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“OOH, COME IN,” Chelsea’s neighbor to the right urged.
I proceeded up the two steps and into a vintage kitchen, circa 1950. At least I thought it would be the fifties style if I could see past the clutter. No dishwasher, which explained the tower of white plates on the drain board. Red-checkered curtains, perhaps fashioned from dish towels. A chipped porcelain table surrounded by chrome and vinyl chairs. Their owner offered me one, then pulled another close for herself.
“What happened?” the young mother asked with a furrowed brow. Her pale blonde hair had been hastily confined by the sort of thick blue rubber bands you find on celery, and she wore dirty jeans and a t-shirt that was damp in the front.
“I was cutting one of those do-it-yourself floor tiles with scissors, and I accidentally snipped myself.”
“Let take a look.” She peeked under the bloody paper towel at the half-inch gash across my palm.
“Not too bad. I’m Cissie Voight, by the way.”
I gave her my name and told her I was Chelsea’s mother.
“I already guessed that. Sit still,” she said, patting the air. “I’ll get some stuff.”
She disappeared upstairs, giving me my chance to check the adjacent rooms. Around the corner in the living room a portable crib/playpen contained a baby of about four months. Judging by the pink onesie and lacy socks, it was a girl—peacefully asleep, thank goodness.
Cissie tiptoed downstairs and caught me admiring her child. “That’s my little Caroline,” she said, flushing with pride.
“Bet you don’t know what you did without her.”
“Oh, I know what I did, I just can’t do it now.” Chagrin crossed the new mother’s face but quickly fled. “Let’s get your hand cleaned up. I’ve gotta start dinner soon.”
Two minutes later my cut was disinfected and protected by a large band-aid.
“You changed your clothes,” Cissie observed. Then, noting my surprise added, “I saw you earlier with your dog.”
“Oh, right. I brought a clean outfit in case I ran out of tiles, which I did, of course. Home Depot here I come. Again."
Cissie contemplated the crossed hands on her lap. When at last she fixed her gaze on me, I knew she’d come to some sort of decision.
“Ron’s always telling me to be more careful, that there are bad people out there, but...” She gave me a blink of a smile, “...but I don’t think you’re one of them. Do you have to go to Home Depot right away?”
“I guess not. Why? What do you need?”
“I need twenty minutes to take a shower. All you’d have to do is watch Caroline while I’m upstairs. She isn’t even awake. I wouldn’t ask, but I’m kinda desperate.”
That I could see for myself. This woman hadn’t had half an hour to herself in at least a week. “Be glad to help. When my kids were new, we ate frozen dinners for months.”
Cissie rolled her eyes. “Ronald would kill me if he had to eat that crap.”
People exaggerate their spouse’s eccentricities all the time; it’s almost a sport. But afterwards their lips don’t usually tremble or their eyelashes fill with tears. I yearned to reach over and brush the corn silk hair away from the young woman’s cheeks, find her a tissue, give her a great big maternal hug.
Instead, I slapped my knees, stood, and pulled her up with me. “Let’s get you that shower.”
“You mean it?”
“Go,” I told her in that pseudo-stern voice even toddlers know is fake.
One last giddy glance, and she practically flew up the stairs.
Little Caroline Voight had kicked off her cotton blanket. Her legs were splayed like a rodeo rider, and she wore the aggrieved expression of someone whose favorite sitcom had just been canceled. Entranced, I watched her baby’s lips move in and out, in and out, as if she were about to say something.
Wail.
I scooped her up before the second waaaa, and the child’s eyes popped open.
Yikes! Who are you? WAAAA.
The rump in my left hand felt damp, so I ignored the crying and reached for the lid of the portable crib, which back in the day used to serve as a changing table. Holding her in place with her one hand, I collected necessities with the other—a new diaper, a wipe, the tube of diaper rash ointment. Offering comforting play-by-play commentary, I freed the baby’s legs, untaped the old and put on the new.
Little Caroline quieted down.
“There,” I crowed when I finished. “Even easier than do-it-yourself tile.”
Caroline blinked damp blonde eyelashes at the ceiling then opened her mouth to fuss.
“Oh no you don’t,” I warned. “I promised your mom a shower.”
Hoisting the ten-pound treasure to my shoulder, I began to sing, walking and bouncing as the words to an old camp song came to me like déjà vu. “A cannibal king, with a big nose ring, fell in love with a dusky ma—ai—d.” No longer politically correct, I’m afraid but my innocent audience wouldn’t know that for years yet. My own babies had loved the tune. Chelsea, now an accomplished vocalist, pianist, and choral director, had even sung it herself when she got old enough—off-key, in imitation of me.
When I got tired of walking and bouncing, I sat down on the sofa with the baby on my thighs, her impossibly little feet pressed against my stomach.
“What were you crying about so loudly this morning?” I whispered. “And how come you got quiet so fast?”
The young Ms. Voight pressed her lips tight and blinked.
And then it all went south again. Hunger this time, I assumed. Lifting the baby to my shoulder, I checked the refrigerator. No bottles. The cabinets—no canisters of formula. Caroline was being nursed, but her mother wasn’t yet ready to come downstairs.
“Bring her on up,” the mother in question called down when I asked what to do. “Do you mind?”
“No problem.”
“Just got my hair dried. Thanks a million. You saved my day.”
Cissie relieved me of the frantic baby, settled on a cushioned rocking chair, lifted her fresh blouse, and offered Caroline her four-o’clock snack.
Trying not to watch, I scanned the rest of the room. Aqua and yellow gingham here and there, a changing table loaded with blankets and towels, and beside it on the floor a Price Club sized box of generic disposable diapers, one end deeply dented as if it had been dropped. The source of the thump perhaps?
“I couldn’t get her to quiet down,” I confessed mostly for something to say. “I tried, but she knew I wasn’t you.”
“Don’t worry about it. When she won’t settle down for me, I just give her a Binkie.”
“Binkie?”
“Pacifier.”
“Oh, right.” I’d forgotten about them. “Next time I’ll know.” I smiled to seal my offer of additional help, but Cissie was lost in the mommy-zone.
Just as well that she hadn’t heard me. Soon I might be watching another child on a paying basis. The twenty minutes with Caroline had made up my mind.
As I followed Fideaux around Chelsea’s backyard before heading to Home Depot, I phoned George Whatizname to report that I was willing to talk to his daughter about the job possibility.
“Splendid! I’ll let her know and get back to you.”
I said, “Fine,” although I’d hoped to cut George out of the loop. Darn that Didi. I was not, I repeat, NOT interested in acquiring any new male friends.
No way. Nix. No thank you.
George called back five minutes later.
We agreed to meet at his daughter’s house then go out to dinner.