Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (5 page)

Can hose water kill?

I propped his head back and said, “Pepe? Pepe? Hey! Are you all right?”

He didn't open his eyes, but he did move. Sort of twisted in the stroller and arched his back. Then he let out a huge burp, smacked his lips a few times and hung his head again.

I got down and said, “Pepe?” But that was it. He was out like a light, sound asleep.

I looked around. Cook Street was wet with fog, and deserted. What was I going to do? It was too late to knock on Marissa's door. Same with Holly and Dot. Besides, showing up in the middle of the night with a baby would provoke as many questions from their parents as from the police.

But I
could
go to Hudson's. His house was only a few blocks from the police station, and he would know what to do. Hudson
always
knows what to do. Maybe it's from being around for seventy-two years, I don't know, but if there's one person on earth who knows something about everything, it's Hudson Graham. He's not bossy about it, either. Or grumpy. He's just, you know, calm and
wise
. Like nothing's too big to handle; nothing's too tough to solve.

And that, I decided as I started pushing Pepe along, included what to do with an abandoned baby.

I was expecting to find him on the porch. Morning, noon, or this hour of night, that's where he hangs out. Usually with a glass of iced tea and the newspaper or a book, with his wacky cowboy boots propped up on the railing. But as I raced Pepe up Hudson's walkway, the only thing I saw on the porch was the porch light. It was glaring away in the fog, while the rest of the house was pitch-black.

“Oh, no!” I said as I ran up the steps. “He's not even home!”

I rang the bell anyway and waited. I rang some more in case he was in there asleep, but he didn't come stumbling to the door. “Hudson,” I whispered to the door, “where
are
you?”

I waited on the steps for a while, trying to decide what to do, but I couldn't wait there all night. It was really late and I knew that by now Grams would be wringing her hands off.

So I got up and flipped a U-ie with the stroller. There was only one place I could go.

Home.

I did what I always do when I come in for the night. I snuck over to the fire escape and headed up. Only this time, instead of just a backpack, I had the Sears bag with the Barbie and all Pepe's paraphernalia, plus the stroller and a baby. I clamped Ol' Droopyhead onto one shoulder with one arm, put the bag over my other arm, and fumbled around until I'd collapsed the stroller with my foot.

Then up we went. And let me tell you, it is hard enough to climb stairs with a baby on one shoulder. Throw in a bag that's cutting your arm in two and a stroller that's dragging behind, bumping against every stair, and you've got the makings of a human avalanche.

And to top it all off, well, whiff-of-jiff, boy! Pepe needed a new diaper.

Then all of a sudden I hear sirens.
Loud
sirens. And my heart practically jumps out of my chest because I can't help thinking that they're coming after
me
.

So I crouch the best I can in the shadow of the stairs zigzagging above me, but I feel like a tubby toddler trying to hide behind Tinkertoys.

The sirens are getting louder. I peek down below to Broadway. Maynard's Market looks locked up tight, and so do the rest of the businesses along the street. There are a few lights on at the Heavenly Hotel, but it looks quiet. Calm.

Still, the sirens sound like they're coming my way, and I can't help it—I'm starting to shake. What am I going to do if they spot me? How am I ever going to explain being on the third floor of a fire escape with a baby this late at night?

Then the sirens cut. Just like that. I wait a minute, then peek out from beneath the stairs and scour Broadway in both directions. I lean out to get a glimpse of Main Street. And what do I see?

A whole lot of nothing.

So I tell myself that it's probably just trouble out at the Red Coach again. Or maybe my friend Madame Nashira
needs a customer escorted out of her House of Astrology. Whatever; no one's charging the fire escape, so I make myself take a few deep breaths, then start clomping my way up to the fifth floor.

The higher I get, the heavier Pepe seems and the harder the stroller bangs the steps. But when I finally reach the fifth floor, it's no problem getting inside. I'd jammed the jamb with a nice fat wad of bubble gum, so the door just swings right open. The
problem
is there are other doors open, too. My grams', for one, and right next door, Mrs. Wedgewood's.

Now, I know I shouldn't go forward, but I sure don't want to go back, either. So I just stand there like an idiot, going nowhere.

Then all of a sudden Grams' head appears through Mrs. Wedgewood's apartment doorway, only she looks down the hall in the opposite direction—toward the elevator.

“Pssst!”
I call. “Grams!”

She looks my way and her eyes get about as big as her owl glasses. Then, before she can say anything about the baby on my shoulder, the elevator dings. She frantically waves me back outside, whispering, “They're here!”

“Who?”

“The paramedics, now go!”

I must have gotten back out on the fire-escape landing before anyone else noticed me, because no one came out to bust me. And I wound up standing out there for
ever
, wondering what was going on.

Finally Grams' head pops outside. But she doesn't say “Coast is clear” or “Come on in” or “You must be freezing
out there!” No, she looks straight at me and whispers, “This is too much, Samantha. I cannot have a baby staying here!”

“What happened to Mrs. Wedgewood? Is she okay?”

“Yes, and don't think you can change the subject. I knew this was why you were so late, I just knew it! But how could you bring that baby back here?”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“What about the police? What about Social Services? What about Hudson?”

“I went to the police station. Officer Borsch won't be working until tomorrow morning and anyone else is going to ask me too many questions. And I tried Hudson's—he's not home!”

