It is not yet dawn but I’ve been awake for
hours. I run my fingers through curls the colour of a new penny and lean to
kiss his cheek. He stretches and yawns then cuddles in close. I flex and relax
my toes, the old rocker groaning a rhythm of comfort as I rock my son.
Rosy strands of sunlight glide over the
lip of the horizon and stream into the living room.
Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning.
The pink slowly fades to light, painting his fair skin golden. He murmurs, milky lips drooped with satisfaction, fingers curled by his cheek.
Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning.
The pink slowly fades to light, painting his fair skin golden. He murmurs, milky lips drooped with satisfaction, fingers curled by his cheek.
A sparrow lands on the sill and preens
with jerky dips of its beak. Lush notes of lilac waft through the open window,
summer fresh on the breeze.
I slip my shirt back into place then stand.
The sparrow, disturbed, flicks its tail in annoyance and flits to the shelter
of the silver maple. Nestling my son to
the curve of my neck, I breathe his essence, his baby-sweet smell.
I tiptoe my fingers up and down his back,
swaying from one foot to the other. I look around the room then settle on the
yellowed family photo.
Mom’s smile is tight, blonde waves tucked
behind her ears. Dad sits next to her, shoulders stooped; his eyes bleached the
blue of an Arizona sky at high noon. I sit on Dad’s lap, legs folded like a
colt, mischief leaping from eyes identical to his. My little sister leans into Mom, her face
shyly turned from the camera, her halo of curls a shimmer of pale. My eyes are
drawn back to Dad, to the distance in his eyes, to my small hand hidden in his
and I feel the sadness, the tightening in my throat, in my chest.
The muffled clunk of the washing machine
brings me back and I peer out at the clothesline strung across the back yard. With
an outstretched toe, I hook a handle of the bassinette and drag it toward me.
Squatting low, I lay my sleeping boy on his back and draw the blanket to his
chest. He yawns and stretches and I smile as he thrusts the blanket from his
body. Drawing the netting across the wicker, I
gather the woven handles and cross to the sliding doors.
The dewy grass wets my feet as I cross the
lawn. My shoulders warm with the heat of the morning sun. I slip into the cool of
the old maple and search the latticework of leaves until I find the knobbed
branch that sits at just the right angle. I lift the bassinette and loop the
handles over the bough, shifting it so that they lodge where limb meets trunk.
I sneak my fingers under the netting and
cover him again, pausing to trace the soft of his cheek. A hint of a smile tips
his lips and I smile in response, wondering at this beauty that is mine. I secure
the netting and pull down on the bassinette again to be sure it is safe.
“I’ll be right back, little man,” I
whisper.
I peer around my fenced yard, feeling the
quiet. I'm drawn to movement in the dense cedar hedge that blocks the street
beyond. I narrow my eyes against the glare of the sun and take a few steps
toward the hedge. Uncertainty flutters in my belly and I take another step then
leap back as a chipmunk, scolding angrily, darts from its hiding place in the
trees.
Feeling a little foolish, I peek once more at
my baby. He is lost in slumber, suspended safely above any curious being. The
laundry waits. I turn and sprint across the yard, sidestepping a marauding
thistle.
Cutting through the garage, I yank open
the basement door and feel my way down the steps, mildew chasing away the
summer green. I search above my head until I find the naked bulb and the chain
that hangs beside. With a tug, the dark pulls back to the corners and I pad
across the cold concrete to scoop up a laundry basket.
Moving quickly, I lift the lid of the
washing machine and fill my arms with wet rompers and tiny socks. The telephone
cuts the still and I bash my head on the corner of the overhanging shelf. The
jug of detergent topples. I make a swipe but it hits the floor, the lid
skidding to the corner, blue slime puddling at my toes.
“Damn!” I reach down and slam the bottle
upright as the phone blares at me again.
Rubbing my temple, I run to the family
room and snatch the receiver from its cradle, stretching the looped cord so I
can see out the window.
“Hello?”
“Hi Honey! How’s my grandson?”
“Oh, hi Mom...he’s uh...he’s good,” I find
the bassinette and the knot in my belly loosens.
