Stork Raving Mad

by Donna Andrews

  “What’s wrong, Bronwyn?” Rose Noire asked.

  “Dr. Blanco came in and complained that it was too cold out there in your office,” Bronwyn said. “So I went out to show him where the space heater was,” she said. “As soon as I got it going, he demanded some hot tea and snapped at me that he was busy and needed privacy and wasn’t to be disturbed. So what am I supposed to do with the tea—slip it under the door?”

  “Here.” Rose Noire handed me a glass of ginger ale—probably organic ginger ale made from free-range ginger roots, if there was such a thing, but it tasted fine. In fact, it tasted delicious. I had to force myself to sip rather than gulp. I’d have to visit the bathroom soon enough as it was.

  “He probably won’t even notice if I don’t bring him any tea,” Bronwyn went on. “When I left, he was yelling into his cell phone. Something about the heating plant.”

  “If he’s working on getting the heat back on, let’s do anything we can to help him,” I suggested. Blanco was probably the administrator Michael had mentioned earlier—the one running around with a roll of Tums in his pocket. And if he was the person in charge of solving the heating-plant problem, perhaps I should revise my already pessimistic estimate of how long the repairs would take.

  Rose Noire finished fussing with the tea tray and carried it out. I glanced at the kitchen clock. Almost noon. We should probably offer some kind of lunch to Michael and the other professors. And by “we” I meant Rose Noire, who wouldn’t let me fix a meal even if I had the energy to do so.

  I followed her out of the kitchen and plunked myself down in one of the dining room chairs that cluttered our hall, my glass of ginger ale in hand. Time for another nap. Past time, in fact. But I didn’t want to nod off while there was anything I could do to help Michael, and climbing the stairs wasn’t something I did any more often than I had to.

  I pulled out my cell phone and then paused to study it. At one point in my life, I’d refused to get a cell phone. The idea of being always interruptible appalled me. “I’m a blacksmith,” I said. “How connected do I need to be?”

  But the safety and convenience of having a cell phone when I traveled had made a dent in my resistance, and when Michael entered my life, I realized that there was at least one person I nearly always wanted to talk to, no matter where I was and what I was doing when he called. And now I wouldn’t go two steps without it. I was deathly afraid of going into labor at a moment when everyone around me was doing such a good job of leaving me in peace and quiet that they wouldn’t hear my cries for help. These days, the cell phone only left my pocket when I slipped it into the charger on my nightstand.

  “What a negative person!” I looked up to see Rose Noire returning from the library. Evidently she hadn’t lingered to chat with Dr. Wright. “I should start the cleansing now.”

  “Make it an exorcism,” I said. “Maybe you can chase her out.”

  Rose Noire giggled at that, and returned to the kitchen in better spirits. I speed dialed my brother, Rob. Although he was devoid of any skill with computers or talent for business, his uncanny ability to come up with ideas that would turn into popular computer games had catapulted him into his present role as CEO and chief game theorist at Mutant Wizards, now an industry leader in designing what his head of public relations referred to as “infotainment.”

  Right now Rob’s easy access to technologically savvy people was just what I needed.

  “Hey,” he said, as he answered his phone. “Do I have nieces and/or nephews yet?”

  “Alas, no,” I said. “Soon, but not yet.”

  “You don’t want to wait too long,” Rob said. “Don’t do to them what Mother did to me and stick them with a birthday too close to Christmas.”

  Rob’s upcoming mid-December birthday had always been a sore spot with him. He was convinced that everyone ignored his birthday, giving him a slightly larger Christmas present in lieu of two presents, so that his overall present haul suffered greatly. I was five years older and remembered events quite differently—it seemed to me that our parents had gone to great lengths to throw him quite elaborate birthday parties, and that our friends and relatives had brought heaps of presents out of pity for the poor December birthday boy.

  But what seemed to matter decades later was his perception, not what really happened. For that matter, how could I be sure my own perception wasn’t off base?

