Mike Wells: Baby Talk

“She can too understand,” Annie said. “Babies can understand a lot of things, even from inside the womb. My books say so.”

“Your books,” Neal said sulkily. “You wouldn’t know how to wipe Natasha’s butt without those damn books.”

Annie’s face turned pink. “What’s the matter with you? I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh, no, you didn’t do anything . Just called me at work and left an idiotic message that nearly got me fired.”

“I didn’t call you at work today. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you did.”

“I did not!”

“Well, then I suppose she left the message,” Neal said, motioning to Natasha.

Annie glanced at the baby, then looked back at Neal. “What on earth are you talking about? What message?”

“‘I love you,’” Neal said sarcastically. “Signed, Baby Natasha. Cute, Annie. Very cute.”

“Baby Natasha?” Annie laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Neal said firmly, but he was beginning to feel off balance. “It’s not funny, Annie. It almost cost me my job.”

Annie opened her mouth to say something, but shut it and just stared at him. There was a sad look in her eyes.

“What?” Neal said.

“I’m worried about you.”

He let out a short, nervous laugh. “What do you think, I’m imagining it?”

Annie broke eye contact with him. “Five month old babies can’t talk, Neal. I looked in my books today and— “

“Your goddamn books don’t mean a thing! Can’t you ever think for yourself?”

“Shhh! You’re scaring her!”

Natasha had stopped moving and was looking at Neal with her strange, reptilian eyes, her mouth half open. The expression on her face seemed to be a combination of confusion, fear, and curiosity. Annie hugged her against her shoulder, turning the baby’s face away from him.

Neal said, “You act like that damn baby is made of china. She’s not going to break into a million pieces just because somebody raises their voice.”

“You’re not just raising your voice, Neal. You’re yelling.”

“Well, so what if I am! People have been yelling for millions of years, and I haven’t ever heard of a baby dying from it.”

“Maybe not dying, but getting messed up from it later.”

Neal looked at Annie for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m getting a beer.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll calm you down.”

“I am calm,” Neal said over his shoulder. He opened the refrigerator and tore a can of beer from a half-used six pack. “I’m surprised you don’t keep the beer in a paper bag, so Natasha can’t see it. No telling what it might do to her later on.”

“What?” Annie called.

“Nothing,” Neal muttered. He popped the top and guzzled a few cold swallows, then noticed a bent up fork that was lying beside the sink. He picked it up and shook his head. She couldn’t even load the goddamn dishwasher right! At least half of the cheap silverware they had bought at Wal-Mart had fallen down to the bottom of it and been bent all to hell by the spray rotor. But that didn’t matter, not to Annie. If it wasn’t directly connected to Natasha in some way, it was of no importance.

Neal took another swig of beer and sat down in one of the dinette chairs. When he did so, it gave another one of its annoying squeaks—he only weighed 170 pounds, but it would barely support him. All the furniture in the apartment was nothing but cheap rubbish, rented at exorbitant prices from one of those companies that prey on young people who have no cash or credit. The only decent thing in the place was Neal’s trophy case, which was in the bedroom. He had moved it down from Louisville, from his mother’s house, over the summer. He hadn’t known exactly why he had wanted to bring it back to Atlanta with him—maybe it just reminded him of the “good old days” back in high school, when he played tennis and golf and basketball every afternoon, before he was so burdened with adult responsibilities.

But even that little project had met with disaster. He had first put the trophy case in the living room, but then decided it would look better in the bedroom, because it didn’t really go very well with all the plastic-covered furniture. While he was sliding it across the floor, one of the trophies—his favorite trophy—had fallen off and broken.

It was a first prize award he won in a tennis championship his junior year in high school. On top was a man who was swinging his racquet overhead, as if leaping to serve the ball. The end of the racquet had snapped off when the heavy trophy had slammed into the hardwood floor. Neal had been furious, blaming it on the baby, who was crying so loudly that he couldn’t keep his mind on what he was doing. Later, he felt guilty. He knew it was his own fault for not taking all the trophies out of the case again before he moved it. Annie had actually told him to do this, but he hadn’t listened to her. He tried in vain to glue the trophy back together.

Neal sighed and gulped down some more of his beer. He supposed none of that mattered. Playing sports and winning trophies were now a thing of the past.

Annie appeared at the kitchen doorway, the baby in her arms.

“Who gave you the message at work?”

“The old lady. Grammy.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

“She didn’t say anything. It was a message slip.”

“Oh. Well, what did it say?”

“I already told you, Annie.”

“‘I love you. From Baby Natasha?’”

“Yeah,” Neal said, taking another swallow of beer.

“Where is it?”

Neal reached for his shirt pocket, but then remembered he had thrown it away. “I don’t have it anymore.”

Annie looked skeptical. “Uh-huh.”

Neal felt his blood pressure rising. “I tore the damn thing up and threw it away, Annie! I didn’t want to leave it laying around for somebody else to see—it was bad enough as it was.”

Annie nodded, but the skeptical look was still there. “Maybe one of the people you work with did it, as a joke.”

“Why in the world would they do that? I haven’t told anyone else about what happened this morning. You’re the only person who knows.” Neal glared at his wife for a few seconds. “That means, wifey dearest, that it had to be you.”

“Or you.”

Neal did not speak for a moment. “What do you mean by that?”

“I think you know what I mean, Neal.” Annie retrieved the baby seat, put Natasha in it, and began to prepare dinner.

Neal went into the living room, so angry he was shaking. He picked up the paper off the floor and began to scour the classified ads for a new job. This was a nightly ritual—this and driving to the library to use the Internet to search the online job listings, as they could no longer afford such “luxuries” as an online connection or even cable TV. Or even a cell phone! At the beginning of the summer, when school had ended, he thought he might be able to find a position in which he could use his knowledge of chemistry—maybe an opening for a lab technician or analyst. But he had nearly given up hope. No one wanted to hire a chemist who “almost” had a college degree. The market was saturated with plenty of qualified applicants.

After his routine perusal, he chucked the paper into the chair beside him. This time, it did not slide off the plastic covering.

“Nothing new?” Annie said from the kitchen door.

“No,” Neal said softly. He gazed at the baby, who he could see through the doorway, sitting in her baby seat. She seemed to be gazing back at him.

Neal could hear a skillet sizzling and popping on the stove. From the aroma, he knew Annie was making fried chicken, his favorite meal. She knew how to prepare it exactly the way he liked it, crisp but without much grease. At least she could cook halfway well.