“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.
“That was an awful thing to do, Jeffrey,” Maya said, turning away whenever he approached. “You need help.”
Citizens Bank tried to give him the $5,000 reward they’d put up, but, as McDermott instructed, he insisted it go to Baby Alice. Her parents, cordial young lawyers who were saving to buy their first home, thanked Jeff by inviting him and Maya to brunch on Rowes Wharf. Over the meal, he learned the nanny was back in Nicaragua, courtesy of immigration services.
“Glad you got that poor woman deported?” Maya asked as they walked back to their apartment.
He was glad about a lot of things, if not that. The day after the baby was recovered, Jeff was flown to New York to appear on The Early Show, where he was interviewed about the Miracle of the Angel.
“Yes, I have some new songs,” he said as the interview wound down.
“Will you be writing one about Baby Alice?”
“I like that idea,” he replied, as McDermott had instructed when she media-trained him.
Some big country music star he’d never heard of asked to hear his new material. A publisher with offices in New York, Nashville, Los Angeles, and London offered to rep him. And a hip-hop mega-producer secured the rights to his old song from the movie, pledging to turn it into a hit again, “as soon as I find the look for the product.”
When he finally returned to Beacon Hill, he hardly recognized the woman who greeted him. Despite the turmoil, Maya seemed content, energized yet at ease, all the sharp angles gone. The pace of the old town suited her, she said. She’d moved on. “Go back to New York, Jeff,” she said, and he did.
DARK WATERS
BY PATRICIA POWELL
Watertown
Promptly at 7:19, right in the middle of Jeopardy!, the entire house went black; no electricity! and she’d had to rustle through her drawers to find candles to light up the kitchen so she could see to eat a tin of sardines with crackers and slog through half a bottle of Chardonnay. Later she had crept upstairs, weary and slightly depressed, to read peacefully a book on uncertainty she’d been trying to sink her teeth into for some time. She had not long settled into the chapter on “discomfort” when she heard the knocking on the front door downstairs, which was immediately perplexing for she did not really know anyone in the area that intimately, she’d just moved near six months now, had told no one of her whereabouts except her best friend Rhonda, and she was not expecting Rhonda, nor expecting that Rhonda would’ve disclosed her location to Fred. And yet who could it be knocking on her door at this hour-11 according to the clock on the bedside table. Who could it be?