prosperous. There were plenty of grand Victorian homes in neighborhoods where the streets were shaded by large trees, but also plenty of dutifully kept ranch houses like the Cousins home in Seattle. Diane cruised neighborhoods with an eye toward their amenities beforerenting a post-office box in Sullivan’s Gulch, not far from Lloyd Center, a new shopping center. She wanted to go inside Lloyd Center and have a look around, but instead, with her baby on her arm, she went into a battered-looking secondhand store and bought him a wicker basket, a blue baby blanket, a grow suit, and corduroy booties. Lloyd Center would have to wait.
That night, Diane parked her beater beneath a streetside elm in the Eastmoreland neighborhood, where she could see downhill a long way. For an hour and a half she watched the scene in front of her and in her rearview mirror. People came and went, cars pulled in and out, lights went on, lights went off, people walked with dogs on leashes, a cat prowled cryptically. Around nine-thirty, Diane selected the third house from the end on the east side of the block, a large, red-bricked Tudor with tall hedges. Now came the hard part—the disturbing crux of the deed. She got out, looked around, collected herself with one deep breath, then opened the passenger door and gathered up the wicker basket containing her sleeping son, who was tucked into his blue blanket and warmly dressed in his baby grow and booties. As calmly as she could, but steadily, she walked down the sidewalk through intervals of yard lamplight that illuminated her son’s perfect face. And it
was
perfect. Why was her son so perfect? She looked, alternately, at him and at the Tudor. From its front window, a purple light emanated; the people inside, she understood, were watching TV. TV watchers in a red brick Tudor were going to have to do the right thing. “Okay,” Diane thought, “this is it,” and then, suddenly welling up, she climbed the stairs and left her son on the stoop.
It was bitter-hard. But, driving off, she bucked up within minutes. The TV watchers, upstanding people who lived in a good home in a good neighborhood, would squire Baby Doe to the next step along his way. All he had to do was cry how he did and they would give him what he needed and take him where he needed to go. And that left her free now—free, foremost, to call that toff Walter on Monday morning and bleed him for everything he was bloody worth. For now though, she returned to her dingy quarters, where she passed a night equal in sleeplessness to the one before it, if for different reasons. Her baby kept her awake not with intermittent squalls but with his absence.
The following afternoon, with Walter on the hook, a bag of chocolates beside her, the television for company, and a pillow behind her head,Diane sat on her motel bed circling rooms for rent in the
Journal
. She looked at the comics, did the crossword puzzle, and read “Hints from Heloise” and “Dear Abby.” Below the fold in the local section she came across the headline police seek parents of abandoned baby. No witnesses or clues were mentioned in the story. The infant was in the care of the Boys and Girls Aid Society of Oregon. Diane felt relieved to know that Baby Doe was settled. Her plan was a success.
Two days later, on a sunny morning, standing in the post-office foyer, she tore open Walter’s first installment with giddy pleasure, counted and then folded his fresh bills into a fat wad, noted with interest but not disappointment the absence of a note or letter, then walked down the street and leased a safety-deposit box at a branch of Portland Trust and Savings. The next day, she took a furnished room in Sullivan’s Gulch, dank and dreadful but dirt-cheap, and certainly no worse than what she’d known growing up. Determined to save what she could on rent, she shared a bathroom with other tenants and cooked soup and oatmeal on a hotplate. The landlord didn’t ask for references or
That night, Diane parked her beater beneath a streetside elm in the Eastmoreland neighborhood, where she could see downhill a long way. For an hour and a half she watched the scene in front of her and in her rearview mirror. People came and went, cars pulled in and out, lights went on, lights went off, people walked with dogs on leashes, a cat prowled cryptically. Around nine-thirty, Diane selected the third house from the end on the east side of the block, a large, red-bricked Tudor with tall hedges. Now came the hard part—the disturbing crux of the deed. She got out, looked around, collected herself with one deep breath, then opened the passenger door and gathered up the wicker basket containing her sleeping son, who was tucked into his blue blanket and warmly dressed in his baby grow and booties. As calmly as she could, but steadily, she walked down the sidewalk through intervals of yard lamplight that illuminated her son’s perfect face. And it
was
perfect. Why was her son so perfect? She looked, alternately, at him and at the Tudor. From its front window, a purple light emanated; the people inside, she understood, were watching TV. TV watchers in a red brick Tudor were going to have to do the right thing. “Okay,” Diane thought, “this is it,” and then, suddenly welling up, she climbed the stairs and left her son on the stoop.
It was bitter-hard. But, driving off, she bucked up within minutes. The TV watchers, upstanding people who lived in a good home in a good neighborhood, would squire Baby Doe to the next step along his way. All he had to do was cry how he did and they would give him what he needed and take him where he needed to go. And that left her free now—free, foremost, to call that toff Walter on Monday morning and bleed him for everything he was bloody worth. For now though, she returned to her dingy quarters, where she passed a night equal in sleeplessness to the one before it, if for different reasons. Her baby kept her awake not with intermittent squalls but with his absence.
The following afternoon, with Walter on the hook, a bag of chocolates beside her, the television for company, and a pillow behind her head,Diane sat on her motel bed circling rooms for rent in the
Journal
. She looked at the comics, did the crossword puzzle, and read “Hints from Heloise” and “Dear Abby.” Below the fold in the local section she came across the headline police seek parents of abandoned baby. No witnesses or clues were mentioned in the story. The infant was in the care of the Boys and Girls Aid Society of Oregon. Diane felt relieved to know that Baby Doe was settled. Her plan was a success.
Two days later, on a sunny morning, standing in the post-office foyer, she tore open Walter’s first installment with giddy pleasure, counted and then folded his fresh bills into a fat wad, noted with interest but not disappointment the absence of a note or letter, then walked down the street and leased a safety-deposit box at a branch of Portland Trust and Savings. The next day, she took a furnished room in Sullivan’s Gulch, dank and dreadful but dirt-cheap, and certainly no worse than what she’d known growing up. Determined to save what she could on rent, she shared a bathroom with other tenants and cooked soup and oatmeal on a hotplate. The landlord didn’t ask for references or
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