Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories Page 12

  She carried one out to the kitchen, plugged in the kettle, and unlocked the glass door to the backyard. The sun was nearly down. The wind dried her hair in seconds, silver-blonde going silver-gray. The garden here was still half-wild. She was taming it slowly.

  Claire liked the wooden fence no one could see over. She liked the neighbourhood where no one knew her nor cared to. She liked being among the missing.

  The kettle whistled. She set tea to steep, and as she picked up Stardance, the embryo jar caught her eye again. It was ugly. Very. Claire shook her head in wonder at the mix-up. The doll was squashed and bent, folded at odd angles. Its eyes were large and set far back in its head. Their lids were almost transparent.

  She nudged the jar, setting the fetus rocking gently in the murky liquid, and leaned close, watching it drift.

  The baby opened its eyes.

  “OH GOD!”

  The baby stirred. Its tiny hands floated away from its body, pressing the side of the jar, halting its spin in the fluid. It hung there, facing her.

  Claire backed away.

  Maybe the doll was designed to do that.

  She moved. The baby pushed on the glass with one hand and turned to watch her. She moved again. The baby tracked her. They looked at each other for a long time. Claire told herself not to jump to conclusions. An hour later she jumped anyway.

  It was alive.

  She lifted the jar carefully. It was warm. Had it been when she unpacked it? She didn’t think so. She carried it to the table, wrapping her hands around it, warming it further. Her breath misted the glass. “You want me to take you to my leader?” The baby blinked. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea.”

  But evidence of the existence of extraterrestrial life was sitting on her table in a damned Mason jar. She should call someone. The cops, the FBI—NASA?

  Claire blanked. If they didn’t believe her—and she was having trouble grasping it—nothing would change. She’d still be sitting in the kitchen with an alien in her lap. But if they did—

  She would no longer be among the missing.

  The baby would be among the dissected.

  This was Monday with a vengeance.

  Claire rested her head on her arms and watched the baby bob. Maybe she’d read too many tabloid headlines, but suddenly it seemed dangerous to ask questions. No phone calls. She smiled tiredly. Not even to Starway Collectibles.

  Now there was a thought. Her smile faded. Babies didn’t grow in Mason jars. This one had to have been put there. Or maybe just fallen in: the jewel of all stupid accidents. Because it was a baby; its mother wasn’t going to let someone just mail it.

  And there was another thought. This was somebody’s child and they were going to want it back. Claire remembered crying as the life-that-wasn’t-quite fell out of her, and shivered.

  She stroked her fingers down the jar. “Baby, if your mama handles loss the way I do, I’m in big trouble.”

  But she knew a way to guarantee her safety. Garbage pick-up was tomorrow, and newborns went missing every day. Plunk it in a can and run like hell. Let Mama find her then.

  And let someone else find the baby and take a scalpel to it. Let the rats drag it home for brunch. Let Baby go screaming through a trash compactor.

  Claire hoped Mama was a tolerant sort.

  She fell asleep at the table, arms around the jar, and woke at dawn to find the baby’s face near hers. It was watching her again. Its fluid had changed, becoming lighter, less dense. Maybe it was draining the nutrients out of it?

  Claire thought that was a fine idea. She sat up and considered breakfast.

  Baby tumbled as she rose, stopping her mid-motion. “What?” It stretched its arms over its head, then lowered them and rolled its eyes to meet hers. She whispered, “What?” It reached up again. Claire squinted into the jar. Her breath froze. It was pushing at the lid.

  Baby wanted out.

  Well yeah, bright girl, did you think it was going to stay in there forever?

  The baby kicked weakly. Claire’s hands fluttered helplessly for a moment, then grabbed the jar. Pre-natal classes hadn’t covered alien birth, but she knew the signs of distress. It needed out. Perhaps, like a human baby, it could only exist in the waters so long. She rummaged a jar opener from the knife drawer. On the second try it gripped and the lid came free.

