Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel

by Frank Freudberg

  The condo was a nightmare of fear and grief and memories of his devastated family. An image came to mind of the time he and Natalie took Augie to a playground for the first time and how they laughed uncontrollably at his expression of pure amazement as he took his first ride on a swing. Lock could get that back. He could rescue it. He knew it.

  It was hard for him to breathe, and though, in the dream, he hadn’t eaten for a day and a half, he felt queasy. He went back into Augie’s room and picked up the Winnie the Pooh baby blanket. He pressed it to his face and inhaled deeply. He could smell Augie’s scent. Lock picked up the baby’s silver, soft-bristled hairbrush and plucked at a strand of hair and wept.

  He woke up on the sofa in Abby’s nearly empty apartment.

  Hours later, Lock left Abby’s and got into his car. He drove around aimlessly for an hour. He wasn’t headed anywhere, but he did avoid nearby places—the playground, the supermarket, the car wash that he had been to countless times with Augie.

  He thought about going to a meeting, but then had a different idea. No, he told himself, forget the scotch, forget the oblivion. Focus on the problem and then solve it. Nothing else mattered.

  Instead of ruminating, he killed an hour driving around, consciously pushing depressing thoughts from his mind by focusing on the portrait in his head of him and Augie together, playing in the park.

  He wanted to see that laughter on the swing again. He ached for that.

  After about an hour, he exited his car near a church in Malvern where a meeting was about to start. He entered with high hopes of finding some solace there, maybe even a nugget of wisdom that he could carry with him the rest of the day to help keep the demons at arm’s length. He recognized a few people, but kept to himself and took a seat in the back row, sometimes referred to by old-timers as Denial Aisle.

  Fifteen minutes later, he left, irritated by the boring drunkologue from the meeting’s speaker. He knew it wasn’t the speaker, but his own mind’s relentless focus on Augie.

  I’ll go to Freel’s house, kick the door in. I’ll find that the adoption story was a lie and that Augie is really still at Freel’s. I’ll take Augie back to the apartment with me, where he belongs. I’ll be in and out of Freel’s in moments. Their mouths will still be hanging open, and I’ll already be back in the car with my baby. They can’t get away with this.

  But then reason penetrated Lock’s grief-filled head. The consequences of that act would be catastrophic. No, he wouldn’t do it. But what would he do? He certainly wasn’t going to do nothing.

  It was so early in the afternoon. There was so much day left and no plan on what to do. The sky was deep blue, and a few thick clouds floated up high. A lovely, joyous day for most. Lock couldn’t bear to think about spending the rest of it feeling the way he did. He drove off.

  Lock soon found himself parked in front of Abby’s apartment. He got out of the car and walked up the stoop and entered the apartment.

  Abby, if you were around, you’d know what to do. Even though you’re gone, tell me anyway. I need help like I’ve never needed it before. He eased himself into Abby’s recliner, fully feeling his fatigue. He felt older than his years and could only sit there and shake his head in utter dejection. As he looked around the room from Abby’s former vantage point, his eyes focused on the objects that triggered memories of his late friend. Things like Abby’s TV remote that had fallen apart and been duct-taped into working order, or the stack of National Geographic magazines that he had kept on a corner of the kitchen table.

  He thought of Abby’s one regret, stated every now and then throughout the years—of never having visited Africa and going on a photography safari. Lock had never understood that, because Abby had no experience taking pictures, and as far as he knew, he hadn’t even owned a camera. But that was his friend. Lock told himself that someday he’d be in better circumstances and be able to take Augie on a safari. He pictured the child as a young teenager, full of excitement about riding in a Range Rover and shooting wildlife with a sophisticated camera that Lock would buy for him. The boy would have studied up on Africa and its animals and environment and would be spouting facts and opinions that would amaze the adult members of their tour. Lock would be so proud.

  But when he came back to the present, the heavy blanket of hopelessness fell on him with a suffocating thud. His eyes filled, but he didn’t cry. He kept exhaling without inhaling. Then he gasped for air and burst into tears.

