The Boy Most Likely To

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “Proof,” Mr. Mason says, sounding faintly—very faintly—sympathetic. “I’m afraid I have no authorization to do anything without documentation.”

  “You have to—we’re depending on this—we can’t do without it. It pays my father’s hospital bills and—”

  He shakes his head. “My hands are tied, Ms.”—he glances down at the paper—“Garrett. I’m sympathetic, of course, but I’m afraid the bank requires more than that.”

  I open my mouth to argue again, but there’s no point. For the first time, I can translate the expression in his eyes. Dead end.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  TIM

  When I set the car seat down on the church basement floor with a semi-defiant clunk, the conversations going on all around me shut right down. Dominic, who I finally got on the phone last night—he’d been out night-fishing on some friend’s boat and left it behind—mutters a quick, “Whoa,” before turning away and keeping on talking to my old coach Jake. But before another minute passes, everyone is crowding up, jostling, freaking out over Cal.

  They’re all flipping out and all I can think is—You take him. Or you. Or you. Please.

  I’ve had him for half an hour. Already I’m wiped out. I’ve got this kid for hell knows how long, and it’s only 3:00 and what do you do with babies, for God’s sake? Take ’em to the playground? Obviously I’m not going to whip him down the slide or put him on a swing. He can’t even hold up his head. He’s like one of those bobblehead dolls. When I went to pull him out of the car seat, he just stared at me, like, Oh hey. Yeah, I’m trusting you with this dad stuff, because, face it, I’m completely at your mercy. Please don’t screw up. I’m gonna fall asleep again now.

  He makes it about halfway through the hour before starting to twist from side to side, opening and closing his mouth. I drag myself outside, pop the top of a can of formula, offer him the bottle. He receives it with tremendous enthusiasm. Occasionally he turns his head toward me, in what I can tell is a gesture of Supreme Will. Look. Although all I want is to keep drinking, I’m acknowledging your existence. Get it? Good. ’Cause I’m really, really thirsty.

  I’m sitting, bending over him, watching his face carefully, when a hand descends lightly on my back, someone slides into place next to me.

  Coach Somers—Jake—dark blond hair all rumpled, Hodges Soccer sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He reaches out to straighten the kid’s wrinkled undershirt, brushes his hair back from his forehead.

  “No one thought for a second I was just babysitting, did they?”

  “Well, he’s a really cute kid,” he tells me, “who looks a lot like you, newborn-style.”

  “I’ve only got one chin,” I point out.

  “True—but look—his top one has a little cleft, just like yours.” Jake puts his index finger in the appropriate spot on Cal’s midget face.

  “I’m not denying paternity,” I say, though that sounds awesome right about now. Jake rests back on his elbows and grins at me. I catch a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. One sharp inhale and I’m dying to bum one off him. But what am I gonna do, blow smoke in this baby’s face while he chows down? No. I’m no textbook dad, but still. I balance him carefully on my knees, touch the nic patch Alice gave me.

  There’s the snick of the big wooden door closing, and Dominic’s standing behind us. Looking down at Cal. His thick brows pulled together. Can’t tell what he’s thinking. Sometimes he cries in meetings when he talks about his daughter. This tough-skinned guy, all angles and attitude, sobbing.

  Jake himself has gotten emotional lately because he and his partner have been trying to have a baby through a surrogate and things keep falling through. He’s trying to quit smoking for the sake of the baby and then can’t keep it going because there is no baby—shit’s fallen through twice in the three months I’ve been around. I’m surrounded by men who want to be in my shoes.

  Fuck, welcome to ’em.

  I’m cradling the kid’s head in one hand and tilting the bottle into his mouth. Little milky dribbles of formula keep escaping out the corners, running down his chin, and he suddenly stops, sneezes. Then looks really upset, brow all squinchy, like, Fix me, Dad. “Dad” is hard enough to wrap my head around, let alone do something about it.

  “Try burping him,” Dom suggests.

  “How?”

  Hester’s printed instructions are crumpled in my glove compartment, but I don’t remember her covering burping. Yeah, I skimmed.

  “Pat him on the back—real soft,” Dominic says. “They like that.” Amazing he’s not grabbing the baby out of my hands and doing it himself.

