And Baby Makes None Read online

  AND BABY MAKES NONE

  Stephen Lewis

  Chapter 1

  Seymour had seen her several times over the past couple of weeks during his evening walk on the Promenade. At first he had taken no particular notice of her other than to mark her unruly mass of blond ringlets, which seemed too heavy for the frail silhouette of her body.

  Her hair was striking, but after the second or third time he’d seen her, it occurred to him that there was also something peculiar about her appearances. He would be walking toward the bench that marked the halfway point of his walk, where it was his habit to sit for a couple of minutes before retracing his steps. Just as he began to angle toward the bench from the center of the Promenade, he would catch a glimpse of her back and, of course, her hair. It was as though she knew his schedule, which was not all that predictable, or as though she waited for him and then showed him her back when he approached.

  Rosalie, in her reasonable way, had suggested that he was imagining a coincidence, that, in fact, he had happened to see similar women on a couple of occasions and that he was mistaken in assuming it was the same one. But he was sure there was no mistaking that hair. Other women he saw, at least those of about the same age as his apparition, all appeared to be fresh from beauty salons where waves had been formed and fixed in place in a way no wind could ever produce. These blond curls, though, asserted their own nature. No beautician’s hand, no matter how skilled, could have fashioned them.

  Even if, as he had explained to Rosalie, he were mistaken about the hair, a fact he would concede only for argument, he remembered something else. Although the woman retreated as soon as he approached, he had noticed that she was hunched over as though she were pushing something that was shielded from his vision by her body. To this, Rosalie had made no reply other than to offer to join him one evening to protect him from his golden-haired ghost.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lipp, but can I talk to you?”

  Her voice had a lilt that startled Seymour. He had been sitting on a bench, congratulating himself that he had not taken up Rosalie’s offer to accompany him because the mystery woman had failed to appear for more than a week, and now here she was standing in front of him. He studied her face, as though to assure himself of her presence. Her skin was very pale, almost white, and served as a dramatic background to the rouge on her cheeks and the bright red of her lips.

  “Do I know you?” he said after a while.

  She smiled and wrinkled her nose in amusement. “Of course not. How could you?”

  “Well, then, you seem to have the advantage of me.”

  She brought her forefinger to her lip, and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “But I am the one who needs help. From you.”

  The sun had begun to set, and Seymour noticed that the usual stream of bikers and pedestrians had disappeared. He brought his eyes back to her and saw that she had lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the angled rays, which were now striking her face from the side. He saw a glint of metal behind her.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” he asked.

  She hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged. “I guess, it’ll be all right.”

  “You did want to talk to me, didn’t you?”

  She stared at him hard. “Well, I mean, do you think I would have gone to all this trouble? To find you, alone and all, and then just walk away?”

  He waited, but she continued looking at him for another minute before she whirled around and let her body collapse onto the bench at the far end. Her movements were graceful.

  “Are you a dancer?”

  “I used to be.” She shrugged. “But, of course, that has nothing to do with what I want to talk to you about.” She leaned over, grabbed the steel handle of the stroller that had been behind her, and pulled it to her so that it was pressed against her knees. “I want to talk to you about this.”

  Although Seymour did not know much about such things, this stroller looked expensive, with its aerodynamic design, low in the front and high in the back, its plush fabric on the seat, and its heavy-duty springs over each wheel. If he couldn’t be sure about the quality of the stroller, though, he was sure of its usual purpose.

  “I was just on my way back from the store,” she said. She ran her fingers over the top of the grocery bags, which were balanced on the seat of the stroller. “It’s easier this way, and it seems a shame not to get some use out of it.”

  The streetlights were on now, and Seymour felt his leg muscles beginning to cramp, a tightening in his calves that would soon turn into a spasm.

  “I see,” he said. “I guess it would be hard to haul those packages. Miss…”

  “Tricia, just call me that.” She frowned. “I like that much better than Patricia, or Patty, or God knows what people do with a name like mine.” She stared at the heavens.

  “Did you do some acting, too?” he asked.

  She turned to face him, although she kept one hand hovering above the packages in the stroller. “Didn’t I already tell you that? Oh, I see, you asked if I had danced. Well, that too. They sort of go together. But I guess I wasn’t good enough, at either, you know what I mean?”

  The spasm had now started and Seymour stretched his leg out. “You said you needed my help.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but she shook her head.

  “I already have your office number, but I didn’t think I could talk to you there.”

  “Fine, but I have to be getting back home, and I don’t usually conduct client interviews on a bench, in the middle of my evening walk.” He wasn’t sure whether he had managed to take the edge off the irritation in his voice.

  “Well, I don’t know why not,” she said with her wrinkled-nose smile. She looked out at the water, where the crimson veneer left by the retreating sun had almost yielded to the black waves. “It might improve your disposition.”

