Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

Mike turned around and caught me staring.

“I’ll stop by the station and see what juvenile records has come up with,” he said. “Whether she’s identified as Hillary or not, we still have to address the Amy angle. I’ll start a birth-certificate search.”

“I need a car,” I said.

“Take mine. I’ll use my official poh-leese vehicle. You have my pager number. Call me if anything comes up.”

“I will.” I walked over and zipped up his fly. “But if anything comes up with you, how will you contact me?”

He smiled wickedly. “What? You think you’re the only woman in town?”

I laughed as I turned away toward the bathroom. “Honey, after last night, you won’t pose much danger to the female population for a long, long time.”

“Says you,” he called after me.

“Damn right,” I said. I pulled off the sweatshirt and tossed it to him on my way through the bathroom door.

Mike left while I was still in the shower. I dressed quickly in jeans and a sweater, repacked my duffel, and stowed it in a corner of his closet. I called Guido, who told me he would be happy to help if I could hang loose for a couple of hours. He had a tennis date.

I hadn’t spoken with Casey since Friday night, when she had called to tell me that she had arrived in Denver safely. It was eleven o’clock Denver time when I dialed her father’s number.

Casey answered.

“Have you been to the church yet?” I asked her.

“Just got back.”

“How did it go?”

“Baby Scotty cried when the priest got his head wet.”

“Babies always cry,” I said. “Did you make a little speech, godmother?”

“Sort of. It’s so weird, Mom. Linda has me promise to look after Scotty’s moral education, but she says I’m still too young to baby-sit him. She hardly lets me touch him. Or Dad. She is such a bitch.”

“It isn’t easy to be a stepmother.”

“Sure. Defend her,” Casey snapped. “Like it’s any fun being a stepchild? You know what I figured out?”

“What?”

“When I was born, Linda was eight years old.”

“Definitely too young to baby-sit,” I said.

“It’s not funny, Mom.”

“Lighten up, Casey. You’ll only be there a few more hours.”

“Thank God.” I heard her let out a long breath. “I gotta go.

All these people are coming over for lunch and I’m supposed to help Linda. I can’t baby-sit, but I can peel carrots.”

“Go to it,” I said. “I’m back in L.A. for maybe another day or two. Lyle will pick you up at the airport tonight. Call me when you get in.”

“You staying at Guido’s?”

“No. Tell you what. I’ll call you. Now, go be helpful.”

“Bye, Mom. Say hi to Mike for me.”

Smart-ass kids can complicate your life.

On my way out to the garage, I stopped in the kitchen to pick up the rest of Lyle’s carefully boxed muffins. I had plans for them.

The CD system in Mike’s Blazer was truly state-of-the-art. I put k.d. lang’s “Big Boned Woman” on repeat, and had the tricky chorus nearly down pat by the time I got through the snarl of freeway traffic around Dodger Stadium. By L.A. standards it wasn’t a big snarl, so I made it to Lincoln Heights in fair time.

On a Sunday morning, one would expect to find most nuns on their knees counting rosary beads. I found Agnes Peter on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor.

“We don’t cook on Sundays,” she said, stretching the kinks out of her legs. “It’s the only day the floor can dry before it gets all tracked up again. Did you wipe your feet?”

She led me out to the small backyard, where she dumped her mop bucket under a desiccated fruit tree.

“I figured you would be back as soon as you heard about our girl,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans. “What have you learned?”

“Quite a lot, actually. I just don’t know how it all hangs together yet. Her name was Hillary. Hillary Ramsdale. I thought you’d want to know that.”

“Hillary. The name suited her.” She shielded her eyes against the bright sun behind me. “What’s the rest? I know you didn’t drive all the way over on Sunday morning just to tell me her name.”

“I want to check in on Sly,” I said. “I thought you might like to ride along.”

She gave me a wise glance. “And?”

“I’ll be going home soon. He needs a friend in town, Pete. Someone who will be a constant for him.”

“Where is his family?”

I shook my head. “From what he told his caseworker, even if we could find his family, Sly is better off without them.” Pete leaned her mop against the back wall. “Okay. I’ll go. The little bugger kind of grew on me. Like a wart on my butt.”

“You have a big heart, Pete.”

“And absolutely no sense. Lead on, before I change my mind.”

We stopped at a market for some juice to go with the muffins. I also grabbed a bunch of bananas, a pack of bubble gum, a small playground ball, a balsa glider kit, some baseball cards, and a couple of comic books. The kid was, after all, nine years old.

We found Sly sitting alone on a bench in a corner of the MacLaren Hall playground, hugging his bundle of belongings to his chest. He seemed drawn into himself, oblivious to the children running around him. He brightened when he saw us. Or when he saw the big brown grocery bag.

“How’s it hanging, Sly?” I asked. “You remember Sister Agnes Peter.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just came to see how you’re doing.”

Pete was close beside me. “This looks like a nice place, Sly. How’s the food?”

“Food?” Sly made a face. “You mean shit, don’t you?”

Shit or not, he had been able to choke down some of it. His face had filled out considerably since the first time I had seen him. His stomach looked rounder, too.

I sat down on the bench beside him and watched a group of younger kids playing foursquare. “It’s warm today.”

He turned to me. “That faggot cop get the guy in the ‘vette?”

“Not yet,” I said. He hadn’t said “fuck” once since we had been there. Something was happening.

“What’s in that bag?” he asked.

“A few things you might need,” I said.

He reached for the bag, looked through its contents, rolled the top closed, then set it between his feet.

“Anything else I can get you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m pretty well set.”

Pete touched his shoulder. “I’ve never been here before. Feel like giving me a tour?”

He looked away. But he gathered his things and stood up. “Maggie,” Pete said, “I can get a ride home.”

That was the second time she had dismissed me. And the second time I obeyed her. I stood up beside the small boy. “I’ll see you, Sly,” I said.

He glanced at me and shrugged his thin shoulders. “Later.”

Sly and Pete began walking across the lawn. I watched them for a moment, silently blessing her for the generosity of her spirit. Just as I was turning away to leave, Sly broke away from Pete and came tearing back toward me.

“Hey, camera lady,” he panted.

“What is it?” I said, stooping to his eye level.

He held out to me his ragged bundle of stuff.

“Look after this, will you?” he asked. “Some of these assholes in here keep trying to take it off me. Just give it back when I get outta here, okay?”

“I promise. I’ll take good care of it.”

He aimed a grubby finger at my face. “Don’t open it.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” I clutched the bundle against my chest. It felt softer than I had expected, and weighed almost nothing. There wasn’t much substance to the sum of Sly’s stuff.

“See ya,” he said, and ran back to Pete.