  Where’s my beautiful child? What’s he doing now? He must think I abandoned him.

  That last thought was what drove him over the edge. Imagining Augie’s emotions and feelings of bewilderment. The baby could certainly feel emotional pain, and Lock believed he could end it, if only he could figure out how. In the meantime, Lock needed to find a way to kill his own debilitating agony.

  Then there was the bottle of Glenmorangie, sitting quietly on the shelf, waiting for the inevitable. Keeping the scotch on a shelf so nearby had been a tool for Abby, but Lock wasn’t that strong, and his sobriety wasn’t yet fully entrenched in his heart and mind. Sometimes it took much longer. He understood that, but he took the bottle off the shelf nevertheless.

  He knew he would open it and drain it, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care about blowing his sobriety, he didn’t care if he died trying to rescue Augie from a fate designed by contemptible people who saw the child as nothing more than a prop in their scheme for money and comfort. He didn’t care about anything.

  The throbbing dread and agony he felt to his core had to be obliterated, and the scotch would do the job. His mind would settle down, he thought, and then he’d come up with the solution. It would be something like Freel getting Natalie and him getting Augie. That would be the solution, but how could he make it happen?

  Lock sat in Abby’s recliner with the bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.

  With one abrupt turn of his wrist, he peeled the thick foil from the cork and yanked it out of the bottle. He held it up to his nose. He inhaled slowly and deeply. He envisioned pouring a couple of inches into the glass and holding it up in the air, the translucent, light-amber liquid swirling and beckoning. He could imagine the sharp taste that would be the first sip, and the gentle warmth of drunkenness that would shortly ease its way into his body and mind. He’d feel the first signs of intoxication in the mild numbing of his hands and feet, and then in a subtle lightheadedness, it would finally overwhelm his whole being. And the pain would be gone, at least for a few hours. It would be worth it.

  I can’t do this here, sitting in Abby’s chair. What would he think? I’d be breaking his heart again.

  Lock smacked the cork back into the bottle and set the glass down on the side table. Holding the bottle by its neck, he got up and left.

  Without thinking about it, Lock drove to the park where he had met Natalie so many times before prison, and where they had taken Augie while they were all living together.

  He sat on the bench where they had sat and held hands and played with the baby and watched the snow falling. Augie used to look up into the sky and blink furiously as the flakes landed in his eyes, flailing his arms and laughing madly.

  Those memories needed to be erased. Lock opened the bottle, raised it to his lips, and took a sip of the fiery liquid. His two years of sobriety, officially at an end.

  Then he took not a sip, but a gulp, a mouthful. Heat on his tongue and heat in his throat and nose and stomach.

  In less than fifteen minutes, Lock had guzzled a quarter of the bottle, and at first, he felt nothing. But when he stood up from the bench, he knew he had been drinking. His hands were tingling, and he couldn’t see clearly in the distance. He wasn’t too steady on his feet, but he didn’t think twice about getting behind the wheel. He knew he was already too drunk to operate a car, and he didn’t care. He needed to get something. Driving back to Abby’s apartment drunk was more of a challenge tha
n he had anticipated. He had trouble keeping the car between the white lines. Lock believed he had once been an expert impaired driver, though he knew that was a common conceit of drunks. He didn’t want to get stopped by the police, so he consciously drove the speed limit and was on the lookout for yellow traffic lights.

  Then he could proceed with his plan—to get in Freel’s face and tell him what a kidnapping piece of shit he was.

  46

  Natalie was in jail, Lock thought, but even if she were free, he would never harm her. She was Augie’s mother. But Freel was a different matter. Lock planned to point a gun in his face the next time he saw him. He wanted to threaten Freel into helping him get Augie back, and he wanted Freel to fear him. He wasn’t going to wait around and hope to bump into Freel somewhere. And Lock had a convincing prop. He had Abby’s revolver.

  It took him all morning to find Freel. Lock went to his office. He wasn’t there. Lock drove to his house. His car wasn’t there. Maybe it was in the garage. Lock rang the doorbell and banged on the door. No answer. He tried one last place—the country club. First thing Lock saw in the parking lot was Freel’s car.

