“Where’s the camera, Muff?” she said. “We might just throw it at them, if they catch up to us.”
“Like throwing a steak to an attack dog,” agreed Muffin.
They reached the pavement. Kit turned in the direction of home. She felt like a carrier pigeon. Released from the cage of her stupid decision, she was going home. Home was a place she could find no matter what obstacles they put in her path. Even in the dark, even on strange roads, she knew exactly which direction home was.
I have three houses, she thought. Dad’s in California, Dad’s in New Jersey, Mom’s in New Jersey. But home is Mom’s. Mom and Malcolm’s. I hope they didn’t go out to dinner. I hope they didn’t go to a movie. I hope they’re home.
Not a single blank page of her Dullness Training existed within her right now. She was shaking and furious and afraid. The only thing that seemed to work well was her right foot, which slammed to the floor. She turned off Swamp Maple and onto Hennicot. I didn’t see any cars on the way here, she said to herself, so I’m not going to see cars on the way back.
She whipped down Hennicot.
Muffin said, “You’re going too fast.”
Kit struggled for the calm she had mastered. Where had it gone? Now when she needed it, how could it have left? She was a whole other person: she was a collection of ragged nerves, shaking hands, and one lead foot. I’ve got to think, she thought. I’ve got to think.
But the only thought that came to mind was getting home.
After the second scream of tires, she knew Muffin was right. A car accident was more likely right now than dealing with Ed and Cinda and Burt. This being a grown-up stuff was complex. You had to save the baby and also not crash the car.
What was on the camera that scared them? What had they been doing in their empty house that was more important than the arrival of their new baby? Why was Burt so urgent about leaving right now— why had Cinda known that they could not take the baby after all?
The baby was crying harder. His crying was raw, desperate, as if terrible pain assailed him.
“Feed him,” said Kit. “Give him that last bottle.”
But Sam would not put his mouth around the nipple.
“Cuddle him,” said Kit. “Rub his tummy. Kiss his cheek.”
Sam just yelled louder.
“I hate him now,” said Muffin. “I’m doing all I can and he isn’t paying attention.”
Kit knew nothing about babies. What if he was having appendicitis? What if his little insides had knotted up and split and gotten infected? What if she had given him old tired milk spouting with bacteria and viruses and dread disease?
Swamp Maple and Hennicot Road and Dexter Mill were much shorter going home than they had been going away. Was that literally true? Had she been crawling along before, trying to find the next turn? So that every mile seemed like ten?
Her mind spun. She felt like a kinder-gartner who had whirled in circles over the entire playground, until her brain had lost its hold.
She had forgotten about being followed.
How weird; how weird the loss of her calm was!
Get home, she said to herself very firmly. Just concentrate on getting home.
She had to slow down quite a bit for the entrance to Route 80. There were red lights, and turn lanes to get in, and she had enough brain to remember that she wanted 80 East, because that led home.
Muffin said, “Kit! They caught up to us,” and Kit froze. Now even her eyes did not work. They flared open and stuck there, as if they were pinned, and she could not use them anymore; she needed to blink to get focus, and blinks did not come.
A horn behind them began tapping. Not a furious get-out-of-my-face type honk, which was a New Jersey specialty — but a sort of friendly, hi, how are you? kind of honk.
Kit sat in the intersection without a thought in her brain.
It felt as if Sam the Baby’s screams were coming out of her own chest. She could no more think than Sam could: Infants had no vocabulary for thoughts; Sam could only yell; and she had no vocabulary for thoughts; Kit could only struggle to use whatever Muffin had to say.
“It’s Burt,” said Muffin. “Kit! Drive! He’s getting out of his car! He’s coming toward us! He’s walking on the road, right here in the middle of traffic!”
Kit managed to find her rearview mirror on the outside of her door. She managed to see a person in it. She read, Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. This did not comfort her.
The light stayed red. Many directions of traffic had to take turns. It wasn’t Kit’s turn.
