Shivering Mind

Chapter 28

  Hester: (long pause) “This morning. We need to talk anyway.”

Do we hafta? The thought does not fill me with joyous anticipation.

First off, I smuggle Cal into the car as the school bus pulls away and the screen door flaps shut behind Matilda. Hester and I have set up a Cal swap in Willoughby Park, where I used to buy weed. She didn’t want me to come to her house, but all she’d say when I pushed for an explanation was, “It’s not a good Maxe.”

When I get to the park, I try to give back all the baby crap, but about all Hester’ll take is the actual child. I half expect her to hand me a dime bag in exchange.

Right away she’s rooting through the big-ass diaper bag, like she’s counting stuff in there, like maybe I stole some of the formula and fenced it on the street or something, and my jaw clenches so tight, my neck muscles start throbbing. I never used to get angry, and now it’s like I’m a goddamn volcano set on “continuous erupt.”

I look away, kicking the dust with the toe of my flip-flops. Willoughby is not one of those nice parks with tons of green grass and leafy trees and all that jazz. It’s more on the scraggly, sad side. The better to do the drug deals. In fact, I see one going on as we speak. Over in the far corner, near the stone wall that marks the end of the park, there’s Troy Rhodes, the guy every school has at least one of, the guy who can set you up with whatever you want or need, any day, any night, any second, as long as you can pay.

My dealer, in other words.

Until a few months ago, probably the person I knew best in town.

He’s doing the old hand-shake pass-off with some middle-school type. The guy’s little-kid skinny, his chest practically concave, pants hanging low, wearing a Pokémon shirt that he probably doesn’t know yet is uncool.

When I refocus, Hester’s passing her hand back and forth in front of my face. I grab her wrist and she does this cringe thing like I’m going to snap it.

Christ, I was annoyed, but I’m not a psychopath.

“I know you’re not, Max.”

Whoops, said that out loud.

“You looked glazed. I know what that can mean. But you’re just tired, right? And trust me, you look way better than I usually do after Maxe with him. It’s like your worst nightmare ever, isn’t it? Like hell.”

I’ve spent the past days thinking that 345,678,900 Maxes, but when she says it, it sounds almost criminal, like there’s something really wrong with her.

Seeing me blink, she focuses on packing things back into the bag. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and I do the older kids at camp and I just”—she shrugs—“thought they were like babies in commercials, somehow.”

“Like, as long as you gave ’em”—I pull out my Moviefone voice—“Sleepy Hollow Brand Formula, your little one will sleep like Rip Van Winkle.”

She laughs, the first one I’ve heard from her since that first day, then covers her mouth like she’s let something shameful escape. When her fingers move away, there’s still a smile.

“That,” she says, “is how Calvin happened.” Her voice is accusing.

“Uh—”

“You made me laugh.”

“Luckily, I don’t need a rubber for that. When do I have to get him back again?” That sounds even worse than what she said, so I’m not surprised that she looks like she wants to deck me with the diaper bag. “I mean—”

“You don’t. Never mind. Here’s the thing, Max. I thought about what you said—that I was being a sadist by bringing you into the picture at all.”

I can barely remember using those words, even though of course I did. I’m such an asshole. “Forget about it, I shouldn’t—”

“No, I can’t. It makes sense. I was the one who got in trouble.”

“f**k that, Hester. This is not actually The Scarlet Letter. I don’t have a problem with babysitting.”

She purses her lips, looks down at Cal, away into the distance, narrowing her eyes in the bright sunlight.

“It’s not babysitting if it’s your own child. What I’m saying is that you don’t have to be involved. It can just end here.”

Cal’s punted off a sock. He loves to do that, like it’s some personal baby challenge. I bend over and pick it up, pulling it up his squirmy pink foot. He watches me somberly. Probably can hardly see me at this distance yet, according to the baby facts I’ve googled. I could be gone before he can. Say yeah, sure, I’m done, and putting his sock on could be the last thing I ever do for him, other than, presumably, sign off on some paperwork. A baby? Right, I had one for a day or two. It didn’t work out. End of story. He’d never remember I existed and I could try to forget he ever had. I can see the tape rewinding, me walking backward through the past few days, up the steps to the apartment, lying back down after push-ups, the only thing on my mind meeting Matilda in forty-five minutes. Poof. Erased.

But.

Hester’s still staring out at the river, so I turn her chin toward me. She sort of freezes at my touch, wash of pink under her pale skin. “Hes. He happened. You let me know. We can’t Maxe-travel and un-happen it any more than I can go further back and unscrew you.”

That was beautiful, I hear Dominic say in my head.

She looks like I’ve smacked her. Of course. “You—I—” Tears come to her eyes.

Can’t go back and unsay it either, so I bumble onward:

“What I mean is—I’m in this. He’s not, like, a movie I checked out the preview of and decided not to watch. He’s my kid. So, let’s just get on with it. What happens next?”

She blinks, her face smooths. Totally back to prissy-tone: “I’m doing a follow-up with the adoption agency this morning—that should help us figure out the Maxetable.”