Just to touch it.
I believe.
Out of the darkness of the water a hand emerged. Around that hand was a distinctive diamond-studded bracelet. With uncanny precision, the hand grabbed the photo, pulling it back under.
Alicia saw it go.
She saw it go, and she saw the water continuing to rise, and then, holding her breath, she plunged under the surface.
Sweetie
Tony’s driving fast.
Tony’s grinding his teeth.
Tony can’t get all this divorce crap out of his mind.
It’s killing him. Just sucking the energy straight from his body. Messing up his job. Screwing up his finances.
It’s gotten so bad lately it feels like his head’s going to explode.
He remembers yesterday, that incredible hassle at the IGA. All he wanted was iron pills, to fortify his body. You’d think that would’ve been simple, wouldn’t you?
A great big store like that with a medicine aisle half a hundred feet long. But no. We’re temporarily out of iron pills, the pipsqueak clerk said. Sorry, sir. But you can’t pull fast ones on Tony. Tony knew, all right: the little pipsqueak was lying. The little pipsqueak was hiding them from him, no doubt on orders from the bitch, who was conspiring against him in extremely creative ways lately. That’s what Tony told the police when they came to calm things down, that it was all part of the conspiracy. That’s what he made sure they wrote into their report.
Tony keeps driving. He’s getting all worked up again. The bitch . . . one of these days, she’s going to get hers.
Jesus fuck Mary!
There’s something in the road! It’s blocking the way! It’s like it materialized out of thin air.
Tony hits the brakes.
Jesus. Damn near hit it.
Tony takes a huge breath. His temples are pounding and he’s trying to get a grip. What the hell is it? He squints. Looks like some kind of blanket, some kind of duffel bag or gunnysack. Maybe a sleeping bag, all ratty and torn.
Tony gets out of the car, a Hyundai. Instinct tells him to look up and down the road and so he does. You’d think he was some kind of common criminal. Jesus, what divorce will do to a guy. He pats his underarm, to make sure his pistol’s still there. You never know what’s around the next corner.
But everything’s cool. No one in either direction. No houses. No other, cars. Nothing but trees and fields and a long stone wall running up one side of this two-lane blacktop that dissects the Connecticut countryside.
Tony walks around to the front of his car. It’s a blanket, all right. One of those Army surplus jobs. What the hell’s a blanket doing in the road? What’s in the blanket? There’s definitely something in it. Something the size of an... animal.
Oh Christ, he thinks. Some asshole’s dumped his dead dog out here in the middle of nowhere. These hicks will pull shit like that. Why the hell did he ever move out here, anyway? Because of her, of course. Because of Louise, the bitch.
Except it’s not a dog, as he discovers when he unwraps it.
It’s a baby.
A baby girl.
A dead baby girl.
Ana not a scratch on her precious little body. Not a cut or a bruise or a single drop of blood. He looks at her carefully, not at all repulsed by what he sees. How could he be? What a pretty young thins. Her eyes are white and flawless as a pearl in a jewelry store, not a scratch on her precious little body. Not a cut or bruise or a single drop of blood. He looks at her carefully, not at all repulsed by what he sees. How could he be? What a pretty young thing. Her eyes are open and blue as sky. Her hair is blonde, her skin as white and flawless as a pearl in a jewelry-store window.
He smoothes her hair and...
Her skin is warm. Dear God, he thinks, maybe she’s still alive. Maybe all she needs is an emergency room. Maybe just a couple of jolts with the paddles and then a ventilator and some heavy-duty drugs to pick her up. Tony feels frantically for a pulse, but he can’t find one anywhere. And she’s not breathing. He’s sure of that. He took a CPR course back in college. He’s forgotten some of it, but not the part about how to tell when someone’s stopped breathing.
No, Sweetie’s dead.
Say what?
Where’d that come from, that name? Just popped into his head, the way words sometimes will. But it fits, he thinks. That’s what’s so dam crazy. Sweetie fits. Poor little Sweetie, lying all by herself so dead in the road.
“Christ, now what?” Tony says.
He’s already decided he can’t leave her here. Can’t just continue on to work as if nothing’s happened. That wouldn’t be fair to Sweetie. That would be heartless and cruel, something a shithead would do, not someone of his character.
