Stork Raving Mad

by Donna Andrews

  I glanced around the front hall and winced. It was almost completely filled with the coatracks and coat trees we’d brought in for the students, and the chairs we’d moved out of the dining room when we turned it into another temporary bedroom. When you added in the half a dozen bushel baskets we’d set out for gloves, boots, and scarves, what had once been a gracious foyer now resembled the entrance to a thrift shop.

  And now the students had decided to turn the dining room into Señor Mendoza’s room, on the theory that our geriatric guest might not be able to make it to the second story. These days I wasn’t too keen on going up and down stairs myself. When we bought our three-story Victorian house, Michael and I had been charmed by the twelve-foot ceilings on the ground floor, but now I was all too conscious of the twelve-foot stairway.

  Half a dozen students swarmed in and out of the dining room, clearing out the sleeping bags, suitcases, knapsacks, and other paraphernalia and hauling most of it upstairs. That accounted for the thumps and thuds. Another two students were assembling a bed frame in one corner.

  “Make way!” I heard someone shout behind me. “Mattress coming through!” I lumbered out of the way as nimbly as I could, which wasn’t very—these days I had the maneuverability and turning radius of an aircraft carrier.

  “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Waterston,” said one of the students carrying the mattress. “We didn’t see it was you.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Could someone do me a small favor?”

  Three students leaped to my side. I handed Tawaret to a willowy redhead almost as tall as my five foot ten. I was fairly sure her name was Alice, but given how bad my short-term memory was at the moment, I decided to avoid testing that theory.

  “Could you take this and put it on one of the shelves in the library?”

  “What is it?”

  “Good luck statue,” I said. “Scares away demons.”

  “Awesome,” Probable Alice said, and she disappeared with Tawaret under one arm.

  “That would scare away anything,” said a blond student whose name escaped me.

  “Yes, and I have no intention of letting it scare Woodward and Bernstein,” I said, patting my stomach.

  “Is that really what you’re going to call them?” the blonde asked. From the look on her face, I deduced she didn’t approve.

  “No,” I said. “But we haven’t settled on names yet because we’ve chosen not to know the gender. My doctor refers to them as P and non-P, for presenting and non-presenting.”

  “Presenting what?” she asked.

  “Presenting is doctor talk for positioned to come out first,” I said.

  “Whoa, you mean even in the womb, one of the kids is destined to be the younger?” she asked. “Who knew?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’m not betting on it. Non-P is pretty stubborn, and I wouldn’t put it past him or her to thrash around and shove P out of the way. And as you can see, P and non-P are pretty impersonal, so we usually refer to them by whatever nicknames come to mind at the moment.”

  “Like Woodward and Bernstein,” the blonde said.

  “Or Tom and Jerry,” I said. “Thelma and Louise. Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

  “Cool,” she said. Did she really think so, or was she only humoring her favorite professor’s boring wife?

  “How about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” she asked.

  “Good one,” I said. “I’ll spring it on Michael later.”

  She beamed. Actually, we’d already used that one, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  I’d been maneuvering through the swarms of students toward the front door as we spoke. I almost tripped over Spike, our dog, who still hadn’t figured out that in my present condition, I couldn’t even see my own feet, much less an eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball dancing around them. Or maybe he was doing it deliberately. Spike had been known to bite the hand that fed him, so why should I be surprised if he tried to trip the owner of that hand?

  “Someone get Spike out of the way,” I said as I waddled over to the doorway to greet our guest. Or maybe I should drag Mendoza inside—why were they keeping an elderly visitor standing on the front porch so long? Did they want him to get pneumonia?

  Just then the door opened with a burst of arctic air, and Señor Mendoza limped in, leaning heavily on a walking stick and bundled in a thick overcoat that was clearly intended for a much taller man—the hem dragged along the floor behind him. He was about five foot four, though he might have been taller if he weren’t so stooped. He had a wild mane of white hair, a ragged white beard, and an irrepressible twinkle in his eyes.

