The Ditto List (48 page)

“At six o'clock in the morning?”

“It's the only time I have for a fitting. So what do you think?
Très soigné, non?
”

“
Très
.”

Michele whirled beneath the porch light. Her heavy gown swelled centrifugally, the shiny mint material momentarily leaving its stylish drape to reveal a flash of slender calf. The pirouette complete, Michele gathered up her hem and stepped back inside her house, her silk pumps clattering on the marble floor like a set of plastic teeth.

“Come in, D.T.” She squinted. “What's that you're carrying, for heaven's sake? It looks like a baby.”

“It is a baby.”

Too vain even before breakfast to wear her bifocals, Michele's eyes became two lines. “You must be joking.”

“No.”

“But …”

“Can I put her down somewhere, Michele? It feels like I've been holding her for a week.”

Michele dropped her dress and clasped her hair and whistled tunelessly. “But whose …? Let's see. The den? While I have Mirabelle hunt up the bassinet? What
did
we do with it? Mirabelle! Could you come down? We're in the foyer.”

Confronted at dawn by her ex-husband with a babe in arms, Michele was as flustered as he had ever seen her, save only the past Thanksgiving. As he backed down the hall—her eyes locked on his treasure—she almost tripped on her hem. She gathered her dress again and this time raised it to her thighs, which came complete with garters. D.T. whistled approvingly.

“A baby,” she said again. “I can't believe it. Is it a foundling, D.T.? Did one of your dittos deposit the poor thing on your doorstep?”

He shook his head and Mirabelle arrived to defer an explanation, shouldering her way down the hall like a patron with a pass. “D.T. You up pretty early for a rascal like yourself. Or maybe you just getting in.”

“Some of both, Mirabelle. How you doing?”

Mirabelle's big body swayed within her shift, creating tidal waves of fabric. “We all upside down over here, D.T. Never knew a wedding be such a strain on rich folks. It's a wonder they fuss with it.”

Michele and D.T. paired laughs. “That package in his arms is a baby, Mirabelle,” Michele said.

“A baby! What you doing with a baby, D.T.? You find it? Or you just a tomcat got stuck with the litter?”

“It belongs to one of my clients.”

“So what's troubling her? She too busy living fancy to do what she made by the Lord to do?”

“She's in jail, Mirabelle.” He looked at Michele. “She stabbed her husband tonight. He was torturing her and the baby. She killed him to stop him.”

“My God,” Michele said.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Mirabelle scoffed. “I bet he a drinking man just like Leroy.”

D.T. nodded.

“Mirabelle, where did we put Heather's old bassinet? Do you remember?”

“Third floor. Green bedroom. All that baby stuff in there, look like heaven for midgets.”

“Let's set it up. How long will this be, D.T.?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. It could be quite a while if social services doesn't track me down. Her bail may be too high for her to pay.”

“Don't she have people?” Mirabelle asked.

“Not that want the baby, I guess.”

“White folks sure be strange, don't they, D.T.?”

“They do indeed.”

“Let's make up a little nursery, Mirabelle,” Michele said. “The blue bedroom?”

“White. Too dark in the blue.”

“Okay. The white. Bassinet, changing table, playpen. Diapers. Do we have any diapers any more? Did you bring any, D.T.?”

He shook his head. “She likes carrots and squash. No beets. That's all I know.”

“We can buy some later today. In the meantime use the linen napkins, Mirabelle. Those monogrammed ones. They're about to be obsolete anyway.”

“You just leave this little love bundle to me, Miz Conway. D.T., you give me that child and I fix her up just right, the way I did that sweet Heather before she got too big to be done for. Now give her here, D.T. You all thumbs and you always was. I followed you around for two years, ready to catch what you was about to drop. Now you just give that child to me.”

He handed it over.

Mirabelle clutched the baby to her bosom. It seemed to shrink and then to purr. “Now there's just one more thing I got to know,” Mirabelle said.

“What?”

“What's this poor child's name?”

“Krystle. With a K.”

