4.
Bobby didn't want Karen to worry, so he didn't mention the large animal in the salvage yard. She seemed so happy to cuddle the baby until his blue eyes drooped shut, and, when she had gently placed him in the trunk, to hover over him, singing old-fashioned lullabies as he lay quietly in his makeshift bed. It would have been a shame to dampen her spirits. But when the little boy had fallen asleep, Karen crawled happily into bed with the most beatific smile on her face, and Bobby felt very uneasy. She couldn't possibly think they'd be able to keep the little thing … could she? No, of course she couldn't. Karen wasn't an unreasonable woman. She must know better than that.
He waited until she drifted off, listening to the two of them slumbering in the dark, quiet bedroom – Karen with the slightest glottal hint of a feminine snore, and the baby's faster, shallower breath, fetching up every now and then into what sounded like a contented sigh. Bobby quietly slipped out of bed, got his shotgun, and crept down the stairs.
He shook deicing salt in all of the windows and doors and around the vents, just like Rufus had told him to. He hoped Karen wouldn't hassle him for making a mess when she got up. Then he loaded his shotgun with his special rock salt cartridges, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sat all night by the back door, listening carefully for any sounds of movement.
The night was beautifully quiet. The storm had moved on, and all he could hear was the faint drip-drip-drip of rain trickling down the gutters. There was no noise from upstairs, which he took as a good sign. Maybe this was one of those sleep-through-the-night babies. That was definitely a point in its favor.
He nodded off around two, and came to with a start, wondering if he'd only dreamed the sound of large toenails clicking on the back porch. He stayed awake after that, and swept up the salt when the sun rose.
He was making a pot of coffee when he heard movement upstairs, creaking on the old floorboards, and his wife's voice, light and happy, though he couldn't hear exactly what she was saying. Then he heard that bright piping voice call out seriously: "Amma baba. Eee bawawa aaaaah!" and he couldn't stop the smile. Damned if that thing wasn't at least a little endearing.
He had just poured his first cup when Karen came down the stairs with the little boy in her arms. His wings were tucked close to his back, and the Ace bandage had come loose, but he didn't seem to be bothered by it. He fixed Bobby with the same unblinking blue-eyed stare as before, and when Karen reached for an empty mug, he leaned out of her embrace towards Bobby, his arms extended.
"Eeeemee amma?" he said gravely.
"Git over here, pipsqueak," said Bobby gruffly. He put his mug down and gathered the little boy into his arms. He felt the boy's body instantly grasp onto his own, and the big black wings fluttered once, rustling, and folded against the little back. "Well, I reckon you all slept good."
"I reckon I did," said Karen; she looked worried. "Bobby, there's not a drop of pee or poop in that diaper."
"Good," said Bobby automatically; changing diapers was not something he was good at. Then he realized what she'd said, and exclaimed, "What?"
"Nothing," she said, dumping sugar in her coffee and shaking her head. "Not a thing. Dry as a chip."
"Well, that ain't right," said Bobby. "Every baby I ever seen's been a pooping machine."
"My sister told me that her youngest went through twenty diapers a day when he was little," said Karen, stirring her coffee so aggressively that it sloshed a bit out of the cup. "You don't think he's – sick?"
Bobby frowned. He wasn't sure about babies, but he knew that was a very bad sign in puppies. "Goddammit," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know what to do with angel babies. Constipated angel babies are worse."
"Oh, so now you think he's an angel?" Karen sipped her coffee. Despite her worry, her eyes twinkled at him.
"Don't go puttin' words in my mouth," grumbled Bobby. He ruffled the little boy's hair; it was thick and soft to the touch, and stood up like fiber optic cable all over his head. "Could still be a devil, or an alien or something, or some kind of monster."
"No, he's not," crooned Karen. She took the baby back and cuddled him one-armed on her hip. Bobby was amused to note that the baby squirmed a little trying to get comfortable, and looked up at her with a puzzled frown. "He's just a pwecious wittle baby angel boy, isn't he?"
"Eeee ah wah," said the precious little baby angel boy irritably. He stared at Karen's mug, and abruptly thrust his hand into the steaming coffee.
"Balls!" said Bobby; Karen sloshed coffee all over herself, the baby, and the floor.
"Did he burn himself?" asked Karen anxiously, putting down the mug. They looked at the baby. He was frowning at his hand, watching the hot black liquid steam off of it. He put a finger to his lips and tasted it, then drew back with a grimace and a shudder. Bobby chuckled in spite of himself.
"Serves ya right, pipsqueak," he grunted. He took the baby and said, "Go on upstairs and change. I'll get this cleaned up."
"How did that not burn him?" Karen demanded, dabbing at the baby's hand with her nightgown. "That coffee was scalding!"
"You do realize this ain't a normal baby, don't you, love?" said Bobby, turning the little boy around in his arms. He could feel the hot coffee steaming off the onesie, but the baby didn't even seem to notice; he had been distracted by Bobby's cap. "Go change. I'll clean him up. And then," he said, fixing his wife with a stern look, "we're gonna talk about what to do with him."
"We're keeping him," said Karen firmly, heading towards the stairs and glaring at him over her shoulder.
"What?" spluttered Bobby to her retreating back, but she turned around, her head high and her shoulders set.