  He also reeked of tobacco, which probably explained what he’d been doing outside—having one last smoke before entering the house.

  “Welcome to America!” he exclaimed, waving his stick in the air. “I am Ignacio Mendoza! Happy to meet you!”

  Michael followed Señor Mendoza in, helped him out of the overcoat and hung it on one of the coatracks, all the while making conversation in rapid-fire Spanish.

  I gazed at my husband in envy. At the moment, I could think of two Spanish words—adiós and arriba. Neither of them seemed even slightly apropos, so I worked on smiling in a welcoming fashion.

  Then I recognized another phrase—mi esposa. Michael must be introducing me. I held out my hand.

  Señor Mendoza lunged forward, grasped my hand, and thumped my belly several times.

  The twins resented it. Someone should explain to strangers that it was rude to tickle babies before they were born.

  “Sorry,” I said, wrestling my hand free and taking a step back. “But Butch and Sundance aren’t up to shaking hands yet.”

  Actually, Butch might be trying to—he was squirming around with great enthusiasm. Sundance merely began the steady, rhythmic kicking he resorted to whenever Butch annoyed him. Why couldn’t they wait until they were out in the world before beginning their sibling squabbles?

  Michael stepped up and treated Señor Mendoza to a few more paragraphs of Spanish. I hoped he was explaining that while he was happy to welcome such a distinguished guest to his humble home, the guest should damn well keep his hands off the lady of the house. Whatever he said made Señor Mendoza beam at me with great approval.

  “Meg!” my grandfather said, as he burst through the door with another blast of cold air. “This is going to be such fun. Nacio’s going to make paella. And he’s brought his guitar—did you know he’s an expert flamenco player?”

  Nacio? Must be Mendoza’s nickname. Short for Ignacio, I supposed. Were they old friends or had they hit it off instantly? Either way, it was cause for alarm, given my grandfather’s penchant for trouble.

  And then the other part of his statement hit me: paella. A dish that normally contained copious amounts of seafood. No one in my family ever remembered my allergy to crustaceans and shellfish, so why should I expect them to believe that ever since I’d become pregnant, the mere smell nauseated me? I’d be avoiding the kitchen for a while.

  And was there any hope that someone could convince him to play quiet, subdued, soothing flamenco music? Or was that an oxymoron?

  Everybody seemed to be looking expectantly at me. Had I zoned out again and missed a question? I blinked, hoping someone would enlighten me. No one did.

  The only creature in the hallway not staring expectantly at me was Spike, who was sniffing suspiciously at Señor Mendoza’s shoes. To my horror, he uttered the briefest of growls before sinking his teeth into the playwright’s left ankle.

  Everyone was horrified except Mendoza.

  “Que diablito!” He picked Spike up, not seeming to mind getting nipped in the process, and held him up at eye level. “What a ferocious watchdog!”

  Spike was squirming madly. I wasn’t sure whether he was uncomfortable or just frantic to get out of the playwright’s grip so he could counterattack. Luckily Mendoza seemed to have a good hold on him.

  And some of my linguistic ability surged back.

  “Chien mechant
,” I said finally, hoping my memory was working, and I had just called Spike a bad dog. “Et maintenant, je dois dormir.”

  Never before had news of an impending nap been greeted with such laughter and enthusiasm, so I was more convinced than ever that I’d mistranslated. Time enough later to worry about it. At least Señor Mendoza, after chuckling, tucked Spike under one arm, and kissed my hand. Then he followed my grandfather to the kitchen, still carrying Spike.

  I ignored the chuckles and cries of “Brava!” as I shuffled upstairs.

  It wasn’t till I was curling up in bed, trying to find a position that was comfortable for me and my two passengers, that I realized I’d spoken in French rather than Spanish.

  Ah, well. Maybe they’d think I’d done it on purpose. Catalonia was on the border with France, wasn’t it? Or was it on the border with Portugal?

  Normally I’d have fretted about this for hours while tossing and turning, but instead I fell asleep while trying to remember.

