The Book of Baby Names

by Prentiss, Norman

  And Miss Rose did stink. Cheryl Ann mostly got used to it, like with any bad smell, but it was worse when she pressed the doll to her face.

  She didn’t want her father complaining again. He’d been worse lately, saying Cheryl Ann was too much for him to handle, and how he’d be glad when school started next week. They’d teach his daughter how to be a grown up, he said, and he looked at Miss Rose while he spoke.

  School sounded like a punishment. It was like he wanted to send her away.

  Well, at least she wouldn’t give him reason to complain about Miss Rose. She knew where some nice smells were hidden.

  She couldn’t lift the bigger garage door, so it was mostly dark while she scrambled around inside. The Ladybug keys were in the wide drawer of her father’s work desk. A horn beeped once when she twisted the key to open the trunk.

  Inside sat one big suitcase the color of mustard. She had to unfasten two large belts then unzip all the way around the case until it opened like a mouth. There was a smaller bag inside, with more zipper compartments. Cheryl Ann pulled out a glass bottle that was cut like a giant diamond. She lifted a gold cap to reveal a spray nozzle.

  “Time for your shower, Miss Rose.” She misted the outside of the cloth bag, front and back. Then she unpuckered the opening at the top, where she’d let in fresh air to help Miss Rose breathe. Cheryl Ann sprayed more perfume inside the bag. She sprayed and sprayed.

  Then she put everything back the way she found it, and left the garage.

  * * *

  That night, her father talked to a bottle on the kitchen table. He yelled at it, asked it why he could still feel her presence in the house, complained about a daughter who was too much trouble, then he slumped in the chair and said he was tired of fighting.

  Cheryl Ann stayed in her bedroom. She hugged Miss Rose tight, and a sickly sweet smell wafted from the opening at the top. The bag was so dirty it looked more like the burlap sack from the creek. A ceramic hand pressed against a worn section of cloth, but the hand was in the wrong place. Maybe Miss Rose had turned upside down in the bag, and it was a shoe she now tucked under her chin at night. Cheryl Ann held the bag by the middle and shook Miss Rose’s waist. The limbs didn’t dangle the way they used to. There was a rattle, and more of that sickly sweet smell.

  * * *

  When her father met her at the door to drive her to school, Cheryl Ann held a backpack in one hand and Miss Rose in the other.

  “You’re not taking that thing.” Daddy held out his hand for the covered doll. “First day of school. Time to be a grown up little girl.”

  Cheryl Ann backed away from him. “I’ll put Miss Rose away.” She hurried to her room and wondered if she should hide her doll under the bed. She didn’t want to leave Miss Rose where Daddy could find her: he was acting strange again, yelling at the bottle, at the television, at a crumpled up picture he pulled from his wallet. Without Cheryl Ann home to protect her, Miss Rose might get her face slapped. Or worse.

  Her backpack had paper and pencils and crayons, a ruler and blunt-point scissors—all scavenged from Daddy’s favorite second-hand store—plus a sandwich she made last night and a baggy full of cheese durdles. The plastic backpack was covered with pictures of butterflies, and it smelled like a sweaty shoe. It didn’t make her feel like a grown up little girl.

  “Hurry now, Cheryl Ann. Don’t make me come get you.”

  She pushed Miss Rose under the bed and ran to her father.

  They drove over lots of dirt roads, then passed through town. When they got to school, Cheryl Ann didn’t want to leave Daddy’s truck. It was the biggest building she’d ever seen in real life, two rows of windows on the front, and a line of kids pushing through a big wooden door. The kids were all sizes. All of them were dressed nicer than she was.

  Daddy leaned across her lap and opened the truck door. “Get, now. I’ll pick you up after four.”

  A loud bell rang, and everyone else seemed to know where they were going. Cheryl Ann stood in an empty hallway, until a tall, bald man appeared and told her school had started last week; her Daddy must have gotten the date wrong. He escorted her to a classroom, and there wasn’t an empty desk and chair for her. The children all stared. Some of them clutched their stomachs, like they were holding back laughter.

  Eventually, the bald man brought in a desk and chair and set her up at the back of the room. Other children had clean, new desks. Hers had strange words scratched into the top. The wooden chair was sticky to the touch.

