Low Country Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  Vaguely. I remember a girl from the South Carolina Aquarium. I can’t recall the details except she was way more interested in oyster farming and bivalve procreation than any girl I ever met. I found it a little intimidating. I remember she was a slightly suffocating. She wanted to come out on the boats with us to work, asking detailed questions about every single little thing we did. After a week or two I thought she was prepping to set herself up as competition. When she started talking about forming a research partnership and writing a book about farm-raised oysters, I couldn’t get away fast enough.

  “Don’t tell the social services people about any of that,” I urge Stu. “The girl was going for her Ph.D. in Marine Biology. She was headed to Seattle. If it was her, she doesn’t need the drama. She’s been through enough.”

  Stu nods. “Mum’s the word.”

  My mother sees him and brightens, waving him into the kitchen.

  “I need your help,” she says. “Can you run to Wal-Mart and pick up some diapers, a dozen onesies and bath cloths, some formula and bottles, and baby food? The kind that comes in pouches?”

  Stu nods without skipping. “What formula do you want?” he asks. “Similac, Enfamil, or Gerber?”

  Mama shrugs. “Get Enfamil and Similac and we’ll see what she takes. And some applesauce too. Make a list.”

  When did my best friend become an authority on baby requirements?

  “And bananas,” Mama adds as Stu hastily scrawls a list on a spare shred of paper towel.

  “Ma’am, you don’t need to do all that,” the lady from child protective services says. “We’ll get her placed tonight with a temporary foster family who’ll have everything in place, ready to….”

  “Oh, no,” my mother says. “No. She’s staying right here.”

  “But ma’am, this child…”

  “This child is a Ballentine until you can prove otherwise,” Mama says, standing up straight, lifting the fidgeting infant to her shoulder. “And until you do that – and I don’t believe you will – she’s going to stay with her family. With her grandmother. With her father. They have the same birthmark. You see that,” she says, showing the lady the little Virginia tattoo. “She’s ours. You can order a blood test or whatever you do, but I already know she’s ours. She’s safe here and she’s wanted. So, you fill out any paperwork you need to fill out, but she’s not going anywhere.”

  “Ma’am…”

  “Now don’t you fight me on this because I will have my way. I’ll call our attorney in Charleston. My cousin, Clinton Carter, he’s a superior court judge. I’ll call in the entire military command of Paris Island because I’m related to most of them. You are not taking this child off this property. Do you understand me?”

  I’ve seen my mother dig in before. I’ve seen her put her foot down. But in all my life I have never seen her invoke the name of Clinton Carter. He’s her second cousin and as legendary a shit bird of corrupt South Carolina politics as ever graced the Capitol. Mom and Clinton haven’t spoken in years. If Mama is willing to call in the detestable, deplorable, shunned branch of the Carter line to help her, I know things are serious.

  For the first time since this surreal event began, I step into the room to weigh in.

  “I’m pretty sure the child is mine,” I say. I don’t quite believe it, even as the words leave my mouth. “But either way, we’re prepared to take care of her until a paternity test can prove it or disprove it. She’s here already. Let’s keep the disruption in her life to a minimum.”

  The woman – her name is Angelica – looks me over carefully. “Do you know this child’s mother?” she asks.

  I know what she has in mind, and I’m not going to go there. “Not really,” I say. “She could be one of … a few. I was reckless a couple years back; it’s a blur of girls and alcohol. It was a bad time in my life. That’s ancient history now, and I’m willing to take responsibility for my mistakes. Emma shouldn’t have to suffer for them.”

  My mother looks up at me like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Stu smirks. They both know that story isn’t exactly true. I was never that kind of guy.

  “What more can we do tonight?” I ask. “You know what would be a great help? It would be a huge help if you could find us a nanny. Mom works 35 hours a week managing the events schedule at Blanc-Bleu, and I’m on the water all day. We could use a day-time babysitter.”

  Angelica give me an incredulous stare.

  “Alright, we’ll get our own,” I say, smiling. “So, I guess there’s really not much you can do for us. Let me know when you need us to come in for that blood test. Can I walk you out?”