“He's not?” She looks at her watch, and for a second she looks more disturbed than angry. Then she shakes her head a little and says, “Well, this is certainly no place for a baby. Babies cry!”

Like this is news to me? “Grams, I'll keep him quiet, I promise. Look, he's asleep!”

“They will evict us, Samantha!”

“No one'll know. I promise! What else can I do? I'll turn him over to Officer Borsch first thing in the morning.”

She stares at me a minute, then checks over her shoulder. And suddenly she's grabbing my arm and dragging me inside and down the hall.

The minute we're safe inside the apartment, she lets go and collapses into a chair. “What a night! Between what happened with Rose and you not coming back …I was worried sick about you!”

“Grams, I'm sorry. Really I am. I didn't want to leave the spot I was supposed to meet her, and then, well, I ran over to the police station, I ran over to Hudson's …It just got late. I'm sorry.”

She shakes her head and says, “We cannot let that baby make a peep tonight.”

“He won't, Grams, I promise.” I take the yellow towel and work at laying it flat on the floor by the couch with my free hand. “What happened to Mrs. Wedgewood, anyway?”

Silence.

So I turn to her and ask, “Grams?”

She sighs and says, “She fell off the toilet.”

I stopped struggling with the towel. “What?”

She sighs again. “She fell off the toilet and got stuck between the wall and the … and the bowl.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm not. And wipe that silly grin off your face!” “But Grams, how do you fall off a
toilet
?”

Grams mutters, “Apparently she's quite good at it.”

It didn't even sound like her. “Grams!” I laid Poopy Pepe on the plastic mat and ripped his diaper open. “And you're telling
me
to straighten out?”

“You're right, Samantha, that wasn't very nice of me. But really! The woman beats on the wall and cries for help like the world's coming to an end, and when I finally get Mr. Garnucci to unlock her door, I find her … in that state. Of course, she didn't want Mr. Garnucci to see her, and I certainly couldn't lift her alone. She's rather … well, she's quite heavy.”

“But still, why's that make her
good
at it?”

“The fellows from the fire brigade all knew her! They went right in, heaved her up and back onto the seat, and said, ‘See you next time, Rose.’ ”

“Do you think that's why she's got all those bruises on her arms?”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised. It wasn't an easy… uh … maneuver.”

By now I've got Pepe cleaned up and changed. And since I don't want Grams to notice that I'm down to one diaper, I try to distract her with “But
how
do you fall off a toilet?”

“Let's not get into it, okay? People have more physical challenges as they get older—someday you'll understand that.” She looks at Pepe and whispers, “He's waking up!”

I pick Pepe up and lean him back on my shoulder and start bouncing.

“Slower,” she says. “No one can sleep on a jack-hammer.”

I stoop down, get the bottle out of the bag, grab the can of formula, and head for the kitchen, trying my best to do the bouncing thing a little better.

“Here, I'll do that for you,” Grams says, and mixes up a bottle. When it's warm, she tests it on her wrist and says, “Are you sure she meant seven P.M.?”

I blink at her. “I …I
think
so. I mean, the mall isn't even open at seven in the morning.”

Grams hands me the bottle and frowns. “I was just grasping, I suppose. It's a very worrisome situation. I hope the mother's all right.” She kisses me on the forehead
and says, “I'll keep Dorito in here with me. You wake me up if you need some help,” then off she goes to bed.

I turned off all the lights and decided to feed Pepe
before
he started screaming. And as I sat there in the dark on the couch with this stranger's baby in my lap, I played the whole afternoon back in my brain. The things Pepe's mother had said, the way she'd been shaking with fear, and everything that had happened after that.

By the time I was laying Pepe down on the towel on the floor, I was kicking myself for having listened to her at all. I should have gone straight to the police. I should have tracked down Officer Borsch and told him what had happened. I mean, you don't just leave your baby with a stranger.

Not unless you're in something dangerous.

And in it deep.

I've now got a whole new definition for “sleeps like a baby.” I was up all
night
, changing and rocking and feeding that boy. And around three A.M., when the last real diaper was on beyond soaked and his clothes were completely wasted, I wound up stripping him down and cutting up the yellow towel to use as a diaper. And since I couldn't find any safety pins, I held the sides together with paper clips.

It was like wearing tissue-paper trousers in a thunderstorm—the first towel diaper was soaked through in about two seconds and wound up leaking all over me.

So I tried again, only this time I got a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, slit some leg holes in it, and stuffed his little yellow tush inside that.

By the time the clock said five, I'd given up on getting any sleep. He was up, he was wet, and he was hungry. Again.

I
really had to go, though, and since he was barely fussing around, I made a dash for the bathroom. Trouble is, the second I'm out of the living room he starts crying. So I run back in there, pick him up, and drag his leaky little Ziplocked bottom into the bathroom with me.

Now, I'm holding him the whole time, so he's really got no excuse to start crying, but the minute I sit down, boy, that's just what he does. And let me tell you, it's big fun relieving yourself when you've got a baby bawling on your shoulder. Big,
big
fun.

Anyway, I got out of there as fast as I could, fed him, changed him, ate breakfast, got ready for school, and snuck out of the apartment before Grams was even awake. By six-ten, I was pushing through the police-station door.