  Bingo.

  Lock stopped and opened his car’s door. He placed his foot on the asphalt. He tried to stand up, but lost balance and fell back into the driver’s seat. He paused to collect himself and then swung his other leg out and raised himself again, this time with more success. He lurched forward, neglecting to close the door behind him. He was able to follow the signs to the course and knew enough to avoid the clubhouse and the employees who certainly wouldn’t recognize him. As he walked and inhaled the crisp air, he sobered up slightly—enough to make him a bit steadier on his feet.

  Where’s that son-of-a-bitch? He better be here somewhere. He can’t hide from me. He’s got my baby. He imagined a frog transforming itself into a crocodile and devouring a scorpion in one loud, snapping bite. He’s evil. It’s his nature.

  Lock walked right up to the first-hole tee. It was abandoned. The border of the course was lined with cedars. They seemed impossibly thin and tall, like giants. Or judges. Lock ignored them. He didn’t care what they thought. I love my boy. It’s my nature.

  He walked the next three holes and finally caught up with Freel and three of his buddies on the fourth. One of them was teeing up, and the others stood around watching. Freel’s back was to the approaching, unsteady, disheveled Lock.

  “Freel, you son-of-a-bitch,” Lock slurred. “You sold my son. You’re a dead man.” Lock took the revolver from his coat pocket. It dangled in his hand

  Freel spun toward him and the others froze, each one staring at Lock, eyes wide, mouths open. Freel pasted a weak smile on his face and put his hands up as if to say, Relax, pal, let’s discuss this.

  “Gilkenney, you’re crazy,” Freel said when Lock was ten feet away. Freel talked fast. Lock knew what Freel saw—an enraged drunk who needed to be placated.

  Let’s hear this lie. I’ll let him sputter and beg before I end his life.

  “Don’t feel bad, man—no one sold Augie. We put him up for adoption, that’s all. But think, man. It’s a better deal for the kid. Natalie and I would make rotten parents. As a matter of fact, we made arrangements with the new parents for you to visit with him. I did that on my own, to help you out. I got a fax confirming that this morning. Didn’t my secretary call you? I swear I gave her explicit instructions to reach you.”

  Lock smiled. He knew Freel would lie. It’s his nature. “You’re a goddamned liar, Freel.”

  He raised the gun and tightened his grip. One of the golfers screamed, then covered his mouth with his palm. The others stood there breathing heavily, afraid to move.

  Freel’s face was as white as the sand trap he stood next to. “Don’t shoot, Gilkenney, please. If you do, you’ll never see Augie again. Please, man, put your gun away. We can work this out. Put your gun away. I swear you can walk away and I won’t say a word. None of us will. I didn’t get you in trouble the last time, remember? Put your gun away.”

  Freel’s friends wildly nodded in agreement. “Not a word, we swear,” one of them said.

  Lock raised the gun and aimed it at Freel’s chest.

  “My God,” Freel said, staggering back a step. “Don’t do it, my God, please don’t kill me. What will that get you?”

  Lock straightened his arm and tightened his finger on the trigger.

  “Why not, Freel? You killed me. You and Natalie. You took the only thing that mattered.”

  “No. No I didn’t. It was Natalie’s idea, but I arranged it so you can visit Augie. The people who adopted him? Turns out they live nearby, in Gladwyne. That out-of-state stuff was bullshit. They’re open to letting you visit him. They even said it would be good for him to see you. Don’t do this, Lock. Don’t do this.”

  “You’re a bad liar, Freel. You and your girlfriend.” It’s your nature, he thought, and being a father is my nature. And a father would do anything for his son.

  Lock took a step closer and kept his aim on Freel’s heart. Killing Freel, he told himself, was the right thing to do. But what if Freel was telling the truth? A million-to-one shot, but Lock couldn’t take the risk. He had to hold Augie again. That was all that mattered.

  “Prove it, Freel.”