  He laughed in spite of himself. “Maybe so, Tricia, but it’s been a long day.” He paused. “And I know you’ve been meaning to speak to me for some time.”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “I’m sorry. I tried to be careful. I guess I’m not that good at it. But it was important to me that I talk to you here. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Frankly, no. But whatever you intended, you’ve got my attention now.”

  “Well, that’s just it. Good. I wasn’t sure you would listen to me otherwise.”

  He sighed.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “You don’t have children, do you?”

  Seymour started. He had begun to dismiss her as a harmless flake, but there was something eerily knowing about her question, as though she knew that he half dreaded what was becoming a nightly conversation with Rosalie.

  “No. That is, I have a son who lives with his mother in California.”

  “And you miss him.”

  “Of course,” he snapped. “But I don’t think you went to all this trouble to hear about that.”

  She shifted to the edge of the bench.

  “I have been stalling, you know. I guess I’m not so good at that either. I’m just so afraid that you will say no.”

  Somehow Seymour did not believe that she would be deterred by the firmest turndown.

  “You were about to say,” he insisted.

  “Yes.” She ran her hands over the groceries in the stroller again, as though to make sure that they were still there. “I want my baby back.”

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  “Do you?” Her voice was almost shrill. “Do you know what it’s like pushing this thing, and looking down, on my way to the store, at the empty spot where he would be, and then on my way back, pretending these bags are filled with all the stuff I need for him, diapers and formula, and each time a little some
thing special, not anything expensive, because I know I wouldn’t be able to afford that, just a book, so I could read to him, or maybe some little toy, anything, you know?” She got up and pushed the stroller away from the bench.

  “Maybe this was all a big mistake,” she said.

  He reached over and took her arm.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Seymour had been standing, stretching his leg muscles, for some time while Tricia told her story. He tried to force her to focus on the question of her baby, but she seemed to need to describe her relationships with her mother and her father as a kind of preamble. He was about to attempt one more time to bring her to the point of what, if anything, she thought he might be able to do for her when a figure emerged from the shadows behind the bench.

  “That’ll be enough,” a man’s voice said. “It’s time we got on home.”

  The figure emerged into the light, and Seymour saw that he was a muscular young man, dressed in a sweat-stained undershirt, jeans, and heavy workman’s shoes. Tricia shifted her gaze between him and Seymour, but made no effort to get up. The man grasped the handle of the stroller with his thick fingers and pushed it away from the bench. As it moved, Tricia got up.

  Seymour took a step toward them.

  “Excuse me, but I don’t think the young lady was through talking to me,” he said.

  “She might not’ve known it, but she was.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Lipp,” Tricia said, “Tom’s right. I have told you everything. For now.”

  She took her place next to the young man, who now had both hands on the stroller, and she hooked her arm through his. As they began to walk away, she stretched her neck to kiss Tom behind the ear. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and let something drop silently to the ground.

  “So, that’s it?” Rosalie asked.

  He nodded. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I suppose so,” she agreed. “And I guess it is kind of spooky. For us, I mean.”

  He felt his nerves tighten, and got up from the table to pour himself another cup of coffee. He sensed that she was staring at his back while he stood at the counter. When he turned, she held out her cup.

  “Me, too, please.”

  He filled her cup halfway with coffee and then added milk to the top.

  “We should talk about it,” she said when he had sat down again.

  “I know, but I’m not sure that this is the right context.”

  “What context do we need, or for that matter, are we talking about? You come to tell me that your phantom spoke to you, and now you’re off someplace.”

  “My phantom is a person with a problem.”

  “Yes, and we know how responsive you are to that. Most of the time.”

  “Except here, right?”

  “You said it.”

  He leaned across the table to take her hand. Her eyes were set hard, but then they softened.

  “You did say that we could talk tonight,” she said.

  He felt the pressure of her hand, and relaxed. “Yes, and that is exactly what I was thinking about on that bench when I looked up and saw her.”

  “Can we forget her, for the moment? You can tell me what you want to do about that after.”

  They were lying in bed with the television on but the sound muted. Seymour flicked the remote control through the stations. He stopped at a scene of a cadaverous figure rising from the ground in a cemetery.

  “Is that the best you can find?” Rosalie complained.

  He shrugged.

  “I won’t watch it long. Just until I feel sleepy.” He settled back against the pillow. “You know, you were the one who wanted me to take a walk every night. To get some exercise.”

  She jabbed him gently in the ribs. “That’s right, we don’t want our kid to have a father who can’t shoot some hoops with him.”

  He drew her to him. “I didn’t know that we had even agreed on if, or when, and you’ve already got me making a fool of myself in front of a kid who’ll probably shoot my pants off.”

  She started to smile, but stopped in the middle as though she had just remembered something.

  “Can we be serious for a moment?”

  “I know. Dinner this Sunday with Mom, right?”

  “You know, I sometimes think that she knows when I ovulate, and she sits there with her fingers crossed. Hoping.”

  “Ever since Dad died,” he began, and then let his voice trail off.

  “Yes, I just want you to understand.” Her voice was drowsy.