  Mom and Stu just stare on slack jawed as I corral the Beaufort County Child Protective Services liaison, along with a deputy Sheriff, out the front door.

  When they’re gone, Mama looks at me with an expression of bursting approval.

  “You handled that,” she says. “Well done.” Then she turns to Stu. “Get on over to the Wal-Mart. This child is gonna be hungry soon and need a bath and a changing.”

  Stu grips his keys in his hand. “I’ll be back in an hour. Do you want me to call Mom to come help?”

  Mama shakes her head. “No, we’re good. Just hurry.”

  When Stu is gone I look at the child nestled on her shoulder, and then at my mother.

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  She nods. “I’m sure,” she says. “You will be too, soon enough.”

  I have to admit, there’s something in the shape of her eyes and the build of her jawline that looks familiar.

  “How does Stu know what to do?” I ask. “Why did you call him?”

  Mama smiles. “Honey, Stu is the oldest of seven children. He raised his six siblings while his mother and father worked full-time. Don’t you remember? You always complained he could never go anywhere or do anything without one of his brothers or sisters tagging along. Stu’s sat in a rocker with a bottle and a baby more than most women I know.”

  I forgot. Stu was inundated with babies and little kids, and he was in charge of them all. His father worked the farm (leased, on our property), trying to scrape together a living. His mother worked the line on the docks cleaning and packing shrimp, right up until the shrimp harvest collapsed. After that she was out of work. She took jobs cleaning houses and other odd jobs to make ends meet.

  There were so many kids.

  One of Stu’s sisters in an OBGYN in Charleston, now. Another is a college professor in Richmond. There’s another who’s an officer in the Navy, and one who (I think) is studying in North Carolina for his law degree. The youngest ones are still in school. He talks about them occasionally. I can’t keep up with all of them.

  Once more I’m reminded I’m a selfish creature whose priorities have always been skewed. Stu probably spent all his resources helping his younger siblings make something of themselves. He never got a chance to go to college or aspire to much more than being a farmer. He sacrificed so his brothers and sisters could get out of this salt-soaked, dead end town.

  And yet, he seems perfectly contented with the choices he made.

  Hours later, long after dark, long after Stu has come and gone, leaving boxes of supplies for us, I peer down into the sleeping face of a child who – by all accounts – is probably mine.

  I found the crib Mom used for me when I was a baby, packed away in the attic. She rolled up countless towels, packing the edges between the mattress and siderails so Emma doesn’t slip between them.

  Emma is face down, arms splayed, stocking covered feet with toes pointing in at one another, snoozing like a kitten. Mama and Stu agreed that she’s about nine months old, which means in a month or two she’ll start trying to walk, toddling around, tripping and falling and crying.

  I can’t wait to see her stand up on her own two feet, showing the world what she’s made of.

  She opened her eyes for me for a little while tonight, and Mom was right, her eyes are just like mine; the color of shallow salt marsh water. S
he reached out and grabbed my finger, pulling it toward her mouth. She sucked on my index finger, smiling in her eyes while she did it, never breaking eye contact with me until she decided to drift off into baby sleep land.

  Right now, she’s peaceful. Mom says she’ll stay that way until she wakes up hungry with a dirty diaper.

  My world has just gone sideways. Suddenly the sex lives of bivalves are a lot less interesting than the diaper dramas of accidental human offspring. If this baby girl turns out to really be mine, I’m in for a change of lifestyle, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.

  Chapter 7

  Maddie

  That’s just about the funniest story I’ve heard all week,” an older guy, sitting at the bar says with a satisfied smirk. “That’ll bring him down a notch or two.”

  He’s talking with my bar-back, a guy named Jim, about the biggest scandal to hit Beaufort since the 2006 High School Homecoming Queen married her girlfriend on the waterfront, in front of god and everybody.

  That scandal has taken a back seat to the breaking news that somebody left a baby on Jeb Ballentine’s door step, and he’s the baby’s father.

  There was even a story in the local newspaper about it, with lots of wild claims from “unnamed sources, close to the matter,” saying the baby was nearly sunstroked, dying from dehydration, half-dead when they found her. Stuart and Ally told me that none of that is true.

