The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  It would probably come across as fishing for compliments if I insisted those flaws were real. “I liked what you did with the tie,” I say instead. “Felt good not to have to worry about where to put my hands. To give you control.”

  His cock swells against the back of my thigh. Apparently, it’s in agreement. “That’s...a huge relief, actually.” He nuzzles up against my neck. “I thought you did, after what happened in the car, but then you seemed—and I thought....” He turns my head again, brushes his lips against mine. “I want us to be on the same page.”

  I kiss him back, feeling like we finally are. He shifts against me again, one hand cradling my head, the other finding its way back under my skirt. Maybe this time, I can—

  Something’s buzzing.

  “Shit—sorry!” It’s my phone; of course it’s mine, and if I hadn’t blown it before—

  “Mm?”

  I pull away. “Sorry. It might be—it might be work. I have to get that.”

  Nick lets his head flop back on the pillows. He doesn’t seem put out; he’s even laughing, but... It’s got to be politeness at this point, right?

  I don’t have time to read too much into it. The text’s from my babysitter: sorry to disturb u. there’s a weird smell and joey’s throwing up.

  Okay. Not great. And what’s she even saying?—Do you mean he’s throwing up and it smells weird, or there’s a weird smell that’s making him throw up?

  the 2nd thing.

  What the hell? Like...a gas leak? Our building’s all electric... Where would gas even leak from? Maybe—fuck; no time to think. I glance at Nick. “Sorry, I... There’s kind of an emergency. I need to....” Where’d my other shoe go? I’m hopping around, texting one-handed: oK take Joey next door! Mrs. D. should be home. check if smell also in her place, if not, see if joey can stay there. On my way now.

  Nick’s smiling, handing me my shoe.

  “Thanks.”

  “It was hiding under the bed.” He holds me steady while I put it on. “So, I guess this is your coach turning back into a pumpkin?”

  “Yeah, sorry; I—“ My phone’s buzzing again: its just ur place. mrs. d. says he can stay. should i stay 2 or???

  No, it’s fine. Go home. I’ll drop by your pay in the morning.

  “That wasn’t an escape text, I swear. There’s a...kind of disaster at home, and, uh—I can’t get into it now. Can I, uh...let me write down my number.”

  “Put it in here.” He’s holding out his own phone. I key my number in quickly and shrug into my coat. “You need a ride somewhere?”

  “Quicker if I just walk from here.” I’m being rude, but there’s no time, no time for manners. My hands are shaking; the buttons of my coat keep slipping through my fingers. “Sorry again! I feel—“

  “Ssh.” Nick takes me by the hand, and pulls me just close enough to do up my coat for me. He snugs my collar in tight and pulls up my hood. “There. All good. Deal with your disaster, and we’ll pick this up when you’re free.”

  There’s no time, but I hug him anyway—a quick tight squeeze, and I’m out the door.

  Joey’s feeling better by the time I get home, cuddled up on Mrs. D’s couch with some apple juice and a plate of Ritz crackers. No fever, no sniffles—seems like it was just the smell. I fuss with his hair till he starts to get mad, pledge Mrs. D my undying gratitude, and head home to investigate the offending stench.

  It’s not strong, but it’s rancid. Definitely not gas: this is something organic. Something...rotting. Smells like low tide on a hot day, that fishy, kelpy, wet smell, without the sea breeze to freshen things up.

  Surely it can’t be coming from inside. We haven’t had fish in weeks, and I took the garbage out just this morning. I step out onto the fire escape, thinking someone must’ve left some trash out there, but the outside air’s...well, if not exactly fresh, no more disgusting than usual.

  There’s nothing in the fridge, nothing in any of the cupboards, nothing in or under the sink. Nothing in the bathroom or the closet. It hits me that Joey’s probably left some old snack in the bottom of his bag... But there’s nothing in there but a well-loved pack of crayons.

  What the hell?

  The smell is starting to make me gag. It’s insidious: not that bad at first, but the more you breathe it in, the thicker it gets. Most smells, you get used to them after a while, but this one...nope. Not so much.

  I drag the fridge out of its nook, but that just leaves me sweating and panting, with nothing to show for it. Same deal behind the oven: nothing but crumbs and a long-lost spatula. I vacuum the empty space, anyway: when else will I get the chance?