  The students in her class all knew each other, not just from the first week of school, but from last year’s kindergarten—which, for some reason, her Daddy had allowed her to skip. The teacher was an older lady who smiled a lot, like someone on TV selling toothpaste. Whenever the teacher wasn’t looking, some of the other kids made faces at Cheryl Ann.

  “You smell like dirty socks,” whispered one girl with a pink ribbon in her ponytail.

  A boy seated across from her said, “Your dress looks funny.” He wore an ironed white shirt and a thin blue tie. His straight brown hair had a perfect part down one side.

  Cheryl Ann wished she could wear a different dress tomorrow, but this was all she had. They could make fun of her again and again.

  She wished she could show them that she owned some nice things, at least.

  At lunchtime, there was even less supervision. In one corner of the playground, with no teacher in sight, a ring of her classmates crowded around her.

  “It’s the smelly new girl with the smelly backpack.” The one with the pink ribbon pointed at her. A few other kids repeated the word “smelly,” and pointed too.

  The boy in the ironed shirt pushed closer. “What’s for lunch?” A line of spicy mustard hatched the front of his blue tie. He’d already eaten: why did he care what she’d brought?

  Cheryl Ann hugged the pack to her chest, shook her head back and forth.

  “Aww. Give it here.” He was almost as fast as Daddy. His arm flashed out and hooked one of the straps. Before she knew it, he’d yanked the pack out of her grip.

  “Throw it here,” another girl said, fat faced with cruel pig eyes. “Let’s play Keep Away!”

  Cheryl Ann was in the middle. They threw the pack over her head and laughed. Passed it from side to side. Said Come and get it, then threw it again when she grabbed for it.

  They were too rough. The pack hit the ground a few times, and she was glad Daddy made her leave Miss Rose at home.

  Then she had an awful thought. She pictured the dark area beneath her bed: paper and pencils and crayons, a ruler and blunt-point scissors, plus a sandwich and a baggy full of cheese durdles.

  The pack hit the ground again, with a sloshy thump. Pig Eyes grabbed it and flung it hard.

  Cheryl Ann jumped, but her arms still weren’t long enough to reach. “Stop, you’ll hurt her,” she said. Then, “Miss Rose!”

  The boy with the ironed shirt had her backpack now. “Is that your Mommy’s name?” He held the pack at arm’s length and scrunched up his face. “It sure does stink, Smelly.” He shook the pack, and it rattled and sloshed and crinkled like plastic.

  “You better not,” Cheryl Ann said, which as good as made him do it.

  He opened the zipper and spread the pack wide, but then he dropped it like it bit him. He got sick, all over his pretty ironed shirt and thin blue tie.

  And the whole circle of kids, so bully-brave minutes earlier, now screamed and pointed at the open backpack on the ground, and what spilled out.

  Her teacher finally came running, one hand covering that TV-toothpaste smile, and Cheryl Ann knew her Daddy would have some difficult questions to answer. She couldn’t quite remember what she’d put in the pack. For certain, it wasn’t just Miss Rose, and not just puppies that drowned, either, since adults didn’t care about dolls or puppies the way children did, but probably other things that didn’t happen, like when her Mommy went away and didn’t go away, or when stomachs exp
loded, and when souvenirs stayed in the trunk of the Ladybug or in other bags dropped in the creek, rough bags with rocks and soft lumps that fell off bone if you squeezed them.

  If only the boy had left everything where it belonged. As long as the pack stayed closed, the contents could be whatever she imagined them to be.

  * * *

  Nicholas

  Homeschooled

  “Ms. Lewis, I have a problem.”

  Nicholas had once again cornered her in the hallway, this time in front of the fifth grade lockers. Deborah Lewis made a special effort to learn the names and personality quirks of all their students, but some kids crossed her path more than others. As Principal of Mill Creek Dayschool, Deborah handled the most serious discipline problems; she also maintained a tightly packed file drawer for current students with learning disabilities or socialization issues. After only four months at Mill Creek, Nicholas Carlisle’s folder was already so thick that she’d had to move it to a separate drawer.

