The Baby Merchant

by Kit Reed

  When she doesn’t answer, Marilyn prods her. “Right?”

  In the delivery room they had to use forceps. That’s why the episiotomy is so long. Twenty-something stitches. Twenty-what? Don’t worry, they said. You’ll be fine. What did Marilyn just say?

  She repeats. “Right, Sasha?”

  Swaying, Sasha nods.

  “Yes you’d tell me or yes there is?— Oh, don’t drop her!”

  “Him!” Sasha hadn’t intended to name him because she was giving him away and that was for his real parents to do, but when they plopped him in her arms to her surprise she knew exactly who he was. He’s Jimmy Egan, like her absent dad. “Now if you’ll just.”

  “And nobody else is looking for you or anything. Is there?” Marilyn fixes on the baby, advancing with her iridescent coral mouth pursed in a kiss. “I keep a clean establishment here and …”

  “No.”

  “Like there’s something you did? Poor sweetheart, let me hold you, I’ll just …”

  “No!” Sasha turns, shielding Jim. Jim!

  “Oooh, he’s just so cute, I’m just saying, if you’re in trouble with the police …”

  Get this woman out before you collapse; one sign of weakness and she’ll pounce and devour you, she’ll use poor Jimmy’s bones like toothpicks to clean her big square teeth. The weight of Marilyn’s attention is oppressive. “No, no trouble with the police.”

  Thank God Delroy broke the office window just then and at the crash Marilyn inflated and went steaming out. Sasha shot the dead bolt when the screaming started. She drew the chain latch before fuming, red-faced engine of vengeance monster Marilyn morphed back into nice Marilyn and came back.

  Thank God the hospital sent her off with a starter set of Huggies and a six-pack of Enfamil, sterilized and ready to serve. Thank God new babies are pretty much flattened by the ride out of nowhere into the world. As soon as he eats, Jimmy drops into milk-sodden sleep and as long as he is sleeping, Sasha can sleep.

  My God. I have a baby.

  Days later she’s still in shock.

  One day you’re going along fine, spawning uphill, maybe, but basically OK in spite of the fatigue and the increasingly grotesque body, and the next, fate runs into you like a steamroller and mashes you flat. Maybe pioneer wives really did drop their babies and go right back to the bean rows, but this is not early America. Sasha Egan is fitter than any farmer’s wife, but as an organism, she’s a lot more complex. She’s never sick. Until today she had no idea what it was like to be physically weak. She isn’t sick now, but she sure as hell knows something has happened to her. Trauma, she supposes. Her body is pissed at what she just did to it. It’s all she can do to get across the room. Where she felt OK when she went to the hospital, Sasha is changed. It is an astonishment. A strong woman in her early twenties leveled by biology. For the first time in her life she is fragile.

  Weak.

  So fucking weak.

  Sure there are women who pick up Happy Meals and skinny-girl clothes at the mall enroute home from the hospital. They even come home triumphant and energized. They love to relive every gorgeous moment of the delivery and dads capture it on video so you can look upon them in admiration, and despair. Maybe they really do saute the placenta in wine with onions for a secret supper with the father, but Sasha is not that person. Yeugh! If she could just keep her hand steady she’d start sketching impressions of the ordeal. The lights. Masked faces hovering. She needs to prove she’s still who she was before they made the cut and inserted forceps to yank the baby out. She pulls out her oil stick and a pad, but she can’t work. Her concentration is shot. All she really wants to do is lie down and forget.

  She cries twice a day now, which is not like Sasha Egan. It isn’t like Sasha at all.

  Not the best time to be given this infinitesimal thing to take care of, seven pounds ten ounces of potential human, an open-ended, nonstop demand that nothing has prepared her to meet. If she doesn’t feed this baby, he’ll starve; if she can’t take proper care of him he’ll die. It’s so precarious: a thousand things waiting to go wrong. It’s terrifying. She needs to find a good family for Jimmy here because inexperienced as she is, even Sasha can tell at a glance that it will be years before he can take care of himself. When she and Beattie Calhoun’s obstetrician met in the delivery room she told him she was giving her baby away, so he suppressed the scowl and gave her the shot that dries you up. Mistake, maybe. It did the job just fine but in the middle of the night when Jimmy’s howling to be fed she wishes she could just haul one out and shove it in his face. It’s all she can do to cope with the business of bottles and formula: how can she keep him awake long enough to eat, is he supposed to empty the bottle or is this enough or what?