  This is driving me nuts. Where haven’t I checked? This place is tiny; there are only so many nooks and crannies that could be hiding something gross.

  I shake out every shoe in the closet. Nothing but dirt.

  I stand in the middle of the kitchen, spinning slowly, taking in every inch of the cramped space. Cabinets, toaster, oven, fridge—where else is there?

  I kneel down in front of the oven. I don’t remember the last time I opened the drawer underneath, with the cookie sheets and broiling pans, but it’s the one place I haven’t checked.

  The smell rolls out and hits me in the face. I don’t know whether to scream or retch: not a fish, but a rat, dead as a doornail, skin stretched tight over guts that look bloated enough to burst. Must’ve...must’ve crawled in for warmth, when I left the stove on, and—no. That can’t be right. It wouldn’t have had time to get this dead, this stinky, overnight. We don’t even have a rat problem, or we didn’t—where’d it even....

  Ugh. No point obsessing over it. It’s New York. There are rats. I grab a pair of rubber gloves and fish it out gingerly, breathing a sigh of relief when it doesn’t split open between drawer and trash bag.

  The pong hits me again when I come back from ditching the rat. It’s worse now: opening that drawer truly released the beast. A quick Febrezing only serves to brew a nice rat/lavender cocktail: I’ll have to air it out overnight. Which means it’ll be fucking freezing, which means Joey can’t come home, which means I’ll owe Mrs. Dzhokharova...pretty much anything she could possibly ask for.

  I fling open the doors to the hallway and fire escape. A chilly breeze starts to circulate. I pour a bag of frozen berries into a pot, top it up with water, and set it to a low simmer. Soon, a fruity, jammy smell’s floating out to me on the fire escape, where I’ve set up camp with Joey’s bike and my cleaning supplies. Figure I might as well make some headway while I’m freezing my ass off.

  Tomorrow after work, I’ll swing by the bargain bookstore, see if there’s anything Joey might appreciate.

  I catch myself wondering if I’ll hear from Nick. He did take my number, but... He could still reconsider. Once he’s alone, with nothing but blue balls to remind him of our encounter, what’s to stop him deciding I’m more trouble than I’m worth? And I haven’t even mentioned Joey yet. Or his dad. Especially his dad. What’s going to happen when he finds out...?

  It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for any of this.

  But I’ll make time....

  I might just be in over my head.

  141

  Nick

  The smell of Chinese food greets me when I emerge from my study. I never told Katie she could order in... But I never said she couldn’t, either. I think I smell hot and sour soup. Must be for me: Katie thinks it tastes like old soap.

  “Hey, Dad,” she says, looking up from her homework and a plate of something red and noodley.

  “Hey, Katie. That hot and sour soup I smell?”

  She nods, gesturing vaguely at a paper bag at the end of the counter. “In there. There’s spring rolls as well.”

  “Thanks.” I plop down across from her and tuck in. She must’ve just ordered: the soup’s still hot enough to scald the roof of my mouth. “Need any help with your homework?”

  “Nah. Cindy’s coming over soon. We’ve got our science fair project, and then she’s goi
ng to spend the night, so we can set it up together in the morning.” She looks up. “If that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Just, no staying up talking all night.”

  “I know.” No eyeroll today. She must want something—something more than the sleepover. I nibble on a spring roll while I wait for it.

  “Dad?”

  “Mm-hm?”

  “I was wondering... When can Cindy and I come to your work?”

  I blink. “You want to...what? Come to a board meeting?” Wouldn’t that be boring as hell for a couple of nine-year-olds? I guess there is Take Your Daughter to Work Day, but....

  “No, your other work. The volunteer place. We wanna do it too. Cindy’s sister helps out at the hospital, but she says we’re too young.”

  Well, this is new. “Uh...I’d be happy to take you, but I’m not sure how much fun you’d have. It’s just a lot of sorting through food, checking expiry dates, putting stuff in bags—“

  “We can put stuff in bags!”

  “It gets pretty heavy: there’s tons of cans and jars.” Still, she’s trying to do a good thing. I should be encouraging this. “Okay...how about this? It’s not a good idea for you kids to be doing the heavy lifting, but we got those big windows out front. We usually have seasonal displays, art from the community, that kind of thing. How would you like to come in maybe...maybe Saturday afternoons, and do something with those?”

