Shout Her Lovely Name by Natalie Serber Page A

Walter informs me the social smile comes at six weeks, but I can’t take two more weeks of waiting. I coo in Zeke’s face, tell him my best jokes, and I get nothing. Walter bought a digital camera so I could take a shot of the first smile and e-mail it to him at CUNY, but there the camera sits on the sideboard and I haven’t learned to upload.
    When I wake, I’ve got a string of drool attaching me to the puce tweed fabric Velcroed to my headrest for lice control or something. I run my hand along my face and feel a crease down my cheek from sleeping on the seam. Still, when Walter notices me stirring, he looks at me like he can’t believe how lucky he is.
    “I ate the salad and I saved the tuna casserole for you.”
    “I’ve got to pee,” I say, standing and holding Zeke. Walter lowers my tray table. He puts the cold lunch leftovers on it and raises his tray. He shifts to get comfortable in his seat. He takes the blanket and lays it over his shoulder. He puts the pillow in his lap.
    “Walter, I’ve got to pee, ” I stage whisper. I’m swaying from one foot to the other, doing Kegels like crazy.
    Finally he reaches out and takes Zeke. Walter’s warm hands cradle Zeke’s innocent neck and butt. He pulls the baby into his chest with devout attention and grace. I am moved and nauseated at the same time.
    In the wan green light of the bathroom I try to wriggle out of my tights but I have to pee so bad I can’t hold it and a warm stream courses down my leg. The faucet won’t stay on in the thimble-size metal basin so I have to keep pushing it down to wet the towels and I barely have the space to bend over and wipe myself off. I’m turning from one side to the other like a dog chasing his own tail and I end up cramming the mountain of elastic into the tiny mouth of the trash can. I lean back against the door, close my eyes.
    When I come out a baby starts to scream. It’s not Zeke; it’s the priest’s crier.
    Wrangler Man shoves past me into the bathroom and attempts to slam the flimsy door. It’s a completely unsatisfying shump.
    The in-flight movie has started, something about a can-do secretary who vacuums in her lingerie, and passengers are shooting the baby death-ray stares. The priest has dark circles of sweat under his arms and he’s rocking forward and back in his thirty-two inches of allotted coach-class space, holding the baby like you would hold a porcupine to your shoulder. As I pass him, I see his priest collar is cockeyed, and he has curdled spit-up on his chest. The baby’s face is again ruby-colored and sweaty. Its hair is black and thick as an otter’s.
    My body responds with the prick of let-down, again. I swear, my whole being has turned into a physical response. I ask him, “Can I try?”
    “Thank you.” His entire body goes limp as he passes the rigid baby to me.
    I place the baby over my shoulder and begin to sway, rubbing his tiny spine. He must be about four months old because he can hold his head up fine, but he’s small, the same size as Zeke. He screams louder so I sway faster and start to hum. The priest looks from the baby to me; creases like question marks form between his brows, and I feel I’m being tested. I look up the aisle. Walter has the headset on. He’s probably reading and watching the movie and stimulating brain growth in Zeke.
    “Finally, someone with equipment.” Wrangler Man comes back from the bathroom, jimmies into his seat behind us, “Tired of fucking hearing that kid.” He has three mini bottles of Jack Daniel’s on his tray table and he’s talking loud, even for him. He latches his thick fingers over the top of the seat, leans in confidentially. “What the hell are you doing with a baby anyway? Get someone in trouble?” He has a sour grin on his face. And then, with a wink to me, “I thought they only liked little boys.”
    The priest ignores him.
    “Maybe he has gas?” I project over the baby’s cries.
    “At the orphanage, in Romania, I think