Tony gathers Sweetie into his arms and places her on the seat next to him. The blanket’s dirty but it’s all he has. He wraps it around her. Never know when you’ll run into some goddamn busybody, even on a lonely country road. He buckles the seatbelt around Sweetie and puts his Hyundai into drive.
Where to? Now there’s a question.
It’s too late for the hospital. That much is clear. Sweetie’s dead. Sweetie’s dead. The thought keeps going through Tony’s head, over and over and over and making him so sad. Tears fill his eyes. It’s going to be tough to drive.
The police station.
Of course, he thinks. I’ll take her to the cops.
But immediately, doubt fills his mind. When I got to the front desk, he asks himself, what would I say? That I’m on my way to work, Officer, and I just thought I’d turn in this dead baby? Can you list it in lost and found?
No way. Tony’s no fool. He’s a certified public accountant. He knows about the authorities. He knows what they’ll do.
They’ll have two options.
First, they could charge him with a crime—and wouldn’t murder and kidnapping be a good place to start? Something along those lines. After a hearing at which no bail would be set, it’d be off to jail.
The other option would be the forensic unit. See if he’s competent to stand trial. See if he needs rubber walls for, say, the rest of his life.
Tony can see it now, how everything would unfold. Louise’s lawyer would get wind of things, and the lawyer would trip over himself getting to court, and he’d be telling the judge about how, Your Honor, Mr. Anthony Simeone is impotent, is incapable of biologically fathering a child, which is why my client has filed the divorce petition she has, and, well, certainly Your Honor can see how this played into Mr. Simeone’s sick mind when he killed this poor innocent child. If you look at the record, Your Honor, you’ll note this man was nearly arrested after an altercation involving iron pills at the IGA. Yes, Your Honor, you heard correctly: iron pills, they usually go for about five bucks a bottle. You’ll especially note that he has recently been hospitalized for nervous exhaustion, which followed several years of pharmaceutical treatment for an underlying depression. And while the hospitalization was at General Hospital, may I draw your attention to the fact that his admission was to Ward Seven? That he was discharged with a prescription for haloperidol, which isn’t exactly aspirin, Your Honor.
All lies, of course, especially talk of any chronic underlying depression, but who can trust judges? Whoever gets out of institutions? They’d stick needles in him and cart him away and Sweetie . . . poor Sweetie . .
What would become of Sweetie?
No loving, caring parents left her there in the road. Any idiot could see that. Someone wanted to be rid of poor Sweetie. Some teenage whore, probably, strung out on drugs and not a clue as to who the father might be. Tony can’t let her go back to a situation like that. Things being what they are, there’s every chance some liberal judge would give that mother a second chance. If not, the state would get her. That would be worse. Tony catches the evening news. Tony knows about foster homes and shelters. No. Tony can’t let any of that happen.
Tony pulls into his driveway.
For the first time since being served with pape
rs, Tony is thankful for the bitch. At least she’s moved out. True, it was into that fuckhead Peter Downing’s place, but those two shacking up was only a matter of time, anyway. Better to get that messy detail out of the way. And Tony has the house, at least for now. Tony can be alone , ‘which is all he wants lately.
Tony hits the switch to the overhead. The garage opens. Tony drives in and closes the door behind him. He uncovers Sweetie. Must be hot under that blanket. He lifts her in his arms. Her skin is very warm. He hopes it’s not a fever. When Tony was a kid, he got St. Joseph’s aspirin. They don’t sell it anymore. They sell St. Joseph’s acetaminophen.
How the world’s changed, Tony thinks as they go in.
He sets Sweetie down on the couch and dials the phone. As it’s ringing, he closes the front drapes. “Rosalyn,” Tony says when his call is answered. “Tony,” says his secretary.
“I’m not having a good day. The bitch’s at it again.”
“I understand.”
“Anything that needs my, attention over there?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
“Hang in there, Tony,” Rosalyn says. “Remember: it’s always darkest before dawn.”
Tony hangs up and takes the phone off the hook. No interruptions today, which is barely eight hours old and already momentous beyond all contemplation. He looks over at Sweetie. Is it his imagination or has she shifted position? Not halfway across the couch or anything dramatic like that, but maybe a teensy-weensy inch or two? As if she were trying to get into the kitchen? As if she might be hungry?
