At the Corner of King Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “And then what?”

  “I’m sure they’ll keep tabs on the baby.”

  No one kept tabs on Janet or me that summer with Grace. She was good to us but we were lucky. The baby began to grunt and nudge the nipple and then finally latched on. She began to suckle.

  The nurse patted me on the arm. “Look, you’ve got her eating.”

  “I wish a bottle would fix all her troubles.”

  The nurse rose. “I’m gonna leave you two for a few minutes.”

  Panic cut through the worries. “I shouldn’t be left alone. I’m not licensed to do this.”

  “You’re doing fine. When she’s done with the bottle, give a shout out.”

  Fear scraped against my gut. “But what if she chokes?”

  The nurse slid her hands in her pockets. “She won’t choke. You’re both doing fine.”

  The nurse ignored my pleading gaze and moved back toward her desk, where she typed into a computer.

  I looked at the baby—a blood relative, but a stranger. She seemed to sense this, too, as she suckled, but she wasn’t really relaxing into my arms. Her little fingers clenched into fists, and her body remained tense. I suspected if she could, she’d have jumped up and run away.

  “I feel ya, kid. I do. Janet hasn’t done either one of us a solid. And you know, I don’t have any answers. I’m as lost as you.” I leaned back in the rocker, willing my back to relax against the spindles. On high alert since this morning, I felt the flood of adrenaline slow to mere drops. Fatigue washed over my limbs and a weight settled on my chest. “Janet’s not going to be able to take you. Not now, anyway.”

  Suckling, the baby opened one eye. Babies were born farsighted so I knew she couldn’t really see me. But it didn’t feel that way. I imagined her wondering what kind of crappy karma from a past life landed her in this family. “You and me both, kid.”

  Her other eye opened. She suckled harder.

  “I have so much that needs to be done between now and Friday. And I don’t know much about babies. I’ve never changed a diaper.” Bubbles gurgled in the bottle and I raised the end until they slowed.

  “You really will be better off if I get Social Services involved. They’ll find someone who can really take care of you.”

  The baby flexed her fingers and closed her eyes. Clearly, I’d get no argument from her.

  Her fingers were long and slender, unlike the customary chubby baby fingers. The nail beds were deep and the fingertips neatly rounded. They were Mom’s hands. Janet’s hands. Delicate. Lovely. These fingers were created to be painted a bright shade of pink and to wear diamonds. Perhaps to glide over piano keys.

  My fingers were short and stubby, destined for gripping a crowbar, scrubbing rust from an old metal lock, or wrestling weeds from the hard dirt.

  The baby’s hair color was a soft, pretty light brown. Little ears curled into a cherubic C shape and her pink lips dipped gently in the center.

  Her limbs were long, and I imagined she’d be tall like Janet, with an athletic build. She looked underweight, but I wasn’t sure if that was stress or if she’d inherited Janet’s knack for burning calories with little effort.

  Her nose turned up at the end and her face was round. Not long and lean like Janet’s, but kinda like mine. “At least you didn’t get my short legs.”

  Cataloguing her features and finding a bit of me was unsettling. Whereas I could never see myself in my nephew, I could see a bit of me in this baby.

  I closed my eyes. In the end, it didn’t matter if her legs were long or if her face was round or lean. The only factor that mattered was that she was a Shire female. And Shire females were cursed.

  “I’ve lived with this curse all my life,” I whispered as I rocked. “I wish I could help you, kid, I do. But I couldn’t fix my mother or your mother, and I won’t be able to fix you.”

  The baby’s body relaxed a fraction, accepting that we were in this together.

  When the baby finished the bottle, I pulled the nipple free of her lips and we sat in silence for several minutes before the nurse came back and took her. Free of the child’s weight, I rose, wishing the tension gripping my shoulders would ease.

  I stripped off the gown, took my purse, and left the nursery. Out in the hallway, I didn’t bother a glance back at the baby.

  Tears tightened my throat and welled behind my eyes. “God, Janet, why would you do this?”

  A woman dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, and sensible shoes caught my gaze. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and horned-rimmed glasses accentuated green eyes, the singular trace of color on an otherwise colorless woman. “Are you Miss Addie Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Kathleen Willis. I’m with Social Services. The hospital called me a few hours ago.”

  I folded my arms over my chest, pushing back rising defenses and tears. “Oh, right.”

  “Janet Morgan, the baby’s mother, is your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been in to see the baby?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

  “I’ve been told that your sister won’t be able to care for the baby right away. She could be hospitalized for weeks.”

  “If she agrees to stay. She’s over eighteen so I can’t force her into any kind of mental health care as long as she’s no danger to herself.”

  “You understand the laws.”

  “We’ve been through this before.”

  She glanced in a file, clearly double-checking a fact. “Well, it’s my understanding that she’s willing.”

  “She’s signed papers?”

  “Not yet. But I plan to see her in the morning once she’s recovered from the delivery.”

  “Until she signs those papers, I wouldn’t count on her going into treatment.”

  Ms. Willis gently thumped her clipboard against her leg. “Will you be willing to take the baby?”

  “Me? No. I’m not in a place where I can take a child. Don’t you have foster families help in times like this?”

