Manhattan Lullaby (9 page)

“Wait!” she cried again.

Harry turned around. “What now?”

“Where's your yarmulke?” she demanded.

“In—my—pocket!” It was all Harry could do to stop from saying “goddamn pocket,” but this was, after all, a synagogue so he made the extra effort.

“It's supposed to be on your
head
,” cried Maxine, pointing an accusing but well-manicured finger at the top of her ex-husband's pate.

“Don't you think I know that?” glared Harry and went back outside.

Ten minutes later, Joyce was seated at the front of the synagogue, near the chuppah, munching on soda crackers and trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt as the bride's family and Harry and Maxine's friends and relatives gave her the once-over, two or three times.

Just as she was wondering if she could take another five minutes of being the opening act, the music began and Harry and Maxine started the walk down the aisle, followed by Janie's parents, the lachrymose Doris and her husband, Marvin, who had the uncanny knack of being able to seem absent without really being so. At the back of the procession came Janie in all her matrimonial splendor. Bradley, looking tired but happy, was already waiting under the canopy with the increasingly impatient rabbi.

As Janie joined her husband-to-be under the white velvet chuppah, she smiled at him and then, taking a deep breath, she waited for the rabbi to begin.

He didn't waste any time. “Blessed may you be who come in the name of the Lord … We bless you out of the house of the Lord …”

Harry stole a sideways glance at Maxine. He wondered if she was remembering too. Another wedding, another synagogue, a long time ago.

The rabbi continued. “May he who is mighty, blessed and great above all, send his abounding blessings to the bridegroom and the bride.”

He then began a prayer. Bradley looked over at Janie. She looked so beautiful. So serious. Soon she would be his forever. He smiled slightly. What was she thinking?

Janie heard the words, if not the meaning of the rabbi's prayer. For some reason her mind flashed back to the wedding of Tony and Marilyn or, to be more specific, to the tragic face of Steve Curtis. With an effort she dismissed the puppy-dog eyes—the eyes of the wedded wounded. Then she thought about Harry and Maxine, or more specifically, of their divorce. She made a silent little prayer for her and Bradley to avoid either scenario in their own marriage.

The blessing of the betrothal was next. The rabbi presented the cup of wine first to the bridegroom and then to the bride. After they had both taken a sip from the cup he began the address to the groom.

“Do you, Bradley, take Janie to be your lawful wedded wife, to love, to honor and to cherish?”

Bradley looked first at Janie and then at the rabbi. “I do,” he answered boldly.

The rabbi turned to Janie. “Do you, Janie, take Bradley to be your lawful wedded husband, to love, to honor, to cherish?”

“I do,” replied Janie softly.

The rabbi took the ring. “Then do you, Bradley, put this ring upon the finger of your bride and say to her: Be thou consecrated unto me, as my wife, by this ring, according to the Law of Moses and of Israel.”

Bradley took the plain gold band and took hold of Janie's right hand. Just then, a commotion at the rear of the synagogue distracted him. The door had opened and one of the ushers was trying to keep someone from entering.

Bradley heard him say, “I told you, all the gifts are supposed to be delivered to the home of the bride's mother.”

Still determined, the interloper pushed against the door again and said something Bradley couldn't quite hear. He looked over at Janie and gave a slight shrug.

By now everyone in the synagogue had turned their attention from what was happening under the chuppah to what was happening under the portal. A low buzz of whispering passed over the crowd like a transient swarm of bees.

Maxine gave Harry a dig in the ribs. “What's happening?” she whispered.

“How the hell do I know?” he whispered back.

“Is something wrong?” asked Doris, apprehensively clutching her handkerchief. The fact that she didn't want her daughter to get married didn't mean she didn't want her to get
married
.

Suddenly, the usher lost his battle with the door and it flew open, revealing a young girl with a cockscomb of pink hair, a red plaid taffeta balloon skirt, black fishnet stockings, army boots and a leather pilot's jacket with a skull and crossbones stitched on the right sleeve. She was carrying a Bloomingdale's shopping bag.