  Days later, she’s still a mess. Poor Jim here looks a lot more beat up than she does. Her baby has a dent in his temple from the forceps and he’s so tiny it’s a marvel he’s alive. It’s scary to see him bawling with his little hands flashing, my God you can see the brain pulsing through the top of his skull, the thing that makes him distinctively Jim is protected by a membrane so thin you could puncture it with a ballpoint pen. And this is where they want to drive in the chip. It’s so fragile! He’s too young! Mesmerized, she watches it pulse, is that healthy or not? Look how the belly pumps with that rapid breathing, is it OK, is he put together right, is he supposed to have that bony pigeon breast? Is it normal, all this passion and effort to stay alive? The flailing worries her, but what if it stops? He is hers to take care of. What if she messes up?

  Sasha wakes in the night and if she doesn’t hear Jim crying she heaves herself out of bed and shuffles over to check. Passes her hand in front of his face. Are you OK? Sometimes she holds up a mirror, is he still breathing, my God, what if he’s died? In time she learns that even asleep, an infant is noisy: grunting and snuffling, breathing in and out. He’s eating, she thinks she’s doing this part right but who’s to know? Can she mix formula and sterilize bottles in the microwave without poisoning him? Can he really, really breathe without her help? Is he sick, is this normal, is he OK? She’s never been in this deep; she’s never been this obligated to anybody in her life.

  Then she wakes in the night to profound silence. She jumps up. My God! When she turns on the light and looks into the crib her baby isn’t dead, he’s awake and lying quietly with his arms above his head and his legs curled like a puppy on its back. His fists clench inside the oversized nightie. For the first time, his eyes are open wide. As if fixed on the afterimage of a first thought.

  Oh my God! She looks into the small, squashed face, rocked by the slate black eyes that look out but take in nothing— Jimmy Egan, all there and linked to her by a process beyond her control that beggars the work of any artist.

  Oh my God, she thinks, poleaxed by discovery. I made a person.

  In the daytime, logistics obscure thought. Days are about worrying and feeding, running through the infant-sized Huggies she laid in without dreaming they would go so fast. What if she runs out before she’s steady enough to drive? This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where stores deliver. She can’t send Marilyn. She’ll do anything to keep the fat manager off her case. What will she do if she runs out, tear up sheets for diapers and wash them in the basin? Probably. Jimmy’s too little to be left alone and too little to take with. But what if she runs out? OK, sheets. She already scrubs the onesies and nightgowns because she didn’t buy enough. A woman with girlfriends, she supposes, would have told her how many and what kind. Normal women learn these things from their moms but hers is in Boulder, she thinks, unless it’s Tijuana, with another new man. Grandmother would know; Sasha would ask Grand if they were friends, but they were never friends. It’s why she’s here.

  If she had friends they’d tell her that with infants, everything is a stage: soon over, to be replaced by the next. Any woman who’s ever brought home a newborn knows that at the time, everything, especially the worst parts, seems endless. The news would cheer Sasha, but there’s n
obody here to tell her. She can’t imagine the future. When he’ll sleep through the night. How big he’ll get. Whether they will like each other. She is all weakness and worry, rubbed raw by exhaustion. Giving birth isn’t glorious, it’s a pit that she has to get strong enough to climb out of.

  Days blur.

  Jimmy’s crying. Again. Six times tonight so far, and she just changed him and fed him and burped him ten minutes ago, she did all the right things! Didn’t she? She was almost asleep. Then that little voice knifed in. Jerked awake, she yips as stitches tear. She goes to the crib and cups her hands over the howling baby’s heaving belly. “Don’t, Jimmy. Please don’t.” She wants to help him and she can’t. She doesn’t know how! She’s weak and confused; even her voice is faint, as though she can’t quite fill her lungs. Stupid and powerless, she can’t even take proper care of him! Hugging the sobbing baby, she rocks and he rocks with her. She says loud enough for Jimmy to hear, “It’s just you and me, kid, OK?”

