Down in her office in apartment 3, statue-still and silent, sat Gail McDermott, who, though she tried, couldn’t convince herself she hadn’t heard a baby’s cry. Fresh cup of coffee in hand, she lifted the flier with the police sketch from her in-box, and yeah, it did look like Maya’s husband, that New Yorker who was some sort of musician, the odd, scowling guy who dressed like a teenager and looked like he needed something no one could provide.
“Jim,” she called as she knocked again. “Jim.”
He opened the door a crack. “It’s Jeff,” he said.
“Jeff.” Gail McDermott introduced herself by handing him a business card. “I heard a baby.”
“Not here.” He scanned the card. McDermott Communications, it read. Specialists in Crisis Management. The building’s address was printed below.
“Do you have the baby?”
“Do I have-”
McDermott pushed in, and he watched as she surveyed the living room. Plain, plump, and round-faced, she wore business slacks and a snug white silk blouse. No makeup, her hair tucked behind her ears. Flip-flops and a PDA on her belt.
“No baby here,” Jeff said, standing by the door.
“I could’ve sworn-What’s this?” She stared at the platinum album, framed on the wall. “I love this movie. Wait-You wrote this song? That song?”
The one with the pig, he thought, yeah.
“That was my sister’s wedding song.” She turned. “That’s a beautiful song. Wicked beautiful.”
“Thank-”
Upstairs, Baby Alice let out a cry. He sank as he realized he’d left the door open to his soundproof studio.
“Oh, Jeff…” McDermott said, puffing up.
Maya and Jeff, the baby in his lap, faced McDermott, who sat behind her desk, the Angel of the Waters in the Public Garden over her shoulder. Like Jeff, she’d converted a bedroom to a workspace.
“Why?” Maya repeated.
He said, “I don’t know why.”
“Was she in danger, Jeff?” McDermott asked.
“No. She was asleep.”
“Tell me what you were thinking…”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking. I just, I don’t know, reacted.”
“To what?” Maya asked.
Is a man who no longer matters supposed to understand why he did something? “I don’t know. Really,” he replied truthfully. He looked down at the baby, who slept peacefully. Here, Maya, he wanted to say. I’m sorry. Take her and let’s go home.
But it was more, and much less, than that.
“Ever do anything like this before?” McDermott asked.
“No. Of course not.”
“We need a lawyer,” Maya said.
“I’ll get you one,” McDermott replied, holding up a blunt index finger. “But let’s think this through…”
She’d wriggled politicians, businessmen, and academics out of worse situations than this. Had the Patriots listened to her, the nation wouldn’t think of them as cheaters. Had Larry Summers, he’d still be president of Harvard.
She rubbed her temples. Stealing a baby from a stroller could seem a low thing. It had to be spun right. The guilty party had to define the crime.
“It was an impulse,” Jeff said.
“So this is what you do in New York? You have an impulse and you steal a baby?”
He hung his head.
“Have you called the police?” Maya asked. She was still stunned, the morning a blur since she was pulled from the lecture hall.
“That’s not at the top of our agenda,” McDermott replied. “We have to inculcate Jeff here.”
“Are you saying we sneak the baby back into the park?” Maya asked.
“We could do that,” McDermott replied. “But how does that help him?”
Maya frowned. “For one, he may stay out of jail…”
“That’s the minimum outcome,” McDermott said as she stood. “We can do better than that.”
Jeff brushed the baby’s hair from her forehead.
“Why does he take her?” McDermott said as she started to pace. “He’s distressed, his career in shambles, no one acknowledges him. He has a sort of psychotic breakdown. Do I have that right, Jeff?”
“Just about,” he admitted.
Maya looked at her husband, surprised he’d said it aloud.
“Or he’s committed an act of civic disobedience against Beacon Hill. He feels a smugness, a starchiness, a lack of soul…He’s worried the child will grow up with a distorted sense of self. She’ll be ill-equipped for life outside a tiny, out-of-touch neighborhood in a dynamic city, a great nation.”
Maya turned as McDermott circled behind her. “You don’t believe that, do you?” she asked.
“There’s less pretension on Rodeo Drive,” answered McDermott, who had grown up in the Ninth Street Projects.
“No, I meant you can’t believe the police will accept that as an explanation.”
“The police will be easy,” McDermott said. “Getting your husband back on top of the music business is the trick.”
“I never was on top, actually.” Jeff stared at Baby Alice. He wondered what their daughter might’ve looked like if ambition hadn’t gotten between his word and Maya and their son.
“Go shower and shave, Jeff,” McDermott said, as she returned to her desk. “Maya, get over to Newbury Street and buy him some grown-up clothes. I’ll watch the baby.” As she sat, she added, “By the way, I get five hundred dollars an hour, and you’re on the clock until this is done.”
Okay then. Two in the morning and Jeff was in his spot, his guitar on his lap, his fingers on the steel strings. The Angel of the Waters hovered over him, wings open, arms outstretched. Cast as far as he could see, the park was splendid under a starry summer sky, the flowers asleep until dawn. In the near distance, a policeman patrolled on horseback.
He strummed a minor chord, another, anoth-
What? Was that…Was that a baby’s cry?
He put the guitar on its case, walked to the dry, shallow fountain at the foot of the statue, and, oh my God, there was a baby. The missing baby. Baby Alice.
He scooped her up, nestled her in his arms, and dashed to Beacon Street. There wasn’t a car in sight. Damn. Plan B. He raced to their building and rang every bell. Someone answered, a man with a high, flowery voice.
“I found the baby,” Jeff said hurriedly into the speaker. “The missing baby. I found it. Call the police.”
McDermott, in plaid pajama bottoms and a Big Papi T-shirt, reached him first, and by the time Maya rushed downstairs in her robe and slippers, most of the building was in the lobby, waving at the baby, patting Jeff on the back.
“Look, Maya,” he said breathlessly. “She was in the park. Under the statue.”
“It’s a miracle,” she muttered.
“She doesn’t look hurt,” McDermott said, peering over Maya’s shoulder.
Jeff nodded. He was crisp in new green khakis, a striped shirt from Brooks Brothers, and boating shoes, his hair combed, the part where it should be. For a moment, he drifted deep into the story McDermott had concocted. He felt like a man who’d done something worthwhile.
Wanting no part of the charade, Maya left to retrieve his guitar.
The police came. Two squad cars, burly guys in uniforms. The Herald beat the Globe there, and its photographer got him cradling the baby, cops surrounding them as they came down the brownstone steps. “Sox Sweep Yanks-Again!” read the Herald headline that ran alongside a vertical photo of Jeff and Baby Alice. “Our Angel Safe and Sound” was the caption. The story on page three identified him as a famous Hollywood songwriter. They got his first name right, all four letters, and found an old photo of him sandwiched between Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt taken at some benefit show long ago.