The baby stared at me eyes brown. Oliver started the car. You didn’t know I had a daughter he said her name is Hazel. Ask her if she recognizes her name.
I turned to the back seat and said is your name Hazel. I told Oliver no answer.
That’s because you’re being too direct. It takes knowhow to handle a baby. You need to know how. Watch this. He pulled into a parking lot next to a row of stores. Wait here and don’t let my daughter go away he said. I waited in the car with the baby who looked out the window at the passing scene. This was people going in and out of the store with shopping bags. After a while Oliver came back with a package wrapped in pink plastic that took both arms to carry. He put it in the back seat next to the baby.
Now what do you think is in the package he said.
Baby stuff I said.
What kind of baby stuff.
I don’t know.
Figure out. When you see a baby what do you think of.
Crying I said.
What else do you think of.
Mothers I said. Milk and juice.
Well shit take a look at that baby in the back seat what shape would you say she is.
Round I said.
What part is roundest most padded stuffed and swollen up.
Her behind I said.
Righto and what makes her behind so padded and swollen up.
Diapers I said.
You’re speaking truth man. So what’s in the pink package.
Diapers.
Good man. Do you know why a baby needs diapers.
Everybody knows that I said embarrassed.
That’s knowhow. You weren’t expecting a baby on this trip were you he said.
I should have expected it I said.
Why should you have expected it.
Because I should have known whatever you do that’s what you would do.
Very smart answer. You’re a genius Nicky.
We went on. We were out of the city now. The country was flat. Fields flatting out to the sky. It must be lonely to live in a shed in one of those fields next to the brook between the pastures and that one tree by itself.
Her name is Hazel but do you know what they should have named that kid he said.
What I said.
They should have named her George. I always wanted a kid named George it’s a patriotic name.
That’s a boy’s name I said.
That’s no reason he said. Girls can be George if they want to be. There’s a writer named George and a movie named Georgie Gal and a song named George On My Mind. It’s best to name a girl George or Sam or Paul because it makes people notice. It’s like spice on Indian food it says this ain’t no ordinary girl. Nick would be almost as good he said.
That’s my name I said. To show I understand I said it’s the same as naming a boy Mary or Dorothy. That would make people notice.
He said you’re not kidding they’ve been good men in the history of the world named Evelyn and Maria and Leslie though I can’t think of a good man named Dorothy off hand.
He said what do you think Judy the mother is doing now.
Cooking dinner.
What else do you think she is doing.
Going to the bathroom.
Maybe that. Do you think she’s wondering where her baby is.
She’s wondering where her baby is.
I told her father we’re taking her to the playground. Do you see any playgrounds along the road where we could stop.
Across the fields I saw wires and a road above the fields and trees around a farmhouse and a barn and silo. I didn’t see any playground.
Too bad he said. Do you think Judy’ll worry because we can’t find a playground.
She’ll worry.
Will she cry.
She’ll cry.
Do you think we should turn back.
I thought about it. The sky was getting mellow. I don’t usually see sky where I live. Fields either. I wonder what it would be like to be a farm animal.
Do you he said.
I don’t know.
The baby started to cry.
Well fuck it there is no question of turning back he said. We didn’t start this trip with the intention of turning back. Because where are we going.
To the Miller Church.
Righto man. Three days it will take us. What do you think of that.
The baby was twisting and screaming in her seat.
Tell her to shut up Oliver said.
I turned around. Shut up I said.
The baby was sobbing all over itself. She won’t shut up I said.
Jesus what will we do with the baby for three days.
I thought about it. We could get someone to take care of her I said.
What. Who. Who exactly did you have in mind Nicky.
There was a farmhouse across a field. Someone in a house I said.
What house. The house was gone. Do you see anyone.
We could leave her by the roadside and someone rescue her.
This is my daughter you’re talking about. Hell man why do you think I got the child seat and the diapers because I told you I’m taking her to Miller. Dummy.
I didn’t say anything.
Why am I taking her to Miller. It’s because who Miller is he said. Do you remember that at least.
It’s because who Miller is.
Who is Miller then.
Miller is God’s right hand man.
More than that man more than that.
Miller is God’s son.
Shit you’re being stupid again. You’ve got to remember.
It wasn’t that I remembered it was that I was scared to say. Miller is God I said.
Miller is what.
Miller is God.
God who.
Miller is God Himself.
You’re getting there. And what did God do to you.
He made me what I am today.
Say it again.
He made me what I am today.
I thought about that. I thought of something to say to Oliver that I had never said before. I didn’t know what would happen but I said it. I said you treat me like I was a idiot.
You is a idiot he said.
No I isn’t.
How do you know. What evidence have you got.
Good evidence I said.
Well well look at you. Good evidence you say.
The doctor psycho in school. He told me I wasn’t an idiot.
He told you did he. What did you do ask. Did you go up to him and say please tell me am I an idiot or is it only that I feel like one.
He didn’t tell me he told the class.
He told the class you’re an idiot.