Of course you’re hungry, he thinks. I’d be hungry, too, Sweetie, if I’d been lying in the middle of a road like that.
Tony rummages through his cabinets, but the best he can find is instant oatmeal. It’s cinnamon and spice, one of the bitch’s favorites. It’ll have to do. Tony mixes up a bowl and as it sits on the stove , cooling to baby temperature, he wonders how he will feed her.
But he doesn’t wonder for long.
He’s remembering Louise. For years, she had tried to get pregnant. They’d gone to fertility specialists, even tried a treatment in Acapulco, all without luck. But artificial insemination had worked. On the first try, Louise had gotten pregnant. All the way into the third trimester, there were no complications. The Simeones could breathe easier. At least easy enough to buy a crib, a highchair, sleepers and bonnets in pink and blue. They’d painted the spare bedroom. They’d put up curtains. And in her eighth month, Louise Simeone had miscarried. Miscarried and blamed it on his Xanax, which he’d only ever taken once or twice years and years ago, he swore. Six months later, she’d filed for divorce.
Well! So the bitch was good for something, after all. The crib and high chair are still down cellar. He saw them just last week, when he stowed away the assault rifle and ammunition he procured in case things turn too crazy. Tony gets the chair, brings it into the kitchen, and settles Sweetie into it.
“There, now,” he says, bending her knees. It’s not easy, bending her knees. Like all her joints, they are very stiff. It’s never good, Tony thinks, for babies to lie in the road.
“For you, Sweetie,” he says. “Have to have your nourishment if you want to grow up big and strong.”
He tries spooning some oatmeal into her mouth. But Sweetie doesn’t eat.
“Sweetie’s probably tired,” he says. “Sweetie needs her rest. You wait here while Daddy sets up your crib.”
The crib is still in its box but it goes together without a hitch. Tony’s always been a handy sort of guy. He hangs the Fisher-Price mobile Louise got during her shower. He slips a sheet over the mattress. He shakes the dust out of the curtains and sprays a generous amount of Lysol. You never can tell about germs. Never can be too careful.
Every hour, Tony checks on Sweetie: Crib death, he thinks, is such a tragic thing. Sweetie sleeps, even if Tony can’t. At midnight, when he’s sure she’s down for the night, he leaves in his Hyundai. He finds a convenience store that’s open and buys Gerber baby food and a box of Pampers diapers and a bottle of fish oil gelatins that are on sale.
The next morning, Tony tries a bottle of warm milk. Sweetie won’t take it. Sweetie’s looking under the weather today. No color and very dry lips and skin. Tony gives her her bath. He towels her dry, powders her, gets her diaper on. He dresses her in pajamas and a pink bonnet.
“Daddy’s got to go out,” he says. Sweetie’s on the floor in front of the TV. The TV is on Channel 2, public television. Kermit the Frog is singing a funny song.
“Sweetie be good,” Tony says. “Don’t get into any mischief. Daddy will be home soon.”
Tony makes an effort at work but he’s only going through the motions. Rosalyn makes a few cracks about the bitch. Tony mentions the fact that it’s the Friday before the long Fourth of July weekend. They laugh. Tony leaves before lunch. Since the stock market crash, things have been marginal at Simeone & Smith. A year ago, Roger Smith left to go sell insurance. Since then, it’s been only Tony and Rosalyn and a part-time clerk.
By Saturday afternoon, the smell is god-awful. Tony keeps bathing Sweetie, but it isn’t doing any good. Powder’s not helping, either. Tony’s worried. Sweetie seems to have developed some sort of terrible rash. Must be this July weather, so sticky and hot. The skin is broken in several spots and what appear to be blisters have popped up on her ankles, wrists, cheeks, the back of her neck.
“Poor Sweetie,” he says as he rocks her by the TV. “Poor, poor Sweetie.”
