George set the little diapered rump of Hug upon the blue shag carpet and aimed a mismatched set of eyes toward the giftwrapped box.
The anomalous baby fell on his face. Shag carpet tickled his nose slits, and he chittered.
George erected Hug in front of the birthday present.
The anomalous baby wobbled in slow circles, and the caretaker was reminded of a bowling pin that refused to fall.
With a soft palm, George steadied Hug.
A brown eye blinked, followed by a red one. This autonomic function had not yet been synchronized.
The caretaker sat down and withdrew the fancy little envelope from beneath the golden ribbon.
“It says, ‘For Meredith Chickenpenny’s baby.’” George looked at Hug. “That’s you.”
Mismatched eyes stared.
The caretaker opened the flap, withdrew the miniature card, and displayed the inscription. “It says, ‘Happy Birthday!’”
The anomalous baby collapsed. Shag carpet went into his nose slits, and he chittered.
George reached over, resurrected Hug, and playfully poked his chin.
“Let’s open your birthday present together, okay?”
The caretaker set down the envelope, placed the golden ribbon in the hand of the anomalous baby, and rolled four little fingers into a fist.
George released Hug, who maintained his hold upon the brilliant fabric.
“You’re doing great!”
A brown eye blinked, followed by a red one.
“Now hold it tight and pull.”
Confused, Hug stared at George.
“Pull it. Like this—” The caretaker pantomimed the action. “Pull.”
The anomalous baby sneezed and accidentally yanked the ribbon. Golden bows collapsed and fell away from the gift.
“That was incredible!”
Hug stared at the carpet.
George tore the maroon wrapping paper from the box, fully aware that his excitement far exceeded that of the gift’s rightful recipient. Not often did people think to send presents to the inhabitants of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, and thus far, nobody outside of the orphanage had ever even acknowledged the existence of this particular child.
At present, the caretaker pulled the remaining wrapping paper from the box, the color of which matched that of the ribbons. Miniature reflections of the golden present shone in a pair of mismatched eyes.
“It’s pretty, right?”
Hug extended his right hand but could not quite reach the box.
George slid the present closer.
The anomalous baby pressed four pudgy digits to the golden surface.
“Let’s open it.”
Hug did not object.
George removed the lid and discarded several layers of maroon tissue paper. Inside the box lay a stuffed toy gorilla that had golden fur, bright white teeth, and sparkling eyes.
The caretaker withdrew this lovely plush simian, which looked like a very expensive gift for a baby.
Hug extended his right hand toward the furry object and waggled his limp arm. A weird hiss issued from the purple insides of his mouth. This was the most excitement that he had ever displayed.
George gave the golden gorilla to Hug.
The anomalous baby clutched the stuffed animal by the neck, hissed, and mashed its furry face into the carpet.
Concerned, the caretaker shook his head. “No, Hug. No.”
Hug paused, bit the gorilla’s left arm, and hurled the toy a distance of four feet.
“What’d you do that for?” asked George, who was perplexed by these atypical displays of aggression.
The anomalous baby looked at the gorilla, which lay facedown upon the carpet, and returned his gaze to the caretaker. A brown eye blinked twice.
“Just the capriciousness of youth, I suppose.”
A red eye blinked.
“You want to play nicely?” inquired the caretaker.
Hug faced the golden gorilla, prostrated himself, and grabbed the rug with his right hand. Ridged vertebrae clicked as he pulled himself toward the toy. At present, he released the carpet, reached out as far as he could, and again dragged himself forward. His crenulated spine crackled as he slithered.
George did not approve of this locomotive style, which seemed a bit abrasive. “I’ll help you.”
The caretaker leaned forward, scooped up the anomalous baby, and set him directly beside the stuffed animal.
Hug pounced on the golden gorilla like a wrestler and embraced the toy with all of his functional limbs.
“That’s right, Hug. Love the gorilla.”
George gently patted Hug’s ridged spine.