He told the class no one in school was an idiot. He said if you were an idiot you wouldn’t be in school.
You think that got you off the hook.
I thought about it I said. I thought nobody in school is an idiot. I’m in school. I’m not an idiot.
Good thinking he said. Well if you’re so smart don’t forget this either. We’re going to see Miller. We’re taking my daughter to see Miller. I’m taking you too because who Miller is. Tell me who he is.
Miller is God Himself.
And what else.
He made me what I am today.
Right. Tell that damned brat to shut up and go to hell will you.
Shut up and go to hell I said to the brat.
3
Judy Field
Oliver Quinn has my child, I can’t work. I wake in the morning without my baby, and it’s still true, it has been true now for fourteen hours, then sixteen, now eighteen. I have to do something, it does no good to claw the Oliver face in my mind. I think of the police with their tools, tracking equipment, networks, and I will give them no peace. Keep calling so they don’t forget, set them on fire with a mother’s flames.
Last night we considered a private detective. After calling the police, Connie and I went looking ourselves, tracking Oliver in his haunts. We went to Wexel, his la
st known address, a little white house crammed between others with an apartment on each floor. A light in his window, I knocked on the door. The occupants, women, students at the university, had never heard of Oliver Quinn. The McPhairs upstairs were glad to see me but knew nothing since he moved out a year ago. They advised me to get a lawyer, because he doesn’t have any rights if he doesn’t contribute child support. That’s not exactly the problem just now. Next we went to where Luke and Veronica used to live but the house was dark. We went to the Tabasco Bar and asked Mike, who said Oliver was in last Friday. Three days ago, not close enough. After that we had no more ideas and we came home.
This morning I got dressed in my office clothes and went to the police myself in spite of having called them last night. I drove down the hill to District Five. I want to report a kidnapping, I said, which started the news up all over again. I interviewed a fat policeman in a laundry white shirt with a large yellow mustache of the bushy type. He had authority like a television comedian or children’s show host. His fatherliness was not a display, just an emission, wince and cluck like still not accustomed to evil in the world after all these years on the police force, like where have you been, man? I told him I called in this information last night. Oh, he said, and went looking for files. He looked at folders a long time while I wondered. Yes, he said, we have the report.
What can you do? I said.
Ask more questions, that’s what you can do. Or the same ones over again. Age and name of baby. Name and last known address of Oliver Quinn the alleged abductor. Job, I don’t know. Quit graduate school after one semester. Worked in a restaurant. Name of the restaurant. Car, license number, how should I know? Why did he kidnap the child? His twisted mind. Was there a dispute about custody or visitation? Did he visit the child frequently? Why didn’t he?
Well ma’am, the good policeman said. You hear anything, let us know, you hear?
So I came back home to my father at his computer, writing. I had lunch with him. With nothing else to think about but wait, I went to work in the afternoon. I drove to the office, parked, walked in the office door. I saw Henrietta at her desk, and blurted it: My baby has been kidnapped.
What?
People jumped up from their desks. I burst into tears like the sea was following me everywhere. Henrietta and everybody, comforting arms, hugs, questions, I told everything again while everybody cried. I got control and hung up my coat and sat at my desk.
Go home, Cynthia said. We’ll cover for you.
I came to get away from home, I said.
I did a little work, a report for Mr. Getz. Computer focus, tapping keys, clickety click. Mr. Getz came and said go home, do it tomorrow. I burst into tears again. I don’t want to go home, I said.
In the middle of the afternoon another policeman showed up. Like a scout master straight up and down covered with electronics, a human robot with controls. No news, more questions. I went into the coffee lounge with him and shut the door. He wrote my answers in a notebook. Actually they were the same questions as those of the fatherly policeman in the morning. I asked if they had made any progress and he said they couldn’t do anything without this information. They already had this information, I said. Well we did find one thing, he said. Mr. Quinn has moved out of his apartment. Is that so? I said.
Then that evening Oliver called. Himself on the telephone in the midst of kidnapping my baby. Connie and David Leo were at the table and my father answered the phone. Oliver? he said. Oliver? I grabbed the phone out of my father’s hand. We talked, his damned voice pretending to be calm and cool. He was in a motel, he said, and Hazy’s fine, you don’t need to worry, it’s for her good. He’s rescuing her for her religious well-being. Do you want to talk to her? Then he put her on the phone or said he did, though she didn’t speak and all I really heard was silence full of her face holding the phone to her ear listening to me. Oh my child. I spoke to that face, crying, trying not to, saying This is Mommy, darling, can you hear me, baby, hoping she was really there and not just Oliver grinning at me. At the same time I was trying to think what Oliver meant by religious well-being and I remembered something but not enough, and then he was gone.
The name crashed over me too late. Stump Island, I said. He’s taking her to Stump Island.
What’s that?
I remembered Oliver’s last return, talking about a man who called himself God. No joke. The guru who claimed to be God Himself, which crazy Oliver wanted me to take seriously. Because he was going to live with him and wanted Hazy and me to go too. It was the final proof that Oliver was mad and cleared my conscience as far as he was concerned. Stump Island, that was the place.
