The Baby Race

by Tara Wylde

  “Yeah, Mommy!” Joey’s practically jumping up and down.

  I pull out a bag of Brussels sprouts and dangle them in his face. “Choke down four of these tonight, and you’re on.”

  “Aw, Momm-eeee!”

  I nod at Mrs. D. He’ll be there.

  I’m already planning tonight’s dinner as I unpack. There’s enough here to make spaghetti, Joey’s favorite—that ought to help the sprouts go down easier. Or I could be nice and do a salad instead. Sprouts keep longer than lettuce. There’s a good leafy head of Romaine, and underneath—

  —what the hell?

  This fancy basket cannot be standard food pantry fare. It’s...it’s an actual, no-fooling picnic basket, woven wicker, with a checkered cloth lining. Inside, there’s cheese, crackers, jars and cans with fancy labels—even chocolate. Nice chocolate, dark and rich, dusted with cocoa powder. And are those...smoked oysters? My mouth waters. Not sure Joey’ll go for those, but I love them.

  “Joey?”

  He looks up from the cobweb he’s painting into the corner. “Yeah?”

  “Wash your hands and get your red blanket.”

  “My blanket?”

  “Can’t have a picnic without a blanket, right?” I hold up the basket. A scrap of paper flutters loose. Joey’s eyes go wide.

  “No Brussels sprouts?”

  “Not tonight.”

  He runs off cheering. I wait till I hear water running—sometimes, he only pretends he’s washed his hands—and retrieve the receipt. Only it’s not a receipt. It’s a handwritten note, a few scribbled words: Thought you could use a treat. Their stuffed peppers are the best! :-)

  I feel my eyes well up. This must be...this must be what that guy ran back for, when he said he’d grabbed the wrong bag. He was probably looking forward to those amazing stuffed peppers himself... And I didn’t even get his name. Wasn’t even that nice to him. Let him ramble all the way to the station, so I wouldn’t have to come up with anything to say. And the whole time...the whole time....

  I wipe my eyes. Joey can’t see me crying. Not even for joy.

  My stash of emergency candles is still intact, under the sink. I light a couple and arrange them around the room. We’re not eating on the floor in the semi-dark because our lamps are gone and the ceiling light’s down a bulb. We’re having a candlelit picnic, like...like Ratty and Mole, in The Wind in the Willows. Not sure they ever did exactly that, but I’m the mom, and if I say it’s so, it’s so.

  “My friend Rick’s dad made these clay things with holes, and you put a candle in, and they make stars on the wall,” Joey informs me, when he spots the candles. He holds out his hands. “All clean.”

  “Good job.” I smile. “Isn’t this like Ratty and Mole’s picnic on the riverbank?”

  Joey pokes at the basket. “They had cold tongue.”

  “Oh, you want tongue?” I stick out mine.

  “Ewwwww!”

  I lean in like I’m going to lick his face. “Bleh-leh-leh!”

  He ducks and curls into a ball. “Mommy, stop!”

  “Okay, okay; no tongue at this picnic.”

  Joey insists on calling the oysters mouse brains, and dissecting the stuffed peppers to see how the cheese got inside, but most of the food ends up in his stomach, and he doesn’t throw, squish, or spit any of it. As meals with four-year-olds go, this one’s a success. By the time we’re done, every almond crunched, every chocolate savored, there’s barely time for his bath. He falls asleep while I’m picking out a book for storytime.

  With Joey safely in the land of Nod, I settle in to check my e-mail. I’ve got a freelance offer: $400 to troubleshoot the UI for some kind of text-to-speech app. Seems low, and I’m not sure how I’m even going to do it, with my laptop on the casualty list from the burglary. I accept anyway. There’s always the library.

  The rest’s spam, and a message from Mama, who’s already heard about the burglary. Mrs. Dzhokharova must’ve ratted me out. That’s it: she’s Mrs. Thing again.

  It occurs to me that I’m not scared to open my e-mail any more. Haven’t been for a while. Joe Sr.’s been quiet for almost two months: no threats, no pleas, no drunken poetry. Not even an “accidental” mass mailing. My phone’s been silent too. The restraining order must be working.

