Bye, Baby Bunting
It was December 20th, and although later on Alvirah would call it the most awful day of her life, when it began she could not have felt more festive.
At 7:00 A.M., the phone rang with the joyous news that Joan Moore O’Brien had been delivered of her first child, a baby girl. “Her name is Marianne,” Gregg O’Brien reported happily, “she weighs six pounds, two ounces and she’s gorgeous.”
Joan Moore had lived next door to Alvirah and Willy in Queens, and they had watched her grow up, becoming close to her and her family over the years. As Alvirah put it, “A sweeter girl never walked the face of the earth.”
She and Willy had maintained their contact with Joan even after their move to Central Park South in Manhattan and had been proud to be at her wedding to Gregg O’Brien, a handsome young engineer. They regularly visited the young couple in their apartment in Tribeca and joined in celebrating Gregg’s rise up the corporate ladder and Joan’s pro motions at the bank. They also shared the O’Briens’ terrible disappointment when Joan suffered three miscarriages.
“But now, finally, praise the Lord, they have their baby,” Alvirah crowed to Willy as she heaped waffles on his plate. “You know I felt in my bones that this time it was going to work out. I’d even gone ahead and bought presents for the baby, although I really have to do serious shopping this morning before we go to the hospital. After all, we are the surrogate grandparents.”
Willy smiled affectionately at Alvirah, looking with love at the woman with whom he had spent the best years of his life. Her blue eyes were bright with happiness, her complexion rosy. She’d just had her hair tinted yesterday, so now it was again a soft red, and all the gray had been firmly routed. She looked warm and comfortable in the chenille robe that followed the lines of her generous body. Willy smiled; he thought she was beautiful.
“We should have had six kids,” he said, “and twenty grandchildren.”
“Well, Willy, the good Lord didn’t send them, but now we can have fun spoiling Joan and Gregg’s little girl. I mean, it’s practically an obligation since Joan’s folks aren’t around anymore.”
* * *
At three that afternoon, they were entering the crowded lobby of Empire Hospital on West Twenty-third Street.
“I can’t wait to see the baby, ” Alvirah enthused, making her way past receptionists too busy to notice them.
“I can’t wait to unload the presents,” Willy commented as he strained to keep his fingers from slip ping out of the handles of the heavy shopping bags he was carrying. “Why do they have to put little scraps of clothes in such big boxes anyhow?”
“Because they never heard the old saying that good things come in small packages. Oh, doesn’t the lobby look cheerful? I love holiday decorations. They’re so pretty.”
“I never thought of a life-sized balloon of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer as being pretty,” Willy observed as they passed a cardboard sleigh, complete with balloon Santa Claus and reindeer.
“Gregg said Joan is in room 1121.” Alvirah paused for a moment. “There are the elevators.” She hoisted one of the shopping bags she was clutching and pointed down the corridor.
“Shouldn’t we get visitor’s passes?” Willy asked.
“Joan said to come right through. They really don’t bother you if you look as though you know where you’re going.”
They just missed an elevator and were the only people waiting when the doors of an adjacent one opened. In her haste, Alvirah almost ran into a woman who stepped out of the elevator carrying an infant. The heavy scarf that covered the woman’s head fell forward, shielding her face. She was dressed in a ski jacket and slacks.
Ever maternal, Alvirah peeked down to admire the baby, who was nestled in a yellow bunting. Blue eyes opened wide, stared up at her, then closed again. A yawn enveloped the pink-and-white face, and small fists waved.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous,” Alvirah sighed as the woman hurried past them.
Willy was holding open the elevator door with his shoulder. “Honey, come on,” he urged.
As the elevator lumbered up, stopping at every floor to take on passengers, Alvirah had the fleeting thought that in most hospitals, when a new mother and her baby were discharged, they were taken to the door in a wheelchair. Well, things change, she decided.
When they reached room 1121, Alvirah rushed in. Ignoring Joan, who was sitting up in bed, and Gregg, who was standing beside her, Alvirah hurried to the small crib against the wall. “Oh, she isn’t here,” she lamented.