  “I do.” He flicked off the television set.

  “It’s strange. Your phantom, I mean, with the empty stroller, and your mother, all at the same time.”

  “My phantom. What do I want to do about this young woman who carts groceries around in a stroller and says that there should be a kid there, and wants me to get it back for her?”

  “Sounds like just your kind of case. A possibly demented client with no prospect of a reasonable fee. What more could you want?”

  “I’m not so sure about the fee part, anyway. You’re forgetting the envelope with the business card, and the check. It’s a sizable retainer.”

  “It’ll probably bounce. What is he, head of the deli department in the grocery?” Her voice disappeared into her pillow.

  “Maybe,” he replied, although he realized that she was almost asleep, “or maybe, if I remember the name right, he’s the guy who puts up the buildings.”

  He clicked on the television and lowered the volume. A zombie was wielding an ax against a wooden door behind which stood a determined-looking man, blood dripping from his forehead and a useless revolver in his hand.

  “Do you think she’ll restrain herself this time?” Rosalie asked. She stared through the windshield of the Corolla at the three parallel lines of brake lights that stretched ahead of them on the Expressway.

  “Not likely,” Seymour said.

  “Maybe I should have stuffed a pillow, a thin one, under my shirt.”

  “Next time we come out, we’ll have my antique Caddie.”

  “Will that help?” A space opened up in front of them, and she pressed the accelerator. The diesel engine clattered more loudly, and the car labored forward. A pickup truck cut in front of them, and Rosalie frowned. “Hardly worth the effort.”

  “Distraction. That’s what we need.”

  “We could turn on the radio, full volume, and maybe we’d be able to hear it over the engine.”

  “The Caddie will give her enough to talk about for at least a month, how stupid it is for me to be buying such an old car, and won’t it be all rusty, and I can explain how it’s a classic, a good investment, and so forth, and she’ll say, classic is a comic book, and I should get something more appropriate.”

  “Like, maybe, a station wagon, or a minivan.”

  “She’ll get to that. But it’ll take her at least a month.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Rosalie turned the Toyota into the entrance of the retirement community, and drove slowly by the two story town-houses until she found a parking spot in front of Mrs. Lipp’s unit. Seymour’s mother opened the front door just as Rosalie turned off the engine. Another car eased into a parking spot next to them, and Seymour waited for it to stop before he opened his door. The woman in the other car was already opening the rear door of her new Oldsmobile.

  “I’m not getting out until he apologizes.” The voice from the rear seat of the Olds was a whine.

  “Will not,” another voice insisted. “She was sitting in my space the whole way out.”

  “You’ll both get out. And now. Nana is waiting.”

  “Yes, for her darlings,” the woman’s husband offered.

  “You could help,” the woman said.

  Seymour glanced at Rosalie, who was waiting on the pavement. “Maybe we could rent them for the evening,” she said when he joined her.

  Mrs. Lipp was now standing on the patch o
f cement that served as her front porch. Her eyes greeted Seymour and Rosalie, but then turned to study the other couple and their children, now walking toward a unit a few doors away. The boy and girl, about six and eight years old, strode behind their parents, at extreme opposite ends of the sidewalk.

  “You and Sammy were just like that,” Mrs. Lipp said after embracing Seymour. “Always fighting, but you loved each other.” She hugged Rosalie. “Skin and bones. Like always. Come inside. The roast is ready.”

  “What do you hear from my brother?” Seymour asked, but with an alacrity that belied her considerable weight, Mrs. Lipp had already disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Did you hear?” Rosalie said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “We’ll think of something. Get her talking about Sammy.”

  “He’s got kids, doesn’t he?”

  “Spoiled monsters.”

  “Doesn’t seem to matter.” Rosalie dropped onto the plastic covered sofa and slid off, landing on one knee. Seymour offered her a hand up, but she shook her head.

  “Mom thinks he and Georgia might split.”

  “What kind of a name for a girl is that, anyway?” Mrs. Lipp bustled into the living room. “Like the state? Where, what are they called, those crackers, they grow all those nuts?” She stared a moment as Rosalie settled herself back onto the sofa, and then nodded to Seymour. “The roast is on the carving board. Just like always.”

  Since his father died, either Seymour or his older brother, Sammy, would assume the responsibility of carving the roast for Sunday dinners. He and Rosalie drove the seventy miles out to Coram once or twice a month, but Sammy, who was now living in Connecticut with his second wife, seemed less and less able to find the time. It was clear to Seymour that his mother had more trouble with his brother’s wife than her name. However, when Sammy was present, he was given the honor of carving. Mrs. Lipp insisted on that distinction.

  Seymour plugged the ancient electric knife into an outlet over the counter and pressed the button. The knife whirred to life, and he released the button. He positioned the roast, holding it in place with the long carved fork, started the knife again, and sliced off the charred end piece. His father had especially prized this piece. Seymour lifted it from the board and placed it on the platter, where he knew it would remain until his mother swept it into the garbage after dinner.