  I glance at Joey’s door. It hurts my heart, seeing him miss his dad. Everything that happened... He doesn’t understand. Shouldn’t have to. But it kills me, knowing his dad’s gone, and I can’t tell him why. What could I say? “Well, sweetheart, your daddy said some things that weren’t true, and Mommy lost everything she had, and—and—”

  Yeah—and have him think I’d abandon him, the second he told a fib.

  Maybe... “Your father is a selfish, selfish man, who’d see his own family starve, sooner than grow the fuck up.”

  No. Not that either.

  In a way, it’s better he doesn’t know. Better his daddy’s a hero, and Mommy’s a mean old witch. When he’s a little older; when “Daddy had to go on an adventure” stops working....

  There’s never going to be a right time.

  And now, I’m doing exactly what I swore I’d quit doing: letting my dumb, lying ex cast a pall over a perfectly fine day.

  I plug my phone into its charger. Time to get ready for bed. Got a long day tomorrow, and I think I might swing by that food pantry one more time. That guy should know what his gift meant to me. Maybe I’ll even get his name.

  He was kind of cute for a bagboy. Exactly the opposite of Joey’s dad—black hair instead of blond; gray eyes instead of brown. Smile lines instead of frown wrinkles.

  Very cute, now that I think of it.

  125

  Nick

  I’d hoped to coast through today with a minimum of angst. It’s not always so bad: when I can keep busy, when Katie’s around, when there’s no time to stop and think....

  But I couldn’t let Katie be the only one left out of her best friend’s birthday party...much as I still think they’re too young to be out at some concert till midnight. Coming up through foster care, I didn’t get too many parties—but even I know ten-year-olds with front-row tickets to the latest hot act, not to mention birthday registries at Barney’s and Tiffany’s, can’t be normal. It’s all too adult, too...boring. What happened to cake and balloons and pony rides?

  “The fun part’s just hanging out with their friends.”

  “Huh?”

  Rich plops his ass down next to mine. “You’re obsessing over that party again. Look—it doesn’t matter if they’re doing whatever rinky-dink shit we did as kids, or some twinkletoes princess fantasy, uh...whatever girls do when they get together. They’re kids. They’ll have a good time.”

  “What’d you do for yours?”

  Rich laughs. “Well, mine were all boys. Uh, lemme think—bowling was always a hit. And pizza, or Red Lobster. Oh, and we took ‘em all skiing, for Jimmy’s fourteenth. But that was a disaster. Simpler is better.” He catches himself. “Oh, but I’m sure yours’ll be fine. A concert doesn’t involve spiky poles, or slippery shit, or getting trapped in a giant swinging chair fifty feet in the air.”

  “Did yours have...gift registries?”

  He looks at me like I’ve grown antennae. “Noooo...’cause that would be rude. Like, ‘hey, come to my party. You must spend this much’? Fuck off with that.”

  “No one has any manners anymore.”

  Rich elbows me in the ribs. “You’re way too young to be talking like that.” He screws up his face and raises his voice to a high, quavering pitch. “You kids get off my lawn!—that’s you.”

  “Thaaanks.”

  “Anyway, it’s time to close up. Came back here to see if you needed help, or....” He wants to get back to his grandkids.

  “Nah, go on home. Not a lot left to do.”

  “See ya next week, then.” He pulls his hat down over his ears. “And quit worrying. You got a great kid. She’s not gonna get corrupted by her rich friend’s diamond-crusted slumber p
arty.”

  I grimace. Technically, Katie is the rich friend. Will she be expecting the same kind of do, when her own big day rolls around? Will I even be invited?

  I grab the broom and dustpan and head out front. The place looks lonely with the lights turned down. Lonely and a touch shabby. The same hardwood floors that gleam mellowly under the incandescent lights just look old and uneven in the dark. The vintage oak counter’s showing all its nicks and dings. Even my Christmas display looks more ghostly than festive without the backlighting.

  “Everything’s crap if you scratch the surface.”

  I close my eyes. No one answers. Can’t hear Mark’s voice in my head any more, not like I could when his loss was fresh. Can’t even picture his face. It wasn’t a perfect mirror of mine, for all people couldn’t tell us apart. His expressions were different; his whole way of looking at you. He was....

