Jodi Compton - Hailey's War

There were infertile couples everywhere who would, in theory, leap at the chance to adopt a healthy, appealing infant like Henry, only four days old. But in practice, most of those couples would ultimately shy away from a dark-alley, extralegal adoption, if I even knew how to set one up. Which I didn’t. It was too bad, really. So many childless couples, wanting-

Wait .

An audacious idea had come to me.

No way. Put it out of your head, Cain .

“What are you thinking?” Serena asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Come on, let’s go. It’s probably not smart for you to be standing around holding him like that. We should keep moving.”

Serena handed the baby back to me. “See you soon,” she said.

I walked back to the Taurus and strapped Henry into his car seat, backed carefully out of my space, and drove toward the freeway.

But on the road, I couldn’t stop thinking about the idea that had come to me at the rest stop, and by the time I was back in L.A., I knew what I was going to do.

At Casa Serena, an informal vote overwhelmingly suggested that baby “Enrique” live with the sucias, like a mascot, a baby boy with no mother but a dozen loving, devoted older sisters. The girls passed him around among themselves so much that Serena finally had to intervene.

“He’s fine,” Heartbreaker pleaded as Serena carried him away. “Babies need stimulation.”

“Not that much,” Serena said. “He’s four days’ old, for God’s sake.”

Deprived of the baby they’d quickly come to consider a living toy, the girls turned to the night’s second form of unexpected entertainment, the cable news channels and the latest on the baby-napping. To the sucias, this was the latest exploit of la leyenda Warchild, and they devoured the media reports with a mix of pride and derision. They jeered when Payaso’s GTO was reported as “possibly a Chevy Nova” and laughed outright at the police sketch of Serena.

“That could be fucking anybody!” Teardrop exulted.

Escaping into the privacy of Serena’s room, where she’d made a makeshift cradle from a dresser drawer and blankets, I gave Henry a bottle. Serena followed me in, holding a pair of cold, wet Corona bottles by their necks, then expertly cracked them open using the edge of the dresser and her hand.

When Henry rejected the rest of the formula, I set it aside and turned him upright, jouncing him gently. In a moment, he burped, a loud and healthy sound. Serena giggled, and I did, too.

This was the moment where most girls our age would have asked one another, Do you think you’ll ever want a baby of your own? Serena and I didn’t. We’d already implicitly asked and answered that question. We already knew.

She handed me a beer and said, “Have you thought any more about what to do with him?”

I had-more than that, I’d decided-but couldn’t say so. “Tomorrow we’ll brainstorm.”

She nodded. “Sounds good.” She set her bottle down. “Can I hold him again?”

I handed him over. Serena took him in her hands and bounced him gently. “Don’t you worry,” she said to him. “Your Auntie Warchild and Auntie Insula aren’t going to let anything happen to their littlest homeboy.” She kissed the top of his head. I snickered.

“What?” she said.

“‘Auntie Warchild and Auntie Insula,’” I said. “We’ve gone crazy.”

“A long time ago,” she agreed.

We put Henry in his makeshift bassinet to sleep. I lay back on Serena’s bed, my head at its foot, and took my first sip of the Corona, felt it trace a cold path down deep through my chest. “Ahhh,” I said, eyes half closed.

“No shit,” Serena agreed.

I opened my eyes again and looked up at her print of Halong Bay. It was an image so clean and pure I imagined Serena willing herself to touch it and suddenly be there.

“Warchild?”

“Eh?”

“Have you ever thought about going to Vietnam?”

She gave me a quizzical look. “To do what?” She rolled the neck of her beer bottle in her palms.

“To see it. It’s a tourist destination. The war’s been over a long time,” I said.

“Are you saying you believe me now, about my dreams? You never did before.”

“What I believe doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re interested in Vietnam; you ought to go someday.”

“You mean, like, on vacation?”

“Yeah. Not a big fact-finding mission. Just walk around, see the people, eat the food.”

“Homegirls don’t do that shit,” she said. “I mean, Jesus, it’s on the other side of the planet.”

I rolled over onto my stomach. “For God’s sake, think of the things you do every day. You’re a shot caller in a gang, for crying out loud. You’re telling me you couldn’t make a reservation, get on a plane?”

“And the money’s coming from where?”

I shrugged. “The usual ill-gotten gains. Start a jar, stuff a couple tens and twenties in it every time you have a particularly good week.”

She took a hit off the beer and studied me, her eyes hooded and speculative. “Would you come?”

“You don’t need me,” I said. “I’m not ruling it out, but Vietnam’s not my deal, it’s yours. Whether or not I could go with you, you should go.”

“You always got this crazy shit on your mind, stuff that no one else thinks about,” Serena said.

A little after midnight, Henry’s crying woke me. I told Serena, “Stay here, I’ll get him.”

“’Kay,” she said, burrowing back down under the covers.

I got up and went to the bassinet, sat on my heels and scooped Henry up, blankets and all. I picked up his bottle on the way out of the darkened bedroom.

Serena’s girls were used to sleeping through nearly anything. The two in the living room didn’t stir as I turned on the light over the stove and, one-handed, poured water into a pan, topped off Henry’s bottle with formula, and put it on the stove to heat. All through this, he cried. Pettish little sounds, not loud wails. I bounced him and made clicking noises with my tongue.

When Henry was fed and quiet, I composed a note.

Serena ,

I’m going into the city. I think I know

a place where Henry will be safe. I know

you’ve got enough cojones to go

with me, but it’s best I do this alone

I’m taking the Honda that Trippy

stole earlier today, sorry. I love you .

H .

The streets were quiet, but nonetheless I obeyed all traffic laws, signaling my turns and staying within the speed limit, as was appropriate for someone driving a stolen Honda with a kidnapped infant. Even so, I was glad to get off the main roads and begin the climb up into the hills. I had one stop to make before I took Henry to what I hoped would be his permanent home.

CJ usually chained the corrugated-tin gate at the head of his rough dirt driveway at night, but I remembered the combination for the lock, drove through, and parked. Overhead, a black silhouette passed low: a hunting owl. A nocturnal creature, like me, and like my cousin as well. There was light on the dry grass behind the house, clearly coming from the back windows, and the faint sound of music.

I unstrapped Henry from his car seat and lifted him out, closed the car door, and walked up onto the deck. Then I hesitated. The music was clearer now, and I didn’t think it was on the sound system; it sounded like the piano in the living room. The pianist was running lightly through bits of jazz, just pleasing his own ear.

CJ’s relationship to the piano had followed a fairly typical arc. When he was a child, his mother had made him learn to play it. As a teenager, he’d rejected it in favor of the strap-on sex appeal of the guitar. As an adult, he’d come around to the pleasures of its rich nineteenth-century sound. And, of course, women loved to watch him at the keys.