  Chapter 3

  It was darker when I woke up. Had I slept till nightfall? Had I missed hearing that we were having a storm?

  No, someone had tiptoed in while I was asleep and pulled all the blinds. Probably Rose Noire, since I also noticed a thermal mug on the bedside table. Another infusion of some obscure, healthy, herbal tea whose very smell would set my stomach churning. In the morning, the mug might contain a yogurt smoothie so laced with vitamins, supplements, and herbs that it had the same unsettling effect on my stomach. But luckily, in the afternoons the offerings were almost always herbal teas. I had to walk all the way to the bathroom to dump the smoothies, but unloading the teas was easier.

  I shuffled to the windowsill with the mug and held my breath as I opened the top and poured the contents into the dirt around one of the potted plants. The Boston fern this time. The spider plant and the English ivy were looking distinctly unhealthy. Difficult to say whether this was due to some toxic effect from their daily doses of herbal teas, or whether they merely resented having their roots repeatedly scalded with hot liquid. The Boston fern, on the other hand, was thriving. Was this because it liked the herbal brews, or had I not been giving it as much as the others?

  “Sorry,” I said to the Boston fern. “But better you than me.”

  I allowed myself a moment of guilt about pouring out yet another well-intended offering from my cousin. I would be the first to admit that she had been immensely helpful throughout my pregnancy. And especially during the last two months, when she had waited on me hand and foot and enabled me to get the all-important rest my doctor recommended. I knew that the closer I could get to full term, the better it would be for Kirk and Spock, and whenever people congratulated me on how long I’d lasted, I gave full credit to Rose Noire. And it probably was just a coincidence that my morning sickness had finally ended the week I’d stopped trying to drink all her herbal offerings. She meant well.

  I just sometimes wished she had an off switch.

  I checked the clock. I’d been asleep less than an hour. Par for the course. These days I could nod off sitting up, but Boris and Natasha never let me sleep for long. They weren’t even born yet, and already I was stumbling around in a constant state of sleep deprivation.

  Time to see what was going on downstairs. Apologize to my houseguest—my latest houseguest—for my abrupt disappearance.

  After a brief detour to the bathroom, I opened the bedroom door and almost keeled over at the strong, nauseating smell that permeated the hall outside.

  Most people would have found the smell delectable, I suspected. As I leaned against the wall, patting P and non-P with one hand, I tried to untangle the components. Garlic, of course. Along with hypersensitivity to smell, my stomach’s sudden hostility to garlic had been one of the first clues that I might be pregnant. I hoped neither was permanent. Along with the garlic I detected a rich potpourri of unfamiliar spices—unfamiliar and, at least for the moment, unappetizing. And, of course, an almost tangible reek of seafood.

  Normally I merely found the smell of seafood distasteful. Now I wondered what would happen if my allergy worsened so the mere smell triggered a reaction. I’d ask Dad. Get him to give me an EpiPen, or if they weren’t allowed during pregnancy, get him to enforce a total ban on seafood cooking for the rest of Señor Mendoza’s visit. I sighed. That certainly wouldn’t make me popular.

  Along with the smells, sounds were drifting upstairs. I could hear the rise and fall of conversations, accompanied by flamenco music played on a guitar—no, make that several guitars—and a rhythmic staccato rattle that could only be someone dancing to the music.

  I felt a wave of nostalgia mingled with resentment. Back in the B.P. days—before pregnancy—I’d have been down in the kitchen. I might not have eaten the seafood, but it wouldn’t have bothered me so much. And I could have enjoyed the music, the conversation, the dancing, and the wine.

  And I would again, I told myself, as I carefully descended the stairs. Just not for a while. And there was no reason for everyone else to do without just because I wasn’t in the mood at the moment.

  But at least they could turn on the kitchen exhaust fan to keep the odors from drifting upstairs with such intensity.

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  I paused on the second step from the bottom. I really didn’t feel like opening the door and having to deal with more visitors, not to mention the cold air.