  Oblivious, he wails.

  “You and me.” They are both crying now.

  It’s a good thing nobody knows where she is.

  20.

  In a hotel closer to the DelMar than Sasha would imagine in her bleakest moment, Gary Cargill gets out of the shower. Soaked, he squelches across the carpet and sits on a brocade chair. When he gets up he’ll see a nice wet print of his butt. This is exactly the kind of thing that tickles Gary. He is all body image, with the addition of a couple of small things that escape him right now. He spent a long time in the shower this morning, thinking. He stood under the spray so long that his fingers shriveled and the hard winter skin on his feet turned white to match. By the time he got out, the rims of his toes and the edges of his heels were all gross. Now he is busy scraping them off. Later he will use up some time trying to get his big toe in his mouth— stupid, but what else has he got to do? You bet he has been here too long.

  In fact, he hit Savannah shortly after Sasha did, but she doesn’t know that. If she did she would probably freak. The last few days have been an exercise in laying back. So what if he maxes out on his plastic? The payback is huge. Whatever it costs him to bring home Sasha Donovan’s baby, it’s an investment in his future. If he can’t make her marry him, he’ll move into the old lady’s garage apartment like she wants so she can play with her grandchild every day. The deal is, she’ll be beholden to him. Isn’t he bringing her grand-baby home? Of course the pact includes assurances on both sides: parochial schools, Villanova, all that. Sure, lady. He’ll even turn Catholic to cement the deal. Given what he gets back? Cheap at the price.

  Fixed, he thinks. Big house, company V.P. Fixed for life. Sweet. Above the hotel bills, which she’s reimbursing, all he’s spent so far is time. OK, given Gary’s record in college, where he’s been too long, his time isn’t worth much right now.

  With more empty hours than things to do, Gary is paying meticulous attention to his person. Who’s more important, after all? He lingers at the bathroom mirror, clipping his nose hairs and checking for zits; he double shaves. He is thinking of getting some depilatory cream for his back, where brown hairs sprout on the beginning love handles, if he loses the fuzz maybe they won’t stick out so much. Tweeze the eyebrows, back-comb your hair. Make nice for the girl you score tonight, who knows what will come his way? Although he came into Savannah not knowing a soul who could hook him up, Gary has had plenty of girls in this room, and not one of them a woman of questionable repute, Gary is too good looking to pay for that. Like, he’s doing them a favor, right? His days are empty but with women flocking the bar at cocktail hour like gnats around a bug zapper, his nights are somewhat fuller. In the right light, Gary is something of a babe magnet, so what’s with this Sasha bitch, blowing him off like the ugly kid at the prom?

  Was there something stuck in his teeth that he didn’t know about? The way she acted when he showed up in Florida you’d think he was there to hurt her, not help. Why did she fly apart before he could go, like, I come in peace, and why the fuck did she run away before he could get close enough to make her get in love with him?

  Son of a bitch, he thought she would be pleased.

  Gary Cargill is no stalker. He’s not your mortal enemy. God knows he came down south to do this woman a favor, like, if she wanted to get married, cool. Turn dum de dum, turn da da dum. Or he could take the baby and split, it was a good deal for her either way. What’s her problem? He may not be Mr. Right but no way is he Mr. Wrong. Plays Well With Others, it said on his report cards, although his grades sucked; frankly, he got into college because he can throw the ball around. That plus a great deal of personal charm, which he is pretty much the master of. In classes at UMass, Boston, he smiles his way through discussions on obscure points and his grades float up to passing. People like him. He gets extra help on his papers by boffing the smartest girl in whichever class, and you know what? These girls know it’s transactional, but they like it. Gary Cargill is no villain, he’s just a dumb college fuck. In spite of what Sasha thinks, he is in no way dangerous. It isn’t even her that he wants, he barely remembers the girl he had B+ sex with during Spring Fling.

  He just wants to make this work.