I trace the bump on my head as I pace back
and forth in front of the window, my stare fixed on the tree.
“Listen Mom...yah...but I really can’t
talk right now... I’m a...” I try to interrupt but there is no break in the
monologue. The cedar hedge twitches. Her voice trills on. A branch dips but no
chipmunk.
Nothing.
“I just need your sister’s phone number at
work, Honey.”
I press my forehead to the cool glass. I
look at the bassinette and back to the hedge.
Nothing.
“I gotta call you back Mom...I have to...”
“Sorry Honey, I really need to speak to your sister.” The wheedling tone makes my
stomach hurt. “You don’t mind do you, Sweetie?”
I dart a look to the desk across the room,
to the drawer that holds my address book. A prickle of heat warms my back. Damn!
“Just a sec.” My teeth bang together as I
stretch the cord to its limit. I yank open the drawer and fumble through the
mess of papers. I jam the phone between my ear and shoulder and rifle through
with both hands.
Damn!
Damn! Damn!
I glance back to the window but I only see
the top of the tree and a piece of blue sky. The room dims. Clouds scud across
the blue. I close my fingers around the book and feel the paper crumple as Mom’s voice singsongs in my ear.
Flipping through the pages, I hurry back to the window.
“Okay Mom, got a pen?”
I press my index finger on the number and
peer out the window.
My lungs empty. The phone smacks the floor
and bounces up, wildly pirouetting through space like a rogue ballerina.
“Honey? Are you there? Honey?”
He rubs his arm across his forehead. Sweat
mixes with the stains on the sleeve of his old work shirt. Embroidered letters
above the pocket once spelled his name, but the stitching has long since unravelled.
Peering over his shoulder, he watches the sun’s
gradual climb until a red glow creeps over the eastern horizon and bleeds
across the sky.
Red
sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.
The old litany echoes through his head as
he pushes the paper bag from the neck of the bottle and unscrews the cap.
Throwing his head back, he takes a long haul, choking a little as the contents
burn fire down his throat. It is a fire he knows, a fire he needs. He wipes his
mouth on the back of his hand and caps the bottle. He sits awhile then leans forward
and parts a window in the cedar hedge with his hand.
And there she is...as though she knew he
was waiting for her.
The sunlight sets her curls afire as she
lopes the length of the yard on legs of dancer. He can just make out the smattering
of freckles on her shoulders. Muscles wave through her arms as she lifts the
bassinette and settles it on a branch.
He crouches low, the stink of his body rising
from his collar. He watches her reach into the basket and he feels his own lips
tip in response to her sweet, sweet smile. His knee gives out and he slips, landing
heavily on his chest. He dare not push the hair from his eyes but lies still
and peers through the lank strands.
She stares at the spot where he hides, her
brows gathered over pale blue eyes. A chipmunk appears by his head and scolds
him with a trilling chip-chip-chip then scurries out the other side and into
her yard. She jumps then sees that it is only a chipmunk and her shoulders
relax. He admires her long legs again as she sprints back toward the house.
His hands are as weak as a baby’s but he
finds the bottle and takes another long pull, his eyes never leaving her until
she disappears into the garage. The bassinette draws his bleary stare. He
watches as it sways with the breeze. He pictures the child inside.
He waits, listens to his own breath, knows
he is wasting time.
He looks over his shoulder but there is
little traffic at this time of the morning. A tremor runs through his wasted
frame as he caps the bottle and shoves it back into the bag. Setting it aside,
he draws a shaky breath then pushes through the cedars.
He presses close to the ground and peers
toward the house. Empty windows watch him with dark, knowing stares. His gaze
drifts across the back of the house, across the gray stone facade and across flowerbeds
in need of a weeding.
He’d had a garden like that once.
He pulls himself to his feet, hunches his
shoulders and stumbles forward. Panic takes his breath and he ducks behind a
row of lilacs, leans heavily against the tangle of branches. His eyes dart to
the house then back to the bassinette.
His heart hammers at his ears. Is it a boy
or a girl... maybe a little girl with hair the colour of burnished copper? A
vision of another little girl steals into his head. A hunger, so strong it
hurts, sweeps through him, a hunger that has nothing to do with the bottle he’s
left beneath the cedars.