  “If you like, I’ll jog around the yard a few times after I hang up. See if I can bring on labor before the holidays get any closer,” I said. “Right now, though, I need something.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “A tame hacker.”

  A small pause followed. I sipped my ginger ale as I waited for him.

  “What for?” he asked. “Nothing illegal, I hope. Don’t you just mean a techie?”

  “I want someone who’s absolutely expert at working with the college data systems,” I said. “You know Ramon? Grad student who’s been staying with us?”

  “Of course,” he said. “The one directing the play. With the gorgeous girlfriend.”

  “Gorgeous girlfriend?”

  “Bronwyn Jones. She plays the prostitute with the heart of gold in the play. If she wasn’t spoken for . . .”

  So that was her name. I’d already marked her down as a potential ally.

  “Getting back to Ramon,” I said. “Some creeps from the college might be trying to pull a fast one and lose some forms that he needs to have filed for his dissertation.”

  “Typical. Jerks.”

  “So I want someone who can comb the college systems for useful information. Proof that Ramon’s forms were submitted, if such a thing exists. Or proof that the creeps are trying to pull a fast one. I’d prefer finding stuff that’s legitimately available, but don’t find me anyone with too many scruples. If we exhaust the legit sources . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said. “If they’re sending e-mails to each other saying, ‘Okay, let’s sabotage this Soto kid and that will help us prevent that horrible Michael Waterston from getting tenure,’ you want to know about it. I think I know just the person, and he’s probably already there. Have you met Danny Oh? That’s O-H, last name, not a nickname.”

  “Not that I know of—should I have?”

  “He’s only been living in your basement for three weeks,” Rob said. “One of our student interns. Remember when I asked if I could have some of the interns live in the basement until the heat came back on in the dorms?”

  “I’d forgotten, actually,” I said. “It’s been weeks since I went down into the basement.”

  “Probably just as well,” he said. “It’s taken on a sort of frat-house ambiance. Nothing we can’t fix with a few trash bags, of course,” he added quickly. “But you might want to let me call Danny and have him come up to the ground floor.”

  “Call him and brief him,” I said. “And tell him I’ll drop down to his lair to see him a little later. I need him at his computer, not doing the flamenco in the kitchen, and I may want to look over his shoulder.”

  I also might want to take a look at the basement, to see if I thought getting it back to normal was going to take more than a few trash bags. I had visions of squalor that would take Dumpsters, fire hoses, and fumigation.

  “Will do,” Rob said, and hung up.

  The doorbell rang. Again. What now?

  Chapter 7

  I set down my ginger ale, waddled to the door, and opened it to find Abe Sass and Art Rudmann standing on the doorstep.

  “Am I glad to see you two,” I said. “Come in.”

  “Meg! You’re looking wonderful!” Abe exclaimed. He was tall, lean, and Lincolnesque.

  “But a little pale,” Art added. “Don’t you think she looks a little pale? Are you eating enough?” He was short, plump, and always looked as if he’d misplaced something and couldn’t quite remember what.

  “I’m fine and I’m eating more than enough to keep Gilbert and Sulliv
an happy,” I said. “Come in; you’re letting out all the warm air.”

  “Where’s Michael?” Abe asked as they shed their coats and and hung them on one of the coatracks.

  “In the kitchen with the students,” I said, gesturing.

  “And Dr. Wright?”

  “In the library.”

  “We should probably have a short huddle with Michael before we tackle them,” Art said. “If Wright’s in the library, then I suppose Michael’s office is out. Perhaps we could go out to the barn and use your office.”

  “Dr. Blanco’s out in my office,” I said. I noticed that they hadn’t asked about him—clearly they shared my view that he was a lesser menace. “He wanted privacy for his important phone calls. If you want a room not already filled with either anxious students or hostile faculty, I’d suggest either the pantry or the nursery. Sorry, having all these students around does rather complicate things sometimes.”