“Happy birthday.”
V | The Amenable Doctor (of Teratology)
The twelve specular lights that were embedded in the ceiling harshly illuminated the off-white Infirmary and threw multiple worried shadows from the body of George Dodgett, who was pacing in circles upon the linoleum. He had not slept well the previous night, and that morning, his plaid slacks, white dress shirt, and his green tie had been wrinkled by his continual fretting. At present, the caretaker surveyed the translucent plastic crib wherein lay the anomalous baby, who had gained a full head of white hair and an additional pound and a half during the last six months.
Footfalls sounded within the inner hallway, and all of the fears that had been building within George filled his throat. The door opened and in stepped Thomas, whose Afro was somewhat compressed by a baseball cap.
“He’s here,” remarked the black fellow.
The caretaker swallowed uncomfortably. “What’s he like?”
“Evil.”
George paled. His mouth opened, and all of the fears that were stuck in his throat threatened to explode in a welter of nonsense.
Thomas grinned and shook his head. “Nah, man, I’m joshing—just joshing. He seems real nice . . . though to be honest, I couldn’t understand half of what he said.”
The caretaker was puzzled by this remark. “His accent?”
“Nah, man. His vocabulary. It’s really elaborate.”
Uncomfortable with the thought of possibly looking stupid, George grimaced.
“Don’t worry so much, man—the guy’s a doctor. An expert.”
“Okay.”
The black fellow said, “I’ll send him in,” to the caretaker, glanced at the anomalous baby, and departed.
George resumed his fearful pacing and speculations. In an effort to calm himself, he recalled the teachings of his Lord.
“And He said unto His followers that every challenge is but a—”
A knock on the door interrupted this recitation and raised the pulse of the reciter.
George looked at the crib wherein lay Hug. “Be brave.” A wet snore emanated from the sleeper.
The caretaker faced the entrance, suppressed his apprehensions, and cleared his throat. “Please enter.”
The door opened and into the bright Infirmary walked Doctor Hannersby, a diminutive man of sixty-four years who had a snug, pinstriped, navy-blue suit, bulbous eyes, and a nose that resembled a pelican’s beak.
His long silver hair was slicked back on his head like a helmet, and his mouth was fixed in an eerie smile.
Uneasily, George cleared his throat. “You must be Doctor Hannersby . . . ?”
“Such a supposition would not prove erroneous.”
“What was that?”
Doctor Hannersby shut the door, looked at the ceiling, and squinted. “Is it common for the medicos in this establishment to over-stimulate ocular processes before investigating insalubrious conditions?”
“What was that?” asked George, who now doubted that he and this visitor spoke the same brand of English.
Frowning, the diminutive fellow looked away from the lights and toward the caretaker. “I see that my sesquipedalian elocution has overwhelmed you—which is understandable when considering the monosyllabic (and often quasi-syllabic) lexicon that is available to the inchoate enti
ties with whom you so regularly converse.”
A chubby face gaped.
“What I’m asking is just this—” continued Doctor Hannersby. “Is it possible for you to turn down the volume of these hellish lights?”
“Oh. Yes it is.”
The caretaker proceeded to the wall panel and turned the dial from its current twelve o’clock position to that of six o’clock.
Lights dimmed.
“Is that better?”
“My eyeballs think so.”
George glanced the translucent crib wherein lay Hug and returned his gaze to Doctor Hannersby. “Do you want to see the baby?”
“Avidly would I like to examine this anomaly.”
The caretaker gestured. “He’s over here. His name is Hug Chickenpenny.”
Doctor Hannersby ran a small, childlike hand along his slick gray hair, walked to the crib wherein lay Hug, and made a survey.
George felt his heart rate climb.
At present, the diminutive fellow nodded his head. “He is unique. Splendidly. Perhaps even outrageously.”
“Have you ever seen anybody like him before?”
“Of course I have not. Ergo my usage of the word ‘unique.’”