He sucks a long breath across his teeth, crouches
low then rushes forward. His step falters as he lurches from the safety of the
lilac and into the open. Sunlight blinds him for a moment before he finds the
shade of the maple. He leans against the trunk, feels the shaggy bark bite at
his shoulder and waits for his breath to slow. His eyes grow used to the dim
and the hanging basket swims into focus.
He glances toward the house.
Nothing.
Wind ripples through the yard and a rushing
fills his head as thousands of silver leaves dance on their stems. The breeze
brings to him, the cloying scent of oncoming rain and he peers up at the sky. A
dark stand of clouds guards the sun; casts an eerie yellow upon the yard.
Red
sky in the morning...
His legs, guided by urgency, carry him to
the basket. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth then steals a look
over the side.
Burnished copper crowns the small head, just
as he imagined. The child sleeps, arms flung wide...so beautiful...so innocent.
An ache takes hold of his chest and for a moment he cannot draw a breath.
His hand crawls up the side of the
bassinette, propelled by the need. Trembling fingers, tipped by dirty, broken
nails, push back the netting.
The phone hits the floor. Mom`s tinny voice
follows me from the room. Fear drags me wildly through the shadows. A mewling
starts in my throat.
Oh God
no...Please, please no.
Cinderblock walls blur.
My bare feet slap the concrete.
The man’s image cuts through me...darting
eyes...ragged hair...dirty hands.
Dirty hands reaching into the
bassinette...reaching for my son.
“Please God...please.” I stumble up the steps.
******
He pauses, notices for the first time how
grubby his hands are. He wipes them on his pants then gently draws back the
blanket, grasping it between thumb and forefinger.
Blue...a tiny blue sleeper.
It’s a boy...a boy!
He allows the feeling to take him...the
exquisite feeling. He gazes down at the face, at the perfectly sculpted lips, the
tiny seashell ears...the beginning of a dimple.
A cold wind hits his back. He hears the
first drops of rain, the growl of thunder. He slips the blanket back over the
small body. The wind snatches the basket and tosses it back and forth. The
child’s lids flip open and he stares up at the man with startled bleached blue
eyes.
Another gust of wind.
The man stares into the boy’s eyes for
what feels an eternity. Then a crack sounds by his ear and he jumps. The
bassinette hangs at an angle. He squints at the limb. A split runs the length
of the worn bough. The basket rocks to and fro, to and fro. As the man watches
the fissure grows, parting the swarthy bark.
With quavering arms, he reaches up and
takes hold of the handles.
And the wind blows...
******
The door crashes against the wall of the
garage and the sob breaks from my throat.
“Noooo!”
Rain drives into my eyes but I can see what
I already know. The bassinette is gone. He is gone.
A broken bough lies under the tree. I
hurtle across the yard. Thorns bite into my heel as I step on the thistle. Rain
peppers my skin.
I pick up the broken branch and spin
around.
Where
is he? God please! Where`s my baby?
I shove wet hair from my eyes and run to
the edge of the maple, into the storm.
And there it is. I can just see it.
The bassinette.
My legs turn to water and I lurch to the
lilac bush.
The basket is tucked under the branches.
Time slows and a silence fills my head. I
look over the side.
My boy looks up, eyes round, drops of rain
tipping the fringe of lashes. His eyes find mine and his lips spread in a toothless
grin. His arms flail, the blanket crumpled in his dimpled fists.
I claw at the netting and scoop him into
my arms.
I gather him close, hold him too tight. He
squirms and I press my face to his hair, feel the heat of my child, the essence
of my being; my heart.
“Thank you.”
******
He watches as she cuddles the boy close
and a smile feathers his lips. Bending, he finds the bag and tucks it beneath
his arm.
Emerging from the cedars, he sways
slightly and carefully steps up onto the sidewalk.
Fat drops of rain hit his head, meld into
dark patches across his stooped shoulders.
No one notices the old man as he ambles
into the storm. Wind blows gray strands back from the worn face and drives hot
tears from his eyes...
...eyes bleached the blue of an Arizona
sky at high noon.
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