Burt was striding forward, his hand was extended, and she knew that he wanted the door handle, and even though all four doors were locked and it would take crowbars to get into a locked Volvo, the thought of his fingers closing on her personal door was horrifying.
We’re out of time, Burt had said. He had meant real time: wristwatch time. He and Cinda, but apparently not Ed, were facing some deadline. Something that required them to pack by hurling their possessions into their cars, not sorting, not stacking. Their cars had been facing out. Ready for what?
Ready to go somewhere without a baby.
Because the cars had not had space for a passenger.
Kit gave up trying to think clearly. She couldn’t even think muddy. Kit drove through the red.
There was opposing traffic. A huge double truck, jointed in the middle, was approaching the ramp where Kit had to drive. Behind it, two cars and a van were lined up. Kit prayed for room, passed all four of them on the right — the worst and stupidest thing in driving — because the other drivers did not expect you and would flatten you. But the ramp was slightly uphill, the truck had gathered no speed, and she made it. She got ahead of the double truck, and Burt did not even get on the ramp.
“Wow,” said Muffin. “Do they give you medals for that, or arrest you?”
Kit flew down the road. Route 80 had enough traffic to stock the East Coast. She did not risk a glance at her speedometer. She didn’t want to know. She felt like a heroine and like a total jerk. She felt clever and supremely, hideously stupid.
What is happening? she thought. Are these bad guys? Are they really Burt and Cinda Chance? Did they make up being cousins? I bet they made up the name Chance. Nobody’s last name is Chance.
Were these people taking some great Chance? Were they involved in some huge gamble? Was the Chance a chance to get a baby? But if that was the Chance they were after, why would Burt have ignored the baby? So it was some other Chance.
We’re out of time.
A huge rectangular sign with sparkling night-light letters proclaimed an exit in half a mile. Now Kit realized that the edge of the road was peppered with signs. She had been way too busy not getting into a crash to do any reading. At this exit would be restaurants, gas, diesel fuel, telephones, motels — the works. Kit whipped herself into the slow lane, turned down the exit, and got off 80.
“What are you doing?” cried Muffin. “We aren’t home! This isn’t home! We can’t get off here! We don’t even know where this is!”
Kit turned right and merged into light traffic. There were fast-food places, superstores, convenience stores, and lights. Many, many lights. Her plain old navy blue Volvo looked like one leaf in a leaf pile. She pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour store and backed into a slot. If Burt showed up, she’d know.
But her bet was that Burt would still be flying down 80.
He would not try to find her on 80. He would assume she was going to her father’s house. He would try to intercept her there. Probably Burt had a car phone. Ed knew about Dad’s house, so if Ed wasn’t driving right along in Burt’s path, which he probably was, Ed would tell Burt how to get to Dad’s house.
But Dad’s was difficult to find. In the dark, only luck would bring Burt to the right golf course entrance, the right circular road, the right dead end, and the right house. Kit doubted if Burt could locate it.
Then she thought, No. Burt will give up. He
’s out of time. Whatever’s on the camera, he’ll just have to shrug about. They can’t take the baby, somehow both he and Cinda knew that. Even Ed knew that, but he was pretending to himself that they would take Sam and he would get paid.
What could be on that camera film?
She herself had photographed the people, the flowers, the cars —
Cars.
She had gotten their license plates.
Two different states. The numbers and letters, which Kit could not remember, had been clear when she focused the camera.
Who cared if somebody knew their license plate number?
Enough time had passed. None of her possible pursuers had gotten off Route 80. They were safe here. Kit went into the convenience store and bought a new pack of diapers. Then she got bagels and cream cheese for Muffin and herself. It turned out that she was too nervous to eat, but Muffin wasn’t.
There was a telephone for drivers to use out their windows, so she pulled up to it and called Mom. No answer.
Kit had known there would be no answer. Mom and Malcolm loved movies. With Kit safely spending the night at Shea’s, heavily chaperoned by a dozen pets and the always vigilant Aunt Karen, Mom and Malcolm could go to two movies, back to back, and they would not think about Kit for a minute.