  Claire peered into the liquid. What if it couldn’t eat what if it couldn’t breathe oh God what if it drowned in the air—

  A small hand splashed out of the jar. Its long fingers wrapped around one of hers. The baby’s head floated up out of the fluid. It looked up at her and—she couldn’t help it—Claire smiled. Its eyes were midnight-blue, the colour of her own.

  Its skin took on a dull silver sheen as it emerged from the jar. Its mouth opened and she waited for the usual indignant wail.

  A sound like little bells came out.

  The water was tepid now, with a faint smell of yeast. Claire dipped her fingers into the jar and very gently lifted him. He barely filled her cupped hands; he weighed almost nothing. Water dripped off him and puddled on the sideboard. She patted him dry with a fold of her housecoat, then eased him into the scoop neck of her nightgown.

  Baby dropped his misshapen head in the hollow of her throat.

  There was a flight of sweet notes as he yawned, exhaling vanilla breath. Claire brushed her chin across the top of his head.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” she said.

  Because you might get it, she thought. She’d wanted a baby. She remembered a hectic day years earlier, when she’d wished for some time alone, and had been granted ten years.

  All right, she hadn’t actually been alone during her marriage, but she’d felt that way.

  In the future, Claire thought, wishes would be more specific.

  She made Baby’s breakfast as she ate her own. “I’m working in the dark here,” she explained around the toast. “I don’t know if they have milk where you come from, but human babies like this stuff.”

  She stirred sugar into the warm milk, and washed the eyedropper. The baby gurgled most of it down. She waited to see if it came back up. When it didn’t she punched the dropper full again, then tipped the pan over her coffee cup.

  Clink ka-ching. A sound like zills.

  “No, you’re too little for coffee.”

  Baby squinted in the crook of her arm. She grabbed a tissue to wipe his mouth, but only discordant chimes came out.

  “Oh God oh God okay you’re chiming so you can’t be choking oh God I’ve poisoned you—”

  Human babies came with a built-in defence—whatever didn’t agree with them, they disposed of. Who knew about this one? Claire drew breath and did the toughest thing possible: nothing. She couldn’t call 9-1-1. Baby would have to shift for himself. She moved her fingers down his smooth body and encountered another question: how did Baby excrete?

  She had an answer seconds later as she realized her hands were sticky and slick. Baby disposed of his waste through his skin.

  Claire wrung out a facecloth at the sink. The faucet was still dripping as she landed on the floor. The baby jolted in her arms, chirping in protest.

  “I’m sorry. My knees gave out.” She reached up and groped the facecloth off the sideboard. Baby stuck a wet finger in his mouth. “Oh, you like that? Good—I’ll get you a rubber duck.”

  She sniffed the facecloth: Baby didn’t like the milk. She watched him suck his finger. Apparently he didn’t mind the water.

  Baby clinked again. Claire winced, but he seemed calm enough as he blinked up at her.

  Ah. He’d just wasted his breakfast. He was still hungry.

  Claire got on her feet with difficulty, and mixed a pan of sugar water. Baby drank and dozed off without incident. Wise child, she thought. She was stiff from napping at the table.

  Sunlight slanted through the blinds in her room, making bars on the bed. Claire slid under the covers and eased onto her side, curling around the baby. She wondered how long he wo
uld sleep. After coming to term in a Mason jar, could he sleep safely in a horizontal position?

  Baby snuggled close, his hands against her cheek, and hummed contentedly. Claire relaxed. If it was good enough for him . . .

  She woke in two hours and fed him again, then wrote a list as he slept. Leaving the house was out of the question. She couldn’t take him with her, couldn’t leave him alone, couldn’t bring anyone in. She’d have the groceries delivered. Baby food might be okay if she thinned it.

  No, it wouldn’t work. She’d ordered groceries before, but never baby food. All it would take was one stray comment—

  She smiled down into those enormous blue eyes, “Hey, sweetheart, guess who’s getting paranoid? I used to just worry someone would find me here.” She scribbled a few more notes. “We’ll try fresh fruit. I can purée that myself. Don’t worry, we’ll find something you like.”