A hundred and fifty people made one collective gasp. Most of them had never seen anyone like this before, especially not in a synagogue.

Doris clutched Marvin's arm. “Oh my God! Do you think it's a bomb?” she cried, pointing at the bag.

Marvin, who had been busy practicing his absence, patted his wife's hand in an automatic gesture of consolation. “Don't be silly, dear. They don't sell bombs at Bloomingdale's” he said vacantly and then went back to wherever he had been.

Once more the intruder thrust the bag at the usher, who refused to accept it. “I told you, you can't bring that in here now. All the gifts are supposed to be delivered to the bride's mother's—”

Before he could finish the girl put the bag down. “This one's already been
delivered
,” she said with a giggle. And with a smile and a wave at the crowd she left, closing the door behind her.

“Well I never,” said Doris.

“Probably not,” said Harry before he could stop himself. And then he turned to Bradley. “Friend of
yours
, I suppose.”

“Dad, honestly I don't know …”

Just at that point the bag let out a wail that stunned the entire congregation into shocked silence. The usher, who was closest to the source of the scream, recoiled in fear for a moment before getting hold of himself. The he leaned over and did the obvious thing. He removed the layer of tissue that covered the top of the bag. What he saw made him loosen the grip he had so recently gained on himself.

He looked up the aisle toward the chuppah. “It's a baby,” he said into the anticipatory silence.

“A baby what?” called Maxine, who was the only one who seemed to be able to form the ability to commit her thoughts to words at that point.

In answer to her question, the usher picked up the bag and hurried up the aisle. Necks craned from pews on both sides to see just what kind of a baby it was.

Realizing that Maxine had taken charge, or had simply had charge thrust upon her by the inability of the others to coordinate any sort of action of their own, the usher shoved the bag into her arms. “A
baby
baby,” he said to complete his explanation.

Maxine took a look in the bag and then looked up. “He's right,” she said to Harry, who was now peering over her shoulder. “And there seems to be some kind of a note attached to it.”

Having retrieved the note, Maxine handed the bag with the baby in it to Harry, who looked around helplessly for a moment. He thought about handing the bag to Doris, realized she didn't look too steady on her feet and then walked over to the first pew and gave it to Joyce.

“Harry, I don't feel very well,” she said, clutching the bag as he thrust it toward her.

“Who does?” said Harry and went back to read the note over Maxine's shoulder.

Dear Barry Kraft
, it read.

The people at the sperm bank told me that you are the father of my baby, or I guess I should say our baby. I can't look after him anymore and so I decided he should be with you. His name is Rogue
.

P.S. I didn't know where you lived but when I saw the wedding announcement in the
Times
I
thought this would be a good way to get the baby to you. Look after him. Have a nice wedding

The Mother of the baby

By the time she had finished the note Maxine realized that everyone else under the chuppah was also looking over her shoulder, so at least she didn't have to wait while the note was passed around before she reacted.

“Well,” she said, folding the note in half. “She obviously has the wrong man.” She turned to her son, who was swallowing hard and looking pale. “Don't worry, Bradley, we'll just find this Barry Kraft and have him face his responsibilities.”

Janie signed with relief. Doris choked back a few more tears. And Harry looked over at Joyce, who had extracted Rogue from the bag and was holding him in the same way that one holds a wet puppy—as far away from one's person as one's arms will permit.

“Can we get on with the wedding now?” interrupted the rabbi.

“Of course,” said Maxine, and she returned to her spot under the chuppah.

“Uh …” said Bradley.

“Uh, what?” said Janie, who had a sudden sinking feeling.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” asked Bradley, moving closer so that he could whisper in her ear and in the course of that, stepping on her white satin foot.

“Ouch!” cried the bride.

“Sorry,” replied the groom and waited as Janie moved her veil aside to permit him access to the ear.