She called Dad in California. No answer. There was a three-hour time difference, though. He’d be at work. She called his office. They said he was in Seattle. She said what hotel? They said he wouldn’t have checked in yet.
Muffin said, “Let’s go to Aunt Karen’s. She’ll know if Sam the Baby is just cranky or if we should go to the hospital.”
Sam’s crying had not diminished. He was an athlete for crying. He was Olympian; he had only a few pounds of himself, and they were all rage and sobs and heaves.
“Or maybe the police,” said Kit. She couldn’t think through the mud of the situation. It seemed amazing that she could be an honor roll student. Was she doing it without a brain?
Now she was immobilized, as if the best choice were just to sit here in the parking lot and not eat her bagel, while Sam screamed and traffic went by.
Muffin nodded. “Let’s call 911. On TV they’re always nice to you even if you are stupid. So even if Burt and Cinda are adopting, and we’re the kidnappers, 911 people will be nice to us. Yes. Call the 911 people. People in uniforms have sirens and their lights will twirl around.”
It was comforting to think of official lights twirling around. Of adults who possessed thinking abilities, and probably had rescued enough people that they didn’t have to do Dullness Training; it was dull to them; they would just say, Oh, another newborn whose mother sold him and another teenager who drove off into the night without a thought.
Without a thought.
She was truly in that position. She was without a thought.
“You’re right, Muff. I’m just going to make one more call before we hit 911.”
Kit called Dad’s house in Seven Hills, hoping desperately that Dusty would pick up the phone, because Dusty’s errands were over by now and Dusty would tell Kit what was going on and what to do, although Dusty was not known for being able to tell other people what to do — and Rowen answered the phone.
Chapter 9
IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, THEY were back at Dad’s house, which was lit from every downstairs window, with the outside spotlights on, and a little row of ground lights illuminating the sidewalk like an airport runway. Muffin leaped out of the car as her brother flung open the front door, and Kit, in perfect imitation of Dusty hours earlier, struggled with the straps to scoop up the baby.
Sam was still yelling. His tiny chest heaved with effort, his lungs punishing big people the only way he knew.
Kit came in the big foyer, amazed by how much light there was: light from the enormous chandelier hanging from the second floor; light reflected from the gleaming black and white tiles; light bouncing off mirrors. The baby squinted, and she cradled him in the shade of her hand.
Dusty was upon her like an attack dog. “How could you do that, Kit? How could you go someplace? I trusted you! I counted on you to stay here! Cinda and Burt! I can’t believe you did that!”
Immediately things were normal. She had a thought. She had a ton of thoughts. “You’re the who can’t be counted on! You threw Sam into this house without a single explanation! He could have been a UPS package! A box with a bar code! You didn’t tell me one single thing. You didn’t even tell me his name.” Kit remembered now that she hated Dusty. And looking at this woman who had dumped her son, she thought, Dusty’s beautiful again! She’s had her hair done! Did she leave her baby so she could go to the salon? I don’t believe it.
“Why is he screaming like that?” demanded Dusty. “What have you been doing?”
“I don’t know why he’s screaming like that. He’s your baby. You comfort him.” Kit felt like shoving Dusty through the window glass or into the microwave. She closed her arms around Sam, sorry she had suggested that Dusty even touch Sam, let alone attempt to comfort him. She had not given Sam up to Cinda, or to Ed, and she was not giving him up to Dusty, either.
Her head suddenly ached. She felt physically terrible. Conked over and over again with a stone, maybe, right behind her eyes. Poor Sam the Baby. Did he feel this terrible?
Dusty quit having hysterics. The tantrum had been faked. Kit could remember whole rows of tantrums, back during the divorce. Dad simply got on a plane and found sanctuary on another coast. Kit remembered herself defending Dusty; being friends with Dusty; sympathizing with Dusty — and now she could see that it had been Dusty’s style, not Dusty’s heart.
Dusty’s lovely features came together in a pout, so she looked remarkably like Muffin, age nine, unwilling to touch icky diapers.
