Kiss Me Awake

Pomona, California

Spencer Gordon stood alone in center field and decided he was a fool for coming here. He tossed a rock in the air and swung at it with a stick. From behind the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, he surveyed the distance of his line drive. His skills had improved since he was a boy, but considering the magnitude of what he had lost that gain wasn’t much of a consolation. 

He’d come here looking for a way out, or maybe it was a way back in that had him driving fifty miles inland. He wasn’t too sure anymore. He dropped the stick and rubbed gritty palms on his jeans. It was time to go. 

Low and warbling, the arid Santa Ana winds howled. It was the sound of a soul in mourning, and he felt it clear through to the marrow of his bones.  He ducked his head against the sharp gusts and started across the field for the parking lot.

When he arrived half an hour ago he looked for the row of oleanders, but they were long gone. Bermuda grass cropped short and tinged brown from the perpetual drought, grew in their place. 

Spencer leaned an arm on top of his Lexus and stole one last glance over the lot. Everything had changed since he was a kid. This generation played on a ball field landscaped and maintained by the city. Instead of denim jackets or tee shirts, anchored rubber bases divided the ninety-foot chalk line square. It was a far cry from the crude field he and his friends got by with using an eighty-five-cent can of spray paint.

Another angry gust of wind battered his face and ruffled the open collar of his shirt, the potent blast sending a white-throated sparrow reeling like a drunkard in mid-air. He opened the car door and climbed in, shutting out the elements, the noise.

He didn’t come all this way to dredge up the past, but the memories tugged, and when he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes he was eight years old all over again…

                                         *

A shrill cry split the air and the hair on the back of Spencer’s neck stood on end. Was it an animal? His arm stilled where he had it shoved inside the oleander bush, his mind racing with images of a wolverine, its razor-sharp fangs bared and ready to strike. His heart pounded hard underneath his dirty tee shirt and he jerked his arm out, rubbing at the imaginary teeth marks it left behind.

Behind him he could hear the guys yelling, telling him to hurry up. Spencer wiped the sting of sweat from his eyes and looked over his shoulder. They were still holding their positions. They were waiting on him, waiting on the ball.

He turned back and faced the bush. He didn’t want to stick his arm back inside only to have it gobbled up by a wild beast. Just thinking about it made his heart pound hard again, and this time it felt as though it was in his throat.

What did it matter? They were losing the game anyway. He should tell them he couldn’t find it. He
would
tell them that, but he wasn’t a quitter.

Spencer stood there for a long moment and then gathering his courage he dropped to his knees and crawled underneath the low hanging branches. Inching a little further in he rolled to his side and looked up into the web of leaves and clusters of pink flowers that smelled like Play-Doh.  

There it was, wedged in a grid of branches. He reached up, closed his fingers around the red stitching and crawled back out.   

“I got it!” he yelled, waving it in the air. He turned to run back to the field when another loud cry stopped him in his tracks. Spencer jerked his head around, his gaze traveling the row of bushes, searching for the source, but nothing was there.

He sucked the inside of his cheek between his teeth and bit down. It was not a wolverine, he told himself. It was probably just a cat. And now that he thought about it, it sounded more like a baby than an animal.

He tightened his fingers around the ball. He should go now. He got what he came for. But he didn’t move. Still ripe with fear, he squatted down and squinted into the shaded gaps between the leaves.

The cry was more of a squalling now. He was afraid. What if it was a baby? He couldn’t leave it, but he was holding up the game.

“What are you waiting for Spence, the grass to grow?” He spun around and Noah Wiley reached for the ball. Spencer snatched it back.

Noah scowled. “At least give us the ball back if you’re not gonna play.”

“I am gonna play.”

The squall had softened. “Did you hear that?” Spencer asked. He stumbled, moving down the line of bushes, and then stopped.

“It’s just a dumb old cat, let’s go.”    

The front of the bush quivered, and that was when Spencer saw it. Spindly and purplish-blue, stick-like arms flailed and the soles of tiny wrinkled feet kicked at the leaves. “It’s a baby, Noah!”

“Nuh-uh.” Noah dropped to the packed dirt and shoved Spencer out of the way taking a look for himself. “Wow, it is a baby.”

“Help me get it out.”

Noah held up the branches, and Spencer crawled underneath. The baby let out another loud cry. They were probably scaring it. His hands shook as he slid the tiny bundle out into the open.

“It’s a girl,” Noah said, a tinge of awe in his voice. His grubby fingers stroked the golden hair matted to the baby’s head.

Something inside of Spencer’s stomach twisted. Who would do something this awful? Who would leave a baby outside, naked, and all by itself?  

The baby’s bottom lip quivered and a howl came from the pale miniature face. Spencer pressed his palms against his thighs and hunched over the tiny human being, studying her. The porcelain skin was almost see-through. It looked like a road map with the fine blue lines running underneath.

He looked up at Noah. “Give me your jacket.”

“What? No way.” Noah pulled it tighter around him.

“For the baby. I wanna wrap her in it.”

“She’s gonna ruin it.” 

“Please?” Spencer begged.

“Oh, all right.” Noah jerked his arms out of the sleeves and tossed it to him. “Just make sure you wash it when you’re done.”  

Spencer watched her kick her legs and wriggle her arms. His heart skipped and his eyes stung with unshed tears. He rubbed at them, quickly doing away with the evidence before Noah could see.

Crouching down, he spread the jacket out and lifted the baby up. Her head flopped back and he laid her down on the satin lining, afraid he hurt her. 

“Go on. Take the ball back,” Spencer said. “I'll take the baby to my mom and dad.” They would know what to do.

Noah ran off and yelled at the guys to come see what they found. Spencer quickly wrapped the front panels of the jacket over the baby’s body and lifted her into his arms. He didn’t want them around her. He just wanted to get her somewhere safe.

This was the first time he held a baby. She was so wobbly, and it felt like she was going to fall right out of his arms. What if he broke her? His heart squeezed at the thought.

Spencer pressed her close against his chest and hurried toward home. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I will always take care of you.”

“A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.”

~Marilyn Monroe

Jaida Martin sat poised on the edge of the rickety barstool and struck a seductive pose. The smile she wore was a mock one, a working girl’s cover for the disdain that lurked like an evil     twin just below the surface. 

She rolled her lips in, working in the fresh layer of ruby lip stain
, and shifted on the stool, tugging at the hem of her black leather mini. With every move she made, the shiny red sequins on her halter-top winked under the can lights. She stood out like a flashing neon sign in this get-up.

She hated this part of the job, hated the atmosphere of the dive she was sitting in, thick with a breed of men several rungs lower on the evolutionary ladder than most of humanity. If there had been any other way…

“Frozen margarita.” The bartender called her order out then tossed a square-cut napkin in front of her. For the first time tonight she took her eyes off the gold-veined mirrored tiles lining the wall and watched him as he centered the glass on the paper.

He was young. Barely north of twenty was her guess. Maybe just out of college or still in college. He didn’t smile, not for her anyway. She might not be very good at pinning down ages, but one thing she was sure of. She made the man nervous.

With a lift of her chin she offered him the pasted-on smile and the last of her cash, a fold creasing the center of Alexander Hamilton’s face. “Keep the change,” she said.

He slipped it from her fingers and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

“You manage this place?” she asked.

He nodded, swiping a damp rag over the counter. “On the weekends I do.”

She leaned in closer eyes narrowed, elbows on the bar. “You’re not used to seeing my kind in here are you?”