Now we know something, Dave Leo said. Let’s go after them.
Dave Leo is a serious young man, a junior professor in the English Department. He admires my father and wants to be my boyfriend though I am white. He has a smooth brown face, African-American, with large eyes, a careful voice, a thoughtful and competent manner, a sad look. His presence these last two nights has been comforting. When we chatter about what to do, Dave Leo makes a steeple of the pointed fingers of his hands and mulls it over. I know he has an opinion about Oliver Quinn but he is tactful and keeps it to himself.
Where is Stump Island? he asked. Maine, I said. If that’s the right name. We got the atlas, where Dave Leo and my father looked it up. No listing in the atlas index. How sure are you, they asked, that it’s Stump Island and not Bump Island or Stone Island or Broken Leg Island? Not very sure. We need a larger scale map, Father said. He went to the computer and brought up a listing of place names. Stump Island, state of Maine, Penobscot County. He called Professor Henrich in Geography. I’ll get back to you, Henrich said.
I called the police to tell them about this call. A man named Jenks. I gave him the same information I had already given three times before. Now I added the guru and Stump Island. Thanks for the information, Jenks said.
Professor Henrich called back. Stump Island is a small island in the Penobscot area. It’s privately owned. Mail goes through Black Harbor, itself not big.
Let’s call them ourselves, Dave Leo said now.
Call who?
Somebody. The Maine police.
I don’t know about these small New England towns, Father said. I don’t know. Well go ahead. Let’s see if you can find police in Black Harbor at this time of the night.
This was Dave’s project. He called Directory Information for Maine. Somehow the operator located Black Harbor. So who do you want to talk to in Black Harbor at nine-thirty on Friday night? There’s McMahon’s Garage, the operator said. Post office is closed. Board of Selectmen no answering machine. I told you these small New England towns, Father said.
The operator was interested. How about the State Police? she said. The office in Augusta. Why are you calling us, the State Police in Maine wanted to know. It took a lot of explanation, Dave doing it now. Because we think they’re heading to Stump Island. Where’s that? the Maine policeman said. It’s near Black Harbor, Dave said. Where’s that? In Maine, Dave said. Well, son, the man said, this is across state lines, shouldn’t you call your FBI?
FBI, Father said. Of course. Call them, I said. So Father looked it up and called the 800 number in the telephone book. Another interview, more questions. Meanwhile Dave was thinking.
The FBI will send a man around tomorrow morning, Father said. Fine, Dave said. And I think I’ll take a little trip to Stump Island.
What are you talking about? It’s hundreds of miles.
I’ll take my car, I’ll drive. I mean it. I’m serious.
What about your classes?
I can cover them.
If you go, I should go too, I said.
You? he said. I saw the quickly dashed flare of hope, the glance at my father, the thought of traveling across the country with me. What more could a would-be lover want? But he didn’t dare, not quite, not yet.
Just me, he said. You’re needed here. It’s something I can check out while yo
u deal with the FBI.
He wanted to be a hero. All right. Father said it would be more sensible for Dave to fly and rent a car in Bangor. I’ll pay, he said. You might even get to Black Harbor before they do.
If that’s where they’re going, Connie said, to keep our hopes down.
I went to bed. This was the second night I went to bed without my baby, and it was worse than the first. Worse because I had let myself be distracted during the day. I had spewed language, nouns, verbs, adjectives, syntax and grammar, all that human jabber all day long.
There was a pale light from the street lamp on the wall like every night. Lacy tree branches through the upper pane against the sky. Sound of night traffic on the highway in the industrial valley. No siren at this moment, though there would be another soon for there were always sirens. The baby crib at the foot of the bed, that’s what was empty. Its emptiness opened into the underworld. I had not thought about the empty crib all day. Now it was back, still empty.
For twenty-six years of my life there was no baby, and I never missed her. I was accustomed to sleeping alone in my room with no sounds except my own sounds and what was outside the window. Then the baby came. Though I sometimes missed my privacy, I welcomed the change. This new little life which came out of me would cry and I would hold her on my breast and she would stop and belong to me. I put her delicately in the crib and as I lay in bed I would hear her snuffling and turning, and if she whimpered I would pick her up again and she would stop. Henceforth there would always be tension in my life, alert to the dangers of relaxation. My sleep was never as deep as it used to be because my ears were still listening, and I was permanently watchful for every possible mishap that could threaten this bud growing in my room so close to me.
But now I was alone in my room again as if my old life had never been interrupted. No snuffling from the crib, as if the last year and a half had not existed. She’s not dead, I said to myself. Now. Think about now. I put my baby into now, which meant finding her in a motel somewhere between here and Stump Island. Crazy Oliver taking care of her, if he could. She cries looking for something familiar in a world mostly still chaos in which the one clear certainty, Mommy, is absent, replaced by some crude thing she doesn’t know what it is. I spoke aloud in my private room. Hold on, baby, I said, we’ll find you. I promise.
Disciples Page 2