Gregg laughed. “Marianne is having a hearing test. I can vouch that she’ll pass with flying colors. When I scraped the chair against the floor this morning, she jumped in Joan’s arms and started yelling.”
“Well then, I guess I’d better pay some attention to the proud parents.” Alvirah bent over Joan and hugged her fiercely. “I’m so happy for you,” she said as tears ran down her full cheeks.
“Why do women always cry when they’re happy?” Gregg asked Willy, who was trying to prop the shopping bags in the corner.
“Leaky tear ducts,” Willy grunted as he grasped Gregg’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m not going to cry, but I’m awfully happy for both of you too.”
“Wait till you see her,” Gregg boasted. “She’s gorgeous, like her mama.”
“She has your forehead and chin,” Joan told him.
“And your blue eyes and porcelain complexion and—”
“Sorry folks,” a voice interrupted. They all turned to see a smiling nurse standing in the door. “I’ve got to borrow your baby for a few minutes,” she said.
“Oh, another nurse already took her. Just a few minutes ago,” Gregg said.
When she saw the look of alarm on the nurse’s face, Alvirah knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.
“What’s the matter?” Joan asked, sitting up, leaning forward, her face turning ashen. “Where’s my baby? Who has her? What’s going on?”
The nurse raced out of the room, and moments later an alarm sounded throughout the hospital. An urgent voice over the loudspeaker announced, “Code Orange! Code Orange!”
Alvirah knew what the alarm meant, internal disaster. But she also knew it was too late. Her mind flashed back to the woman exiting the elevator just as they were coming up. She had been right—newborn babies and their mothers do not leave the hospital unescorted. Alvirah ran from the room to talk to security personnel, as Joan collapsed in Gregg’s arms.
* * *
An hour later, at 4:00 P.M., in a small, cluttered apartment on West Ninetieth Street, seventy-eight-year-old Wanda Brown was comfortably propped up on a shabby couch and bestowing a moist-eyed smile on her granddaughter. “Such a happy surprise,” she said, “a Christmas visit. You coming all the way from Pittsburgh with your new baby! You certainly have put your troubles behind you, Vonny.”
“Guess I have, Grandma.” The voice was monotone. Vonny’s eyes, light brown and guileless, stared off into the distance.
“Such a beautiful baby. Is she good?”
“I hope so.” Vonny jostled the baby in her arms.
“What’s her name?”
“Vonny, just like mine.”
“Oh, that’s nice. When you wrote and told me you were expecting, I prayed that nothing would happen. No girl deserves to lose a baby that way, and to have it happen twice.”
“I know, Grandma.”
“It was better that you left the New York area, but I’ve missed you, Vonny. It’s obvious that the stay in the hospital really helped you. Tell me about your new husband. Will he be joining you?”
“No, Grandma. He’s too busy. I’ll be here a few days, then go back to Pittsburgh. But please don’t mention the hospital. I don’t want to talk about the hospital. And don’t ask questions. I hate questions.”
“Vonny, I never, never said a word to anyone. You know me better than that. I’ve been here five years, and not a one of my neighbors knows anything about what happened. T
he nuns who visit me are wonderful, and I always tell them what a dear girl you are. I had mentioned that you were expecting a Christmas baby, and they’ve all been praying for you.”
“That’s nice, Grandma.” Vonny smiled briefly. The baby in her arms began to wail. “Shut up!” she snapped as she shook it. “You hear me? Shut up!”
“Give the baby to me, Vonny,” Wanda Brown pleaded. “And you go heat her bottle. Where are her clothes?”
“Somebody stole her suitcase on the bus,” Vonny said sullenly. “On my way here I picked up some odds and ends at a thrift shop, but I have to get her some more stuff.”
* * *
At eleven o’clock that night, sitting somberly side by side in the living room of their apartment overlooking Central Park, Willy and Alvirah watched the local CBS newscast.
The lead story was the bold kidnapping of eight-hour-old Marianne O’Brien from Empire Hospital.
Willy felt Alvirah tense as the anchorman said, “It is believed that the kidnapper was observed just prior to leaving the hospital by family friends, Willy and Alvirah Meehan, who had come to visit the proud and happy parents.