  “It’s the nursery, then,” Abe said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Top of the stairs,” I said. “I’ll—”

  “Oh, my God!” Art was pointing at something at my feet. A small puddle.

  “Did your water break?” he asked. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” He had clutched Abe’s arm and his eyes were as wide as I’d ever seen them.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. “That’s only some spilled ginger ale.”

  “Are you sure?” Art asked.

  “Now, now,” Abe said, patting his arm.

  “If my water broke, it wouldn’t contain ice cubes,” I said, pointing to one sitting in the middle of the puddle. “Trust me, only ginger ale.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said. “I was so worried that your water had broken.”

  “Why worried?” I asked. “I’d be relieved. It would probably mean I was going into labor soon. I’m looking forward to getting this over with.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?” Art asked. “Wouldn’t we have to rush you to the hospital if it broke?”

  “Dangerous?” I echoed. “It’s a normal part of pregnancy. Although it doesn’t happen to everyone; according to Dad, seventy-five percent of the time it doesn’t happen until well along in the delivery. And the only danger is that if you don’t give birth within twenty-four hours of your water breaking, there’s an increased risk of infection. So if it breaks, I call my doctor, very calmly, and do whatever she tells me to do.”

  “What if you can’t reach her?” Art asked.

  “Then we call my dad,” I said. “Remember, he’s a doctor, too.”

  “But they don’t live here,” he said. “I thought they lived in Yorktown. That’s at least an hour away. What if—”

  “He and Mother bought a farmhouse here so they can come to visit as often as they like without being a bother, as Mother puts it. And they’ve been staying here for the last few weeks, just in case. And Dad’s been giving Michael and Rose Noire all kinds of lessons in what to do under every possible circumstance—Michael says it’s the next best thing to med school. So there’s no danger that I won’t have help if I need it.” Of course, there was some danger that I might trip over all the eager helpers and well-meaning worriers, but I decided it wouldn’t be tactful to say so aloud.

  “That’s a relief,” Art said.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ve got everything covered. Why don’t you go on upstairs? I’ll send Michael up.”

  “We could fetch him,” Art said. “So you don’t have to exert yourself. How about—”

  “I’m just going to call him,” I said, holding up my cell phone. “These days, we both carry our cell phones twenty-four/seven.”

  “Let’s go upstairs and let her make her call,” Abe said. He was patting Art’s shoulder in a reassuring manner. I found myself wondering how Art had survived his own children’s births if the mere possibility that I might be going into labor unnerved him so much. I made a mental note to ask his wife one of these days.

  They trooped upstairs. Abe seemed to take the stairs well enough, but Art lagged a little. Was he still worrying about me, or was he feeling unwell? He’d come through heart surgery last year just fine, but everyone was trying not to put too much stress on him. Everyone in the drama department, that is. I felt a sharp surge of anger and resentment against Drs. Wright and Blanco for causing Michael and his closest colleagues so many headaches. If they were fretting Art into some kind of stress-related medical problem . . .

  Nothing I could do about it now. Except maybe ask Dad to take a look at him. But first, they had to have their conference.

  A wave of tiredness washed over me. I could remember days when I’d have dashed out to the kitchen in a few seconds, but right now I felt too exhausted to stand up. I leaned back in my chair and called Michael.

  “Meg?” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Just out here in the hall,” I said. “Art and Abe have arrived and they’re upstairs in the nursery, since at the moment it’s probably the only empty room in the house. Apart from our bedroom, of course, where I’m planning to take a nap before too long.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  “By the way, did you know we have displaced programmers in the basement?” I asked.

  “Is that something like carpenter ants?”

  “No, it’s more like I was so focused on the drama students occupying our extra bedrooms and living room, I never even noticed we had a whole extra colony of guests underground.”

  “Oh, Rob’s people.” Michael was standing in front of me now, so we both shut off our phones. “Yes, I found out about them a week ago. I chewed Rob out for not asking, then told him that under the circumstances, it was fine if they stayed. Should I have told you? I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. “Maybe even useful.”

