me?”
“Me? But—”
“Trish will be home as soon as she can to pick him up. She won’t be long.”
“Fiona, I don’t know anything about babies.”
“Aye, but he’s asleep. If he wakes just give him his milk, it’s all ready for him in his cup on the kitchen table, and put him in the playpen and—”
“But I might do something wrong. I might hurt him.”
“Ach, you’ll be fine. Please, Julian.”
Ten minutes later I was in Fiona’s place—which smelled of dirty diapers and fish and chips this time—and Fiona had sprayed me with instructions that streamed from her lips into one of my ears and out the other as she spun out the door like a uniformed dust devil.
I put my head around the door to her bedroom, feeling like an intruder. The room was more like an oversized closet, with space for a single bed—unmade—Roger’s crib, and a rug and a small dresser against the wall between them. Roger lay scrunched up, his bum in the air, a bubble at the corner of his mouth, breathing deeply.
I made myself a cup of tea and sprawled on Fiona’s lumpy sofa, afraid to turn on the TV and wake Roger. Instead, I thought about Ninon. Should I give up on her? One thing was sure: my search method wasn’t working. I had been with her twice since the Van Gogh exhibit last March; once when she happened upon me on McCaul Street, the other in the park where I was looking for her. In other words, once by blind chance and once by design, and even the second was mostly luck. Fate and planning were tied.
My mistake, I decided, was in dropping by the parkonce a day for a few minutes, a system that was statistically ridiculous. To boost the odds in my favour I had to spend more time there. A couple of hours, say. That was what I’d do. And if I was lucky and met up with her again and she took off without giving me a phone number or some reliable way to contact her, I’d give up on her. Maybe.
A murmur came from Fiona’s room. I sat up, spilling cold tea down my shirt, and held still, afraid to make a sound. The murmur became a babble. The crib creaked. The babble shifted to a jabbering flow of non-words and the creaking intensified.
“Mama?”
I got up and crept into the room. Roger was standing in the crib, tiny hands clutching the rail, shaking the crib gleefully and talking a language only he understood. Then he saw me and shut down, his eyes widening in fear. And he bawled.
It took ten minutes of reassuring noises from me before Roger calmed down. I picked him up out of the crib and carried him into the other room and turned on the TV. When I put him in his playpen he threw back his head and howled some more.
“Okay, got it. No playpen.”
I grabbed his plastic milk cup, with the kiddie lid that allowed him to drink without spilling, lifted him up again and sat on the couch with him after tuning the TV to a late afternoon hockey game. Roger drained the cup in no time, burped mightily and within a few minutes was fast asleep, his head on my shoulder.
The players were forming up for the third-period faceoff when I heard a key in the lock and the door openedto reveal an attractive, thin black woman with a baby in her arms. She looked at Roger and me.
“Awwww,” she said.
Starting Monday I went straight to the park after work, postponing my run until later. I planned to stay for two hours each day. I read, watched a few chess games, walked around the block. It was boring. I sat and pretended I was doing surveillance for Curtis, singling out a person or couple and trying to draw conclusions about them from their clothing or actions. I made a dash to the restaurant and after Mrs. Zhu asked, “Eat in or take out?” I’d leave with a carton of whatever fried noodle dish was on the menu that day. She never let me pay.
“Mr. Chang say no,” she reminded me firmly. On my second visit she commanded, “Not call me Missus. Call me Mama Zhu.”
On Friday I was sitting on a bench between two chattering nannies,
“Me? But—”
“Trish will be home as soon as she can to pick him up. She won’t be long.”
“Fiona, I don’t know anything about babies.”
“Aye, but he’s asleep. If he wakes just give him his milk, it’s all ready for him in his cup on the kitchen table, and put him in the playpen and—”
“But I might do something wrong. I might hurt him.”
“Ach, you’ll be fine. Please, Julian.”
Ten minutes later I was in Fiona’s place—which smelled of dirty diapers and fish and chips this time—and Fiona had sprayed me with instructions that streamed from her lips into one of my ears and out the other as she spun out the door like a uniformed dust devil.
I put my head around the door to her bedroom, feeling like an intruder. The room was more like an oversized closet, with space for a single bed—unmade—Roger’s crib, and a rug and a small dresser against the wall between them. Roger lay scrunched up, his bum in the air, a bubble at the corner of his mouth, breathing deeply.
I made myself a cup of tea and sprawled on Fiona’s lumpy sofa, afraid to turn on the TV and wake Roger. Instead, I thought about Ninon. Should I give up on her? One thing was sure: my search method wasn’t working. I had been with her twice since the Van Gogh exhibit last March; once when she happened upon me on McCaul Street, the other in the park where I was looking for her. In other words, once by blind chance and once by design, and even the second was mostly luck. Fate and planning were tied.
My mistake, I decided, was in dropping by the parkonce a day for a few minutes, a system that was statistically ridiculous. To boost the odds in my favour I had to spend more time there. A couple of hours, say. That was what I’d do. And if I was lucky and met up with her again and she took off without giving me a phone number or some reliable way to contact her, I’d give up on her. Maybe.
A murmur came from Fiona’s room. I sat up, spilling cold tea down my shirt, and held still, afraid to make a sound. The murmur became a babble. The crib creaked. The babble shifted to a jabbering flow of non-words and the creaking intensified.
“Mama?”
I got up and crept into the room. Roger was standing in the crib, tiny hands clutching the rail, shaking the crib gleefully and talking a language only he understood. Then he saw me and shut down, his eyes widening in fear. And he bawled.
It took ten minutes of reassuring noises from me before Roger calmed down. I picked him up out of the crib and carried him into the other room and turned on the TV. When I put him in his playpen he threw back his head and howled some more.
“Okay, got it. No playpen.”
I grabbed his plastic milk cup, with the kiddie lid that allowed him to drink without spilling, lifted him up again and sat on the couch with him after tuning the TV to a late afternoon hockey game. Roger drained the cup in no time, burped mightily and within a few minutes was fast asleep, his head on my shoulder.
The players were forming up for the third-period faceoff when I heard a key in the lock and the door openedto reveal an attractive, thin black woman with a baby in her arms. She looked at Roger and me.
“Awwww,” she said.
Starting Monday I went straight to the park after work, postponing my run until later. I planned to stay for two hours each day. I read, watched a few chess games, walked around the block. It was boring. I sat and pretended I was doing surveillance for Curtis, singling out a person or couple and trying to draw conclusions about them from their clothing or actions. I made a dash to the restaurant and after Mrs. Zhu asked, “Eat in or take out?” I’d leave with a carton of whatever fried noodle dish was on the menu that day. She never let me pay.
“Mr. Chang say no,” she reminded me firmly. On my second visit she commanded, “Not call me Missus. Call me Mama Zhu.”
On Friday I was sitting on a bench between two chattering nannies,
Similar Books