“Mrs. Meehan’s description of the infant leaves little doubt that she had seen the O’Brien baby. Unfortunately, neither she nor her husband could provide any significant details about the abductor, who apparently had disguised herself as a nurse. The O’Briens say she was about thirty years old, of medium height, with blond hair . . . ”
“How come they don’t talk about the yellow bunting?” Willy asked. “You noticed that especially.”
“Probably because the police always hold something back so that they can tell real calls from quack calls.”
Alvirah squeezed Willy’s hand as she listened to the anchorman say that the heartbroken mother, Joan O’Brien, was under heavy sedation and that the hospital had announced a news conference, during which the father would broadcast a plea to the kidnapper.
Then the newsman interrupted himself in midsen tence. “We’re going live to Empire Hospital for a late-breaking bulletin,” he said.
Alvirah leaned forward and squeezed Willy’s hand again.
After a moment’s pause, an on-the-scene reporter spoke from the lobby of the hospital. “Authorities here report that the uniform of a hospital attendant and a blond wig have just been found stuffed in the disposal container of a lavatory on the floor from which Baby Marianne was abducted. The lavatory is a facility reserved for hospital personnel and can be entered only by punching in a special code.” The reporter paused for effect and looked intently into the camera. “Authorities now fear that this kidnapping may have been an inside job.”
Or that the woman knew her way around the hospital, Alvirah thought. Maybe she had worked or was a patient there at some time. Or she could have just been visiting someone and gotten the lay of the land, watched what the nurses were doing. She was wearing a blond wig. That means we don’t even know what color her hair really is. With that scarf so tight over her head, I didn’t notice.
The news bite about the kidnapping ended with a doctor giving the baby’s formula and the police commissioner promising compassion and help to the abductor if the baby was returned safely. Anyone with any information was asked to call a number that was flashed on the screen.
Willy pushed the remote control button and switched off the television; then he put his arm around Alvirah, who sat next to him, shaking her head. “You can’t blame yourself, honey. Remember, if that woman was so desperate for a baby, she’ll take care of Marianne until the police find her.”
“Oh, Willy, I can’t not blame myself. You know how my antenna just naturally goes up when something’s out of whack. It’s just that I was excited, so anxious to see the baby and to hug Joan and Gregg. I know there was something, something odd that registered in those seconds when I saw that woman.” She shook her head again. “I just can’t dig it up.” Then she gasped, and her eyes brightened. “I’ve got it! I remember! Willy, it was the bunting, that yellow bunting. I’ve seen it somewhere before!”
* * *
Long after she and Willy went to bed, Alvirah lay awake trying to remember where she had seen the yellow bunting before yesterday and why it had made an impression on her, but for once her prodigious memory seemed to be failing her.
Ever since Joan had entered her eighth month and Alvirah had known that even if she delivered early, the baby would probably be all right, she had been shopping for it.
It was so much fun looking at everything and deciding on the kimonos and shirts and sacks and bonnets and receiving blankets. I don’t think I’ve passed a display of baby things without windowshopping, Alvirah mused. But where did I see that bunting, or one just like it?
None of the gifts she and Willy had taken to the hospital had been opened; they had just stuck them in the closet of Joan’s room. I’ve got to go through them and make a list of all the stores I was in, Alvirah decided.
Only after settling on this course of action was Alvirah able to relax enough to actually fall asleep. At breakfast she told Willy her plan. “The thing is, you don’t see buntings the way you used to,” she explained. “People just don’t seem to use them much anymore. And that this one was yellow and folded back to show a deep, white satin border makes it especially unusual.”
“White satin sounds expensive,” Willy said. “I didn’t get much of a look at that woman, but the outfit she was wearing certainly looked more thrift shop than custom made.”
“You’re right,” Alvirah agreed. “It was a sort of run-of-the-mill dark blue nylon jacket and dark blue slacks, the kind you’d pick off a bargain rack. I just didn’t pay attention to her. I was so busy trying to get a look at the baby. But you’re right, a bunting with a satin border would be expensive.”
