The reason I yelped was that directly at my feet lay a basket woven from coarse black twigs.
Actually, the real reason for the yelp was what was inside the basket: a baby, bundled in a black blanket.
It cried out again, then stared up at me as if it expected me to do something. So I did. Lugging the basket into the house, I bellowed, “Mom, you’d better get out here!”
She shot out of the Loom Room. “What is it, Jake? Is anything—” She stopped in her tracks when she saw the basket. Eyes wide, she came to kneel beside it. “Poor little fellow,” she murmured, stroking the baby’s cheek.
“What makes you think it’s a boy?”
“Mothers know these things,” she answered, chucking the baby under the chin.
The kid gurgled with delight.
While Mom fussed over the baby, I took a closer look at the basket, which was wet from the storm. That black blanket bothered me. I mean, who wraps a baby in a black blanket? Then I spotted a piece of coarse paper tucked next to the baby. I pulled it out and unfolded it. The edges were slightly soggy, but the center was dry and the ink had not run. I’m going to copy it over, so anyone who reads this can see how bizarre it was:
To the Family in This House,
Please take care of my baby. I am in a desperate situation and must leave little Dum Pling behind. Please, please protect him! This is more important than you can imagine.
Thank you.
M.A.
“Better look at this,” I said, handing the note to my mother, who by this time had picked up the baby and put him over her shoulder.
Outside, the rain continued to hammer at the windows, lightning flashed ever more frequently, and thunder rattled the roof with increasing force.
Mom read the note, wiped away a tear, then handed the paper back to me. Cuddling the baby close, she whispered, “I’m so sorry, sweetie. But your momma brought you to the right place. We’ll take good care of you.”
The kid burped, then puked on her shoulder.
Mom sighed. “Get the paper towels, would you, Jake?”
I scooted off to the kitchen, flicking on lights as I went. More important, I made sure to touch all the right spots on the wall.
“How do you know the note came from the baby’s mother?” I asked when I came back. “Couldn’t it have been the father?”
“Mothers know these things,” she repeated, taking the paper towels.
I rolled my eyes. She had been using that phrase a lot since Dad disappeared.
“So what are we going to do about, um, it?” I asked.
“He’s not an ‘it,’ Jacob, he’s a little dumpling, just like the note says. In fact, I think that’s what we should call him.” She patted his cheek. “Don’t you agree, Little Dumpling?”
“That doesn’t answer my question. What are we going to do about, er—Little Dumpling?”
“For now, not a thing.”
“Are you kidding? We have to do something!”
“Jacob, nothing we can do tonight can’t wait till morning—and there’s no point in going out in that storm.”
As if to prove her point, a huge bolt of lightning hissed down from the sky.
Rocking from side to side, she patted the baby’s back. “The little darling is in no danger here. And it’s possible his mother might change her mind and come back for him. Just look at that note.”
“I know! It must have been written by a crazy person!”
“Jacob! You have no idea what kind of stress this baby’s mother might have been under. I don’t want him gone if she returns.”
“Why should we give the baby back to someone who left him on our doorstep? She can’t love him very much!”
Mom’s eyes flashed. “Jacob Doolittle! Have some compassion. We don’t know what drove that poor woman—”
“Or man!”
“—that poor woman to do this. If she does come back, perhaps we can help her.”
We can barely help ourselves, I thought. What are we going to do for her? Fortunately, I was smart enough not to say this out loud.
Another enormous crack of thunder made us both jump. To our surprise, the baby laughed.
“What a good Little Dumpling,” cooed Mom.
I made a face. “What kind of baby laughs at sudden noises?”
“A brave one, of course.”
The baby grinned at me over Mom’s shoulder. It had chubby cheeks and huge green eyes. The smile was so adorable that, almost against my will, I put out a finger.
The baby grabbed on and began gumming.
It was soggy but funny.
“Oh, dear,” said Mom. “I bet he’s hungry. I wonder if he’s on solid food yet. Come on, Little Dumpling, let’s rustle up some grub.”
In the kitchen Mom made me hold the baby while she worked the blender. Soon she had a bowl of vegetable glop that looked like something from a swamp. The baby actually seemed to like the stuff. At least it liked the first few spoonfuls. Then it started blowing out whenever she put some in its mouth. Soon goo was flying in all directions. When the baby landed some in my eye, I said, “I think Little Dumpling has had enough!”
The fact that the kid had managed to get me in the eye was fairly impressive, since I was holding it with its back to me.
“You’re probably right.”
Mom’s face and blouse were dotted with blobs of green. Even so, she looked really happy. She fetched a washcloth and wiped off my face, then the baby’s. “Hold him for a bit longer while I get clean clothes,” she said when she was done.
I scowled, but I didn’t really mind. It was kind of fun to have a baby around. I bounced Little Dumpling on my knee and sang one of Lily’s bizarre songs. The baby laughed, a gurgling sound deep in its throat. I would have been almost sorry when Mom returned if it hadn’t been for another sound I heard just before she got there—and the smell that followed.
“I think Little Dumpling has some, er, dumplings,” I said, holding the baby out to her.
Mom rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure there’s a half box of paper diapers in Junk Room B. Go get them, would you?”
Yes, we have two junk rooms. That’s because my father had been such a pack rat that it took two rooms to hold all his stuff. Actually, it’s not fair to blame Dad for all the mess; it had been building up for at least four generations.
Given my other problems, I sincerely hope I haven’t inherited the overwhelming-need-to-save-useless-crap gene that seems to run so deep in our family.
As I started to go, Mom added, “After you get those, scoot up to the attic and bring down the old rocker.”
I sighed but went to do as she asked.
The gentle creak as Mom rocked back and forth while crooning to the baby made the house feel warmer, despite the howling wind. I realized that since she had changed the diaper, she would know one thing for sure. “What’s the verdict?” I asked. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” she replied. “Definitely.”
I was a little annoyed that she had been right.
After a few minutes of rocking she looked at me and said, “Better get back to that homework, son.”
I refrained from saying, “Better get back to your weaving, Mom,” and went to the Loom Room to fetch my math book.
She was still rocking when I returned to kiss her good night.
“Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she said.
I know that’s supposed to be a little blessing of some kind. Personally, I find it pretty creepy.
“I’m going to wait up, in case Little Dumpling’s mother comes back,” she added as I left the room.
I should have seen what was coming right then.