  What was he like?

  I hate that he’s slipping away. It’s only been twelve years.

  I remember the stuff he used to say—that thing about everything being crap; that was his. But...when I try to picture what he’d say to me now, if he could see me sweeping the floor in my red HAPPY BEAN apron, nothing comes to mind.

  Cool apron, bro.

  Lemme get a cloth. It’ll go faster.

  Fuck this place. Let’s get blasted.

  Nothing rings true. Would he have mocked me? Joined me? Been proud of me? He slipped away from me, those last couple of years, till there was nothing left. Till I looked up and the brother I knew wasn’t there. It’s like he checked out one day, and that day became a week, a month, a year—and when did it get too late? When did he drift beyond my grasp?

  Was he waiting for me to do something?

  I was never that guy, between the two of us. It was always Mark stepping up, Mark with the plan, telling me what to do.

  He was three minutes younger. I should’ve—should’ve been....

  Should’ve made Rich stick around. That guy can talk a blue streak. He could probably have planned Katie’s entire tenth birthday for me, plus Christmas, by the time I’d waxed the floor. He’d have come out for pizza too. That would’ve wasted at least another hour.

  I flip the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED” and lean my head on the glass. It’s cold enough to spike my brain like an ice cream headache. Somehow, that’s the last straw. My whole face burns as I choke back tears.

  When I open my eyes, I’m looking right at the woman from last night—Elina something. No, Lina; she said to call her Lina.

  She presses her palm to the pane, over mine. I know I couldn’t possibly feel her warmth that fast, through the glass and the woolly thickness of her glove, but I’d swear I do.

  I clear my throat. “What brings you here?”

  She cocks her head.

  Duh. Of course she can’t hear me.

  My only thought’s to talk to her—to see what she’s doing here so late, so far from home—but instead, I find myself enfolded in the warmest hug ever. Not sure whether she reaches for me, or the other way round, but I don’t care; it doesn’t matter. She smells like she’s been baking. I bet she’s a mom—or if not, an amazing big sister. I bite back an undignified sob. Fantastic as this hug is, I’m going to make a fool of myself if I don’t step back.

  Three more seconds, though.

  I need three more seconds.

  One....

  Two....

  I suck in a deep breath and step away. “Hey! I mean, thanks! Nice to see you again! We’re closed, but if—“

  Lina shakes her head. “No, no—I’m not here for more... I mean, you gave me so much! No way I could eat through that in one night!” Her smile’s still warming me to the core. “No, I actually—I was hoping you’d be here.” Is she blushing, just a shade? “The basket, with the chocolates, and the oysters, and the note....” She clasps her hands together. “You have no idea. I know that wasn’t... I know that must’ve been from you, and... It meant more than you could know. And I wanted to thank you. Maybe buy you a hot chocolate.”

  I feel like I’ve still got brain freeze. Did she just ask me out?

  ‘Course she didn’t, dummy. She’s just being nice.

  “There’s a diner at the end of the block,” I say.

  “Great. Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  “Nah, it’s the perfect time.” It really is. I need to get out of here. “I was just—ever have one of those days where you’re so done, but you’re not exactly tired?”

  “Mm, I’m always tired. Think I was a sloth in my last life.”

  I find myself laughing. “I was...a big ol’ New York rat.”

  She chuckles. “Why?”

  “Y’know...’cause they’re not people, but they still kind of live like us. With us. Whatever. Wherever we are, they are. I was—“ I bite back the impulse to bend her ear about Katie and her too-grown-up friends. “Uh...I mean, I don’t get people, sometimes.”

  “Ha! Me neither.”

  The diner’s flooding the sidewalk with cheery yellow light. Looks warm inside. Welcoming. When I open the door, Deck the Halls washes over us. Got to be a good sign. I take Lina’s elbow and guide her to the best table, far enough from the door to avoid that frigid blast when the door opens; far enough from the toilets to avoid getting bumped into all night. A waitress ambushes us with a couple of menus.

  “You two know what you want, or you need a few minutes?”

  “Give us a few.” I smile, but she’s already off on her rounds. Busy night.