  Other students were still in morning classes, where their teachers could easily treat small injuries using the zip-lock bag of band-aids, cotton balls, antibiotic ointment, and other first-aid materials she’d supplied at the beginning of the year. Deborah surveyed Nicholas quickly for visible cuts or bruises. His face and neck were clear. And no red smear on his upper lip to indicate he’d suffered another of his frequent nosebleeds. An untucked button-down shirt covered the boy’s plump, almost boxy torso, and he held his arms behind his back. He shifted his weight uneasily from one short leg to another.

  “What do you need, Nicholas?” The boy seemed uncharacteristically quiet. He was the kid who dominated class discussion, blurting out encyclopedic facts or asking questions that endeared him to his teacher and enticed classmates to brand him a know-it-all or show-off.

  “I’m not sure.” He looked down, his blond bangs dropping over his eyes. “I was just in the bathroom…”

  That explained it. Even the most outgoing kid might turn shy when it came to bodily functions.

  “Is there something we need to clean up?”

  “Well. Maybe.”

  His right arm emerged from behind his back. He glanced down at something in his hand: an object the size of a baseball, wrapped in layers of brown paper towels. The paper was dark in spots where moisture had soaked through.

  Nicholas quickly hid the object behind his back again.

  Deborah didn’t want to embarrass him. Hell, she liked the kid, and couldn’t really blame him for his difficulties at Mill Creek. His social problems stemmed from formative years of homeschooling—trained by overprotective parents who spoiled him with constant attention, yet isolated him from kids his age. No wonder he got teased by peers, and lashed out whenever things didn’t go his way. And no surprise if this accident-prone kid was still getting accustomed to public restrooms.

  She figured out a way to solve the problem, and still spare the boy’s dignity. “Do you want to call your mother and ask her what to do?”

  “Yes!” Nicholas lifted his head and offered a bright smile. Deborah handed him her cell phone, which he accepted with his left hand, the other still hidden behind his back.

  She walked far enough away to give Nicholas at least the illusion of privacy. His high voice carried a few phrases down the hallway:

  — “Just happened.”

  — “No, it’s not.”

  — “Yes. Right here” (with a shake of the mysterious object, as if his mother could see it through the phone connection).

  The boy’s side of the conversation drifted into relative silence, broken by an occasional soft “uh-huh” or “okay.” Eventually she heard a “bye” and the beep of a disconnected call, and Nicholas brought the phone to her.

  “My mother says I should thank you for letting me call her. I can take care of this myself now.”

  “You’re very welcome, Nicholas.” Deborah nodded approvingly, then walked back to the main office.

  When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Nicholas gently place the wrapped object in the hallway trashcan.

  * * *

  Deborah retrieved a pair of rubber gloves from the cleaning closet, and snapped her hands into them.

  She was pleased with how she’d handled Nicholas Carlisle’s recent crisis. His mother was demanding and inflexible, predisposed to criticize the school, so it only made sense to consult her about her son whenever possible: after all, the woman couldn’t very well find fault with her own decisions.

  She guessed Nicholas simply had one of the two usual forms of bathroom accident, then tossed the soiled evidence. His mother had no doubt given the boy permission (as her own son, now grown, used to say) to “go commando” for the remainder of the school day.

  At the same time, Deborah wanted to have all the facts, in case Mrs. Carlisle decided to challenge her later.

  She moved quickly. It wouldn’t do for the kids—or the teachers, for that matter—to catch her rooting through the garbage. She especially didn’t want to be seen recovering an 11-year-old boy’s discarded undergarment. In one quick motion, she scooped the wrapped object out of the bin and ducked into an empty science classroom.

  Arm extended and nose turned away to avoid the smell, Deborah took the object directly to the side counter and dropped it into the deep metal sink.

  Above the sink, cabinets too high for kids to reach housed items teachers used for demonstrations or scaled-down lab activities. She found a pile of wooden tongue depressors, and took two. Like chopsticks, or makeshift tweezers.

  Now that she examined it under bright light, she knew the object was too small to be a crumpled undergarment. Perhaps Nicholas had simply balled up and thrown away some spoiled food from his lunch…

  She pinched a section of paper towel between the tongue depressors, and pulled the first layer away. She didn’t notice any strong odor, but the wet spot on the top layer was larger and darker on the next.