  “Prove what?” Freel said.

  “Prove they’ve agreed to let me see him.”

  “Okay, okay. I can. I can do that. But please, put your gun away. You’re upset, it could go off accidentally.”

  “When it goes off, it won’t be an accident. How can you prove it?”

  “Put the gun down. We’ll go to my office. Right this second. I’ll show you the fax. I know exactly where it is. Then you’ll see.”

  Freel looked at one of his friends but said nothing, then looked back to Lock.

  “And what’s to stop your friends from calling 911?”

  One of the others spoke. “We won’t. We understand what you’re going through. Jerry already told us about the fax this morning. He’s telling you the truth, sir.”

  “Here,” said Freel. “We’ll give you our cellphones so you’ll know we won’t call the police. I promised you we won’t, and we won’t.”

  Freel and the others reached into their pockets and held out their phones to Lock. He didn’t take them. He stared at them blankly for a few seconds, then looked up at Freel.

  “I want to see Augie again. I don’t care about that fax, you just make that visit happen, and you do it today. If you’re lying, I will find you and kill you. No matter where you try to hide.”

  Lock turned around and walked away. He had sobered up during the confrontation, but was feeling the scotch again as he made his way shakily over the greens towards the parking lot.

  He got into his car, started the engine, and drove off. He didn’t have a clue as to where to go.

  47

  Lock pulled up to Abby’s apartment a little while later and could still feel the effect of the scotch. The three-quarters-filled bottle sat on the seat next to him. Anyone could have seen it, but Lock paid it no attention. He had better things to think about—like the soon-to-be reunion with Augie.

  Should I bring a toy or something? No, just me. That will be more than enough.

  He sat there thinking. He didn’t want to go into Abby’s apartment still drunk, so he started the car again and pulled out into traffic. He began to turn on the radio but realized he had a lot to think about and didn’t want the distraction of the all-news station. All he could think about was seeing the baby.

  Freel wouldn’t have the guts to lie to a man pointing a gun at his heart. He was afraid of me, and fear can bring out the truth from those generally reluctant to speak it. I will get to see Augie. I know it.

  Lock rolled down his window and took a deep breath of the cool autumn air. His mood soared.

  He imagined himself ho
lding Augie and kissing him, hugging him, enfolding him in his arms. It was all he wanted. His joy sobered him up. He had never needed anything as much as he needed to love that child. And he knew Augie needed the same.

  As Lock drove, weaving slightly but not as badly as before, he saw a father pushing an infant in a stroller along the sidewalk. Lock, stalled in traffic, watched with genuine pleasure as the man stooped to pick up a toy duck that the child had dropped onto the cement. Lock smiled at his realization that he had done the same for Augie many times.

  But something tugged at him and he couldn’t identify it. Then it hit him. No way would Freel have—of his own volition—made the effort to set it up so that Lock would be able to see Augie. That couldn’t be true. It was something Freel had thought of on the spot to diminish Lock’s rage and protect himself from Lock’s menacing behavior. Something that would give Freel a chance at survival. God dammit, he thought. Too drunk. Stupid.

  That was it. Sickening thoughts took over, and they made more sense to him.

  Lock’s dream imploded and he dry heaved. He swerved into the first side street he came upon, pulled over, a tire up on the curb, and eyed the bottle. The chilling truth was exploding in his head.

  He had had enough.

  I’ll never see Augie. He’ll never reach out and grab my finger again. Never.

  Lock dry heaved again.

  He reached over and opened the bottle. In one desperate motion, he guzzled half of what remained.

  He knew what he had to do, and turned on the ignition and headed back to the country club. He sped recklessly and arrived in less than ten minutes. How he kept the car on the road was anyone’s guess. The fresh surge of alcohol hit him hard.

  Lock stopped the car haphazardly across three parking spots and stumbled out.

  Through blurry eyes and double vision, right away he saw Freel and the others huddled next to the Lamborghini. They were absorbed in their conversation—probably talking about whether or not to call the police—and didn’t see him.