Small Plates (22 page)

“Yes, you'd have to tell him and yes, we have to find her.”

Faith had thought this was what Mary would say. It was what she herself would do. Besides, Mary would be in a precarious legal position. They hadn't mentioned it, but they both knew it. There hadn't been any birth certificate in the basket—or adoption papers.

What Faith didn't ask Mary—and wouldn't—was: How will you feel if she wants him back? She stood up abruptly. “Okay, what can we figure out from this stuff?” Faith had spread the contents of the baby's basket on the enamel-topped kitchen table. Mary's kitchen, circa 1949, was currently back in vogue. Unchanged, as if it had been transported intact like Julia Child's to the Smithsonian, it would cost more than all the goat cheese Mary could sell in her lifetime. Many, many more dollars than those stuck in the Hellmann's mayonnaise jar left so trustingly on top of the refrigerator in the shed.

The basket itself, although a roomy one, was unremarkable. You saw stacks of them at Pier 1—or rummage sales. Baskets and mugs—that was what future archaeologists would find in our middens, Faith thought.

Faith picked up the sleepers one at a time. There were three of them. Then she examined the snowsuit.

“Pretty generic. Not Baby Dior or Hanna Andersson—or even Baby Gap. Therefore, we're not talking money here, although”—Faith gestured to the stacks of bills—“there's certainly money here. The clothes are new, but not recognizable brands, so she could have picked them up anywhere. The only thing they tell us is that she didn't buy used baby clothes or get them passed down to her.”

“So, no other children and no family involved. And she wanted brand-new clothes for Christopher.”

Faith nodded. “She does have a computer, though—or access to one.”

“How can you tell?” Mary asked curiously.

“The printing is a computer printout. Not typed on a typewriter. Much smoother.”

“I thought the wording of the note might mean something,” Mary said, picking it up. “Not the ‘Keep him safe' part, although since she wrote that first I'm sure it means she thinks or knows he's in danger—but the ‘Raise him to be a good man' part. Sounds like she hasn't had much luck there—or worse.”

“Definitely worse,” Faith agreed. “I'd guess Christopher's father is not her idea of a model father figure. Maybe not her own father either. Or it could be her father who is the ideal, but then why wouldn't she go to him for help, or her mother for that matter?”

“Maybe both passed away?” Mary picked up the note. “She didn't sign it. Just stopped writing. Do you think she was interrupted, or was it that she couldn't think of any way to finish it?”

“Either or neither,” said Faith. “But she has to be someone you know, Mary. Your name was on the basket and the letter. Plus she knew you had a barn and kept goats—knew your routine, that you'd be out to milk them at six. She wasn't taking any chances that the baby wouldn't be found quickly.”

“I've been going through all this since I found him, believe me. And I can't think who she could be.”

Faith put the clothes down.

“What else? The afghan—exquisitely handmade. But it doesn't tell us anything except she's a good crocheter or went to some kind of fair.”

“My neighbor Arlene could read it like a book. Tell us where the yarn came from, who does that kind of stitch—at least on the island. Maybe we can think of a way to show it to her without having her get suspicious.”

“The cloth diapers suggest she's pretty green.”

“You mean inexperienced?” Mary asked.

Faith laughed. “No, as in environmentally friendly, eco-aware. No disposables, but washable cloth diapers.”

“A tree hugger. Well, I'm with her on that one. Easy enough to wash diapers.”

“Wait and see. The jury's still out on whether you use more resources washing the cloth ones than those other diapers consume. And they do cut down on diaper rash. I know how much time you spend tending your herd, but babies are even more work than your nannies.”

Noting Mary's skeptical expression, Faith gave a little smile and continued speculating. “Computer access, environmentalist, young—that's a logical presumption—and can't keep her baby. This all says ‘student' to me.”

Faith was feeling quite Holmesian and wished there had been a bit more evidence such as cigar ash or mud from a shoe, so she could say that the young woman had been in Morocco recently, purchasing smokes at a stall in the bazaar from a red-haired man with a limp named Abdul. Hair!