  Deborah lifted another layer with her tongs. The soggy towel tore, instead of peeling cleanly away. The newly revealed layer looked even darker.

  Her next attempt jostled the whole object. A small slit tore open in the side, and bright red drops trickled out and splashed onto the metal sink.

  Blood?

  Nicholas could have really hurt himself, and then had been too afraid to tell her. He hadn’t told his mother the entire truth either, judging from her calm reaction.

  Deborah was glad she’d decided to investigate further. She abandoned the wooden tongs and pulled at the soggy paper with the fingers of her rubber gloves.

  Several more drops of blood pinged into the sink. She tore one section away to reveal the curl of something like a pink earthworm, or the bald, glistening tail of a small rodent.

  A dead animal of some kind, found in the restroom. Deborah indulged in a brief moment of relief knowing the blood wasn’t from Nicholas, then redirected her anxiety. Animals on school property, particularly rodents, would cause an outcry from the parent community. She’d alert the cleaning lady, and call in an exterminator if necessary.

  Her next pinch lifted the object a few inches instead of tearing the paper. She lost her grip, and the wadded ball dropped back into the sink with a wet thud. The rip in the side of the paper widened, and the end of a small limb popped out: an orange bird’s claw, stiff as if prepared to attack. A fresh clot of blood beaded at the end of a tiny talon, then dropped into the sink.

  Two animals, then. They’d killed each other, and Nicholas discovered the gory remains at the windowsill or along the molding.

  Except the dead claw dropped out further, slithered out past the tear in the paper. Not part of a bird, not the tail of a mouse, but some awful combination: a worm-like tendril, with stiff sharp talons extended from the pulpy tip.

  Horrified, Deborah pulled away the remaining layers of paper with a quick jerk. The dead animal—for it was a single animal—rolled out of the wet covering and landed facedown in the sink.


  Deborah was thankful she’d only caught a brief glimpse of the creature’s face.

  In a puddle of blood and mucus, seven pink limbs curled away from a bristled blue-gray torso. She thought of a spider or an insect, its mid-section engorged with poison. Several half-moon slits, like gills, scored the sides between hideously attached legs. But something about the creature’s thick neck, the way its round head bent away from its body, reminded Deborah of a human fetus.

  * * *

  She sealed the dead creature in a zip-lock bag, then borrowed a large Dorling-Kindersly picture book to hold over the clear bag as she walked through the hallway. As she passed Audrey at the office reception desk, she reflexively hugged the book closer to her body, pressing the hidden bag against her side. Through her blouse, Deborah imagined she could feel the squishy rearrangement of worm-like limbs.

  Once in her office, she dropped the bag in the second file drawer—appropriately enough, the Nicholas Carlisle drawer—and pressed the metal “lock” button for the cabinet.

  Before she took any further action, Deborah needed to determine how seriously the morning’s discovery had affected Nicholas. She again walked the length of the hallway, then entered the boy’s classroom and took an empty seat along the back wall.

  Ms. Shultz nodded a silent greeting, but the children barely registered the Principal’s presence. Her classroom visits were common—a nice break from administrative duties, and the best way for her to observe students in a normal environment. Right now the kids were absorbed in a math project, cutting out small circles of construction paper and pasting them onto 5” x 7” index cards. The teacher had pushed the desks together in groups of four; students at each work station shared markers, glitter glue, pipe cleaners and colored beads as they decorated their flash cards.

  At the front of the room, Nicholas had a four-desk station all to himself, with his own set of craft supplies. Deborah recalled her first of many conversations with the boy’s mother before the start of the school year. Mrs. Carlisle wanted to speak to parents of some of the other children before she would admit Nicholas into Mill Creek—not for general information or testimonials about the school, as it turned out, but because she wanted to ask them about their religious beliefs, their “lifestyles.” Mrs. Carlisle was concerned about stray opinions her boy might encounter from other children; after these parent interviews (she explained), she would assist the teacher in arranging a seating chart, to coordinate which students spent more time with her son.