  I tip Cal cautiously forward and tap him between his little sharp shoulder blades with three fingers of my hand, then with my whole palm. So freakin’ fragile.

  And . . . nothing. Now he’s whimpering, and I have no tools whatsoever to solve this.

  I shoot a pleading look at Dom, my own version of Fix me, but he just smiles.

  “Sometimes you have to do it a few times.”

  More tapping. More whimpering and squirming.

  “Try putting him on your shoulder,” Jake says. “Up high.”

  I hoist him there, so his head is dangling over my shoulder and give a few more taps. Then he lets out this huge belch, like someone’s fat old uncle. This warm spurt of liquid dribbles down the back of my shirt.

  “Holy shit,” I say. “That is . . .”

  Gross. Surreal. Everything I’m thinking is wrong.

  “Real. Right?” Jake pulls a crumpled Kleenex out of his pocket, tosses it my way as I settle the kid back down on my legs. Cal looks at me urgently, smacking his lips, then making a feeble swipe at the bottle, fingers splayed.

  “I think he’s still thirsty,” I tell them, settling the bottle back into his mouth.

  “Who isn’t?” Dominic asks with a short laugh.

  “Don’t drink over this, Tim,” Jake adds.

  I know, I know, I know.

  The bottle slips out for a sec and the kid gives this high-pitched, desperate squeak, like a baby mouse. That sound, helpless and mine to fix—it’s like someone heated up a knife and jabbed it hard in my stomach, then twisted. I actually put my hand there, where it grips and burns. Goddamn Jake and his surrogates and Dominic, who misses his kid like a lost leg, and Hester and her effin’ endless-care essay and this guy I see walking by just now with a kid on his shoulders, knobbly kid-knees kicking out, heels back against his dad’s chest, giggling. Goddamn everyone else in the world who had kids or wants kids and knows what the eff to do with them. I try to cram this fury far down or take it out somewhere safe and contained, kicking my loafer against the wrought iron fence, but that jiggles Cal. His half-closed eyes fly open and he looks at me in alarm, like, Are you having a tantrum, Dad?

  After the meeting, I shove the baby in his backpack and just walk on the beach, on and on and on, like some endless Bataan march. Then he needs a new diaper, which I don’t have on me, and I’ve walked from Stony Creek past the breakwater practically to Maplecrest. When I look at my watch it’s nearing six. So I turn around, slog back to my car, and change the kid. Four hours with him and he’s not dead yet. But now I have to go home.

  The Garretts.

  Alice.

  When there are no cars in the Garretts’ driveway as I pull in, I’m not sure whether I’ve dodged a bullet or my parachute hasn’t opened.

  Between the baby, the car seat, and the shit-ton of stuff Hester unloaded all over me, I need a Sherpa trailing behind to get all this in at once. Obviously, since I’ve been über-self-righteous to Hester about leaving him in the car, the first thing to do is to move him in. But the moment we get in the door, he starts screaming like a mother. He’s turning purple, his fists are clenched, his knees are pulled up to his stomach, he’s a banshee. I try to jam the bottle in his mouth and he pretty much punts it away. I consider the burping thing again but I’m afraid to pick him up. He’s frickin’ possessed. No wonder Hester was losing it after five an
d a half weeks of this. Screw adoption. Can we just do the leaving-on-the-doorstep thing?

  I left the trunk open with all the incriminating baby crap inside, visible to every Garrett eye. But it’s not as if I can leave this kid behind to close it. He’s obviously about to pop an aneurysm. How come he was so Zen at the restaurant?

  There’s nothing to do but carry him with me and lug the stuff in piece by piece. Any minute the van or the Bug or the Mustang will pull in and the jig will be up.

  The pauses between eardrum-exploding shrieks are getting longer and longer. The kid probably has no air left in his lungs. I’m the same, worse off than the other day when I ran all the way to the pier and had to lie on my back in the sand for half an hour before slogging back. Now he’s limp over my shoulder, asleep. I stagger back upstairs, put him back in the car seat, lock him in, and trudge back down to the car.

  I’m just about done carrying up way more than I packed even for my own move, am shouldering the heavy suitcase, aka diaper bag, when someone taps me on the back.

  “Tim?”

  It’s Andy. She’s dragging off her bike helmet, pitching it next to her bike, which is already cast aside in the grass, whisking back her wavy light brown hair.