  “We do. But right now we don’t have many on the register, and it may take a week or so to place the baby.”

  “A week. What happens if she can’t be placed? Does she stay here and wait for a family?”

  “She’s not going to be able to stay here. The hospital doesn’t have the bed space or resources.”

  “Why not? I saw lots of empty cribs.”

  “She’s not sick. And this isn’t a place for healthy babies. Healthy babies belong with a family.”

  “Maybe if I talked to the nurses.”

  “It’s hospital policy, Ms. Morgan. The baby cannot stay here beyond the first forty-eight hours.”

  “So where does she go?”

  “There’s no way you can take her on a temporary basis? For a few days?”

  “You don’t understand; this is how it always goes in my family. A little favor. A minute or two here or there, and I’m suddenly taking care of yet another person who does not want my help. I get tied up in knots. I can’t sleep or eat and in the end, nothing changes.”

  “She’s got to leave the hospital by day after tomorrow.”

  Tears tightened my throat. I glanced up, hoping someone would rescue me from the next Shire family quagmire threatening to swallow me whole.

  And then I saw him. Zeb Talbot rounding the corner. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  August 2, 1750

  Our baby stirs in my belly often and promises to be a lively child. My best guess puts the child’s delivery close to Christmastime. The doctor spends long days seeing patients.

  Yesterday, he bled a tobacco farmer by the name of McDonald. The doctor expects the young man to regain his health. Though he says the family has been beset with bad fortune for years.

  The doctor has bo
ught shares in the Constance, which is now being filled with barrels, called hogsheads, brimming with Virginia tobacco. Once the ship’s captain delivers his cargo to London, he will sail to the West Indies to pick up newly acquired slaves from Africa. The doctor expects high profits upon the ship’s return.

  Mr. West’s tobacco warehouse and tavern does a steady stream of business catering to planters in town to sell their wares. Early this morning, I spied Faith staring at our house. She didn’t speak and, when I met her stare, she turned and left.

  Chapter Four

  The last time Zeb and I saw each other was the day of the accident. He came to the warehouse looking for Janet. Furious. Frustrated. And so damn afraid of the total unfixableness of Janet.

  And now Janet was back.

  Zeb’s dark hair grayed a bit around the temples now, but remained as thick and wavy as I remembered. He wore a blue T-shirt that read Talbot’s Construction over the left breast pocket. The shirt, like the jeans, was well worn but clean and crisp. Scuffed work boots were laced tight and carried with them a dusting of construction dirt. Zeb clearly still ran his life as tightly as when he served in the Marines.

  If I thought he was going to sail in and offer Janet another lifeboat, the deep frown lines grooved around his mouth and across his forehead sunk that idea. His rigid stance telegraphed displeasure.

  My gaze flickered to a young boy standing at his side. He was a little Zeb. Dark hair, olive skin, and vivid blue eyes that held a determination any Marine would have admired. The kid must be Eric.

  “Zeb,” I said.

  He put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Addie.”

  I turned to the social worker. “This is Zeb Talbot. He and Janet were married.” I moistened my lips, rummaging for a smile I couldn’t seem to find. “And I’m guessing this is my nephew, Eric.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with a hint of surprise at the sound of his name.

  Zeb nodded. “Eric, this is your Aunt Addie. She and your mother are sisters.”

  Eric studied me a beat. “You don’t look like Mom’s pictures.”

  Natural for the boy to want to know his mother, and it was so easy for a disgruntled husband to deprive the child of contact, especially after a painful divorce. But whatever Zeb might have been feeling toward Janet, he kept enough pictures of her so Eric knew her face.

  “No. We don’t look much alike.” I dug through my heart for a trace of love or emotion for this boy, my flesh and blood, but like the baby, I discovered my reserves were empty. “You look a lot like your dad.”

  The boy nodded, solemn. “I know.”

  Zeb squeezed the boy’s shoulder gently. “Grace called you?”

  Tempted to fold my arms over my chest, I slid hands in my back pockets so I didn’t look as defensive. “Yes.”

  “Have you been in to see her?” He didn’t use Janet’s name, as if it was too sour to stomach.

  Aware of Eric’s keen gaze, I chose my words as gingerly as I could. “I have seen her. She’s sleeping now. Heavily sedated, and she won’t be able to see anyone until morning.”

  Relief unbound the muscles in Zeb’s shoulders a fraction. He didn’t want to see Janet. Today. “Okay. But she came through it fine.”

  “Yes. She’s physically healthy.”

  He knelt and looked Eric in the eye. “Did you hear that? Your mother is sleeping now. She’s doing okay, but she won’t be able to see you until tomorrow or the next day.”

  “She’s sleeping because she made a baby,” the boy said.

  “Yes. It’s hard work having a baby.” The words carried a weight of meaning that the boy missed, but neither Zeb nor I did. “When she’s better, we’ll try to see her.”

  “Are we going to try or do?” the boy asked.

  A half smile flickered at the edges of Zeb’s lips, suggesting he heard his own words tossed back at him. “One way or the other, we’ll see your mother. But I can’t make promises about when.”