  “Do you want me to bring you another chair?” he asked. “Something more comfortable?”

  “Nothing’s all that comfortable right now, and I like this one. I can get out of it when I want to. Art and Abe are waiting.”

  “Just rest there, then.” He planted a kiss on the top of my head and began galloping up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  I leaned back. Maybe I’d rest for a few moments and then go up and join them. Or go out to the kitchen to check on events there.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said.

  Michael came running back down the stairs.

  “Stay put,” he called. “I’ll get it. I thought you said you let them in and sent them up to the nursery.”

  “I did,” I said. “This must be someone else. Our lives are starting to resemble that scene in the Marx Brothers movie—you know the one where they have fifteen people in the ship’s cabin?”

  “A Night at the Opera. Good practice—when the kiddies arrive they’ll be a crowd all by themselves. Oh, hello,” he said as he opened the door. “Meg, it’s your mother.”

  “Surprise!” Mother trilled.

  Mother and her best friend and usual co-conspirator, Mrs. Fenniman, sailed into the foyer. Both of them were carrying bolts of fabric in shades of lavender and green. Behind them, I could see a small party of workmen carrying tool kits and lumber.

  I had a bad feeling about this.

  “Hello, dear,” Mother said. “We’ve come to decorate your nursery.”

  She and Mrs. Fenniman both flourished their fabric bolts.

  “Decorate the nursery?” I said, blinking with surprise. “It’s already decorated.”

  Behind Mother, the workmen shuffled from foot to foot and looked sheepish. I recognized the tall, lean form of Randall Shiffley, owner of the Shiffley Construction Company. The other two workmen, equally tall and lean, were probably two of his many cousins. No wonder they looked sheepish. Randall and the rest of the Shiffleys should know by now how I felt about my mother’s kamikaze decorating attacks.

  “Meg, darling, it’s not decorated. It’s barely furnished.” Mother k
issed my cheek as she strolled past me toward the staircase. Her entourage followed.

  “It’s got cribs,” I said, pulling my feet back to make sure the twins and I weren’t jostled. “Cribs, a table for changing them, and a couple of chests for the clothes and diapers and stuff.”

  “The cribs don’t even match,” Mother said, in a tone that suggested that I was on the verge of committing child abuse.

  “They don’t need to match,” I said. “Jeeves and Wooster won’t—they’re fraternal. And I don’t think it’s a bad idea to have different cribs for the kids. Help them establish their independent identities from the start.”

  “Matching doesn’t mean the cribs have to be identical,” Mother said. “Matching means they coordinate. Look well together.”

  “Look like you didn’t just buy them from the thrift shop,” Mrs. Fenniman put in, with her usual tact.

  “We didn’t buy them in a thrift shop,” I said. “They were gifts.”

  “Hand-me-downs,” Mother said, with a sniff, as if to imply that hand-me-downs were not suitable for her grandchildren-to-be.

  “And I’m not sure I approve of any decorating that requires a construction crew,” I said. “No offense intended,” I added to Randall.

  “None taken,” he said. “We’re just here for the papering and painting and such.”

  Michael and I exchanged a look. Michael recognized the pleading in my eyes. I didn’t want to deal with Mother.

  “Why don’t you show me what you have in mind?” Michael stepped forward and offered Mother his arm. “I don’t think Meg has the energy to make decisions. And I have some pretty definite ideas about what we do and don’t want for the nursery. Nothing frilly for example, in case they’re boys.”

  “They can find that out these days, you know,” Randall said. “They can do a test to find out whether you’ve got boys, or girls, or a mixed set.”

  “Meg and Michael have decided they want to be surprised, the old-fashioned way,” Mother said. From the tone in her voice, you’d have thought she had agreed with us all along, instead of arguing with us for months. Probably, as I now realized, because it made her surprise decorating scheme more difficult.