  She studies me, silent.

  Uh-oh.

  Quick scan of the exterior of the diaper bag reveals no obvious “baby” signs—it’s not, like, covered with yellow ducks or anything. Just navy blue. Butch enough. Except for the spare bottle peeking out of one side. I shove it farther down.

  “’S up, Ands?”

  “Remember I said I had a question for you? That I really needed to ask you?”

  “Andy, if this is about hooking you up with drugs or something, I don’t—”

  She starts giggling, mouth full of braces, and pretty soon I’m smiling too.

  “Seriously, Tim. Please?”

  “Uh, whatever it is, just say no?”

  She tilts her head, shakes back her hair, then stills, squinting a little.

  Is that Cal cranking up again? “Hit me, Andy. I’m kinda in a hurry.”

  “Okay.” Then she says in a rush, “Whenyouarekissingsomeonelikereallykissingthemwheredoyouputyourhands?”

  Christ.

  “Uh. Well. Uh.” She nods, encouraging me, all hopeful hazel eyes. “Shoulders are a good start.” That seems safe. Nothing Jase is going to whale on me for.

  “What about after that?”

  “Stick with shoulders for at least a year.”

  “C’mon, Tim.”

  That’s definitely Cal.

  “Waist. I guess. Or back. I don’t know. Don’t ask me, Andy. Whatever I’d tell you, do the goddamn opposite. Take it slow, is all I can say.”

  She takes a step back, shaking her head. “You’re so mean to yourself. It makes me sad. What’s that sound?”

  “Uh—teakettle.” I start to book it up the stairs, then remember something, stop. Andy’s heading toward the house, her shoulders sort of drooping

  “Andrea! Wait. Who’s the dude?”

  “Kyle Comstock.”

  “You mean the putz who ditched you by Post-it note?”

  Squalling’s getting louder.

  “He said he wanted to go with Jade Whelan because I was a bad kisser. I thought—”

  “Stay miles away from that douchewit. I mean it, Andy. Like, frickin’ oceans away. Or I’ll tell Jase, Joel, and Alice.”

  “Not Alice!” She gives a shiver, smiles at me, and says, “That’s kind of what I thought. I just wanted to ask someone who might . . .” Her voice gets all quiet, so I bend closer to hear her. Or maybe it’s the kid’s roar amping up even louder.

  “Know how a sleazehead thinks?”

  Swift, embarrassed, smile.

  “’S all good, Andy. I’m glad my shady, manipulative past is of use to someone.”

  “Hey, Tim? Tim!”

  I’m leaning back on the couch with Cal on my shoulder. He finally fell asleep and I’m just lying there, staring into space, dying for a smoke, running the whole thing in my head, the crackle of plastic, the light, smooth weight of the cigarette between my fingers, the molasses-y smell of unburnt tobacco, the first drag, inhale, brain unclogged. Why am I so freaking tired? It’s not like Cal’s all physically demanding. He can barely do a thing. Thank Christ we won’t have to worry about him when he’s Patsy’s age and trying to eat rocks and drink shit from under the sink.

  “Mase!” I hear again. It’s been noisy out my window on the Garretts’ lawn, but this is nothing new, so I’ve ignored it, trying to get Cal to crash. Now I open the casement and peer out, easing Cal onto his back, flush against the couch cushion. There’s a crew of people in the driveway, a bunch of Jase’s football buddies, Mac Johnson and Ben Rylance, kids from Samantha’s swim team, maybe, that prepster Hodges crowd. Jase and Sam are standing at the bottom of the garage apartment steps.

  “We’re going to Sandy Claw Beach for a bonfire,” Samantha calls up. She’s in a blue sarong thing, towel around her neck, arm around Jase’s waist. “Come with?”

  Jase jerks his head in the direction of the Mustang. “Yeah, come on.”

  Everyone’s already crowding into various vehicles, laughing and shoving, little squeals from girls climbing on guys’ laps, low laughter from the dudes.

  It looks like fun. The kind of fun I haven’t had in a while.

  “Can’t.” It’s not like I can drag the kid along to a beach party. Toss me a Coke without braining the infant? Besides, he’s already asleep . . . for a while.

