xTx - The Baby

8/13/2019 xTx - The Baby

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xTx

The abyI am not afraid the first time I hold the baby. He is a boybaby.I smellhim . He smells like no thing. I am very disappointed. I tell his mom , He smells like zero. I tell his mom . I tell everybody.

Before the baby itw severything about holding thebaby.H olding thebabylikefinding the last puzzle piece and sticking it in. How holdingthe baby would smell, taste, feel. How much I could get away with.That was my biggest concern. Holding the baby holding the babyholding the babysee?

I would spy the mo ther. The m other so pregnant, so ready. I wouldsay, W hat if his skin has your tattoos? The mo ther would pat theback of my hand and give a small laugh while I stared at her bellywondering ifthebaby was decorated or no t. Wondering if that babywould come out a painting. Maybe something she would be w illingto give away, then, p erha ps ...

The second and th ird tim es I hold the baby I'm still no t afraid. I trydifferent ways to hold him . I try to see what works best. Some sortof agreem ent between us. A way we can be together in a system thatsatisfies us both. I try very hard b ut he's always changing his m ind .I sit with him on my thighs when nobody is paying attention. I wantto take off all of his clothes. I want him naked . I lean in to him and

whisper, Last sum mer I fucked the gardener. I sit back up and leandown again, We fucked sixteen times. The baby waves his fistsarou nd like a crazy man. I am no t sure what tha t mearis.After while the baby starts fussing and my husband comes over and


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The mother always lets me hold the baby. My husband only knowsI visit som etimes. My husband does no t know, "I am at yoga class"means "I am holding the baby again again again again." It is for thegood ofus.It is just holdingababy.Itisnothing breakable. The rhotherlets me and so I do. It is permission.

W hen the mo ther goes away hold the baby. I dress the baby in black.I lay the baby on every white thing I can find. The baby dressed inblack at the bottom ofthe bathtub, the baby dressed in black in thesink, the baby dressed in black on the ottoman, the baby dressed inblack on the washing machine. I want to splash red on him. I wantto see red there too, with the baby; the baby dressed in black laid onwhite things.I check the driveway. keep the curtains open. watch for the mother. Iundress the baby. Here heis,naked. lay him on mythighs. watch hisabbreviated body spasticitsmovements. tell him, "You are all mine." Iput my lips on his stomach. I put my lips all over thebaby. .

I am holding the baby while waiting for the pitbull to bite the otherbaby. The not-baby run s. The pitbull sits its strong. Everyone think sit's funny; the not-baby running circles around the pitbull. Do theynot see his silver hackles hackling? I hold the baby tighter. The otherbaby runs and runs. The pitbull's head makes half-turns and snap-backs. I see him getting intent. I feel I know what he wants. I feel Ican see through hiseyes. bite the not-baby. clamp my jaws togetherso hard they meet. The not-baby's guts and blood hot and spilling.And, oh, the screams I am the pitbull with my mouth full of dyingnot-baby and nobody thinks it's funny anymore. I look at the babyTve forgotten I'm holding. He is so alive he is screaming.The not-baby runs andruns.The pitbull's head half-turns, snaps back,half-turns, snaps back.


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ing my husba nd's pot roasts and collared sh irts. I can hide the shirtsin the bottom ofthe trash bin, buy newones.The pot roasts aren't aseasy. He's already smelled them cooking. I have to shave off the ends,the tough outsides, until I get dow n to whatever softer par ts that arehopefully left on the inside. He keeps telling me my cooking has goneto shit. I chew my m eat and n od. C hase it down w ith m ore red w inewhile he asks m e ifheshould hire our cook again.I think of holding the baby when he fucks me. He stabs into me dry.He grun ts seven to ten times, once with each thrus t un til he finishes.I hold the baby tight against my chest while he goes at it. I whisper tothe baby with each g runt. I say, Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby.Baby. Baby.

The next time I hold the baby I can't stop seeing myself drop him.Everyone is around and I drop him on the concrete. Everyone seesthe baby slip from my arm s and fall to the grou nd. Everyone sees metry to catch thebaby.Everyone sees my hands make useless grabbingmotion s. Everyone sees me only catch the blanket. Everyone sees mecatch the blanket an dpull,unrolling th e baby. Everyone sees the babyunroll from his blanket, his head and arms a spinning blur. Every-one sees him twirl towards the concrete. Everyone sees him hit theconcrete, hard from his unro lling. Everyone sees his head pulp openthrough its new crack. And I am holding a blanket. I am holding ablanket but notthebaby. The babyis acracked-head, brain-blossomedthing that isn't even crying on the concrete and we all sit in the si-lence that ends in less than a second now tha t his mother has startedscream ing. It's all I can see.I stop holding the baby.