  “I know. She’s sick.” Eric sniffed, his gaze focused and clear. “What about my sister? Is she sick?”

  “I don’t know much about your sister.” A fresh ripple of tension washed over Zeb as he rose. “Let’s ask your aunt.” His gaze settled on mine, above the boy’s head. Dark eyes shot a warning for me to tread lightly.

  I didn’t want to dash the kid’s hope about his sister, who, assuming from Zeb’s stoic expression, was definitely his half-sister. But I also didn’t want the social worker to think that I was a solution to this problem. “She’s in the nursery right now.”

  “Can I see her?” Eric asked.

  The Morgan family hooks sunk a little deeper into my skin. “Come to the window.”

  The boy glanced up at his dad, who nodded his approval, and the boy came to my side. He was tall for his age, and would likely top six foot three like his dad, but he was still too short to see above the lip of the nursery room glass window.

  “Can I pick you up?” I asked.

  He gripped the slim sill of the window and tried to peer over the edge and through the glass. “Yes. I want to see her.”

  I wrapped my arms around his waist and hefted him up to the glass. Unlike the baby, his body was relaxed. He didn’t have the buzzing energy pulsing through his body, or the hum of quiet desperation. He felt normal. No curse. No madness. But then he was a male, and though the Shire men’s blood may have carried the curse and passed it on to their daughters, they never suffered the weight of mental illness.

  I tapped the glass. “She’s in the bassinet on the end.”

  He pressed his nose a little closer to the glass. “The one that’s crying?”

  “Yes.”

  He traced the outline of her bassinet on the glass. “Why is she crying?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just fed her a bottle.”

  His head turned partway toward me. “Did I cry a lot as a baby?”

  Soft, firm footsteps moved behind me as Zeb closed the distance between himself and his son. This close, I smelled the fresh air and lumber mingling with a faint soap. As I remembered, summer was the busy season for Zeb and an afternoon off was a precious gift for him to give.

  “You didn’t cry much at all,” I said. “You were a happy baby.”

  Eric frowned, pressing his nose to the glass. “Why isn’t she happy?”

  “I don’t know. She might not be feeling well or maybe she wants another bottle. I met the nurses, and they are nice. They’ll take good care of her.”

  “Will she stay here until Mommy can take her?”

  “She’ll be in there a day or two.” Sidestepping, I avoided answers involving Social Services, foster families, and my inability to take the child.

  “Eric, there’s a candy machine right around the corner.” Zeb fished four quarters from his pocket as he looked at the social worker. “Would you mind taking the boy for a candy bar? Addie and I need a moment.”

  The social worker, realizing she might have an ally, smiled. “Be glad to.” She held out her hand to Eric. “It’s a really good candy machine. I saw chocolate bars.”

  Eric glanced at his dad and after another it’s-okay nod the boy took her hand. “Is there Skittles? I like Skittles.”

  Ms. Willis grinned. “Let’s go see.”

  Zeb handed the quarters to the boy, who clamped his fingers over them with a dedication that reminded me of Zeb. “Can I spend it all?”

  “You bet.”

  The boy rattled the coins in his small palm. “So, if I see two candy bars that are fifty cents each, can I have them both?”

  Zeb smiled. “You can.”

  Eric grinned and hurried alongside the social worker. As I watched the two walk away, I wondered what happened to the baby boy I once held. Until this moment the passage of time had gone unnoticed.

  I couldn’t help but say, “Yo
u’ve done a great job, Zeb. He seems like a great kid.”

  “He’s one in a million.” His words were crisp, clear, and confident.

  “He’s a lot like you.” I let the words linger, not wanting to give voice to the fear that Eric might really be like his mother.

  “He is me.” His words held as much force as fear.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think he’d get sick.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother’s people are Shires and as far back as I can remember the men in the Shire family don’t get sick.”

  “Really?” His naturally honed gaze sharpened.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “I never knew of one.”

  Reluctant relief skittered across his gaze as it shifted toward the nursery. “What about the baby? What’s going on with her?”

  “I just held her for the first time. She’s agitated and cries.” The baby’s little fingers were balled into tight fists.

  “I called a couple of my cop buddies. Janet was found at a bus stop in Old Town in active labor. The police were called. She got upset. She fought them and tried to resist, so they restrained her and took her to the hospital.”

  “She called me this morning. Four times. I ignored the calls. I didn’t realize there was a baby.” Would I have taken the calls if I’d known about the baby? “I thought it was another one of those Janet moments. And I didn’t want to deal with it.”

  He shifted his stance, bracing for a familiar unsteady path. “So what happens next?”

  “Janet needs to be evaluated. The mental health doctor would like to commit her for thirty days.”

  His gaze grew vacant as time transported him back to another similar conversation. “You think she’ll agree to that?”

  “If she stays three days I’ll be shocked. But three days is better than no time.”

  “And the baby? What about the father?”

  “We’ll have to wait for Janet to stabilize before we figure out that one.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  The questions came with a crisp punch of frustration that I found irritating. I wasn’t giving a report to a boss or a commander. Hell, I shouldn’t be here now. “I’m talking to Social Services about finding a foster home for the baby.”