For the fifth time in five minutes, the caretaker surveyed the avenue and looked at the face of his watch. The person whom he was supposed to meet was now half an hour late.
At present, George tried to think of an appropriate prayer.
“Praised be the Lord—”
Tires screeched, and a dented maroon sports car veered into the parking lot and seized a space. Taillights darkened, and a rumbling engine quieted.
The caretaker shielded his eyes from the rising sun and appraised the new arrival.
From the sports car climbed a woman who was thinner and far prettier than the one whom he had expected to meet, though she was in her forties rather than her thirties, which would not help his agendum. The brunette wore blue jeans, a black shirt, and matching boots, and seemed to been in a hurry, though perhaps she had been born in one of those big cities where everybody was always rushing everywhere all of the time for some reason.
“Are you Miss Abigail Westinghouse?” inquired George.
“Yes,” said the brunette, who then shut her door. “Sorry I’m late. You must be George Dodgett.”
“I’m him.”
Miss Westinghouse strode underneath the overhang and extended her hand to George, who gently shook the proffered appendage.
“Your hand is very, very soft,” remarked the brunette.
The caretaker cleared his throat. “So’s the other one. I use lavender oils.”
An unspoken question wrinkled the mouth of Miss Westinghouse.
“For the babies,” explained George “They’re very tender. Especially the infants.”
“That makes sense. Shall we go in . . . ?”
George opened the door, gestured inside, and a thought occurred to him about modern women. “You won’t get offended if I hold the door, will you?”
“Not at all. I appreciate politeness.”
“Then after you, Miss Westinghouse.”
“Call me Abigail.”
“Okay. I go by George, though senior citizens and children call me Georgie.”
Abigail smirked. “Thanks, George.”
The caretaker followed the brunette into the bright, orange diner, gained the lead, and escorted her to his favorite booth, which was near an old jukebox that still played records. Trotting over to the table was Peggy, the wrinkled and perky little owner of the establishment.
“Good morning, Peggy.”
“Morning, Georgie,” Peggy replied while placing two enormous menus upon the table. “How’s your mother been?”
“Unstoppable.”
“Good to hear. I’ll be back for your orders.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
The proprietress retreated to the kitchen while the caretaker and the brunette picked up and unfolded the two massive menus.
“What do you recommend?” inquired Abigail, who seemed a bit overwhelmed by the number of culinary choices that she faced.
“The chocolate chip pancakes are good—they’re number eighty-four—and so are the waffles, which have been dipped in chocolate—number two hundred and twelve. Sometimes I get the deep-fried cinnamon roll, but I have to order an extra side of fudge sauce to go with that one.”
“Do you ever have anything . . . less sweet?”
“The Peg’s Eggs special is good if you want something regular. It comes with a free malted milkshake, but I could drink that for you if you don’t want it.”
“Terrific.”
Abigail and George collapsed and set down their menus.
The caretaker grinned. “So how close were you with Meredith Chickenpenny?”
“Very. We went to all the same schools—from junior high through post-graduate—and after that we went into business together too. We opened up an art gallery downtown that I still run now.”
“Sounds like she was a really good friend.”
“Yeah . . . she was.” Abigail ruminated for a moment and lowered her gaze. “When my husband got cancer, she was there every time I needed her. Every single instance. And it was a very long battle.”
“Did he recover?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” George shook his head. “You were the one who found Meredith . . . that day?”
“Yeah.” Abigail put air in her lungs and gathered herself. “She’d called me the night before—when she started to feel contractions—but I was asleep and very, very drunk. She wasn’t conscious long enough to make a second call—to the hospital or anybody else.”
“Do you have a drinking problem?”
“Not anymore. Not since that day.”
George wanted to believe this statement. “Well . . .
if you want to be a good friend to Meredith now, there’s a—”
“Please don’t try to make me feel guilty about what happened.”
“That isn’t my intention—I promise.” The caretaker sat forward and folded his soft hands. “What I want to talk about is something that might make you feel a whole lot better about what happened that day.”
Abigail stared at George.
This gaze was not friendly.
A song about butterscotch candies emerged from the jukebox as Peggy materialized, plucking a red pen from behind an ear. “What’s my cute little husband gonna cook up for you two?” inquired the proprietress.
Distracted, Abigail said nothing.
George eyed Peggy. “I’d like the chocolate-dipped waffles, with a side of candied bananas and a large hot chocolate.”
The proprietress looked at the brunette. “Ma’am?”
“I’ll have the Peg’s Eggs special.”
“Good choice,” Peggy said while writing on her orange notepad. “A malted milkshake comes with that.”
Abigail shook her head. “No milkshake.”
“It’s free . . . if you don’t want it, maybe Georgie here—”
“Don’t bring it out.”
“All right, ma’am.”
“However,” the brunette said, “I’d like a Crimson Cathy, double vodka.”
The proprietress raised an eyebrow that was ninety percent makeup, wrote down the order, and departed.