  “Can someone answer that?”

  The flamenco music continued unabated. They probably hadn’t even heard me.

  “Hello, anyone?” I called.

  The doorbell rang again, twice, in quick succession. Our would-be guests were getting impatient.

  “Hold your damned horses,” I muttered as I waddled to the door.

  While unlocking the deadbolt, I tried to assume a polite, welcoming face. Or at least a neutral face. I’d save the scowl in case the impatient doorbell ringer was someone who really deserved it.

  I swung the door open to find a man and a woman standing outside. Both wore frowns that matched my mood. And instead of saying anything, they both gawked at my protruding belly as if they’d never seen a pregnant woman before. They both had that hunched-against-the-cold look that so many people around campus wore these days, probably because they were only wearing light coats.

  Okay, I understood their impatience, though it wasn’t my fault they’d neglected to dress for the weather. But I wasn’t letting them in till I knew they weren’t trying to convert us or sell us something.

  “May I help you?” I asked. I was polite, though certainly not warm.

  “Is this the residence of Professor Waterston?” the woman said. She was forty-something and might have been attractive if she could lose the scowl, though the lines of her face hinted that it was habitual. She wasn’t wearing a hat over her neatly permed brown hair or gloves on her well-manicured fingers.

  “Yes,” I said. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “I am Dr. Wright,” she said. “From the English department. And this is Dr. Blanco, from administrative services.” She indicated the man, who was tall and also fortyish, with a thin, anxious face. He was bareheaded, too, though at least he wore driving gloves.

  “May we come in?” Dr. Blanco asked.

  “Of course,” I said, stepping back from the door. Blanco I’d never heard of before, but I had the sinking feeling I should know who Wright was. The drama department, where Michael taught, was technically an unloved subgroup of the English department.

  They stepped inside with just enough haste to make me feel sorry for them. They both set down slim, expensive-looking briefcases, and the woman carefully set a purse atop hers—a small, sleek bit of leather, probably a designer brand that a more fashion-conscious woman would have recognized instantly. Then they shed their coats and tried to hand them to me.

  I gestured to the coatracks, which still had a few free hangers, and stepped a little farther away. It wasn’t just that I resented being treated like a ma
id. One of them was wearing an overly strong perfume or aftershave that was making my nose tickle. Hard to tell which of them was the culprit—the scent didn’t seem particularly masculine or feminine. Just unpleasant.

  “If you’ll wait here in the hall, I’ll tell—achoo!—tell my husband you’re here.” I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue and gestured at some of the dining room chairs.

  “Actually,” Dr. Blanco said, “we’re looking for one of Professor Waterston’s students. A Ramon Soto.”

  “We understand he lives here,” Dr. Wright added. Her face frowned a little more, as if showing her disapproval of any unorthodox living arrangements. In fact, both of them were wearing the sort of disagreeable expressions my nephews used to call prune faces.

  “Ramon Soto is staying here,” I said. “Until the heating plant is back in order and the dorms are habitable. We’ve taken in quite a few students.”

  Neither professor appeared impressed. I’d bet anything there were no unruly students disturbing the pristine academic quiet of their homes.

  “May we speak to Mr. Soto?” Dr. Blanco asked.

  “I’ll see if someone can find him.” I turned and began waddling toward the kitchen, sneezing a few more times as I went.

  “See if someone can find him?” Dr. Wright said. “Don’t you understand the—”

  “I’m sure it’s just a figure of speech,” Dr. Blanco said, in a soothing tone.

  When I opened the door the noise, light, and smells almost overwhelmed me. I grabbed the door frame and closed my eyes for a few moments to fight the dizziness and nausea.

  “Mrs. Waterston!” I felt hands gripping me, and had to fight the impulse to push them away. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired.” I opened my eyes to find half a dozen solicitous students crowded around me. “Is Ramon here?”

  Ramon emerged from the crowd. His face wore an anxious look that had become habitual over the last few weeks.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing that I know of,” I said. “Two professors are here to see you.”