"We're keeping him, Robert Singer!" she called down the stairs behind her, and marched into their room and slammed the door. Bobby groaned. Just his luck.
"Balls! Goddammit." He looked down at the baby, who had managed to pull Bobby's cap off and put the brim in his mouth. "Here, give it back, you."
The baby let him take the cap and watched Bobby put it back on. He tipped his head to the side, as if considering nesting in toroidal spaces, and said thoughtfully: "Aaah wah bah."
"You are an odd one," said Bobby irritably. "Now I gotta clean up your mess, dammit."
He took the little boy to the sink and, his mind on getting the coffee cleaned up, unthinkingly set him down on the edge of the kitchen counter. As soon as he let go of the little body, it wavered, unbalanced, and started to fall off the edge. He flared his large black wings out and pulsed them, righting himself, but knocking over the dish rack and the pie plate, sweeping clean dishes, the teapot, and half a boysenberry pie onto the floor with a crash.
Bobby jumped back with an angry and frustrated oath. The baby looked up at him curiously, wings stretched wide and fluttering a little to keep his balance. One of the remiges brushed against a vase and knocked it over.
"Goddammit!" said Bobby. He reached for a dish towel, remembered that the baby might fall, or knock something else over, reached for the baby, and slipped in the mess, cracking his elbow on the corner of the Formica. It was too much, and the sudden shock of pain made Bobby see red. Without thinking, he grabbed the baby by the arm and threw his mug so hard into the sink it shattered.
He shouted: "Look at what you did!" And then he shook the baby, hard. The baby pulsated his wings, righted himself, and cocked his head.
"Amma baba?" asked the baby curiously.
Bobby drew up, appalled. His fingers were digging deep into the baby boy's flesh, so deep he could feel the tiny twig of bone in there. His hand looked very big and callused and strong wrapped around the little arm. All the anger was suddenly rushed away by a wave of horrible guilt.
The baby stared intently at him, his blue eyes seeming even bluer, the serious face watching him carefully. He pointed one chubby finger at the floor and said gravely: "Dook."
"Yes," said Bobby weakly, swallowing heavily. He loosened his grip around the fat little arm. The baby didn't seem to notice. "You … we made a mess."
"Dook,"
"Yes," said Bobby. His hands were trembling and all he could see in his mind was his father angrily advancing with a belt, smelling of cheap whiskey. "Look. Big mess."
"Dook." The baby looked at the floor and tilted his head to the side. "Dook. Amma baba."
"It's okay," said Bobby, gently picking up the baby, mindful of the wings this time. As soon as he balanced the baby on his hip, the wings folded in. Bobby noticed the right wing didn't seem to be broken anymore. "It's okay. It's not your fault. I break everything I touch. I shouldn't of let go of you." He took a deep breath. "Okay," he said, trying to slow his heart down. "Okay."
"Tay." The baby regarded the mess with a certain complacency. Bobby sighed, and gently put him on the floor, well away from the broken dishes, well away from him and his big ham hands and his legacy of temper and violence. He knelt and started picking up the pieces. The smell of spilled coffee and pie made his stomach growl, but he felt sick.
To do the child credit, he didn't interfere with what Bobby was doing, but only watched with serious blue eyes as Bobby picked up the shattered remains of last night's dishes and the ruined pie. When Bobby wet a dish towel and mopped up the sticky remnants, the baby leaned forward and put one chubby finger on the damp linoleum. "Mmm," he said. "Ah ma ma ma."
"Okay," said Bobby. He was still very rattled. "Okay. Everything's okay. See? All gone."
"Tay," said the little boy, and looked up at Bobby. His onesie and one sock were stained with coffee, but he didn't look any worse for wear. In fact, Bobby thought, he looked very tiny and fragile, and those big, dark blue eyes were full of curiosity and a kind of innocent calm. Bobby threw the dirty dish towel in the sink and reached with trembling, hesitant hands out to him.
To Bobby's amazement, the boy trustingly reached back, and Bobby pulled him onto his lap and put a shaky arm around his back, grateful and terrified.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's not your fault. It was my fault. I break everything I touch." This was what he was afraid of. He would always be afraid of it. He was immeasurably glad Karen hadn't seen him, hadn't seen him slip into what his upbringing demanded of him.
"Mmm mah mah mah," said the little boy. He pulled himself up onto Bobby's chest and put his little arms around the man's neck. Bobby could feel the warm gust of breath, the little voice's vibration against his cheek. It was beautiful and he didn't deserve it. "Aaahh bah bah bah bah bah."
"I'm sorry," he said again, gathering the little boy to himself. The black wings rustled softly and brushed against his hands; he could feel the little fat feet pressing into his thighs and the spiky hair on his cheek. The baby smelled like coffee and ozone. "I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault."
The boy was quiet, only holding on to Bobby's neck with his small arms, unquestioning and innocent. Bobby knew he could technically excuse his outburst on his lack of sleep and stress and not enough caffeine. But he didn't. He knew better.
"Pipsqueak," he said shakily. The baby sat back on his lap and looked up at him gravely. "We got to get you home before something bad happens."
"Eee wah," the boy agreed solemnly, and pulled off Bobby's cap again.