Abigail righted her posture and glared at George. “On the phone you said you were going to tell me about the baby. That’s why I’m here, and the only reason that I’m here. How is he?”
“Somebody wants to adopt him.”
Surprised, the brunette brightened. “Really?” That’s terrific.”
George stared at Abigail, unhappily, and shook his head. “The potential parent is a doctor of teratology. Do you know what a teratologist is?”
“A ‘teratologist’? No . . . I don’t think I do.”
“Well neither did I—so I looked it up.” The caretaker reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded-up rectangle of paper. “I tore this right out of a dictionary. Usually, I’m more considerate, but I wanted you to see it in print exactly as it’s written.”
George handed Abigail the purloined page.
With painted black fingernails, the brunette unfolded the paper.
“I highlighted the entry in yellow,” added the caretaker.
“I can see that.”
Abigail read the highlighted passage. Her breath caught, and tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes.
“I stared at that thing for so long that I wound up memorizing it,” said George. “‘Teratologist. Noun. A doctor who investigates congenitally misshapen and malformed organisms, especially animals and humans.’”
Sniffling, the brunette raised her gaze to meet that of the caretaker. “A teratologist wants to . . . adopt . . . Meredith’s baby?”
“One does. Unless another interested parent gets involved right now, this doctor of teratology will adopt Meredith’s baby. The process has already begun.”
Abigail wiped the tears from her eyes. “That’s—that’s horrible.”
“It is. I would try to adopt the baby myself, but my job prohibits doing that—and I’m already taking care of twenty-eight oth
er children during the day and my mother at night.”
The pair sat without speaking while the song about butterscotch candies crossfaded into one about a fancy car that was filled with swimsuited girls who really wanted to get to the beach.
“Any idea who the father is?” inquired George.
Abigail shook her head.
The caretaker had expected this response.
From the jukebox came a guitar solo.
George righted his posture and looked at Abigail. “You brought that baby to the hospital because you care about him. You sent him a lovely birthday gift because you care. You came here today to hear about him because you care . . . You are the only person other than me who has any affection for this poor child. Won’t you at least come to Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted and meet him?”
“I—I don’t know if I could handle it. That morning . . . when I found him at Meredith’s . . . he was . . .
he was so . . .”
The brunette did not know how to politely complete this sentence.
“Yes . . . I know,” said the caretaker. “And I won’t lie to you—the boy looks strange. But his heart is kind and strong, and he is precocious in a way that shows he’s already very intelligent. Was Meredith an intellectual?”
“She was—and a big reader too.” Abigail ruminated for a moment. “That woman studied a menagerie of peculiar things.”
“I’m not at all surprised to hear that. So will you come by and visit him? Please?
“Just once . . .
“His name is Hug Chickenpenny.”
The caretaker politely waited as the brunette sorted through her feelings. Upon the jukebox, a new song replaced the old one.
Abigail looked away from George and shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“But will you please—”
“No. I can’t.”
The brunette rose from the booth and walked away. Her footfalls echoed throughout the diner.
Confused, Peggy carried a loaded platter to the table and threw a glance at the closing door. “What happened?”
“Nothing important,” replied George. “But I’ll take all of that food to go. I’m not hungry anymore.”
———
Twelve miles away, Hug Chickenpenny gazed up at the mobile that hung directly over his emerald-green crib. A rocket ship, three stars, two astronauts, nine colorful planets, the moon, and an asteroid cluster were spun in small circles by a gust that came from the vent of an air conditioner.
The anomalous baby extended his functional, four-fingered right hand, but was unable to reach the little cosmos. His brown eye blinked, and he hissed.
VII | The Antagonist’s Reward
An ejected green cassette shot from the tape player and bounced out of the hands of the chubby caretaker, who was exceedingly distracted that morning. It had been three weeks since George Dodgett’s failed breakfast meeting with Abigail Westinghouse, and since that time, he had found no other prospective parents for Hug Chickenpenny.
The caretaker had prayed to his Lord to no avail.
All of the outstanding paperwork had been completed and filed, and today, the anomalous baby would leave Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted with his adoptive father, the teratologist.
“It isn’t fair,” George muttered to the empty car.
Situations such as this made him question his faith.
The caretaker slammed the door of his green hatchback and entered the orphanage.
For the first time in the history of time, Jennifer Kimberly looked up from her desk and smiled at George.
“Good morning, Mr. Dodgett.”
Perplexed, the caretaker scrutinized the blond receptionist. It occurred to him that this outbreak of friendliness might be attributable to some new advancement in the field of psychotropics.
“Good morning, Miss Kimberly,” George remarked while walking past the desk.
“Have a great day.”
Silently questioning this unprecedented display of amicability, the caretaker waved. “And to you.”
George entered the front hallway, oblivious of the unpleasant grin that twisted the face of Jennifer Kimberly.
Keys jingled, bolts clicked, and shoes were discarded. The caretaker entered the Nursery and strode to the corner in which stood the emerald-green crib that contained the child who had been his responsibility for fourteen months.
George reached the railing of the tiny bed and looked down.