  True, she wouldn’t have fared well out in the sun for another hour or two, but as it is, she’s just fine and right at home with Jeb and his mother.

  “The Ballentine’s always did walk around here with their noses in the air, like they own the whole Low Country. Jeb’s no different, just quieter about it,” the old guy says. “I guess he should’a kept it zipped up. Maybe the girls around here’ll think twice about throwing themselves at him now.”

  “I heard he doesn’t even know who the mama is,” Jim says. “I heard he told the police it could be one of forty or fifty girls he was with about that time.”

  The old man nods, scowling. “He always did get around.”

  And I know that’s not true either, from what Stu said. Jeb’s only had a couple of girlfriends since he started his business, and this was one of them. But people will be people, and they love a good bit of gossip.

  Now, why she would give her baby up—that’s a whole other question that I perfectly well don’t have time for.

  “Hey Jim,” I call from the other end of the bar. “I could use some ice up here. And when you’re done with that, can you bring me a few racks of glassware from the back? I’m going to stock up for tonight so Ronny doesn’t have to.”

  I’m generally not one to order anyone around, but I’m sick of hearing Jim talk shit about Jeb Ballentine. As Jim makes his excuses to the old guy, I lay the man’s check down in front of him and his half-drained beer.

  Ordinarily, I’m nice to all my customers. And ordinarily, I’m not working the bar at lunchtime on a Monday. Ronny had to go to the dentist, so I’m covering.

  “I’m new in town, and haven’t been working here long,” I say to the guy, un-solicited. “I’ve been here long enough to get to know some of our regulars pretty well, and I’ve never seen you here before. Should I know you?”

  The old fart grins at me. I guess he thinks I’m hitting on him.

  “I’m in from time to time,” he says, laying a ten on the counter to cover a nine-dollar and thirty-cent tab. “I just come in occasionally to catch up on the fish tales. The folks at Flo’s always have the latest news.”

  I nod. “Good to know,” I say. “And just for future reference, next time you’re in the neighborhood, you should probably order take-out. That stool you’re sitting on is reserved for regulars who don’t talk shit about the owner’s friends. You’re lucky I was covering for Ronny today. If he’d heard you and Jim going on like that about Jeb Ballentine, he’d have kicked your ass out into the parking lot and fired Jim on the spot.”

  The guy glares at me hard. He opens his mouth to speak, but just then I see Jeb walk in the door. I smile. “Speak of the devil,” I say, gazing past the old bastard sitting on Jeb’s stool.

  He turns. When he sees Jeb, his face flushes cherry red. As quick as his fat ankles can carry him, he beats a hasty retreat the long way around so he doesn’t have to pass Jeb.

  I clear the guy’s half-used beer and wipe down the counter as Jeb takes up the stool in front of me, looking stressed out. He’s got circles under his eyes and a furrow between his brows. He looks like he hasn’t slept.

  I try to push down a smirk. I know that look all too well. It wasn’t like Joe was around when I was up all night nursing Justin. That baby is wearing Jeb Ballentine ragged.

  I put a coaster down and wait, looking him over.

  “Rough night?” I ask.

  “Maker’s Mark,” he says. “Neat.”

  That’s out of character. Jeb Ballentine is a beer drinker, consistently.

  I pour, and then linger, hovering, watching him slug rather than sip. There’s no one else in the bar, and the lunch crowd has almost completely cleared out of the restaurant. I’m just here to make sure the staff don’t start sneaking bottles out the back in Ronny’s absence.

  “Instant parenthood challenges?” I ask, prying where I probably shouldn’t while refilling his glass. But he looks like he wants to talk. I know that feeling well.

  Jeb nods. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he says.

  “Oh, I’d believe it,” I assure him. “I’ve got one of my own, remember? I’ve raised him almost single-handedly since the day he popped into my life.”

  “Yeah,” Jeb says. “I guess that’s right. It’s just it’s just so damn sudden. I can’t quite get my head wrapped around it. One day I’m minding my own business, the next day – bam – I’m responsible for a nine-month-old baby who didn’t come with instructions.”

