From Here To Maternity

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  As if that weren’t enough of a wake-up call, there’d been the episode in Bloomie’s just now. It had taken him and three knowledgable women to get Tucker and all his movable parts into this snowsuit getup. How the hell was he supposed to get him out of it by himself? The mere thought made Grant break out in a sweat. Tucker had eyed him as if Grant would drop him…and with good reason, Grant admitted.

  Laura, as inept as she may be, at least had brothers and sisters. She knew what it was like to have munchkins around. But not Grant. Everything had always been done for him by nannies and nurses and butlers and maids. Grant frowned, wondering if maybe he should hire a nanny. No. Hadn’t he just said he wanted to be involved? Well, here was his chance. He could be involved right up to his elbows. With this little boy. Wasn’t that what he’d decided only moments ago? May as well start proving it, then. To Tucker. To Laura. And especially to himself.

  With that decision, Grant leaned forward enough to tap the cabbie on the shoulder and get his attention. “I’ve changed my mind. Turn around.” He gave his own address to the man.

  IN LAURA’S LIVING ROOM, her mother leaned her ample bulk forward on the blue-checked slipcovered chair. “You’re telling me that just like that—” Vivian made a snapping noise with her long red-lacquered fingernails “—you have a baby?”

  “Yes.” Sitting on the sofa, her jeans-clad legs drawn up on the cushions, Laura fiddled with her socks and felt like she was ten years old again as she avoided direct eye contact with her mother. “Well, not actually yes. It’s more like no. But only sort of. I guess.”

  Then, feeling nothing like Madison Avenue’s high-powered, goal-oriented wunderkind—but forgiving herself with the thought that who did live up to the public’s view of them when faced with their mother’s questioning scrutiny—Laura finally looked up. And saw Vivian pushing her frizzy, black hair from her heavily rouged face. “Which is it, honey? Do you or don’t you have a baby? I need to know so I can worry.”

  “Okay, I do. But it’s not mine, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “I don’t need to worry? Talk to me about Frederick, your brother.”

  Laura couldn’t believe this. “We were just kids. That was years ago.”

  “Oh? Then why’s he still afraid of clothes dryers? The man is in his twenties and can’t walk through the major appliances center in department stores. I should’ve grounded you for that until you were thirty-five.”

  Laura tried not to laugh, but didn’t succeed. “I was just trying to dry his clothes.”

  “With him still in them, for God’s sake?”

  “Well, we didn’t want to get into trouble for going down to that creek.”

  “Where you almost drowned him.”

  “So how did I know the sink-or-swim method doesn’t always have a happy ending? Come on, Mother, I told you—I was a kid.”

  “A kid? Can we talk about Esther and the elevator five years ago? When you left her in there? I should’ve whipped your behind for that one, grown woman or no. But thank God she came out okay. And Cindy—that dog you stuck her on, telling her it was a pony? She had to have shots. Remember that?”

  Laura stared at her mother and thought of everything she’d just said. “Maybe you’re right. But still, with this baby, it’s not what you think, Mother.”

  Vivian cocked her head and raised her dramatically darkened eyebrows. “Don’t tell me what I think. I’m the one who’s psychic. Not you.”

  Laura rolled her eyes. “All right, Mother, if you’re so psychic, then you tell me what’s going on here.”

  Accepting the challenge, Vivian closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Almost immediately she straightened, opened her eyes and flopped her bejeweled fingers onto her flower-skirted lap. “It’s no use. I can’t. First Irving’s fussing with me. And now all that snow outside. Too much static in my head. Like the snow on TV. It interferes with the mind’s pathways.”

  Begrudgingly impressed, Laura stared at her mother. Even from that far out on a limb, the woman had come back. Vivian was good. Very good. But not that good…“Tell me I’m adopted,” Laura begged.

  Vivian pursed her orange-lipsticked mouth. “I’d like to, but you know good and well I’m your biological mother. And I have the scars—emotional and physical—to prove it. So tell me, Miss Smarty-pants—and I’m almost afraid to ask here—where is this baby?”

