Walking back through the labyrinthian warehouse toward the outside, Steve wondered how he could have ever been afraid of the building. Now it was more friendly than home, and even little Seun traversed the way without a light. The whole tone of the place had changed.
And all because of the baby.
As always, the bright light of the afternoon hurt their eyes as they stepped out of the warehouse. The other kids were gone, already starting home, and there was no sign of them. Steve squinted in the direct sunlight, trying to keep his eyes from watering. "What time is it?" he asked.
Bill smiled. "After lunch and before dinner."
Steve scowled at him. "Anybody have a watch?"
"It's about three," Jimmy said.
They started walking. Bill picked up a stick and threw it into the bushes. Overhead, a plane sailed through the clear blue sky a few seconds ahead of its noise, leaving a trail of jet white in the air behind it.
"He seems so alone," Seun said.
Steve looked at him. "What?"
"He seems so alone. Don't you ever feel that way? I mean, what does He do when we're not there? He's all alone."
Steve stared at Seun. He had been thinking the same thing while he had been kneeling in front of the baby. He picked up a rock and looked at it. The rock resembled a frog. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and threw it. It whizzed through the air and hit a tree. "He is alone," he said.
"He doesn't have to be."
"What can we do about it?" Jimmy asked.
"Follow me." Seun ran down the path through the ravine and up the hill toward his house. He looked back at Steve as he ran. "I been saving this." He led the way through the wall of oleanders into his back yard. He pulled open the secret door to the clubhouse. The clubhouse had sat there virtually unused ever since they'd found the baby. The other three followed him in.
"Look," Seun said.
In the center of the floor, in a gold Coke crate, lay a little baby girl. She was dead. At her feet, Seun had poured out a jarful of black ants he had caught, hoping they would crawl up her body, but instead they had crawled onto the floor and were busily trying to find a way out of the clubhouse.
Steve knelt down in front of the baby. "Who is she?"
"Mindy Martin."
"Mrs. Martin's daughter?"
Seun nodded.
Steve looked up at him. "How did you get her?"
Seun smiled. "That's my business."
"Was she already dead or did you ... kill her?"
"Does it matter?"
"No. I guess not." Steve looked into the box and hesitantly put his finger forth. The girl's skin was cold and springy. He felt an instant of admiration for Seun. "How long have you had her?"
"Since yesterday. I got the box last week and painted it, but I didn't get her 'til yesterday."
Steve stood up. "Let's take her out there."
Seun looked nervous. "Think He'll like her?"
"There's only one way to find out."
Seun drew out a black cloth from his pocket and spread it over the top of the crate. All four of them picked up the baby, each taking a corner of the box. They lifted it through the secret entrance. Seun closed up the clubhouse and they started through the oleanders.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Seun's mother came out onto the back porch and stared at them. "Where are you going?"
The four boys stopped, looking first at each other, then at her. "Nothing," Seun said. "We're just playing."
"Playing what?"
"Church."
She looked surprised. "Church?"
All four of the boys nodded.
She smiled and shook her head. "Okay. But you better be back in time for dinner."
"We will," Seun said.
They carried the box through the oleanders and started walking toward the warehouse.
Coming Home Again
A friend of mine's parents divorced when he was ten. His father remarried when my friend was in high school, but my friend never liked his father's new wife. She seemed all right to me, but in his mind she was a complete witch.
The two of us lost touch, but years later I saw him again, and he was still complaining about his wicked stepmother. I thought, "Your father could have married someone so much worse...."
***
On the plane ride over, I tried to think of what I would say. The situation was bound to be awkward. I had been trying for over a decade to get my father to go out with other women, but now that he seemed to have found someone he cared about I was torn with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I wanted him to be happy—he was my father and I loved him. On the other hand, I had also loved my mother and I couldn't help feeling, on some gut emotional level out of reach of my rational mind, that by finding someone else he was betraying her memory.
And he might love this new woman more than he 'd loved her.
I guess that was my real fear. What if he found someone he loved more than my mother? What if his emotions found not just a substitute for her but a replacement for her? A woman who would supersede my mother's place in his emotional hierarchy.
It was a babyish fear, I admit. An immature, childish worry. My mother would have been happy for him. She wouldn't have wanted him to live forever in that celibate state of self-imposed social exile that he'd been inhabiting since her death. And I, too, wanted him to be happy.
I just didn't want his happiness to come at her expense.
I glanced down again at the folded letter in my lap. "I have found someone I care for very much," he'd written in his typically formal style. "I'd like you two to meet."
I leaned my chair back and closed my eyes. I wanted to like her; I really did. I hoped I would.
The plane landed in LA two hours later. I disembarked, found my luggage, and walked across the street to the coffee shop where my father had said he'd meet me. He was standing next to the open trunk of a new Pontiac in the parking lot. He was smiling, and he looked better than he had in years. The gaunt tiredness which I thought had settled into his features for good had disappeared, and his formerly sallow skin looked tan and healthy. As always, he was dressed in a formal suit—vest, tie, the whole works. My own clothes were nice, and comfortably stylish, but next to him I felt pitifully underdressed.
"It's good to see you," he said, and held out his hand.
"You too," I said. I couldn't help smiling. He looked so good, so fit and healthy and happy. I shook his hand. Our family had never been big on physical demonstrations of affection, and the pressing of palms was about as close as we ever got to a public display of closeness.
He took one of my suitcases and loaded it into the trunk; I put the other one right next to it. "How are things with you?" he asked.
"Oh, about the same as always." I grinned. "But your life seems to have taken a turn for the better."
He laughed heartily, and I realized suddenly that it had been years since I'd heard him laugh that way. "Yes," he said. "That is true. That is very true."
He unlocked my door and I got into the car, sliding across the seat to unlock his side. "So what's her name?" I asked. "You never did tell me."
He smile cryptically. "You'll see."
"Come on," I told him.
"We'll be home in ten minutes." He put the car into reverse and looked at me. "It's good to see you again, son. I'm glad you came out to see me."
We drove over the familiar side streets toward home. It was not a ten-minute drive from the airport. It was not even a twenty-minute drive. Our home in Long Beach was a good forty-five minutes from the airport even without traffic, and we happened to be driving during rush hour. But I'd known that ahead of time, and I didn't mind. We talked a lot, got caught up on new gossip, restated old positions, and fell into our old familiar patterns.
By the time we pulled off the freeway onto Lakewood it was approaching dinnertime. I hadn't had a thing to eat save an almost inedible lunch on the plane, and I was starved. "Is she going to have dinner ready for us?" I asked.