Tony’s thoughts are racing now. Before Sweetie, the minutes crawled. Now time’s speeded up. Right now, it’s racing like a rocket. Sweetie desperately needs a doctor but Tony doesn’t have one, at least not a G. P. or anyone like that. He’d have to take her to a walk-in clinic or a hospital. Tony knows what they’d do. They’d take Sweetie behind some curtain and then start asking him all sorts of prying questions. They’d want to know who Sweetie’s mother was, the name of her pediatrician, the number of her insurance. And while one of them was getting to the bottom of all that, another of them would be placing a nine-one-one call.
Tony’s got mammalian diving reflex on his mind.
Last winter, there were articles about it in the paper. In children, he read, it’s especially well developed. The younger, the better. There are cases on record of kids falling through ice and lasting an hour or more. On kids, cold water seems to have a preservative effect.
Why shouldn’t it have curative powers as well? That’s nothing but simple logic. This lousy heat wave they’re in. It just seems to bring everyone down. Fans don’t help and Tony’s central air conditioning is on the blink. Water, he thinks. Cool, clear water. Ice water.
He’s experiencing divine inspiration. Yes, that’s exactly what it is.
“I won’t be gone long,” he says to Sweetie as he pockets his keys. “Daddy’s going to make everything OK.”
The pet shop is three-quarters of an hour away. Thank God it’s well-stocked. Thank God they take MasterCard and their verification machine is on the blink. He’d hate to have to use heavy force, although a man like him must be prepared for anything, and he is. Tony buys their biggest pump, their biggest filter, a fancy hood, 200 feet of clear plastic tubing, and their biggest tank, a 100-gallon job. The tank barely fits in the car. Tony has to move the front seats all the way forward to get it in.
It’s almost dark by the time he gets back. Sweetie’s where he left her, in front of a fan.
“Daddy won’t be long now, Sweetie,” he says.
Tony goes down cellar. He has a workshop down there. He has a second refrigerator. He moves a sturdy old dresser next to it. He puts the aquarium on the dresser and hooks up the filter and pump. With his half-inch Black and Decker, he drills a series of holes through the refrigerator walls. He threads several lengths of tubing through the holes and connects the ends to the pump to complete the circuit. He seals the holes with silicone adhesive
and gets a garden hose ready.
“That’s my Sweetie,” he says when he places her inside the tank. She fits easily.
Tony starts filling the tank. There’s only one problem.
Sweetie floats.
The water’s rising and she’s going up with it. That’ll never do. Sweetie has to be submerged. With his free hand, he holds her under. Her lips flutter and air bubbles escape her mouth. Tony lets go. Sweetie bobs to the surface. Boy, is this ever tough.
Tony shuts off the hose and ponders the situation. Soon, it dawns on him. Hammers. That’s what he needs, hammers to weigh her down. And he has hammers. Hammers galore! He gets his framing hammer and the next two heaviest. They do the trick. Sweetie’s underwater now. He fills the tank to the top and starts the pump. He checks for leaks. There are none. Yes, Tony’s always been handy. Tony was an Eagle Scout. Tony’s father was an automobile mechanic, the best there was.
“Such a beautiful baby,” he says as he looks into the tank. “Such a beautiful Sweetie. Daddy’s taking good care of you now. Nothing in the world to worry about now.”
That night, he takes his bed apart. He reassembles it next to Sweetie’s tank. He puts the overhead light on. It casts a purplish tint. Very flattering to Sweetie. The sound of the pump lulls Tony to sleep. For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t wake until well after dawn.
Sunday is such a pleasant day. Just relaxed and quiet and finally cool. For breakfast, he has his usual V-8 juice, oat bran, lecithin, and fourteen vitamin pills. He spends a couple of hours oiling his assault rifle and resharpening his survival knives. Then he takes Sweetie out, but she’s still not interested in a bottle. That’s OK. Whatever Sweetie wants, whenever she wants it.
On Monday, Tony’s up at six. The temperature inside Sweetie’s tank is thirty-eight degrees. Perfect. Sweetie’s doing just fine. Everything’s going to work out all right, after all. Tony is in a celebratory mood. It’s the Fourth of July and Daddy’s with his little girl. This calls for champagne. He buys a bottle when the store opens at eight. He chases each glass with a 1,000-mg. Vitamin C pill. By eleven, the bottle’s gone. He buys another.
Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction Vol. 2 Page 4