  Lina’s fidgeting with her menu, picking at a corner where the lamination’s peeling away. “What’s good here?”

  “Depends how hungry you are.”

  She seesaws her hand: kinda?

  “I’d get the French toast. Goes good with hot chocolate.”

  “Mmm...been forever since I’ve had French toast. My—uh, I’ve been all about the cereal lately.”

  Before I can chase up what she was really about to say, the waitress reappears. We both end up getting the French toast. It’s every bit as good as I remember: soft in the middle, crisp at the edges, with the perfect amount of cinnamon.

  “Don’t think I’ve had this after nine in the morning before.” Lina licks sugar off her upper lip. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s really good.” She goes to cut another bite. Her knife skids on the plate, spattering syrup over her sleeve. “Shit. Sorry. I....” She grabs a napkin from the dispenser. Her hand’s shaking. Can’t tell whether she’s nervous or cold.

  I fumble for something to say. “All day breakfast’s the greatest thing to happen to American cuisine since—since, uh—“ Shit. What I know about food could fit on a postage stamp.

  “Fries?”

  “Aren’t those French?”

  “Oh, yeah—kind of built into the name, huh? But...they must’ve happened to American cuisine at some point.” Lina’s still dabbing at her sleeve. Her fork’s doing a slow slide into the syrup. Should I call attention to that, or—nope. She’s got it. “Besides, is there even such a thing as specifically American breakfast food?”

  “Uh...grits?”

  “What even are those? I always pictured them as, like...wet sand in a bowl?”

  “I think that’s pretty much what they are.”

  “Yeah, I’ll stick with this.” She takes another bite. “So...you come here a lot?”

  “Used to. Been busy lately.”

  “Busy, yeah....” Either her plate’s suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the restaurant, or I’ve struck a nerve. But all she says is “I feel your pain.”

  There’s an awkward silence, then, and I rush to fill it. “I...uh, you ever get that thing where you sit down to do something fun, something you want to do, and your brain suddenly assaults you with, like...a million things you should be doing, instead?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. Was that an overshare? “Were you just in my head, right now? ‘Cause I was just—I was just mentally two-timing this conversation to fig
ure out how many days I’ll have to get up early, and how early it’ll have to be, to make up for tonight.”

  “Oh? Am I keeping you from something?” Didn’t she ask me out?

  “Oh—no! No, sorry!” She grabs a sugar packet and starts messing with it, shaking all the sugar to one end. “I wasn’t trying to say this is a waste of time, or...or.... Sorry. I had—I should probably have got coffee instead of hot chocolate.” She’s got this panicked look in her eyes. “I’m just...saying all kinds of things.”

  “You okay?”

  Lina catches me staring at the sugar packet—poor thing’s about to burst, the way she’s torturing it—and drops it back in the box. She flattens her hands on the table. “Fine, yeah. Just...haven’t had a real human conversation in a while.” She bites her lip. “Ugh. That came out wrong. I’m not making any sense.”

  “No, you are.” I slide my hand across the table. My fingertips graze hers. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “Let me see... If your life’s anything like mine, every conversation you’ve had lately’s involved someone needing something from you, someone talking to themselves with you as an audience, or someone going on and on about something you...totally don’t get.”

  “Something like that.” She pincers my index finger between two of hers, like a tiny hug. “Especially that last one.” A little smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “My mom got married last year, and they’re still trying to decide where to go on their honeymoon. She calls me up three times a week, like...is a trans-Siberian rail tour too cliché? Is Greece too touristy? Like I’d have a clue!”

  I nod, thinking of Katie, and what she’s probably doing right now. I desperately don’t want to go back to my empty penthouse. “Uh, look—I know you probably have someplace to be, but...wanna blow it off? Hit a comedy club, or something? In the spirit of self-indulgence?”

  “A comedy club?” Her smile widens. “I could...yeah, I could use a laugh. Let’s do it!”

  Whatever that tension was between us, it seems to have gone. I even manage to get Lina laughing with my Seinfeld impression, which Katie tells me is mediocre at best. By the time we’re mopping the last of the syrup off our plates, we’re deep into our favorite episodes: the soup Nazi for her, a tie between the contest and the reunion on Curb Your Enthusiasm for me.