Got Milk?
By David Thomas Lord
Her heart desired nothing more than the joy of having a child to call her own. Her womb, however, repeatedly mocked and disappointed her wish. But in a dark Chicago alleyway, she found something to share the love that pulsed within her veins, in her breast.
© 2004 David Lord
It was cold and damp that November evening and the sun set before I ever left work. It was deep twilight by the time I got to my ob/gyn appointment. It was already dark and growing darker when I rushed back out into the drizzling night headed nowhere.I hadn’t wanted the baby, had I? Isn’t that what Gregory said? That I wasn’t ready yet. I wasn’t ready yet. We weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready yet. We weren’t ready. My old mantra echoed on the Chicago pavement in hollow cadence to my hurried footfalls. I, having stopped at walk/don’t walks, started again. I, having turned left here, turned right there. I had to be utterly lost in a neglected section of my adopted town.
Adopted. There. That word again.
Three times in under twenty-one months, my useless uterus conspired against me. Now I had to slink home again and face the justification again and muffle my tears again as I cried my heart and soul out again. And yes, again, yes, I’d give them both for a baby boy or girl.
I slumped in my own personal chasm through the large, ugly, urban canyon. Recognizing a street sign through eyes blurred with tears and rain, I realigned my internal and headed in the direction of my car.
In Chicago, all buildings are tall. Even the short ones are tall. And ugly. Even the pretty ones. Well, tonight, anyway. But even so, this section of town was truly ugly. If these squat, massive structures weren’t warehouses, they missed their calling. Gray, limestone or granite, I don’t know. Or care. They’re bloated and hollow and without use or function. No personality, no reason for being, no. . . .
No baby.
I crossed onto Monroe Street, which was probably an alleyway once. All trash and dumpsters. But also, to my way of thinking, a shortcut to my car, my home my—no, don’t think it—womb. The road was cobblestone, usual in the older, quainter, unused quarters; my heels had trouble maneuvering their slick, unfair faces. I found no purchase in my loneliness either, as it resounded off of each hard, unyielding surface.
Then, the solitary streetlamp frittered and something struck my face.
It was cold and wet and soft, possibly hairy. It struck my cheek. Not hard, a frisson, and it passed. Was it just my sodden hair caught by a lake-effect wind? Flying refuse? No, something deliberately touched me and my skin crawled.
The rain chose then to increase its volume and encouraged me to hurry from this spot. And then I heard it.
I thought it was just a wail from wind caught on the jagged edge of a broken, neglected window. Or the murmur of thunder, abandoned as well. But no, it was something else, something distinct. And I thought I knew that certain sound. I staggered to the mouth of an abandoned cul-de-sac, pressing against the storm and my fears alike. And heard it again.
Cries.
“Is anyone there? Does someone need help in there?”
All that greeted me were chesty sobbings, a painful waa-waa that I knew I knew.
“Excuse me? Do you have a baby down there? A child, I mean? Can I help you in any way? Don’t be afraid; please answer me!”
But all I heard in response was the rustle of papers and plastic trash bags and that relentless bawl of an infant. I edged closer and closer. Closer and closer, I edged, I swear. And she, the baby’s mother, I thought, with her little charge, slipped further and further back into the dead end. It was as dark as an unlit basement and just as nasty, but I continued on to rescue the child.
“I have a flashlight here in my pocketbook. I’m going to turn it on. Don’t be afraid.” And in the explosive burst of white light from one of those damned kryptonite bulbs, I saw something.
Dear God, I remember screaming inside my head, don’t let that be a rat! Still, I fought to overcome my overwhelming repulsion in order to save the child. But, which way? Should I head towards the baby or the rat? Could I truly block that vicious predator, if I wasn’t sure where the baby was?
Jesus. Jesus! Jesus.
Jesus, I know you’re as unhappy with me as I am with you tonight. But we cannot sacrifice that child for our differences! Help me, Jesus. Goddamnit! Help me. Jesus. All I want is the baby. Help me save the baby. Nothing else matters. Please, Jesus? Please? Goddamn you, I said please!
And as if in answer to my somewhat blasphemous prayer, the rain abated. And as it calmed, I calmed.
“I’m coming for the baby,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as mine. Not just calm, but confident again. Not strident, but sure. I would have listened to this voice; even I would have responded. And miraculously, it happened. The mewing stopped and the gurgling began.
I could not say that, at first, it was a happy sound. That sound from the baby. But, encouraging. Yes, an encouraging sound. And I responded. I refocused the flashlight and, like an expert marksman, found my quarry.
Perfect.
Small and round and pink and perfect.
The harsh light caught the tiny, golden ringlets and was softened by them. And I, too, was softened by the tiny, rosebud mouth, the full and pudgy pink cheeks and the baby-blue eyes. Yes, I swear, baby-blue.
Her skin was that complexion they call peaches-and-cream. Yes, her. For she was as naked as her birth.Alice (I called her that in my mind at the split-second that I laid eyes on her) sat in the litter-strewn alley as complacently as any ten-month-old would in a well-appointed playpen. Alice had it all! All except the one thing every baby should have. And, godforgiveme, the one thing I wished her without.
Her mother.
Alice had no mother there to protect her. No mother to love her. No mother to care.
Thank you, Jesus! Because Alice has me. And I have her. Small and pink and round and perfect.
“Oh, God, I am ready. I’m ready for this baby. I can do this. I swear. I’m ready.”
And I scooped down and scooped her up.
My God! She was freezing cold! It was like picking up a tiny ice carving or a miniature snowman. She should have been blue by now, but Alice was perfectly pink, peaches-and-cream.
I rocked her against my body, trying to give her my warmth. Her head rested gingerly, affectionately, against my neck. Her arms tucked under her and at my breasts. Her chubby legs curled in and under and resting on my forearms. Exactly the way I’d seen it. Exactly the way I’d imagined it. Exactly the way I’d wanted it.
It was so exact that I didn’t notice at first the pressure. So exact that I didn’t regard the puncture. So exact that I didn’t mind the new coldness, as her darling little fangs sucked the life-giving blood from my vein.
“That’s enough, little one,” I chided. “No more until we get home.”
No, no more from me, I thought. Or how will I protect you? How will I raise you?
“No, my precious, little darling. Not until we get home. Then I’ll introduce you to your new Uncle Gregory. He’ll be perfect for you. He’s very healthy. Oh yes, little one. Between us we can finally teach Gregory how to share.”