In Kit’s arms, the baby was sweaty and hot, and the sobs had diminished to a scratchy level, as if he were giving himself a sore throat. He needed a bath, he needed a flat place to lie down, he needed —
Everything, thought Kit. That’s what a baby is: need. Sam needs everything.
Her heart broke.
Whatever else had happened in her own family; whatever ways her mother had not measured up to what Kit had wanted; whatever ways her father and stepfather had chosen to behave — they were minor. She had been adored from birth, and nobody had ever abandoned her, or ever would.
Kit brushed past Dusty and went into the family room, where the big green leather couch still looked like a couch on the department store floor, and where nothing in the room felt affectionate, and warm, and right for a baby.
Rowen came after her. “Here’s what’s happening. Dusty’s cousin Ed arranged a private adoption. The couple are Cinda and Burt Chance. They’re paying Dusty fifty thousand dollars to get her baby, and they gave her half of it up front. They are also paying Ed fifty thousand. She signed papers selling her kid to them. She’s afraid she’ll go to prison for selling her baby if anybody finds out about it.”
Oh, Sam the Baby, thought Kit, and her heart and soul doubled over in pain for him. He was a sale item. He did have a bar code. Dusty had shipped him.
Kit walked over to the kitchen sinks: shining pale yellow porcelain, with a delicate pattern of flowers rimming the edges, as if the sink were a vase. She had no idea what was in the drawers around the sink, and began flinging them open. Sure enough, the decorator had filled the drawers. She pulled out a pile of lovely, never-used tea towels.
Everybody gathered around her at the sink, crowding up to her, as if she were the mommy, with the answers, or the dinner ready to serve.
“So Dusty doesn’t want police involved,” Row went on.
Kit unwrapped the damp flannel baby blanket, peeled off the wet diaper, and lay Sam carefully on a bed of dish towels. In another drawer she found a little terrycloth square, held it under just-right warm water, wrung it out, and began sponging him down.
If anything, Sam hated this more. His little muscles went rigid trying to fight her off, but he did not know how to use his t
iny arms and legs and she held him down easily. Muffin opened the new diaper pack and unfolded one for Kit. Even in this terrible situation, Kit was tickled by the teensiness of the diaper and the baby who would wear it.
“But,” said Rowen, “Dusty does want to stop the adoption, because when she met them, she didn’t like Cinda and Burt.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that!” said Muffin, and Kit realized that Muffin, like Kit herself a year ago, was on Dusty’s side. What amazing abilities Dusty possessed! Dusty could charm people on to her side, even people as sophisticated and cynical as her own father. Even a little girl as sturdy and clear-eyed as Muffin Mason. “You are absolutely right, Dusty,” said Muffin. “There is something wrong with those people. They don’t have soap in their bathroom. They don’t eat anything but pizza and they steal cameras.”
“They steal cameras?” repeated Rowen, staring at his sister.
Kit flung towels around until she found a nice soft large one to wrap Sam in. It was warm in the house, but she didn’t want him bare. It looked drafty. He did not stop crying, however. Drafts were apparently not his problem.
“Sam’s mad at us for getting his life wrong,” said Muffin. “I would be pretty mad if my mother dumped me.” She looked hard at Dusty, and Kit felt better; Muffin had seen through this shallow woman. Kit found a smile rising to her face, the first one in hours. I love Muffin, too, she thought. I really did adopt a family this afternoon. Muffin is mine, Sam is mine.
She looked at Row to see if Rowen was hers, too, but Row was staring at his sister, with a tense frown and stiff shoulders. He was holding his breath. He gave the impression of Sam’s opposite: Sam could function only if he used his breath screaming, and Row could function only if he didn’t use any breath at all.
“And,” said Muffin, “the people who wanted to adopt him are in a witch’s coven.”
“Muff,” said her brother. “Nobody’s in a witch’s coven. They want a baby, is all. They want a baby enough to pay for it. Dusty didn’t like them and tried to break it off, and everybody went off the deep end. Of course they were frantic. This is just a matter of calming down.”