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Authors: Dennis Lehane
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over by the Angel of the Waters , the statue that reminded him of one with the same name in Central Park, and she was chatting with a thick, busty blonde. As the other woman lectured, Maya folded her arms, solemnity on her face. When she spotted him, she beckoned him with a wave, but he pointed upstairs and made a little gesture like he was strumming a guitar. Then he went back inside.
"I'm onto something," he said when she returned. "Don't be surprised if I don't come to bed." He held up a cloth sack she'd gotten at the Museum of Fine Arts that he'd filled with snacks and something to drink.
"Jeff," she said, as she kicked off her flats, "look at this."
Another flier. A sketch by a police artist.
"It looks like you, Jeff."
"No, it doesn't," he said, as he nudged it back toward her.
"Gail McDermott thought so."
"Gail McDermott...?"
"The blonde on the first floor...Runs a PR agency..."
He didn't know anyone in the building. "No," he said, tapping the flier, "that guy is old. He's half bald. Scruffy. It's not me."
"I didn't say it was you..."
"I'm going upstairs."
"They're going to drag the lake tomorrow," she told him.
Walking away, he said, "She's not dead."
He couldn't keep the baby in his music room. It was as dark as a cave, and the soundproofing left the air stagnant and stale. He'd changed her and fed her and burped her and held her, tickled her chin, combed her downy hair with his fingers, bathed her with warm water with a face cloth, cooed at her, sang to her, played little figures on the piano. But the carton he converted to a bassinet was stupid, and she needed sunlight, so he brought her downstairs into the kitchen and sat with her on his lap by Maya's basil plants and thyme leaves.
"Hey baby," he said as he cuddled her in his arms.
Out on Beacon Hill, people had pulled their chins out of the air and were treating each other with decency and humility. They had a cause bigger than themselves now, something beyond parading their imaginary status. Or so he assumed. He hadn't left the apartment grounds since he took Baby Alice. Remembering that a few residents in the building didn't retrieve their Globe until the day's end, he brought her to the center of the king-sized bed, nestled her on goose down, and took the creaking spiral staircase to the lobby. As he started back up, the Globe under his hand, he heard the baby cry and hurried back to scoop her in his arms. He said, "It's all right, baby. Everything's all right." He bounced her and rubbed her back until she sighed and stopped fussing. He kissed her moist cheek.
Down in her office in apartment 3, statue-still and silent, sat Gail McDermott, who, though she tried, couldn't convince herself she hadn't heard a baby's cry. Fresh cup of coffee in hand, she lifted the flier with the police sketch from her in-box, and yeah, it did look like Maya's husband, that New Yorker who was some sort of musician, the odd, scowling guy who dressed like a teenager and looked like he needed something no one could provide.
"Jim," she called as she knocked again. "Jim."
He opened the door a crack. "It's Jeff," he said.
"Jeff." Gail McDermott introduced herself by handing him a business card. "I heard a baby."
"Not here." He scanned the card. McDermott Communications , it read. Specialists in Crisis Management . The building's address was printed below.
"Do you have the baby?"
"Do I have--"
McDermott pushed in, and he watched as she surveyed the living room. Plain, plump, and round-faced, she wore business slacks and a snug white silk blouse. No makeup, her hair tucked behind her ears. Flip-flops and a PDA on her belt.
"No baby here," Jeff said, standing by the door.
"I could've sworn--What's this?" She stared at the platinum album, framed on the wall. "I love this movie. Wait--You wrote this song? That song?"
The one with the pig , he thought, yeah .
"That was my sister's wedding song." She turned. "That's a beautiful song. Wicked
"I'm onto something," he said when she returned. "Don't be surprised if I don't come to bed." He held up a cloth sack she'd gotten at the Museum of Fine Arts that he'd filled with snacks and something to drink.
"Jeff," she said, as she kicked off her flats, "look at this."
Another flier. A sketch by a police artist.
"It looks like you, Jeff."
"No, it doesn't," he said, as he nudged it back toward her.
"Gail McDermott thought so."
"Gail McDermott...?"
"The blonde on the first floor...Runs a PR agency..."
He didn't know anyone in the building. "No," he said, tapping the flier, "that guy is old. He's half bald. Scruffy. It's not me."
"I didn't say it was you..."
"I'm going upstairs."
"They're going to drag the lake tomorrow," she told him.
Walking away, he said, "She's not dead."
He couldn't keep the baby in his music room. It was as dark as a cave, and the soundproofing left the air stagnant and stale. He'd changed her and fed her and burped her and held her, tickled her chin, combed her downy hair with his fingers, bathed her with warm water with a face cloth, cooed at her, sang to her, played little figures on the piano. But the carton he converted to a bassinet was stupid, and she needed sunlight, so he brought her downstairs into the kitchen and sat with her on his lap by Maya's basil plants and thyme leaves.
"Hey baby," he said as he cuddled her in his arms.
Out on Beacon Hill, people had pulled their chins out of the air and were treating each other with decency and humility. They had a cause bigger than themselves now, something beyond parading their imaginary status. Or so he assumed. He hadn't left the apartment grounds since he took Baby Alice. Remembering that a few residents in the building didn't retrieve their Globe until the day's end, he brought her to the center of the king-sized bed, nestled her on goose down, and took the creaking spiral staircase to the lobby. As he started back up, the Globe under his hand, he heard the baby cry and hurried back to scoop her in his arms. He said, "It's all right, baby. Everything's all right." He bounced her and rubbed her back until she sighed and stopped fussing. He kissed her moist cheek.
Down in her office in apartment 3, statue-still and silent, sat Gail McDermott, who, though she tried, couldn't convince herself she hadn't heard a baby's cry. Fresh cup of coffee in hand, she lifted the flier with the police sketch from her in-box, and yeah, it did look like Maya's husband, that New Yorker who was some sort of musician, the odd, scowling guy who dressed like a teenager and looked like he needed something no one could provide.
"Jim," she called as she knocked again. "Jim."
He opened the door a crack. "It's Jeff," he said.
"Jeff." Gail McDermott introduced herself by handing him a business card. "I heard a baby."
"Not here." He scanned the card. McDermott Communications , it read. Specialists in Crisis Management . The building's address was printed below.
"Do you have the baby?"
"Do I have--"
McDermott pushed in, and he watched as she surveyed the living room. Plain, plump, and round-faced, she wore business slacks and a snug white silk blouse. No makeup, her hair tucked behind her ears. Flip-flops and a PDA on her belt.
"No baby here," Jeff said, standing by the door.
"I could've sworn--What's this?" She stared at the platinum album, framed on the wall. "I love this movie. Wait--You wrote this song? That song?"
The one with the pig , he thought, yeah .
"That was my sister's wedding song." She turned. "That's a beautiful song. Wicked
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