His heart stopped, and his face reddened with anger.
A terrible thing lay next to Hug.
“No.”
The caretaker seized the terrible thing, said to the anomalous baby, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and stormed from the room.
Too angry to put on shoes, George sped toward the lobby in his toe socks. Shag carpet trembled in his wake.
A flung door slammed into the wall.
Startled, Jennifer Kimberly yelped.
The furious caretaker crossed the lobby and set the terrible thing in the middle of the reception desk.
“Why?”
George pointed at the cause of his outrage.
Opposite his trembling finger lay the golden gorilla. The stuffing had been removed from the animal’s left arm, which was now limp, and a hammer had pounded its head into a lumpy shape. One sparkling eye had been torn off and replaced with a red X, and scissors had amputated part of a leg. Spattered liquid eraser discolored much of its lush fur.
The mutilated golden gorilla now resembled Hug Chickenpenny.
“Why!?!” demanded the caretaker, who was shaking with anger.
Jennifer Kimberly looked up at George. A small amount of contempt shone through her heavy makeup.
“Tell me!” shouted the caretaker. “Why did you do this? Why would anybody ever want to do something like this?”
“It’s just a going-away present for the little monster.”
George grabbed the teal telephone and raised it over his head. “Don’t ever call him that!” His entire body shook with anger, and some very ugly thoughts filled his brainpan.
Jennifer Kimberly rolled away from her desk. “Throw that phone at me and you’ll be out of a job. And I’ll sue.”
The caretaker slammed the telephone on the desk and tried to calm himself. There was no point in interacting any further with this nasty, heartless receptionist.
George reclaimed the mutilated gorilla and turned to the front hallway, where stood Carol and Thomas. Both of them looked nervous.
Jennifer Kimberly rolled back to her desk. “I finally figured out why you’re so fond of that little monster . . .”
Attempting to ignore the blond receptionist, the caretaker walked toward his peers.
“You empathize with him,” stated Jennifer Kimberly. “He killed his mother at birth, and you killed your father in a car wreck.”
George lunged at Jennifer Kimberly.
Carol and Thomas ran forward. “Wait!”
Frightened, the receptionist spilled out of her chair. Her bony buttocks thudded upon the linoleum.
George reached for the throat of Jennifer Kimberly, but was restrained by Thomas.
“Cool it, man, cool it! You’ll lose your job.”
Carol interposed herself. “Think of Cocoa and Egg Roll!”
Pondering cute babies, George turned away from Jennifer Kimberly (who was rubbing her angular rump) and calmed himself.
No more provocations were uttered by the blond receptionist.
The caretaker retreated to the Arts & Crafts room, where he began his repairs on the mutilated gorilla. This surgery was a time-consuming enterprise that did not yield perfect results, but would probably satisfy the ape owner.
It was ten o’clock in the morning when George finally returned to the Nursery. Once again, he stood at the railing of the emerald green crib.
“May the Lord watch after you always, Hug Chickenpenny.”
The caretaker set the repaired golden gorilla beside t
he anomalous baby. Unconsciously, the sleeper reached out and clutched the stuffed animal.
George leaned into the crib and kissed Hug on the cheek.
“I love you,” whispered the caretaker, whose voice was hoarse.
The anomalous baby slept until he was taken away.
VIII | A Tour of the Hannersby Collection
A coffin-shaped car pulled into the driveway of a four-story house that had an overabundance of gabled windows. Within the gated yard that lay to the right of this building, variegated dogs ran in perfect figure-eight circuits.
Doctor Hannersby plucked the key from the ignition of his odd vehicle and buttoned the jacket of his snug, navy-blue suit. With a childlike hand, he unlocked and opened the glove compartment. The cloth-wrapped bundle that lay within this nook appeared to be intact.
“I trust that the insulated style of automotive conveyance is to your satisfaction?”
The mummified anomaly wriggled, and the skull of a blind lizard fell to the floor. For three months, the teratologist had searched his Skullatorium for this exact fossil.
“Splendid!”
Doctor Hannersby pocketed the skull, removed Hug Hannersby from the glove compartment, and looked at the baby’s exposed face.
Nose slits whistled, and unsynchronized eyes blinked.
“Anon, I shall give you a tour—in the classic ambulatory style—of your new habitat. Does that sound pleasing?”
The anomalous baby hissed.
“I’m glad you agree!”
Doctor Hannersby neatened his snug suit, left the coffin-shaped car, stretched his limbs, walked toward the house, remembered Hug, returned to the vehicle, and claimed his adopted specimen, whom he then carried to the wire gate that circumscribed The Canine Corral. Dogs barked from within this area, and elsewhere, miscellaneous noises emanated from other animals.
With childlike fingers, the teratologist unwrapped the lumpy, white-haired head of the anomalous baby.
Hug hissed and wriggled.
For the first time, Doctor Hannersby wondered at the wisdom of becoming a sixty-four-year-old single parent.
Squirming, the anomalous baby turned his head from the sun.
Hug Chickenpenny Page 4