  “C’mon, Tim. You can’t just lurk in there like a troll under a bridge,” Sam calls. “Throw on your trunks. We’re going to have a swim to the breakwater challenge. We need your speed.”

  Cal stirs, makes this strange face, and I hear a gurgling sound.

  Crap. Literally.

  “I can’t, got it? Not right now.”

  Sam starts to protest and Jase puts his hand on her arm. He shoots me a look. “Hey, we can blow this off, snag a pizza and hang out.”

  He thinks it’s about getting spun. And I let him. “Nah. I’m just gonna study”—maybe Hester’s baby instructions—“and crash. I’m good.”

  Samantha shields her eyes. “We’ll stay.” She puts her hand on the railing, all set to climb the steps and charge into the middle of my current nightmare.

  Cal’s squirming around and kicking off to cry.

  “No!” I say. “Take no for an answer, will you?”

  “Oh!” she says. “Got it. Okay.”

  She obviously thinks I’ve got some chick up here. Jase thinks I’m stressing about booze.

  I’m lying to both of them.

  Thought I was done with that garbage.

  Feels as shitty as Cal’s diaper.

  Well, almost.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ALICE

  “You’re not taking the Mustang? Reliving your lost youth on the school bus, J.?”

  “Ha-ha. My youth isn’t lost, Al. Still around here somewhere. But nah. Too much hassle for parking spots on the first day. Just ends in aggravation and dings on the 5.0.”

  “You certainly wouldn’t want dings on perfection,” I say, eyeing Jase’s battered car, which he spent half the summer rehabbing and tinkering over, after buying it with a chunk of his college savings.

  He grins, sliding his palm along the side. He’s repainted only the hood so far, a deep, rich, sparkling dark green. The rest of the paint job is a jumble of dark red-orange primer and the original color, a metallic ’70s-style lime. “Some respect. She’s a work in progress.”

  He’s been up for hours now—for his paper route, the second job he insists on having, despite the fact that he’s either too old or way too young to be delivering The Stony Bay Sentinel before dawn’s early light. Then for a run on the beach. Now it’s barely six thirty and he’s showered and plowed his way through a virtual coop full of eggs and is already waiting at our mailbox, the bus stop. In a decent mood.

  I can’t brin
g myself to drag him into the hospital bill mess, the bank—he was already offering to quit school over Garrett’s—let alone tell Mom and Dad. I picture Mr. Mason at his desk, feel my breath come short, my throat shrink. I close my eyes. Open them. Deep breath. I’ll figure something out. I just need a little time.

  “Andeeeee,” I call back to the house. First day of ninth grade and she’s, of course, running late.

  “You’d be better off texting her,” Jase advises. “She’s been in the upstairs bathroom for nearly an hour.”

  On cue, Andy comes hurtling down the front steps, heels in one hand, hair straightened, tank top and bright red mini on.

  “Go change,” I say flatly. “You look like the poster girl for freshman fresh meat.”

  “No time,” Andy says breathlessly. “Besides, you’re one to talk. This is your skirt. It’s in your first-day-of-high-school picture. I can’t believe Mom’s not awake to take one for us today.”

  It’s my skirt. Of course it is. Though Mom and I had plenty of debates about my clothing choices, I don’t sound like her now; I sound like some bitchy Puritan. Some days I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

  “She’s exhausted, Ands. And trust me, those pics are hard to live down if the bus comes while she’s still lining up the shot,” Jase says. “But Alice is right about the outfit.”

  “Again, let me repeat: You guys are not Mom and Dad,” Andy says. “I have a hoodie, anyway.” She wags her backpack in our direction with one hand, tugging a shoe on with the other.

  “I need evidence.” I reach for the backpack.

  “Al-ice. God. It’s like you two have been replaced by pod people.”

  Of course there’s no hoodie in there (“I swear I put it in”), so I’m about to head for the house to get some Amish cover-up when Jase pulls a T-shirt out of his backpack.

  “Wear this.” He tosses it to her. It’s one of our Garrett’s Hardware WE NAIL IT shirts, which we just had done up for the Fourth of July sale. God, how much did those set us back? “Promotion and protection in one handy package.”

  Andy regards him dubiously. I can read her thoughts. A T-shirt? Big-brother-sized? On the first day of high school? Might as well just commit social hari-kari during first assembly.