“Are there any strands of hair on the blanket—or on Christopher himself?”

“How stupid. There was one and I forgot to mention it. It's dark like mine, or like mine used to be.” Mary was starting to go gray. “It's not mine, though, because it's long. Not Christopher's either, but the same color.” Mary's hair was sensibly short. Faith knew she cut the bangs herself and exchanged cheese for a trim from one of her customers who worked over on the mainland at Hair Extraordinaire.

“Well, we've certainly narrowed it down. A young female student with long dark hair,” Faith said dejectedly.

“It does seem impossible,” Mary agreed.

But Faith was nowhere near giving up. “Don't say that. We've barely scratched the surface. What about the money? Where would a student come up with this kind of money? Have you counted it?”

Mary looked very serious. “There's fifty thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

“Good Lord! That much? As soon as I leave, you have to hide it. You should have done it already.”

Mary nodded in agreement. “I have the perfect place. I'm going to—”

“Don't tell me. I don't know why, but I think it's better if just one of us knows.”

“A student,” Mary mused. “Unless she comes from a very rich family with ready access to a trust fund—and then maybe she would have bought more expensive baby clothes—there's only one thing I can think of that brings in that kind of money for someone her age.”

“Drugs?” Faith had been thinking the same thing since she'd first seen the stacks of bills.

“There's been a lot in the news about it, and I guess you've heard about all the break-ins on the island. They're pretty sure they're looking for stuff to sell for drugs. Plus it's not just marijuana, but heroin and prescription drugs.”

Faith had heard about the break-ins. Thirty in September alone, all during the daytime and all summer places closed for the winter. They'd used a crowbar to pry open doors, taking anything of value plus canned goods, clothing, and from one cottage, an iron. That had made her think a woman must be involved, either directly or indirectly—“Honey, could you pick up an iron; this one is on the fritz”—or an extremely anal-retentive male.

“This would explain why she wrote about keeping Christopher safe. If his mother is involved with drug dealers, they wouldn't want a baby around,” Mary said.

Or his mother might be dealing herself, Faith thought.

“The paper bag is another clue,” she said. “It's not from a Hannaford or any other chain. Must be a pretty small mom-and-pop operation. The name, ‘Sammy's 24 Hour Store,' looks hand stamped. Get your phone books, Mary, and let's see if we can find it.”

Mary put Christopher back in his basket and handed Faith the yellow pages for Hancock and Penobscot Counties, the only phone books she had. She also gave her the B and B register from last summer.

“I have to check on the goats. I've been so wrapped up in Christopher, I've been neglecting them and they're such social creatures. They just have me since my dog died last spring and the wild goose that had made a nest in their pen took off with her goslings once they were old enough to fly.”

Faith had always been impressed by the way Mary cared for her herd, and other animals.

“I have to make sure no wind is getting through any chinks in the boards. The nannies don't mind lower temperatures or snow, but they sure hate drafts.”

When she returned, Faith looked smug. “Bingo! Or I should say ‘Orono.' ”

“And,” Mary said, “since that's where the big UMaine campus is, we're probably right about the student part.”

“I wish I could stay longer,” Faith said. “But call me if you find out anything more—or you need help with Christopher. I didn't look at the register, so maybe you can go over it and see if anything pops out at you.”

After giving Christopher's chubby little cheeks one last kiss, Faith left. Back in the rocker, Mary had the baby in her arms again, swaddled tightly in a flannel blanket she'd made by cutting a larger one up. She looked so happy, Faith almost wept. There were other reasons for tears as well. She hoped Mary would hide the money right away, and not in her freezer or in her underwear drawer, because whoever it belonged to—and Faith had a strong feeling it wasn't the baby's mother—wouldn't waste any time looking for it. Looking for it all over the great state of Maine.