  Laura’s heart tugged. She’d give anything to know where Tucker was. And where Grant was. The two of them. Together. But still, this was an opening, one Laura couldn’t resist. She grinned evilly and looked at her watch. “Hey, he should be back about now. I sent him out to the grocery for more—”

  Vivian’s fearful squawk was coupled with the intercom’s buzzing and Laura’s leaping off the sofa, right over its upholstered back. “Maybe that’s him,” she yelled, to tease her mother.

  But in her heart she knew it had to be Grant. No one else would be out on a day like this. Indeed, no one she knew had any reason to drop by. Scrambling in a socksliding tear across the hardwood floors, her heart hammering and hopeful, she skittered across the room, throwing her words over her shoulder. “I’m just kidding, Mother. Maybe it’s Gra—” Oops. She hadn’t mentioned Grant yet. She slid, shoulder first, to a stop by the doors and pushed the button. “Yes?” But she missed the answer because…

  Right at her elbow, her mother said, “A baby that can go to the grocery and push an intercom button? That’s a big baby. I gotta see this kid.”

  Laura made a pleading face at Vivian. “Mother, please. I missed who—” The intercom buzzed again. Laura turned to the machine, pushed the button again and said, “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Sloan?” a friendly-sounding female voice asked.

  Laura’s heart sank. Obviously, it wasn’t Grant But Mrs. Sloan? Who would think I’m married—dear God, the authorities. Her insides froze. She met but didn’t answer her mother’s questioning expression. “Yes?” Laura ventured into the speaker.

  “Mrs. Sloan, my name is Linda Gibson. I’m with Child Protective Services. I’m here about Baby Doe.”

  That was all she said, but it was enough to melt Laura’s bones. She wanted to sink to the floor and die. Oh, sure, now they get it straight. Now they realize I have the baby. Sort of. Yeah, now, when her mother was here. And now, when she had no idea where Baby Doe was. Can you say go straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars?

  “Laura?” her mother whispered, pinching her arm and eliciting a squeal of pain from her. “Say something to the nice lady. It’s freezing outside.”

  Laura snapped to the moment and nodded at Vivian. Then, speaking into the intercom, she said, “Um, hold on. I’ll buzz you up.” Then she grabbed her mother by both arms and squeezed hard. “Oh, my God, think, Mother. What can I tell them? I don’t have any idea where the baby is. We’ll have to lie.”

  “Laura Elizabeth Sloan, what have I told you about lying?”

  Even rattled, Laura could spout her mother’s pearls of wisdom. “Make the lie short, because not only is the truth stranger than fiction, it’s also shorter. And keep a straight face when you’re telling it.”

  “Good girl,” Vivian said, patting her. “Now where is the baby?”

  “Grant took him.”

  A wordless moment passed, then Vivian exploded. “I knew I heard you say Grant when I called you. Grant Maguire? It is him, isn’t it?” Her mother’s bright-eyed wonderment and hopeful grin unnerved Laura. “And there really is a baby?”

  “Yes. And yes. I’ll explain later. But not now, Mother. I may be going to jail here any minute—”

  Vivian’s expression fell. “Jail? What have you done, Laura? Who’s Baby Doe, anyway?”

  “We don’t know, Mother. That’s why they call him Baby Doe. But I call him Tucker.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “Because when I found him,” Laura heard herself idiotically explaining to Vivian, “he had on a sleeper with a Tucker the Bear logo on the front
. And that’s the company Grant—” Laura clapped a hand over her mouth, stared at her mother, then grabbed her again. “Mother, it doesn’t matter why. The important thing here is I don’t know where the baby is. Do you hear me? I. Do. Not. Know. Where. The. Baby. Is. And the nice lady coming up right now isn’t going to be happy to hear that.”

  She stared into Vivian’s widening eyes and waited for realization to sink in. When it did, when her mother’s lipsticked mouth dropped open, Laura nodded. “Exactly. Help me, Mother. Or I’m going to jail.”

  Before Vivian could respond, the doorbell rang. Laura stared into her mother’s eyes. The baby wasn’t here. Grant wasn’t here. But the moment of truth was. And it called for a big, fat, whopping lie.

  6

  “WE GAVE HIM BACK to his real mother.”

  We what? Laura could only stare at her straight-faced mother and will her heart to quit spasming as she closed the door behind Ms. Gibson.

