and Chapter #476 in the Mother-in-Law’s Manual warned against calling the cops unless I was absolutely one hundred percent certain a crime had been committed in Chelsea and Bobby’s neighborhood. If I happened to be wrong, the newlyweds would be forced to live fifteen feet from the family I’d alienated for however long they owned their respective houses. For that I would not be forgiven—not by my daughter or her husband. Not by myself, either.
I gritted my teeth and peeled wax paper off another tile.
***
MOTHERHOOD WAS NOT at all what Cissie Voight had imagined. As advertised, she adored her daughter Caroline more than anything else in the world. If anything, that portion of the hype had fallen short of reality. Her daughter’s little baby hands, the perfect blonde eyelashes, even the brief gas-induced smiles (hints of the real deal yet to come)—everything about the child warmed Cissie’s heart. Sometimes she worried that she loved her baby too much.
What she didn’t care for was everything else. Nothing was easy anymore. Not grocery shopping, cooking dinner, or watching a sitcom. Not even making love with her husband.
As she paired little socks on the coffee table, the baby in her musical swing, she reflected on the couples' counseling session she and Ronald had attended at her church. Five young married couples sat in a circle while the minister coaxed uncomfortable confessions from the men, mostly in response to their wives’ complaints. Clearly, every couple was messed up; but it didn't take long to realize she and Ronald were messed up the worst. Compromise, the minister emphasized over and over again, usually while looking straight at Ronald.
As if that was ever going to happen with him.
Talk, talk, and more pointless talk, and then a siren went off half a block away. Everybody in the room jumped, but one man actually vaulted over the back of his chair and ran. The next second he was gone.
“Volunteer fireman,” his wife explained.
For Cissie, being a mother was like that.
As if to prove the point, Caroline spit up all over her new outfit.
“Perfect,” Cissie murmured as she lifted the infant out of the swing.
A building inspector working dusty, dirty construction sites all day, when Ron arrived home, he expected his wife to be panting for a kiss and Shalimar perfume competing with the aroma of roast beef. That hadn’t happened since the baby’s birth, but Cissie tried every day.
And failed every day.
While she finished snapping up Caroline's clean onesie, she debated whether to ask the woman she’d seen using a saw next door for help. Since she didn’t use sawhorses or wear a tool belt or anything, Cissie figured her for one of those do-it-yourself types. She also heard the woman swear when she made a mistake, and a professional wouldn’t make that many mistakes. So probably a relative of the newlyweds. Best guess—Chelsea or Bobby’s kooky mother.
So maybe she would like to practice being a grandmother. Just long enough for Cissie to get a shower, wash her hair, shave her legs. Bliss!
A delicate knock at her backdoor caused her heart to leap and her eyes to check on the baby. Lying in her downstairs Pack N Play, Caroline was still making adorable sucky-faces in her sleep.
Cissie tiptoed to the backdoor anyway.
Standing at the bottom of the steps was the kooky carpenter-woman. Up close she did resemble Chelsea, but shorter; and unlike her neighbor’s wavy reddish bob, this woman’s cinnamon-colored hair was cropped like a pixie.
Wrapped in a paper towel, her bloody right hand was cradled by her left.
“By any chance do you have an extra band-aid?” she asked.