Chuck Palahniuk - Lullaby

A cat does not sit on the child and suck out its life.

All we know is, we don't know.

Nash, the paramedic, shows me the purple and red bruises on every child, livor mortis, where the oxygenated hemoglobin settles to the lowest part of the body. The bloody froth leaking from the nose and mouth is what the medical examiner calls purge fluids, a natural part of decomposition. People desperate for an answer will look at livor mortis, at purge fluids, even at diaper rash, and assume child abuse.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up.

The shortcut to closing any door is to bury yourself in the little details. The facts. The best part of becoming a reporter is you can hide behind your notebook. Everything is always research.

At the county library, in the juvenile section, the book is back on the shelf, waiting. Poems and Rhymes from Around the World. And on page 27 there's a poem. A traditional African poem, the book says. It's eight lines long, and I don't need to copy it. I have it in my notes from the very first baby, the trailer house in the suburbs. I tear out the page and put the book back on the shelf.

In the City Room, Duncan says, «How's it going on the dead baby beat?» He says, «I need you to call this number and see what's what,» and he hands me a proof sheet from the Lifestyles section, an ad circled in red pen.

Three columns by six inches deep, the copy says:

Attention Patrons of the Meadow Downs

Fitness and Racquet Club

It says: «Have you contracted a flesh-eating fungal infection from the fitness equipment or personal-contact surfaces in their rest rooms? If so, please call the following number to be part of a class-action lawsuit.»

At the phone number in question, a man's voice answers, «Deemer, Duke and Diller, Attorneys-at-Law.»

The man says, «We'll need your name and address for the record.» Over the phone, he says, «Can you describe your rash? Size. Location. Color. Tissue loss or damage. Be as specific as possible.»

There's been a mistake, I say. There's no rash. I say, I'm not calling to be in the lawsuit.

For whatever reason, Helen Hoover Boyle comes to mind.

When I say I'm a reporter for the newspaper, the man says, «I'm sorry, but we're not allowed to discuss the matter until the lawsuit is filed.»

I call the racquet club, but they won't talk either. I call the Treeline Dining Club from the earlier ad, but they won't talk. The phone numbers in both ads are the same one. With the weird cell phone prefix. I call it again, and the man's voice says, «Diller, Doom and Duke, Attorneys-at-Law.»

And I hang up.

In journalism school, they teach you to start with your most important fact. The inverted pyramid, they call it. Put the who, what, where, when, and why at the top of the article. Then list the lesser facts in descending order. That way, an editor can lop off any length of story without losing anything too important.

All the little details, the smell of the bedspread, the food on the plates, the color of the Christmas tree ornament, that stuff always gets left on the Composing Room floor.

The only pattern in crib death is it tends to increase as the weather cools in the fall. This is the fact my editor wants to lead with in our first installment. Something to panic people. Five babies, five installments. This way we can keep people reading the series for five consecutive Sundays. We can promise to explore the causes and patterns of sudden infant death. We can hold outhope.

Some people still think knowledge is power.

We can guarantee advertisers a highly invested readership. Outside, it's colder already.

Back at the City Room, I ask my editor to do me a little favor.

I think maybe I've found a pattern. It looks as if every parent might have read the same poem out loud to their child the night before it died.

«All five?» he says.

I say, let's try a little experiment.

This is late in the evening, and we're both tired from a long day. We're sitting in his office, and I tell him to listen.

It's an old song about animals going to sleep. It's wistful and sentimental, and my face feels livid and hot with oxygenated hemoglobin while I read the poem out loud under the fluorescent lights, across a desk from my editor with his tie undone and his collar open, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. His mouth is open a little, his teeth and his coffee mug are stained the same coffee brown.

What's good is we're alone, and it only takes a minute.

At the end, he opens his eyes and says, «What the fuck was that supposed to mean?»

Duncan, his eyes are green.

His spit lands in little cold specks on my arm, bringing germs, little wet buckshot, bringing viruses. Brown coffee saliva.

I say I don't know. The book calls it a culling song. In some ancient cultures, they sang it to children during famines or droughts, anytime the tribe had outgrown its land. You sing it to warriors crippled in battle and people stricken with disease, anyone you hope will die soon. To end their pain. It's a lullaby.

As far as ethics, what I've learned is a journalist's job isn't to judge the facts. Your job isn't to screen information. Your job is to collect the details. Just what's there. Be an impartial witness. What I know now is someday you won't think twice about calling those parents back on Christmas Eve.

Duncan looks at his watch, then at me, and says, «So what's your experiment?»

Tomorrow, I'll know if there's a causal relationship. A real pattern. It's just my job to tell the story. I put page 27 through his paper shredder.

Stick and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.

I don't want to explain until I know for sure. This is still a hypothetical situation, so I ask my editor to humor me. I say, «We both need some rest, Duncan.» I say, «Maybe we can talk about it in the morning.»

During my first cup of coffee, Henderson walks over from the National desk. Some people grab their coats and head for the elevator. Some grab a magazine and head for the bathroom. Other people duck behind their computer screens and pretend to be on the phone while Henderson stands in the center of the newsroom with his tie loose around his open collar and shouts, «Where the hell is Duncan?»

He yells, «The street edition is going to press, and we need the rest of the damn front page.»

Some people just shrug. I pick up my phone.

The details about Henderson are he's got blond hair combed across his forehead. He dropped out of law school. He's an editor on the National desk. He always knows the snow conditions and has a lift pass dangling from every coat he owns. His computer password is «password.»

Standing next to my desk, he says, «Streator, is that nasty blue tie the only one you got?»

Holding the phone to my ear, I mouth the word Interview. I ask the dial tone, is that B as in «boy»?

Of course I'm not telling anybody about how I read Duncan the poem. I can't call the police. About my theory. I can't explain to Helen Hoover Boyle why I need to ask about her dead son.

My collar feels so tight I have to swallow hard to force any coffee down.

Even if people believed me, the first thing they'd want to know is: What poem?

Show it to us. Prove it.

The question isn't, Would the poem leak out?

The question is, How soon would the human race be extinct?

Here's the power of life and a cold clean bloodless easy death, available to anyone. To everyone. An instant, bloodless, Hollywood death.

Even if I don't tell, how long until Poems and Rhymes from Around the World gets into a classroom? How long until page 27, the culling song, gets read to fifty kids before nap time?