B^{aby's Fever Baby's Given Her
by Nicole Derr}

She was supposed to go to the grocery store for an Italian bread-boy with a bacon face.  Usually stuck toothpicks in him and sampled him.  Boy's all passive-like, full of inactive yeast cultures, and, in everybody's best interest, far better on the tray.  Diapers, the other important item on her list, made her grimace: warmed-over, rancid, crinkling.  She threw a glance over her shoulder and sized up the empty streets and towering lampposts.  Yes, she refused the grocery store tonight, withstood obligation.  Baby was warm today.  What's baby's name.  Still new and forgotten.  Named him a light, winding name, her choice: but what.  Husband sepulchred his (its) head (sepulchred?).  Husband soothed its head with a cool, damp cloth.  Her head was wet too.

It always rained here.  She no longer bothered with galoshes, raincoats, umbrellas, or simple hoods; no longer bothered with a car either.  Her nameless baby built a rainproof vehicle out of a red wagon and three umbrellas.  Baby navigated the vehicle with ease, insolently challenging its mother's car-lessness.  It changed the wagon's oil.  She told her baby, wagons don't need oil.  Although she vehemently protested this vehicular pastime at such a young age, the umbrellas kept her baby dry at least.

It always rained here.  If she bothered with galoshes, raincoats, umbrellas, or simple hoods, then she'd really have to commit and buy various raincoats to coordinate her wardrobe, decent looking galoshes (good luck), umbrellas that resist the wind, and hoods that didn't fall over her entire face and swallow her from the neck up.  Fashion translated into nothing more than money, more and more money, insane money.

If you are plumb crazy is that as bad as fucking crazy? Her husband and his washcloth were plumb crazy, but maybe not fucking crazy. Car insurance cost him three grand a year, and now with gasoline prices through the roof, you'd have to be crazy not to walk everywhere: crazy like a fox, crazy like a plum. In grade school, she once dressed a plum in a top hat and sunglasses made of felt. After she brought the plum back home, she painted the little top hat green and called him Mr. Plumkin. She found the idea of combining the plum and pumpkin into something edible nauseating. Grocery store, yes. Grocery store, no.

She slipped her hands into her coat pockets and slowed in front of a Victorian house. A porch swing swayed vacant before the windows. She walked the stone path, running both hands along hedges as she passed. The door opened before she had the chance to knock, and inside she went.

"Hello," she drawled in a warm, syrupy voice alien to her ears.

"What?" a young man squeaked from behind a large potted plant. Sphagnum moss crawled out of the pot and brushed against his pants.

"I said that aloud?" she asked, already confused.

"What?" he repeated, shaking the plant with slender, hairless arms and pushing his face through thick leaves.

"Where's your boss?"

"What?"

"Jesus," she sighed and walked down the hallway. Little forehead was running a temperature and needed more diapers. Husband home with wash rags. Cool in this house, cool and dark like a compress. "There should be a front desk or something."

"I agree," a man yelled from behind a closed door. He emerged hastily. "I'm sorry, madam, I didn't hear you enter." He offered his paw for a shake, and she grasped tightly: best to let them know who's in charge right away.

"That's okay. It just felt inappropriate wandering around a house not my own."

"Oh, I understand and apologize; however, we want you to feel as free here as in your own home."

"Thank you."

He guided her through the hallway to the last door on the right and knocked tersely.

"Yes?" a muffled baritone sounded.

"Kindly join us in the hall. You have a visitor."

The baritone materialized a body and entered the hall. His protruding belly pressed against a crumpled oxford shirt. He dabbed his face with a tiger-lily handkerchief. "Nice to meet you," he warbled. "Why don't you come in."

She walked into his room and immediately noticed the overpowering odor of peanut butter. He removed her coat.

"Peanut butter?"

"I like making my sandwiches in advance so I get it done all at once. One sandwich for lunch each day," he explained sotto voce, pointing at a shelf stacked with wrapped peanut butter sandwiches. He dabbed at his forehead. "Would you like a drink?"

"A glass of wine would be fantastic...I'm thirsty."

"Me too." He poured two glasses of red wine and sat down on the lumpy bed.

"It's a cold night," he said. He began unbuttoning her shirt, knocking her glass with a heavy hand.

"It is a cold night," she agreed, easing herself horizontal.

"A very cold night," he echoed needlessly, now unbuttoning her jeans and massaging her stomach. A pained exhalation escaped her as his obese frame lowered, squeezing her ribcage. She imagined the bones splintering like dry Popsicle sticks.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Huh?" He flipped over like a rubbery pancake and checked the room with a cursory glance. "I don't see anything."

"There," she said, pointing at the potted plant in the corner of the room, "it's that boy I saw earlier." She rubbed her eyes in disbelief. (Was it the same plant from the hallway? Did he use the plant as his vehicle?) The boy flashed the glass in his hand. The smell of alcohol mingled with peanut butter.

"What are you doing here!" she yelled.

He giggled mirthlessly. "My head is hot. I'm thirsty, so I'm drinking."

"If your head is warm, you shouldn't be drinking alcohol."

"What? My head is hot -- feel my head," he moaned, scuttling over to her and pressing his head against her shoulder. She felt the dissipating heat from his head in distinct waves. Horrified, she pushed him away.

He tried to crawl back. "I need to go to the bathroom too, but there is no more toilet paper in this house. I've been waiting for someone to get me toilet paper and tissues and something to eat..." He wielded his leaden head like a weapon.

She opened the door and tried to usher him out, but he resisted. His head teeter-tottered in a state of despair peculiar to sickness, genuine and cloudy.

"But I've been waiting."

"You're not my responsibility," she snapped.

"My head is hot; feel my head." His glassy eyes fixated on hers. "Feel my head," he demanded, staggering. His face glistened.

"I don't even know who you are!"

"You don't know my name?"

"Get out! Why don't you help me?" she asked the man still reclining on the bed. Was he paring his fingernails?

"He's not my responsibility either," the man sang.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the boy said. She felt his hot breath on her cheek.

"Get out!" she shrieked, pushing him out of the room, slamming and dead-bolting the door. She turned to the apparently bedridden man as he poured himself a second or third glass of wine.

"Another?" he offered.

She nodded and joined him at the foot of the bed. Shaking slightly, she lifted the glass and inhaled deeply, almost coating her nose in Chianti. She surrendered, plunged, breathing in small quantities of wine, yet only able to smell and taste his heat through the walls, watering her eyes: in waves.