“My little glass teapot. That's just what I thought. I hope this baby be around here for a long time. Keep my mind off this wedding fuss.” Mirabelle eyed her employer. “You think a woman on her second helping would know which fork to use, wouldn't you, D.T.?”

D.T. laughed and Mirabelle snorted with enlarged disdain, then marched off down the hall and began to climb the stairs.

Michele looked at him. “She absolutely adores you, D.T. I was afraid she was going to quit me after the divorce. She kept saying how lazy life was since you left.”

“I miss her, too.”

“Let me get out of this dress, okay? I'd like to talk if you've got a minute.”

“Sure. I'm sorry to unload this thing on you, Michele. I just didn't know where else to go.”

“I'm flattered you thought of me. Now, why don't you go to the den. I'll be back in a blink. There's coffee and rolls in the kitchen. You know the way.”

Michele walked to the stairway and began to climb it, regal in the midst of dawn and complications and a gown that needed work.

D.T. went to the kitchen for coffee, then to the den, where he sank again into what had been his favorite chair. Thankfully, he was too exhausted to appreciate his ridiculous circumstances: his visit to his ex-wife with a baby in hand, his attempted extortion of a settlement from Dick Gardner, his pursuit of a baseless lawsuit against Dr. Preston that would be heard and doubtlessly exposed in open court the very next day. No, the slightest thought caused his head to crack or feel like it, so he tried to become what the chair was—dumb and padded against the world's great weight.

He must have come close, must have been asleep when she poked his arm. “Daddy. Wake up.”

“Heather. Hi. How are you, honey? What time is it?”

“Seven. I always get up at seven.” She bounced before him, still a blur. “Michele says you brought me something, Daddy. What is it? A dress? A video cartridge? What?”

“I didn't … Oh. Well, what I brought you isn't exactly a present, honey. It's a …”

“What?”

“A baby.”

“A
baby
. You can't have a baby, Daddy. You're not married.”

“I know. It's not my baby, Heather. The father is dead and the mother can't take care of it right now, so I thought maybe it could stay here for a while.”

“Where is it?”

“The white bedroom.”

“What is it? A boy or a girl?”

“A girl.”

“What's its name?”

“Krystle.”

“
Dynasty
! Neat. Does it wet and everything? I'm going to go look. See you, Daddy.”

“See you, honey.”

Heather's place in the room was taken by her mother, now barefoot and wrapped in a dressing gown of oriental silks and ideographs. Her expression was of the East as well: serene, alert for nuance. “It's nice to have a baby in the house again, D.T. I often wish we'd made another before we quit. Heather could use a brother.”

“I know.”

“And you could use a son.”

“Well, given how things turned out, maybe it's best we only put one kid through it.”

“I don't think Heather was scarred permanently by our divorce, D.T. I really don't. By the time we know it'll be too late, though, won't it?”

“Afraid so.”

Michele lit a cigarette. He thought she'd quit, but didn't chide her. “I think Heather should spend more time with you, D.T. Maybe this summer for a month? Before she goes to camp?”

“Sure.” He looked around the sumptuous den. “If you think she can stand the change of scene.”

“She's not that spoiled, D.T. Really, she isn't.”

“I know, I know. I didn't mean she was.” He closed his eyes and kept them closed. What he saw was Lucinda Finders on the day she milked her breast.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm tired. And depressed about tonight. She was a special one, Michele. If I could have persuaded her to go ahead and divorce the bastard maybe none of this would have happened. Even if Gardner gets her off she's going to hear whispers the rest of her life. It's funny. I always thought one of the dittos would die, that one of their men would kill them because I was too lazy or too powerless to prevent it. I didn't expect the ditto to be the killer. I'm not sure I know what to do. I'm not sure I'm not happy she killed him.”

Michele smiled, tolerating his blasphemy. “Is Dick Gardner her lawyer?”

D.T. nodded. “Why?”

“Oh, he came by here one night. A little drunk and a little horny. He came on rather strong for a guy who wears tweed.”