  Don’t worry. Claire snorted faintly. She was in way over her head. But she caught herself rocking him, swaying as she wrote, and let it go. He wasn’t interrupting anything.

  She retrieved him from the bedroom after the delivery boy left.

  “These are green beans. What do you think?” Baby wrinkled his flat nose as she held them up. “I used to feel the same way. They are an acquired taste. What about this?” She sliced the apple and held it under his nose. He fluted a couple of notes and rubbed his mouth across it. “Oh, is that good?” She crushed the slice into a thin sauce and fed it to him slowly.

  That afternoon she learned he liked pear juice, barley water and strawberry tea, which he sniffed happily when she drank it herself. He was indifferent to bananas, which she’d never liked.

  She carried him to the window at sunset. “This is my favourite time of day. I love watching the stars. If you have to love something that doesn’t love you back, the stars are it. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  She glanced down and caught him staring at white moths beating their wings on the screen.

  “Yeah, Baby,” she laughed, “those are pretty too.”

  She wrapped him in her sweater, and cradled him close. Sometimes the journey to the light was hard. It might be nice to have company for a while.

  The shower gifts had never been returned. That would’ve been her job, and before she felt up to it, Jason had packed them away. Even before moving day, when she’d found the box in the U-Haul, she’d known dealing with the miscarriage would always be her job.

  Claire dragged the rocker into her bedroom. She found the Snugli under a musical crib mobile and took both into the kitchen. Baby was in the laundry pile. Her pantyhose were on his head.

  “Don’t even think about robbing a bank—you’re too short to see over the counter. That’d be a heck of a disguise, though.”

  She fastened the mobile to a chair back and wound the music box. He liked the lullaby, and bounced as the plastic stars spun, She cried softly as he warbled, a liquid sound she knew by now. He warbled when he heard her voice.

  It was the sound he made when he recognized something.

  Does this make sense to you? she wondered. Do the stars really sing?

  She wore the Snugli in front so Baby rode with his head on her collarbones. He squinted down in the bag as she loaded the dryer, poking his head into her shirt.

  “I’ve got news for you, kid—that’s not where dinner comes from.” She slid a hand down to move him, then realized he’d gone still against her breast.

  He was listening to her heartbeat.

  Oh God, letting him go would be hard. He was stronger now, a bit heavier, an inch taller. Rolling on the floor was an adventure. He pulled himself up against the furniture like any child. She loved the way he cooed in his sleep, like the song of small birds. His eyes were so blue she thought moons glowed in them, and knew he preferred shadows because sunshine bothered them.

  But moonlight didn’t. He trailed his long fingers through it like a sparrow soaking up heat, and her heart ached even as it rejoiced that her favourite time of day was also his.

  She’d have a couple of blurred photos she’d taken in the garden, and when he was gone, she’d have his Mason jar. Not much. She still wondered how he’d got in there. She’d wondered once if Mama might be dead, if she’d put Baby in the jar to hide him from danger. That notion had lasted until the six o’clock news. Claire sat Baby on her lap as she watched the update.

  There were more reports of strange lights over Hastings, Kentucky. “Well, sweetheart, looks like Mama’s hot on the trail.”

  Their first trip to the garden: fear. No one could see over the fence. There were no wandering cats to scratch him. But what if the soil was toxic to him, or the scent of the flowers poison? What if the insects found him tasty? She had no way of anticipating. Any bump could be a disaster.

  In the end, he decided. She found him leaning on the door, trying to push it open, and thought of his exit from the Mason jar.

  Baby wanted out.

  She gathered him up and opened the door. He sang as they went out, a single note echoed by the wren on the roof. He looked up and seemed to smile. He always looked like that.

  Claire knelt and lowered him toward the grass. He patted it curiously. No sign of pain, no blistering from a chlorophyll allergy. She plunked him on the grass beside her and started to weed the daisies.

  “Here, do you want one?” He ran a tiny fingertip over the soft petals. “That one is I love you, and this is I love you not—it’s okay, it’s just a game—and this is I love you.”