M
iriam Carpenter sat staring at the blue book in front of her. Her professor had offered her the chance to come in and take the exam today, the day after Christmas, when Miriam had called her office and told her she was too sick to take it during the regular schedule. Having a baby was not an illness, but Miriam's labor pains had coincided with Anthropology 106's final exam. As she looked at the questions again, she wondered if Professor Greene had suspected anything. Miriam was tall and big boned. It had not been hard to conceal her condition under the many layers of clothing necessary in Maine as the days grew shorter—and colder. Yet, during the last few classes, the professor seemed to be eyeing Miriam in a speculative manner, and twice she had asked her how she was doing in what Miriam thought was a pointed way. But then she had always been a little paranoid. Or maybe it was only lately. But she was definitely a little—make that more than a little—paranoid now.

“You can take a makeup exam,” Professor Greene had said. “And if you could possibly do it before the first of the year, I won't even have to give you an incomplete. You've done so well this semester, it would be a shame to skip the exam and lower your grade. But you must be going away for the break, home for Christmas.”

“No, I'm not going home for Christmas. I'm Jewish and, well, I'm not going home. I live off campus, so I'll be around,” Miriam had told her. The professor had suggested the twenty-sixth, and here she was.

No, Miriam wasn't going home for the holidays, or any other days.

She stared at the first essay question. “Discuss the roots and implications of gender-motivated infanticide past and present. You may select one society or several upon which to focus.”

Infanticide. That had never been an option. Male or female. As soon as she knew she was pregnant, she knew she would have the baby. Knew she would have it, because she was going to stop thinking about it. It wasn't that she was in denial so much as she was simply on a kind of all-encompassing autopilot.

Bruce hadn't found out until last week. They'd stopped having sex in August when he'd started bringing Tammy around. He was so high most of the time that even before, sex hadn't played a big part in their relationship. What had? The drugs to start with. She'd never felt so free, so happy. Even coming down, she'd never gotten depressed or angry the way Bruce did. But gradually, it was enough just to be around drugs and the people doing them. Mellow folks, good folks. Folks who smiled when they saw her. Folks who cared about her—at least when they were using. She found she didn't need the drugs, which was a good thing, because somebody had to keep house—and keep the money straight. Somebody had to let kids on campus know where they could go. Somebody had to deal with the suppliers when Bruce was too wasted. She had been the responsible one. (“Baby, I don't know what I'd do without you.”) She hadn't needed drugs, just Bruce.

She'd come to a party at his apartment at the end of her freshman year and stayed. He looked like Kurt Cobain, or that's what somebody had said when he walked into the living room, leaving the group shooting up in the kitchen. He'd grinned that big, lazy grin and walked straight up to her. “Hey, pretty lady, where have you been all my life?”

It had been good. She was sure it had been good. Then one night he walked out of the kitchen into the living room and Tammy was there. Miriam heard him say the same words. She'd learned Bruce relied on a few stock phrases in life and this was one. Another was “If you're not part of the problem, you're an asshole.”

Tammy took over the sex part, and Miriam was left to do everything else, which was mainly cleaning the apartment after the parties, because even though Bruce was trying to get straight and mostly succeeding, the parties never stopped. He was straight when she'd told him about the baby.

Her hand automatically went to her neck. She'd wound a long scarf over the turtleneck and would have added a cowl if she'd had one to be sure the necklace of bruise marks his fingers had left stayed hidden. She had thought he would choke her to death and struggled desperately, pulling at his hands, fighting for breath. They'd crashed to the floor, knocking over a lamp. The bulb had exploded and Tammy had come in. Would he have killed her if Tammy hadn't been there? She'd taken in the scene dreamily—she was always pretty wasted—and said, “Leave her alone. She's not worth it.”

They'd left her on the floor. She hadn't moved from the protective fetal position she'd rolled into once he'd stood up. She'd assumed he would kick her, but he didn't.

“Get rid of it. If it's here when I get back I'll kill both of you.”

He was leaving for Canada, a major score, and Tammy was going with him. They were going to spend Christmas there.

Miriam opened the blue book and started writing. China was the obvious choice, but she didn't want to be obvious.