“I'm sorry. That was my fault. I was extolling your virtues to him over a beer one night and he said he might try to take you out. I should have warned you, or headed him off.”

Michele smiled her smile. “No harm done. And it's nice to know you still have me on the recommended list.”

“Well, at the time I wasn't sure you and George were going to make it.”

“Yes, well, it appears that we are, doesn't it? To the altar, at least. Or else I've wasted a fortune on a green dress that doesn't go with anything but wreaths. You'll be there Saturday, won't you, D.T.?”

“If I'm not dead or in jail.”

“You sound as if both of those are possible.”

He sighed. “It's just that I've been playing things pretty fast and loose in my practice over the past few months. I've been abusing the system and I may OD on it.” He sipped his tepid coffee. “But let's talk about more sublime subjects. Where are you going on your honeymoon?”

“George wants Bermuda.”

“But
we
went to Bermuda.”

“I know. So does George. It didn't seem to matter. I rather wish it had. I have this feeling I'll be slinking around the whole time, trying to avoid the people we saw before. Remember that couple from Baltimore?”

“I thought he was going to crawl inside your bikini for a better look. Not that there was room in there for him.”

Michele laughed. “Now, D.T. That's the whole point of going to those places, so you can wear things you wouldn't be caught dead wearing in your hometown. Not that I'm going to be on display this trip. I'm afraid my bikini days are over.”

“I don't see why. You look pretty good to
me
, kid.”

She bowed. “Thank you, sir, but
you're
the one who's scrumptious. Your Coefficient of Modern Matrimony, right? Or whatever you call it? You're hitting your prime and I'm ready for the glue factory.”

“Right. But we're the exceptions that prove the rule.”

Then they were silent. Comfortable. Sharing history that was only theirs.

Outside the den were household sounds: Mirabelle, Heather, others maybe. At one time she had kept a staff of four. He remembered stumbling over them regularly, always abashed when he made requests they had to honor.

Heather peeked in the door to say good-bye. Her uniform was a pleated skirt and knee socks and a blouse white enough to be married in. She thought the baby was super, she wanted to keep it for ever and ever. Could they? Maybe? When she had gone Michele looked at him. “Am I making a mistake, D.T.?”

“In marrying George?”

“Yes.”

“I can't tell you that, Michele.”

“He's no Lancelot, I know that. But I'm no Guinevere, either. I don't know, D.T., I'm just afraid if I get to be fifty and I'm still alone, I'll start doing stupid things. Like those old ladies in Bermuda, with their gigolos rubbing tanning butter all over them like they were ready to put them on a spit? I can't stand the thought of ending up like that, D.T. I just can't.”

“You won't end up like that, Michele, married or not married. Besides, George is kind and funny and cultured to boot. Heather seems to like him fine. There's no reason not to marry him.”

“Well, there's sex.”

“What about it?”

“I like my sex, D.T.”

“I know you do, Michele.”

“And George, well, it's all a little
oily
for George, I'm afraid. Oh, he's a sport about it, up to a point. But, well, he's not
abandoned
the way you were, D.T. It's like he's following a manual.”

“You'll just have to teach him what you like. Barbara does that all the time. My last report card was a C plus. Except for a D in ejaculation. She suggested certain exercises …”

Michele was elsewhere “There are all those
years
out there, D.T. They make us stay alive so
long
these days. Have you ever thought about it? Being alive for fifty more years?”

“Only women live that long. I'll have cancer in a decade.”

“You will not.” She lit another cigarette, as if she was assuming his risk. “Are you going to marry Barbara, by the way?” she asked when the smoke was flowing.

“I doubt it.”

“Why not? You've been going with her for a long time.”

“Going. That's just it. We're always going; we're never getting anywhere.”

“Maybe it's not her fault.”

“It's not a question of fault, it's a question of fact. And the fact is, I can't give Barbara what she wants, which is some kind of clone who'll match her stride by stride, therapy by therapy, fad by fad. And she can't give me what I want, which is I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-I-ain't-got-it.”