  She makes a show of checking her phone, like she’s seen me do when I’m setting a meeting. “Yeah. We can do Saturdays.”

  “Saturday it is, then.” I’m about to ask her what brought this on when the buzzer goes off.

  “That’s Cindy! Later, Dad!” She grabs her books and her phone and clears out, leaving me to deal with the remains of dinner. I’ve got a housekeeper, but it feels rude, leaving trash lying around when somebody else has to pick it up. I even make a halfhearted pass at wiping the countertop, but there’s something else on my mind.

  I’ve been wanting to text Lina since she rushed out of the hotel, but last night seemed too soon, and this morning was out, given the Weds AM scrawled on the back of her business card. Tomorrow would be too late, so...yeah. I’ve been gearing up all day. Figuring out what to say. Not obsessing, exactly, but...planning. Planning carefully. Something casual but concerned; enthusiastic, not weird:

  hey.

  hope everything turned out OK after you left.

  had a great time btw. hope we can do it again soon.

  Oh, yeah. Textual masterpiece. I tap on the edge of my phone, waiting for the ellipsis to pop up on her side. About thirty seconds later, it does. It feels like she’s typing for a long time—maybe typing and deleting. Maybe—

  Hey yourself! Everything’s fine: just your basic dead rat catastrophe. Thanks for asking! Rest of my week’s looking crazy, but if you’re free Sunday, we could do that garden date. Or something else, up to you. :-)

  Dead...rat...catastrophe? I’d like to say I’m not familiar, but....

  ew, dead rat! where was it, in the walls?

  also, garden date sounds great. maybe dinner after?

  Her reply comes faster this time. Wish I could see her face, know if she’s smiling, relaxed, or if—

  Oven drawer.

  (The rat.)

  Lying across the baking sheet like a loaf of bread. Not a CLUE how it got there. X-P

  And dinner sounds good.

  Eugh. Reminds me of the time I opened the door to a gruesome little gift from the neighbors’ cat. Or that other time Katie left half a donut in her bottom drawer, and about a thousand ants showed up for the feast.

  there’s no escape.

  from vermin.

  maybe in antarctica.

  That gets me curious, so I do a quick search: nope. Not even Antarctica’s one hundred percent rat free. I text her that little tidbit.

  LOL!

  Makes me feel less slobby.

  Knowing it could happen anywhere.

  Though I’m now picturing some freaked out penguin with a rat running around its feet, like GET IT AWAAAAAAY!

  A second later, a penguin emoji follows. I find myself laughing alone at the kitchen counter. I want to keep this conversation going.

  where are you anyway? home?

  Library. The ellipsis icon does its dance, and does it some more. I’m starting to wonder if she’s lost her connection when the next message pops up: Had some work to do w/their computers, but now just enjoying the quiet. Nobody here. Feels like the start of a horror movie. Attack of the Giant Silverfish.

  ewwwwwwww, don’t say silverfish.

  srsly, they are my one phobia.

  with their gross powdery bodies and their antennae on the wrong end.

  and earwigs.

  centipedes.

  anything with ass antennae.

  sick.

  I half expect her to text back a silverfish emoji—or worse, a gif—but she doesn’t prove so sadistic. Sorry. Hate them too. What about you? You at home?

  yeah. had chinese food. I pause with my finger on the SEND button. Maybe I should say something else. Something suggestive. Something silly enough she could play it off as a joke if she wasn’t into it, but naughty enough...nah. I go with the Chinese food thing. She’s in the fucking library. Sexting can wait.

  Mmm, now I’m hungry.

  Haven’t had Chinese in a while.

  Or McDonald’s.

  Miss their fries.

  Can’t remember the last time I had real, cheapass fast food, either. The fridge here’s always full, or Katie’ll order us something—neither she nor the housekeeper seem to be into cheap and greasy. Before I can think better of it, I write back, wanna get big macs for our date on sun?

  Her response is quick and sweet: :-)

  I like that she’s not a complete health nut—that she’ll do things like French toast and cheesecake, a burger here and there. Tells me there’s more to her than that skittish, nervous streak. Someone probably scared her; someone must’ve....

