Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  “And who is this little movie star?” I ask.

  The woman beams. “This is Ashley.”

  “Ashley. She is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  I am careful not to get too close. Not yet. “How old is she?”

  “She’s four months.”

  “Four months is a great age,” I reply with a wink. “I may have peaked around four months.”

  The woman laughs.

  I’m in.

  I glance at the stroller. The baby smiles at me. In her angelic face I see so much. But sight does not drive me. The world is crammed full of beautiful images, breathtaking vistas, all mostly forgotten by the time the next vista presents itself. I have stood before the Taj Mahal, Westminster Abbey, the Grand Canyon. I once spent an afternoon in front of Picasso’s Guernica. All these glorious images faded into the dim corners of memory within a relatively short period of time. Yet I recall with exquisite clarity the first time I heard someone scream in anguish, the yelp of a dog struck by a car, the dying breath of a young police officer bleeding out on a hot sidewalk.

  “Is she sleeping through the night yet?”

  “Not quite,” the woman says.

  “My daughter slept through the night at two months. Never had a problem with her at all.”

  “Lucky.”

  I reach slowly into my right coat pocket, palm what I need, draw it out. The mother stands just a few feet away, on my left. She does not see what I have in my hand.

  The baby kicks her feet, bunching her blanket. I wait. I am nothing if not patient. I need the little one to be tranquil and still. Soon she calms, her bright blue eyes scanning the sky.

  With my right hand I reach out, slowly, not wanting to alarm the mother. I place a finger into the center of the baby’s left palm. She closes her tiny fist around my finger and gurgles. Then, as I had hoped, she begins to coo.

  All other sounds cease. In that moment it is just the baby, and this sacred respite from the dissonance that fills my waking hours.

  I touch the record button, keeping the microphone near the little girl’s mouth for a few seconds, gathering the sounds, collecting a moment which would otherwise be gone in an instant.

  Time slows, lengthens, like a lingering coda.

  I withdraw my hand. I do not want to stay too long, nor alert the mother to any danger. I have a full day ahead of me, and cannot be deterred.

  “She has your eyes,” I say.

  The little girl does not, and it is obvious. But no mother ever refuses such a compliment.

  “Thank you.”

  I glance at the sky, at the buildings that surround Fitler Square. It is time. “Well, it was lovely talking to you.”

  “You, too,” replies the woman. “Enjoy your day.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m sure I will.”

  I reach out, take one of the baby’s tiny hands in mine, give it a little shake. “It was nice meeting you, little Ashley.”

  Mother and daughter giggle.

  I am safe.

  A few moments later, as I walk up Twenty-third Street, toward Delancey, I pull out the digital recorder, insert the mini-plug for the ear-buds, play back the recording. Good quality, a minimum of background noise. The baby’s voice is precious and clear.

  As I slip into the van and head to South Philadelphia I think about this morning, how everything is falling into place.

  Harmony and melody live inside me, side by side, violent storms on a sun-blessed shore.

  I have captured the beginning of life.

  Now I will record its end.