This response both disappointed and irritated the caretaker. “Okay.”
Doctor Hannersby reached into his jacket and withdrew a slender wooden rod that was one foot in length. From his right pocket, he extracted a tiny, beautifully sculpted ivory fist that was no more than an inch in diameter. This latter object was screwed onto the terminus of the former.
“What’s that for?” inquired George, whose unsteady voice did not sound especially masculine.
“The examination.”
Gripping the bottom of the wooden rod, Doctor Hannersby aimed the tiny ivory fist at the exposed, pink belly of Hug.
The caretaker felt his pulse quicken. “What kind of examination is this?”
“Percussive. May I proceed?”
George stared at the shadow of the tiny ivory fist that currently darkened Hug’s stomach. “Are you going to hurt him?”
Miffed, Doctor Hannersby snorted. “Is it standard for the machinations of medicos in this facility to elicit insalubrious conditions?”
“Was that a question?”
“Rhetorical, I should hope!”
George considered a reply.
Uninterested in any further delay, Doctor Hannersby aimed and thrust the tiny ivory fist, which gently punched Hug in the stomach.
Throttled, the sleeper awakened. Confused and mismatched eyes looked at the diminutive fellow and the ivory fist.
Again, Doctor Hannersby gently pummeled Hug.
“Don’t make him scream,” warned George. “It hurts.”
The diminutive fellow reached a childlike hand into a pocket and extracted two puffs of cotton. These were then plugged into the openings of his large ears. “I’m not concerned!”
Hug shrieked.
George winced. Babies and toddlers in rooms throughout the orphanage began to cry.
“What a stentorian esophageal klaxon!”
Hug quieted, and Doctor Hannersby relaunched the fist.
Gently pummeled, the baby shrieked.
“Splendid!”
The intensity of this horrible utterance caused the caretaker to cover his ears with his hands. Five seconds later, the cry ended.
George had been informed by his superiors that Doctor Hannersby was a highly-respected medical expert who should be assisted in all ways, but at this point in the examination, the caretaker had some doubts regarding the diminutive fellow.
“What kind of doctor are you?” inquired George.
Doctor Hannersby gleefully plucked the cotton from his ears. “I apologize—my aural canals were occluded by cotton when you launched your inquiry. What was it that you were after?”
The caretaker massaged the belly of the anomalous baby. “I asked you what kind of doctor you were.”
“Was this not conveyed to you by your superiors? Hmph! I am a teratologist.”
Concerned, George sought composure and then his voice. “A terrortologist? What k-kind of—”
“No. A ter-a-tologist. A doctor of the teratological sciences.”
The caretaker was unfamiliar with this field of medicine, but did not want to look ignorant nor badly represent Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted by asking for a definition. Moreover, any definition that emerged from the mouth of the diminutive fellow would probably not clarify much of anything.
“Oh, I see,” replied George, who intended to look up the word ‘teratologist’ as soon as he was alone with a dictionary.
Doctor Hannersby unscrewed the fist from the wooden rod and replaced both items inside of his snug, pinstriped jacket. At present, he slid his childlike hands beneath the anomalous baby, whom he then raised aloft and visually surveyed. Limbs dangled and mismatched eyes blinked, one after the other.
“His arms are quite incongruous,” remarked the teratologist. “Has the left one always been so dilapidated?”
“It was better when he was smaller.” Something occurred to George for the first time. “Or maybe it was the same, but it just didn’t get bigger with the rest of him.”
Doctor Hannersby shook Hug and monitored the limp left arm, which continued swinging long after the disturbance had concluded. “How pendulous!” exclaimed the teratologist. “His future as a grandfather clock seems promising.”
George did not find the joke amusing. “He’s got a lot of potential.”
Doctor Hannersby surveyed Hug’s dangling legs. The right one was small but functional, and the left one was curved and weak.
Turning, the teratologist eyed the caretaker. “Would you hold him?”