  Another message pops up: I should get home. Before our date, though...there’s something you should know.

  oh?

  A name you should Google: Joe Bentivoglio. And if you want to cancel after, I won’t hold it against you.

  Shit. Maybe he’s the one....

  who is he?

  The microwave clock ticks down three minutes before the ellipsis icon pops up. It’s another full minute before her answer comes through: The man who took everything I had.

  She stops answering after that. Probably on her way home—or avoiding my questions. I wind up back in my study, staring at a page of Google results I wish were for the wrong Joe Bentivoglio... But the churning in my gut tells me they’re not.

  Munchausen by Internet: Cancer Scam goes Viral – The Strange Story of Joe Bentivoglio

  I skip over that one, and the two that follow—all articles from major newspapers. The fourth result looks like a blog post: Jan’s Blobservations – Everything We Know about Joe Bentivoglio, aka ultramar1ne, aka giuseppe_b. I click on that.

  The post’s a little over a year old. Whatever happened, it’s pretty recent. Pretty raw. No wonder she’s not exactly eager to talk about it.

  I take a deep breath and start to read.

  “THE GRAND SCAM: JOE BENTIVOGLIO vs. THE BLAZING BADGER CYCLING CLUB

  “OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: OK, so I’ll be posting my own theories in the comments, but this is what we know for sure and can 100% verify. Information is still coming in from a LOT of sources! Me and Paula and Cherie are checking it out as fast as we can, but we’re only 3 people. For the sake of clarity, I’m not including anything that can’t be proven...but don’t hesitate to speak freely in the comments!

  “For those who have no clue what this is about, a) what rock have you been living under?, and b) Joe Bentivoglio, aka ultramar1ne, aka giuseppe_b, is a lying assbassoon who claimed to have cancer and ripped members of the NY cycling community off to the tune of at least $20,000...THAT WE
KNOW OF.

  “I first noticed ultramar1ne on the BBCC Facebook group. He hadn’t yet been “diagnosed” (yeah, right!), and seemed like an active member in good standing, and hot. (And his profile said he was single, but as we all know, that turned out not to be true.) I’d say hi to him at the post-ride cooldowns at Full Circle, but we didn’t really run in the same circle (y’all know I’m a back-of-the-pack girl; he was a speed demon).

  “When it came out that he had cancer, it didn’t seem suspicious. Most of us didn’t even hear about it from him. He honestly seemed like the LAST thing he wanted to do was talk about it. The story was he’d confided in a few close friends, and didn’t necessarily want everyone to know. Which, yeah, makes sense. And it also makes sense that people would spread that shit. Cancer is interesting!

  At the same time, the rumor started circulating that he and his fiancée were hurting for cash, barely keeping a roof over their heads. They’d even had to call off their wedding to pay for his treatments.

  “There was a collection within a week of the news going wide. This was organized by Mike B, Mike R, and Paula, and I can confirm that NONE of them were involved in the scam in any way. (All have been proven to have lost money themselves.) So far, I’ve had confirmation that all but 4 members contributed (and the 4 I can’t confirm are no longer active, and couldn’t be reached). I think I threw in $50.

  “For anyone keeping a running total, that initial pass of the hat brought in close to 3K.

  “Next ride, he showed up with his head and eyebrows shaved. I remember noticing the eyebrows and thinking, what a relief, he’s not one of those cancer fakers. They always forget the eyebrows. And I remember feeling like shit for the possibility even crossing my mind. That’s what these types of crooks rely on: our unwillingness to think our friends, family, and loved ones would pull that shit!

  “Always, always look a cancer horse in the mouth!

  “THE FIANCÉE: We finally met his supposed fiancée, Elina Petrova, the following July. She started showing up to “monitor his condition,” which basically meant riding with him and participating in club activities, without paying any club dues. After her 2nd or 3rd ride, she approached Paula about some fundraiser she was having for his treatments. Only when we saw how far she’d actually got, it was like she’d put no effort in it at all. She had a gofundme page that didn’t even have a picture, and a few posters around her neighborhood for a game night at some restaurant. I think she’d raised all of $50. Which should’ve been a huge red flag, but by then, we were fully invested in their “struggle.”