  Linda Gibson, an attractive African-American woman of about thirty-five, stopped dead in the act of unwrapping herself from her winter coat, having pretty much the same reaction as Laura. “You what?”

  “We gave him back,” Vivian repeated, still straight-faced.

  “You gave the baby back to his real mother?” Ms. Gibson repeated, frowning in a way that didn’t bode well for Laura. She cut her gaze to Laura, who managed a tight smile that didn’t show any teeth. “How’d you know it was his real mother?”

  Laura blinked at Ms. Gibson and turned to her accomplished liar of a mother. “You heard the lady. She asked you how we knew it was his real mother.”

  Vivian shot her a go-along-with-me glare and smoothed her features. “Don’t you remember, honey? She—she had his birth certificate.”

  “His birth certificate?” Ms. Gibson repeated, her voice flat. “It could have been any baby’s birth certificate. Or a forged document. But besides that, the only thing it proves is she has a birth certificate for a baby. Not necessarily for that baby, Mrs.—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Smith,” Vivian smoothly replied. Laura stared at her mother, Mrs. Irving Pendergast. Smith?

  “Mrs. Smith,” Ms. Gibson repeated. Her disbelief was obvious in her raised eyebrow, the grim set of her mouth. “I’m afraid we have a very big problem here. A big legal problem. With your names on it. That baby was entrusted to you by the state—”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Laura interrupted, fearing to let Ms. Gibson go any further with this but more afraid that Vivian Smith would murky the waters. “I took him to the police the minute I found him, and they took my name and address. Which is how you knew to come here. And they told me to take him home—”

  “They what?” Finally! Ms. Gibson seemed to realize somebody else had screwed up.

  “Well, in so many words,” Laura continued. “At any rate, they didn’t take him from me. I’m not sure they even knew I had him with me. But anyway, I brought him home. And the policeman at the desk said I’d be contacted. And I was—an officer came by this morning. But again with the story wrong. So, the way I see it, I have complied with the law, I’ve done everything I was told. And I’ve simply waited. Again, as directed.” Laura coupled her words with a direct stare.

  The next one who spoke…lost.

  Ms. Gibson seemed to understand that. She stared back, her gaze shifting from Laura to Mrs. Smith and back to Laura. She slumped. “All right. You’re right. I just got the case myself, and I have to admit, the paperwork was a mess. So, I say we just go forward from here, okay?”

  Laura exhaled, weak with relief. “Whew. Okay. Good. I’m glad you’re so reasonable.”

  Ms. Gibson smiled and nodded at Laura. “I’m that, if nothing else. So, from everything you just said, I gather you didn’t really give the baby away to a stranger claiming to be his mother. Is that right?”

  Finally. A chance to tell the truth. Without looking at and thereby further implicating her mother, Laura said, “Yes.”

  “Good.” It was Ms. Gibson’s turn to exhale in relief as she looked around the open loft. “So where is Baby Doe—really?”

  “I don’t know,” Laura confessed, drawing the caseworker’s instant scrutiny. She quickly added, “It’s not like it sounds. I may not know where he is, but I do know with whom he is.” Laura frowned. With whom? Is that right? “Or who has him. Anyway, he’s not a stranger. And the baby is fine.” I hope, Laura added, mentally crossing her fingers as she thought of Grant’s total lack of experience with kids.

  “I certainly hope so,” Ms. Gibson echoed. “So, who’s he with? And why?”

  The why of it Laura didn’t really want to get into. And then it hit her, as the wordless seconds stretched out, the name she was going to have to give. Ms. Gibson would think she was lying. Again. She may as well say King Arthur, for all she was going to be believed. Grant Maguire? Yeah, right. Ha, ha. Laura could hear her now, could envision this nice lady dialing the police. But what else could Laura do? She swallowed and said, “Grant—”

  “Smith,” Vivian broke in. “Grant Smith.”

  Along with Laura, Ms. Gibson eyed Vivian, looking her up and down. Laura cringed inside. She was used to her mother’s affected and outlandish appearance, but most people who resided in the sane world weren’t. Sure enough, the caseworker’s eyebrows rose. “Grant Smith, huh? A relative, I presume?”