“Sure.”
George took Hug from the cold, little hands of Doctor Hannersby. “Where should I—”
“Please maintain the specimen’s current altitude and attitude.”
“Okay.”
The teratologist withdrew the wooden rod from his jacket, and the caretaker grew uncomfortable.
“Are you going to punch him again?” inquired George.
“Have you never before been involved with a medical examination?”
“Not of this variety.”
“Hmph!” exclaimed Doctor Hannersby, who then snorted indignantly for emphasis. “Please maintain his position.”
George continued to hold Hug aloft.
From a jacket pocket, the teratologist withdrew a violescent, viridescent, and opalescent feather that looked as if it had been plucked from the grandest peacock in existence. This he attached to the end of the wooden rod.
Doctor Hannersby applied this feather to the bottom of Hug’s right foot. His hand jiggled the rod.
Tickled, the subject squeaked, hissed, and lifted his molested extremity.
Pleased by this reaction, the teratologist applied the feather to the anomalous baby’s left foot.
This activity went wholly unnoticed by the subject.
“Splendid,” Doctor Hannersby opined while disassembling his tickler. “I shall now observe his locomotive capabilities.”
“Okay. But let me put down a towel first—this floor is kind of hard.”
“So is existence.”
The teratologist reclaimed the anomalous baby, who he then placed atop the off-white linoleum. “Catalyze him, if you would.”
“Okay.”
George walked five feet away from Hug and kneeled. “Crawl to Georgie, Hug. Come on and crawl to Georgie . . .”
The anomalous baby rolled onto his stomach, lifted his lumpy head, and focused his mismatched eyes on the caretaker.
“Crawl to Georgie . . .”
Hug extended his right hand, slapped the tiles, and pulled himself forward. His stomach squeaked and his backbone clicked as he slithered.
Studying the subject, Doctor Hannersby pursed his thin lips. “Has that spinal tattoo always been audible during displays of motility?”
“Yes. Sin
ce the very first time.”
Lugubriously, the anomalous baby slithered across the tiles. His spine clicked, and his belly squeaked.
“Does he not remind one of an expiring infantryman attempting to cross a battlefield?” observed the teratologist.
“Well . . . this is how he gets around. May I put him back in his crib? I don’t want his tummy to get raw.”
“Not presently.”
Doctor Hannersby kneeled and pressed his right hand upon Hug’s back. Flattened against the floor, the anomalous baby wriggled.
“Wait,” said George. “You’re hurti—”
“Behold!”
The teratologist poked his index finger into the lumbar section of the ridged spine.
Hug’s limp left arm retracted into his torso. George gasped. “You broke him!”
“Nonsense. Survey the extruding extremity . . .”
Doubtful, the caretaker walked over and looked more closely.
A hand jutted from the anomalous baby’s left shoulder. The fingers of this extremity opened and closed with vigor.
“And he may be restored,” Doctor Hannersby added, “by this simple procedure—”
The teratologist poked the lumbar region, grabbed the chambered hand, and pulled. Things crackled as the arm was drawn out to its former length.
Perspiring, George swallowed a small amount of bile. Hug chittered.
Doctor Hannersby discarded the limp limb.
“This examination has arrived at its conclusion,” stated the teratologist. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Okay.”
Relieved that the ordeal had finally ended, George reclaimed Hug from the linoleum and carried him toward the translucent crib. The caretaker intended to tell his bosses about everything that had happened in the Infirmary that morning.
“After careful study and short deliberation, I have finally made my decision,” stated Doctor Hannersby. “I shall adopt this specimen!”
VI | (The Coercion of) Soft Hands
Standing beneath the orange overhang of Peggy’s Diner and full of concerns was George Dodgett, who wore a new white shirt, a tie, a plaid wool blazer, and tan slacks. The meeting that he had arranged to take place that morning was against the policies of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, but he had to follow his conscience and do whatever he could for the anomalous baby.
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