Shout Her Lovely Name by Natalie Serber Page B

they subsisted mostly on sugar water. Could be the formula? It’s hard on him?”
    “Whiskey on a rag worked on my kid brother.” Wrangler Man snorts.
    “Maybe it’s his diaper?” the priest asks.
    He hadn’t seen me slip my finger under the elastic at the baby’s thin thigh. “He’s dry. What’s his name?”
    “Stanyos. His new family may change it.”
    “Get up. Let ’er sit.” Wrangler Man nudges the priest’s shoulders forward.
    Father Matthew, as he turns out to be named, slips from his seat and I sit down. I stretch Stanyos over my legs, skin to skin, so my thighs press into his abdomen, hoping he’ll burp. His cries fade to whimpers and the three of us hush, watching his perfect little body writhe like he can’t get comfortable in his skin. Wrangler Man breathes down my neck.
    “Stanyos?” he says. “That’s a name begging for a playground brawl.”
    I can feel his breath, smell the cigarettes and whiskey.
    “There’s nothing to him. He’s so damn loud.” His voice is softer now, slower too, as if my rubbing the baby’s back is working to ease his discomfort as well. “My kid brother cried all the time. Inconsolable. My mom paced a trail in the carpet.”
    Walter has begun to look for me. When he sees Father Matthew standing, me in the seat, and Wrangler Man leaning over, alarm flashes across his face. I know he is going to get up, to come see if he can, once again, rescue me.
    I turn Stanyos gently toward me. His eyes are screwed tight and he is preparing to wail. His face presses into my belly and he goes crazy smelling my milk. He immediately begins rooting around my blouse, banging his head against me, his mouth working eagerly at the fabric.
    And then it is simple. I undo the top three buttons, lower the flap of my nursing bra, and bring his mouth, wide as a hatchling’s, to my breast. “It’s okay,” I whisper. Stanyos pulls greedily at me and I feel the sting of milk rushing from my body into his mouth.
    Father Matthew averts his gaze.
    “Whoa.” Wrangler Man pulls back like he’s been hit. “Man. Shit.” I hear the crack in his voice, and so does Father Matthew because he asks him if he’s okay.
    “My kid brother’s name was Steven.” And his voice breaks completely. “Shit.”
    Father Matthew has his hand on Wrangler Man’s shoulder. He murmurs of loss and comfort as he leans over my bowed head. My husband and son are in the aisle now too. Walter’s lips are pressed into a thin line and I see the questions in his eyes. It’s okay, I mouth. Zeke is sleeping in Walter’s arms. The blister on his lip still flutters with each breath.
    Behind me Wrangler Man hacks and spits into a cup. He slides open the porthole cover between our seats and I am surprised by the sun reflecting off the fat layer of clouds. I’d forgotten what time of day it was here on this plane, flying toward our families.
    Stanyos swallows and swallows; his soft brown eyes glaze over like he’s been waiting for this his whole life.

Manx
    Nora requested fluffy and white. A kitten to name Candi, with an i. A kitten who would weave figure eights around and between her ankles while she poured milk on her Cheerios. Instead, her mom dropped a box over the schoolyard stray. An emaciated, dark tabby who spent his time hissing at students and licking out the inside of Jell-O pudding cups. Ruby brought him home for Nora on Good Friday.
    Ruby bathed the cat in their kitchen sink, using the last of the Short and Sassy shampoo. When Nora ran into their apartment after school, the damp cat was perched on the windowsill, clicking his jaw at a bird in the magnolia tree. If the cat had had a tail, he’d have been swishing it back and forth, pumping his frustration out, but he was a Manx.
    Her mom sat at the kitchen table smoking, bloody toilet paper wrapped around her wrist where the cat scratched her. “Happy Easter.” She re-crossed her legs, dangled a tan sandal from her toe. “Are you thrilled?”
    Nora