  She pulled a blade of grass from his mouth, and he chimed as she tickled his chin with a buttercup. No yellow, no surprise. He tracked a blue jay as it sailed overhead, and Claire realized suddenly how frightening this could have been. Was the sky a strange colour? Did he remember home?

  Did he know this one was temporary?

  Om. Claire knew that one: he wanted to be held. She obliged. He liked the tour of the garden. She’d cleared away the weeds and overgrowth, but hadn’t planted much; the last tenants had left flowers of a dozen hues. She wondered what they’d felt, turning something they loved so much over to a stranger’s care. She shivered in the June warmth and, without realizing she did so, Claire omed. Baby wrapped his arms around her neck.

  He didn’t fit in the Snugli now. He’d graduated to grape juice. She’d caught him standing by himself, and grabbed him before he toppled.

  She wanted to see his first steps.

  He trilled in protest as she turned for the house, but the sun was hot and her skin itched. She jerked back as sparks jumped from the door handle.

  It wouldn’t be long. The air was heavy, as though a charge crackled through it. There were more frequent reports of lights seen in Hastings. They were closer, moving in a rough line. The weather bureau couldn’t explain them. The power companies claimed ignorance.

  Claire waited until dark and went out on the step.

  “Can you smell the rain coming? We can wait—I know you like to splash. I wish you could see a rainbow before you go.”

  And new snow and a circus parade. It wasn’t going to happen. Claire hiked the baby up to eye level.

  “You have to go soon. It’s best for you.” Her voice broke. She tried again. “I can’t take you anywhere else and you can’t stay with me forever. It’s not as safe as it used to be.”

  He looked up at her seriously. Clink.

  “Because this morning the delivery boy asked if I had a home office. Someone’s noticed I never go out, and it’s not normal for people to stay home all the time. We were okay until the questions started.”

  Claire smiled as Baby ran little fingers through her hair. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll miss you, but I’ll be okay.”

  Baby trilled softly.

  “All right. I’ll be okay eventually. I never intended to stay here; I still have my real estate license. That’s how I met Jason—I sold him his house. I can go back to the real world. It’s an interesting place. Yes, almost as interesting as those.”

&n
bsp; He was playing with her thumbs again. He didn’t have any.

  The clouds were blowing in fast. She looked down at the baby, squashed and bent at odd angles. She heard a crack of thunder and thought, There goes my heart.

  “Once,” she said, “in the middle of a fight, Jason asked me what I wanted. It was the only time he’d ever asked. I couldn’t tell him I wanted someone to love and he wasn’t it. I thought it would never happen. But we know better, don’t we?”

  He looked up and chimed briefly.

  She said, “Will you try to remember me?”

  Ching clink.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  They sat for a while. He would leave with the memory of birdsong. There wasn’t a lot left to say. Finally she took him out to dance in the rain.

  And they were still dancing. Claire circled the kitchen to a country waltz on the radio. The rain stopped, and she considered the night sky in passing. Baby belonged in that icy Shambalah. She wondered which system was home.

  He rubbed his head against her throat. It was a small movement, a sign of agitation. Claire’s own skin felt tender, as though stroked with sandpaper. She could feel the people around them becoming edgy.

  “Hang on, sweetheart—Mama’s coming.”

  She wondered if she’d survive it. First contact with a Mason jar was one thing; Mama was likely to be another.

  But first things first.

  She trailed her fingers across his scalp. Her skin imprinted his warmth, his slight weight, his soft breath.

  I will buy windchimes to echo your voice. I will hear the world differently. I will never again be too busy to look at the stars.

  I’ll remember you so clearly that a hundred years from now I’ll still feel you in my arms.

  Baby yawned an arpeggio. She waltzed him down the hall and settled in the rocker. Its motion lulled them to sleep.

  The light woke them.

  A freshet of alto notes blew out of the brightness. Baby poked his head through the crook of her arm and warbled. Claire found her feet and brushed her mouth over Baby’s. She whispered, “Bye-bye,” and wept as she held him out. Smooth arms brushed hers as they took him.