  “Are you responsible?” I ask, prying further. “A lot of rumors are floating around. I heard you might not be the father.”

  Jeb hauls in a deep sigh, shaking his head. “The blood tests haven’t come back yet, so it’s not official, but she’s mine.” The way he says that last word hits me like a knife in the heart. He looks up at me, dark circles under his eyes. “The people spreading the rumors can kiss my ass. That stuff in the paper was complete bullshit. I don’t know why they print it.”

  “Sells papers,” I observe dryly. “Every little town needs a scandal of the day. This too shall pass.”

  Jeb slugs another hit of whiskey, already looking bleary.

  “You might want to slow it down,” I advise. “You drove in. I want you to drive out safely.”

  He gives me a halfhearted grin. “Stu’s meeting me here. He’s driving us to Hilton Head to look at a boat I’m thinking about buying. So, while I appreciate your concern for my well-being, keep ‘em coming. It’s the first time I’ve let my hair down in a week.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, topping him off.

  He lifts his glass to me. “Did you know you wanted kids? I mean, did you plan for it? Or what? Me, I never wanted kids. I just don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

  “You know,” I say, only half-teasing, “if you really feel that way, there are plenty of people lining up to adopt healthy babies. That would solve your problem.”

  He huffs at the thought of it. “No,” he says flatly. “I’ve never walked away from my responsibilities, and I ain’t starting now. I’m not about to be the guy who abandons an abandoned child.” He sighs deeply. “I’m just pretty sure I’m going to suck as a parent.”

  “You’ll do fine,” I try to reassure him, making a pretense of rearranging the glasses on the side of the bar. “No one’s prepared for it. Me? I didn’t plan for it. Just happened by accident, but Justin is the best accident I ever had. He’s the best thing in my life.”

  Jeb narrows his eyes at me. “How’d you manage it? When he was little? ‘Cause that’s what’s killing me. I never slept very well anyw
ay, but now I don’t sleep at all. Mama keeps Emma while she’s at work all day, but that’s already getting old. And I’m up all night. The kid doesn’t sleep.”

  “She’s not sleeping because she’s in a new place,” I say. “Give her a couple weeks. She’ll settle down.”

  “God, I hope so. That’s what Mama said, too.”

  “You should get her in daycare,” I say, trying to be helpful. “If you can afford it. It keeps them active during the day so they’re ready to crash when they get home.”

  Jeb scowls. “No kid of mine is going to daycare,” he states, his tone loaded with judgement. “Ballantine’s are raised at Blanc-Bleu, with fresh air and plenty of space and sunshine, not some disease-infested kid holding pen.”

  I smile, amused with his judgments. It’s nice that he was able to be raised right where he was. Some people don’t have it nearly so lucky. “You have some pretty strong opinions on child-rearing for a guy who says he never wanted children.”

  “I need … someone. Someone who can stay with the baby,” he says with another defeated sigh. “Just somebody to take the pressure off during the day so Mama can help at night. I’ve put ads in the paper, but I can’t find anybody that suits me. If they don’t suit me, they won’t pass muster with my mother.”

  He knocks back his glass, draining it, putting it down with a thump. “If I drink any more, I’ll buy that damn boat for the asking price without even trying to dicker.”

  “Wouldn’t want that,” I say absently. The words ‘fresh air and plenty of space and sunshine’ stick in my ears.

  “Guess not,” he says, looking toward the door. There’s a nervousness to him now that I hadn’t seen before—like he might do something wrong or fumble in some way. He will. There’s no denying it. That’s what being a parent is—it’ll just take him time to learn it.

  “What is it that doesn’t suit you about the people you’ve talked to?” I ask.

  “The criminal element comes out of the woodwork for jobs like this,” he says. “People you wouldn’t hire to walk your dog think they’re qualified to take care of an infant. I had a woman call about the job, said she’d love to do it, and she sounded great. Then she said she couldn’t come for an interview ‘til next week because she was in jail and wouldn’t get out until Monday. That’s the shit I’m dealing with.”