  “Yes,” Vivian said.

  At the same time Laura said, “No.”

  Ms. Gibson eyed them both and finished unbuttoning her coat as she turned to Laura. “I don’t know what’s going on here. But we’ve got to get to the bottom of it. So put some water in the kettle. We’re going to need some strong, hot tea. And a nice, long truthful chat. Because—Well, let me tell you what I’m doing out on a bitter day like today when all my colleagues have been sent home. You see, I have Baby Doe’s real mother waiting at the precinct for her son to be returned to her. And I’m not leaving here without him.”

  WHO KNEW babies had this many moving parts, Grant wondered, as Tucker fussed at him while he tried to disentangle the boy from the snowsuit. “You know,” Grant informed the baby, “this would be a lot easier if you’d quit—See? That’s what I’m talking about Quit trying to roll over, okay? This damn—excuse me—darned thing has as many zippers and snaps as a sleeping bag. It’s bad enough you had to eat in it. And you’re not helping any—”

  “Da-da,” Tucker howled. “Da-da, da-da, da-da!” As if that were a call to action, he neatly flipped over and broke a few land speed records as he scooted away, his half-off, half-deconstructed and dangling snowsuit following him like a snake’s partially shed skin. Grant never stood a chance of grabbing him. Tucker was already rounding a table.

  “Ah, damm—doggone it.” Grant chuckled as he sprawled on the thickly carpeted floor of his upper Manhattan apartment. He rested his hands on his thighs and watched as Tucker stopped and peered at him over his shoulder. “I’m not going to chase you. Not this time,” Grant assured the baby, knowing he already had four other times, which had pretty much elevated this activity to the status of a game.

  Tucker took a moment to digest this, or to assess Grant’s seriousness—who knew with babies?—and rolled to a sitting position, his chubby little legs out in front of him, his snowsuit twisted and dangling from his ankles. He pointed to Grant. “Da-da.”

  “Nice try.” Grant folded his arms over his chest. He wasn’t buying the da-da bit this time. Not with baby cereal dripping from his lacquered kitchen cabinets. Not with formula cans and plastic bottles and rubber nipples littering the counters and the floor. And not with a snowsuit confounding the life out of him. “Can’t you say anything else besides da-da?”

  As if he understood Grant’s words and the concept of a joke, Tucker grinned. “Mama.”

  “Thanks.” Grant’s heart tugged, as he reached for and rolled a hard-rubber ball to Tucker. Laura. He’d give anything to see her right now. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t called her, why he hadn’t let her k
now he…well, the baby anyway…was fine. After all, here it was late afternoon. And a blizzard was raging outside. She had to be concerned. It wasn’t from stubbornness that he hadn’t contacted her, Grant defended himself. He just hadn’t had a chance since he got home a couple hours ago. Grant watched Tucker pick up the ball and—what else?—try to put it in his mouth.

  Scrambling on all fours and crawling toward the baby, before he swallowed it, Grant wondered how in the world single parents managed. This was insane. When did they eat? Sleep? Read? Go to the bathroom? Or did they just lock themselves in the bathroom and do all those things there? Grant eased the red ball from the baby’s mouth and held onto him as he pulled the snowsuit free of his legs. Both booties went with it. “Great.”

  Grant fished them out of the snowsuit legs, tugged them onto the fat little feet of the suddenly still and cooperative, seriously intent and red-faced Tucker. “There. At last, my man—freedom!” And then he smelled it. Grant’s expression, along with his mood, crumpled. He sat on his haunches, completely disenchanted, and stared at the relieved-looking blue-eyed baby. “Ah, come on, man. Not again. Not the toxic diaper. How do you make so much—”

  The intercom buzzed insistently and persistently. Frowning, Grant looked at the baby and shrugged. Tucker raised an eyebrow. “You expecting anybody?” Grant asked him.

  “Mama,” Tucker said, his blue eyes bright, his candycane-sweet little voice all but breathless.

  “Yeah, right Don’t we wish.” Grant picked Tucker up, holding him in front of him as he headed for the door. Once there, he tucked the baby under his arm like he would a football, like he’d seen Laura do, and pushed the button. “Yes, Mr. Dunkel?”