Charlaine Harris - A Fool and His Honey

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, his voice empty.

“We have to get the portable crib for the baby,” I pointed out, trying to sound practical rather than aggrieved.

He stared at Hayden almost in astonishment, as if he’d assumed the police had taken the baby with them, too.

“Oh my God,” he said wearily.

I bit my tongue to keep from speaking.

After what I considered more than enough time for him to volunteer, I said in a tight voice, “If you’ll keep an eye on him, I’ll go get it.”

“Okay,” said Martin, to my complete amazement. He sat in another chair and propped his chin on his hand, looking at the baby’s face as if he’d never seen one.

Gritting my teeth and simply ducking under the crime scene tape, I went up those apartment stairs once more, maneuvering carefully around the bloodstains and wondering who the hell would clean them up. Probably me, I figured. I was building up a good head of grievance.

It was a shock to see how messy the apartment was. Of course, they’d searched for evidence about the crime and Regina’s whereabouts. I don’t know why I’d assumed they’d leave it neat. I shook my head in disgust with my own naivetй and snatched up a flattened contraption I assumed was the portable crib. There were assembly directions on a white rectangle attached to the pastel bumper sort of thing. I was pathetically grateful.

I was so scared I wouldn’t hear the baby if he woke in the night that I laboriously assembled the crib right by our bed. Martin didn’t comment. At least he carried the diaper bag up after me, and at least I managed to lay Hayden down without waking him. I perceived Hayden as a baby-instead of a massive problem-for one moment, before exhaustion took over; for that moment, I saw the smooth pale skin, the tiny fingers, the sweet crease of the neck, and it took my breath away.

Then he was once more a terrifyingly fragile being who was (it seemed) my sole responsibility, and I was totally ignorant of how to take care of him. I sighed, pulled off my clothes, and tossed them into the wicker basket in the bathroom. I pulled on my blue nightgown, brushed my teeth, and sank into bed. I registered that Martin was turning out the light before I retreated into sleep.

“Was it our hatchet?” Martin was asking me.

“Uhmm?”

“Roe, was that our hatchet?”

I considered, my head still pillowed on my arms. I felt warm and comfortable, but as soon as I really woke, misery was just waiting to pounce.

I rolled over, snuggled up to my husband.

“I don’t know,” I said against his chest. Martin sleeps in pajama bottoms only.

He put his arm around me absently, his chin gently rubbing the top of my head. “I hope it wasn’t,” was all he said.

“She didn’t do it.”

“Why do you think that?” He didn’t sound upset, just curious.

“She wouldn’t leave her baby, right? And she wouldn’t leave all her stuff, either,” I said more firmly.

“But her car is gone, not the one Craig came in.”

“That was Craig’s car?” Martin didn’t bother answering: Of course, Craig had gotten here somehow; he hadn’t dropped from the sky.

Not that the scenario was unknown to me; a body had dropped from the sky into my garden the year before. But it seemed unlikely it would happen twice, even to me.

So, I reasoned, Craig had come after Regina. He’d been in his own car. Maybe Regina had left him and Craig wanted her to come back. They quarreled and Regina took the hatchet that… How did the hatchet enter the picture? Where had it been before it landed in the middle of Craig’s forehead?

Okay, ignore that mental image. Say Craig had been threatening Regina with a hatchet he’d gotten out of his own car- “Come back to me or I’ll kill you”-and she got it away from him and killed him with it.

While he stood passively below her on the stairs?

And then she wrote a note to her uncle and fled, leaving her baby to the care of whoever walked in the apartment door?

Okay.

Craig had brought a friend with him, who had taken a letch to Regina. This friend got a hatchet and killed Craig and abducted Regina, but didn’t want to be burdened with Hayden. Or the friend didn’t even know there was a baby, so to save the child Regina had snatched a moment to stash Hayden under the bed.

I thought that scenario covered everything. I relayed my theory to Martin.

“That would exonerate Regina,” he said, sounding as if that was a very remote possibility. He seemed a smidge more hopeful, though. “I’m sure she left because someone forced her to. I can’t believe she’d leave the baby unless she was under duress.” Martin kissed my forehead to say thank you, but the arm beneath my neck felt like a log, it was so hard with tension.

I decided to relieve his stress in the happiest way. I nuzzled his nipple. He drew in his breath sharply and his unoccupied hand found something pleasant to do.

“Eh!” said a little voice behind me.

I shrieked.

“It’s the baby,” Martin said, after a fraught moment. “In the crib. By the bed.”

“Eh!” said Hayden. I rolled over, to see two tiny hands waving in the air.

“Oh, no no no,” I moaned, all thoughts of sex flying out of my head like rats leaving a sinking ship. “I don’t know what to do. You had a baby, you have to help.”

“Cindy took care of Barrett when he was a baby.”

Why was I not surprised?

“I was always… too scared to do things for him. He was so little. He was three weeks premature. And by the time he was large enough, when I was sure I couldn’t hurt him by accident, Cindy and I had gotten into the habit of her taking care of him, bathing and feeding and diapering.”

Absurdly, it was not Martin’s ignorance of baby care that made tears spring to my eyes as I dragged myself from the bed. It was the thought of Martin and Cindy’s shared experiences: the birth of Barrett, the concern about his health and fears for his survival after the premature birth, his slow growth and improvement with Martin and Cindy watching as parents. All this he’d had with her, and would never have with me.

I hadn’t ever been jealous of Cindy before, and I’d certainly picked a bad time to start.

Already feeling tired, I hoisted Hayden from his portable crib-surely he’d gained weight during the night?-and laid him on the bed beside Martin while I found my bathrobe. When I turned back, Martin was propped up on one elbow, looking down at the baby, his finger extended for Hayden to grasp. The baby was regarding Martin solemnly. I stood for a long moment looking, feeling my heart break along several different fault lines.

I turned away to pull my mass of wavy hair back into a ponytail and secure it. Hayden had showed a tendency to grab and pull the night before, and I hadn’t enjoyed the experience. I tied the sash of the black velour robe and cautiously bent down to lift the infant from the bed.

“How old do you reckon he is?” I asked, startled to think I didn’t even know this child’s age.

“I have no idea.” Martin stared at the baby, running some comparisons in his head. “He seems a little smaller than Bubba and Lizanne’s kid.”

He did to me, too. “Maybe-a month?” I hazarded.

He shrugged his bare shoulders.

“People will ask,” I said, and to my own ears I already sounded tired. “People always do.”

“Oh, God.” Martin rolled onto his back, pressing his hands against his face as if to guard it from the world.

“You’d better call Cindy,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Regina halfway implied they were close. Maybe she can tell us some more about this baby. Maybe she knows how to contact Barby.”

I went down the stairs carefully, holding up the nightgown and bathrobe with one hand while pressing Hayden to me with my free arm. I was relieved when I reached the bottom safely, and felt foolishly optimistic at this good omen.