I makeababyso can holdthebaby when the other babyis.not around.I use soft dish towels, a small sack of rice and a balloon filled withliquid hand soap. I hold the baby around my house; in front of theliving room TV, beh ind our SUV, in the dow nstairs hall closet, next


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at the top of the th ird floor landing. I try to see how different it feelsin each place. See if drop the baby. But I never d rop the baby. Noteven on any of the staircases or on the libraryladder never drop thisbaby but maybe it's because I'm not scared to drop this baby. Thisbaby won 't blossom brains, only soap and rice.W hen my husband comes home I hide the fake baby in the bottombathroom drawer in the first guest bedroom. It's empty except for abottle of baby shampoo and a small, unopened packet of wipes I hadforgotten to throw away.

I am scared to hold the baby. I am afraid the dropping is real. I donot know what to tell the mother. I trace her tattoos with my eyeswhen she isn't looking. I pull them , like a blanket, from her arm andupper back over her baby, pain ting him all over with a sleeve of blackflowers colored in with reds, pinks, purples, blues, greens and grays.I wake up when she says my name the loudest time. Do you want tohold him ? I stare at her skin at the baby's skin, each now their own.I say, Not right now . It is a lie.

Welisten to the neighbors play croquet while try nottohold the baby.Each mallet strike sounds similar to how I imagine the baby's headwill sound when it hits concrete. They hit and cheer, hit and cheer. Iwince each time. I see them in a circle around me. Around the babyfalling and hitting , falling and hitting. They cheer each time. It's likea record skipping. The neighbors cheer and the silver pitbull licks thepulpy red left on the cem ent after the scream ing rriother lifts the baby.The red splash. There it is.The m other holds the baby while the.neighbors play their mallet game.When she passes the baby to her sister I hold my breath. My mindsplits.I see it go two ways; the way I know is real and the way wherethe baby falls and connects head first with the concrete. I sit in thesilence after his head cracking before the mother starts screaming. I


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I have a dream about holding thebaby.T he all of him warm , a part ofme in my arms. A merging ofhisbody into rnine, my arms pressinghim into my chest. The smell ofhim.In a still day, perfect w arm butthe pitbull comes quiet. When he jum ps becom e strong and rigid likea tree. I do not scream like trees do not scream. The pitbull is chewingthe baby'slegs.Tugging like a strong fish on aline.The baby screamsfor both ofus.The dog is biting and tearing and chewing the bo ttomhalf ofthebaby and I can only hold the baby frozen. I am helping itbeing eaten. My stomach and waist are hot warm-wet. The baby islimp and quiet. W hen the top half of the baby falls from my em braceI wake scream ing before it hits the concrete. Reflexively, m y husbandpunches me. He apologizes and at breakfast he sees my black eye andsays, You scared the motherfucking piss out ofmelast night.

I hold the fake baby with my black eye pulsing slow in my face. It'sbetter, I think, not having two eyes on this baby.I walk the fake baby on the diving board. I walk the baby from diningchair to dining chair. I walk the baby backwards up the stairs. One-eyed do not drop thebaby.The baby miss so much . The baby needto be with. The baby not with me, no t dressed in black laid on whitethings, splashed with red NOT SPLASHED WITH RED NO REDON THE BABY DRESSED IN BLAGK LAID ON W HIT E TH ING S.

The m other calls me to come ho ld the baby. I say yes after four nos.I say;yes with rriy two eyes. I pack the rice baby. I know what willcome next.


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C o p y r i g h t o f C h i c a g o R e v i e w i s t h e p r o p e r t y o f C h i c a g o R e v i e w a n d i t s c o n t e n t m a y n o t b e

c o p i e d o r e m a i l e d t o m u l t i p l e s i t e s o r p o s t e d t o a l i s t s e r v w i t h o u t t h e c o p y r i g h t h o l d e r ' s

e x p r e s s w r i t t e n p e r m i s s i o n . H o w e v e r , u s e r s m a y p r i n t , d o w n l o a d , o r e m a i l a r t i c l e s f o r

i n d i v i d u a l u s e .

xTx - The Baby

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