  His reasons are partly practical but it’s ego too. Gary is like a flower and Sasha stomped on him. He is not used to rejection. He started with his Amazing Free Offer— marriage, the whole nine yards— and she scraped him off like pond scum. You’d think he was some crater-face asshole with a humongous hard drive and not the cool, popular person that he is. Great at parties, invited to all the bashes at MassArt. In high school he was football captain and homecoming king both, which is a measure. Girls thought he was a hunk and OK, he does have some hunklike qualities, even Gary would admit it, and Gary is also modest. Even though he’s going soft from weeks in a town where it’s swampy and too hot out to run, the cute flight attendants and girl brokers who flow in and out of the hotel bar take to him on sight. The only nights Gary sleeps alone are when he decides he needs the rest.

  So where does this Sasha get off? Hell, why waste time getting on her good side when all the grandmother wants is the kid? Better, he thinks, to walk into this arrangement unencumbered. Frankly, he’s guessing old Mrs. Donovan would never sit still for a divorce so best he stays single until he meets Mrs. Right.

  Yes. Score the kid, and fuck Sasha. He has his rights. After all, he is the father here.

  He just found out it’s a boy.

  He knows it’s a boy and he knows which day it went home from the hospital, but he doesn’t know if she’s named it yet. Never mind, he has a good name scheduled: Donovan Cargill, Donnie for short. Satisfying both constituencies, about which more later. Names, yet. He really has been in Savannah too long, bored much?

  He even bought shoes for it, shitkickers, size zero. Cute. He tied the tiny shoelaces together and hung them on the mirror over his dresser, which also contains the antique Burger King Lord of the Rings action figure set, minus one, which he obtained on eBay and had FedExed to the hotel. Last week he had everything but the Gimli and the Strider. A lucky coup and now the Gimli is on its way. He swipes his card and checks the Web twice a day because he’s still missing the Strider. Too much time on his hands here? Looks like it. Not that he had a choice.

  When the Donovan detective’s phone call brought him here, his first instinct was to rush in and grab this Sarah Donovan a.k.a. Egan and drag her back to Philadelphia, but Gary is too smart for that. Only a tard would pounce on a pregnant broad before the baby came. Look at their history. Try and she’d have taken off, baby on board.

  He is a pageant of waiting.

  Listen, he has reasons.

  One. Divide and conquer. Although it seemed like forever he had to wait until the girl and the baby were not one unit but two. Why kill yourself trying to jam a big old Jiffy Bag into your pocket when the diamond ring inside it is what you really want?

  Besides, once the present gets separated from the package, eventually you will find the contents a
lone in a room. Like, the container has wandered off or turned its back or some goddamn thing and you can sneak in and score. But he can’t count on that happening yet. As Gary understands it, new babies latch on to the mom and suck twenty-four/seven, so she won’t be putting it down just yet. Never mind. He has friends at the DelMar. Over time he’s scoped the motel and built character with the fat manager, so what if he had to degrade himself and flirt with her a little bit?

  Plus he had to establish his cover, in case. So it won’t look weird the next time he goes around. This is how smart Gary is. The fat lady thinks he’s scouting her motel as a vacation spot for his big old company retreat. Fuck, do I look like an actuarial? Plus he’s in tight with that pissy brat of hers, smarmy kid eats his supper alone in the diner every night, buy him dessert and let him bitch about his mom a little and he’s all yours.

  When Sasha a.k.a Sarah puts this baby down, Gary will be the first to know. It’s worth the fifty he promised the kid.

  Reason number three for holding off? Timing. He has an instinct about this. If he goes in too soon, she’ll go all 911 on him. Wait long enough and she’ll be over the mom thing and let go without a fight. Wait long enough and, she’ll go please, Mister, please, take it, anything to get it off her back. Every time Gary cruises the DelMar the kid is crying. He can hear it scream. Even filtered through the Thermopane it’s enough to drive you nuts. Two weeks around one of those and any normal person would freak. So Gary’s cool. Let his one night stand do the heavy lifting. When their baby’s ripe, he’ll step in and grab it, nine’ll get you ten she won’t call the cops. Shit, she’ll probably thank him for it. Wasn’t that why she came down here, to lose the damn thing?