His breath tickled her and she shivered, though the shiver was probably as much from the shock of what he was saying as from the feathering of his warm breath on her skin.

“You what?” the assembled heard her say. “For how long?” They all leaned forward a bit in their seats. “But why?” They craned their necks to hear the explanation.

Janie pulled away from Bradley. “How could you!” was all she said as she flung her bridal bouquet at his feet and, gathering up her skirts, marched down the aisle, staring straight ahead.

Heaving a deep sigh of resignation, Maxine once again took charge of the moment. She turned to her son. “Does this mean that I am the grandmother of a child named”—she tried to swallow the word but it came out anyway—“Rogue?”

Bradley nodded guiltily.

“I see,” was all Maxine said. And then, looking over at the baby, she spoke to her ex-husband. “Harry, I think you'd better go and pick up your grandchild. Your wife looks like she's going to be sick again.”

Part Two

Yes Sir, That's My Baby

Chapter Eight

One Week Later …

Maxine had no sooner lowered the gurgling pinkness of Rogue Kraft into the bath than she heard a knock at the front door, a little furtive at first, but then stronger.

“Just a minute,” she called, scooping up the wet, slippery body in a towel.

Reacting to the swift change of milieu, Rogue gave a little chortle of pleasure.

“You think this is some kind of game, don't you?” she muttered against the side of his silky dark head as she laid him on her shoulder. In response he spit up on her neck and a warm trickle of milk and saliva oozed beneath the collar of her blouse.

With a sigh she headed to the door. “I think I've forgotten more about babies than I ever knew,” she commented to her reflection in the hall mirror as she passed it, still trying to wipe the warm sticky trail from her neck and hold the cooing, kicking baby at the same time.

“Who is it?” she called as she approached the door with typical urban caution.

“Me.”

“Me who?” she sighed with exasperation as she threw the chain lock and the safety bolt. She knew who it was. The voice was indelibly etched in her memory.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, opening the door. Then, moving the baby to the other shoulder, she wiped another runnel of dribble from the rosebud lips. “What are you doing here?”

Harry, looking uncomfortable, stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other out in the hall. “Hi.” He half smiled. This was the first time he had been back to his old apartment since the divorce and he wasn't sure of the protocol.

“Well don't just stand there. I've got a wet baby in my arms,” said Maxine, and then she turned around and went back down the hall toward the bathroom.

Harry took this as an invitation to come in and, after locking the door behind him, he followed his ex-wife down the hall. By the time he got to the bathroom she was on her knees, bending over the tub and trying to hold the baby and wash it at the same time.

“Where's Bradley?” asked Harry with the best of intentions.

“Bradley? You mean the father of the year?” Maxine shook her head in disgust. “He went to see Janie. Not that it will do him any good. There are some things you can explain and some things you can overlook.
This
is not one of them.” She squirted some baby shampoo onto Rogue's head and began to lather it in.

Getting into the mood of the bath once more, Rogue began kicking his tiny chubby feet in the water, sending a soapy spray in every direction. One particularly well-aimed splash caught Maxine right in the eye. She blinked away the soap and the tears that followed.

“I'm too old for this,” she muttered, sluicing a container of clean water over Rogue's head. He sputtered and his face started to turn red. But before he could let out the wail that he planned Maxine attacked his face with a washcloth. He kicked with all the pent-up baby anger he could muster and broadcast another shower of water over the front of Maxine's blouse.

“Can I help?” offered Harry helplessly.

Maxine made a half turn. “You never did before.” It was an accusation, not a statement.

Harry took the hint. Why Maxine wanted to drag up the past now he wasn't sure. But he knew instinctively that the fact that he had never bathed Bradley was listed on the debit side in the unconscious tally Maxine was no doubt still taking of their marriage. And to offer now to help with the bathing of Bradley's son would not redeem him. Tactfully he retreated to the bedroom.

A few minutes later Maxine appeared, carrying her baby bundle, her blouse more or less soaked through. “Here, hold this,” she said, thrusting the baby at Harry.