Then her heart gave a sickening lurch. “Willy, do you think she stole the baby because she had arranged to sell it to someone else? If she did, there’s no telling where they could be by now.” She pushed back her chair and got up. “I can’t waste time.”
* * *
Despite the cardboard sleigh and the balloon figures of Santa Claus and his reindeer, the hospital lobby had lost whatever cheery atmosphere Willy and Alvirah had sensed there the day before. The corridor to the bank of elevators was now patrolled by a security guard, and no one without a visitor’s pass was allowed down it.
When Alvirah gave Joan O’Brien’s name, she was firmly told that no visitors would be allowed to see her. Finally she convinced the receptionist to call up to Gregg, and from him she learned that Joan had been moved from the maternity floor. “Yes, the presents are still in the closet of 1121,” he said, when Alvirah explained what she needed. “I’ll meet you there.”
Alvirah was stunned when she saw Gregg. He seemed to have aged ten years overnight. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was etched with lines that creased his mouth and forehead. She was sure that any expression of sympathy would only make things worse; he knew how she felt.
“Help me open these packages,” she ordered crisply. “Then I’ll read the labels to see which stores the things came from, and you write the names down.”
There were twelve stores in all, the gifts ranging from big items from Saks and Bloomingdale’s, to hand-crocheted sweaters from a specialty shop on Madison Avenue, to small items like nightgowns and kimonos from obscure shops in Greenwich Village and the Upper West Side.
When the list was complete, Alvirah hastily stacked the purchases together and piled them into the biggest boxes. As she was closing the lid on the last one, a police officer came into the room, looking for Gregg. “There’s a break in the case, Mr. O’Brien,” he said. “A call came in to the hot line. Some guy claims his cousin’s wife came home yesterday with a new baby she says is hers. Only thing is, she hadn’t been pregnant.”
A look of incredible hope came over Gregg’s face. “Who is he? Where is he?”
“He said he’s from Long Island and is going to call back. But there’s one hitch. He
thinks there ought to be a twenty-thousand-dollar reward.”
“I’ll guarantee it,” Alvirah said flatly, even as a dark premonition told her that this was going to turn out to be a false lead.
* * *
“Vonny, the baby really needs some clothes,” Wanda Brown said timidly. It was Wednesday afternoon. Vonny had been there a whole day and had only changed the baby’s kimono once. “This place is drafty, and you only have one other kimono. For a baby that’s two weeks old, this one is real little and mustn’t get a chill.”
“All my babies were small,” Vonny told her as she examined the nursing bottle she was holding. “She drinks slow,” she complained.
“She’s falling asleep. You have to be patient. Why not let me finish feeding her and you go shopping? Where did you get the things you bought for her after her suitcase got lost?”
“The thrift shop was right down from the Port Authority. But there wasn’t much left for infants, just the bunting and that.” Vonny waved her hand at the kimono and shirt that were drying on the radiator. “They were getting more in. I guess I could try them again.”
She got up and handed the sleeping infant to her grandmother. As an afterthought she gave her the bottle. “It’s getting cold, but don’t worry. And I don’t want you walking around with her.”
“I wouldn’t try.” Wanda Brown took the baby and tried not to show her shock at the icy feel of the bottle. Vonny didn’t heat it at all, she thought. Then she shrank back as her granddaughter bent over her.
“Now remember, Grandma, I don’t want people coming in here looking at my baby and handling it while I’m out.”
“Vonny, no one ever comes here except the nuns who stop by once a week or so. You’d love them. Sister Cordelia and Sister Maeve Marie come most often. They’re always making sure that people like me have enough food, and that we’re not getting sick, and that the heat and the plumbing work. Only last month, Sister Cordelia sent her brother, Willy, who’s a plumber, here because there was a leak under the kitchen sink that had the whole place musty. What a nice man! Sister Maeve Marie stopped in Monday, but none of them will be back again till Christmas Eve. They’re bringing me a Christmas dinner basket. It’s always nice, and I know there’ll be enough for you too.”
The Lottery Winner Page 20
