About the Baby

They found the baby delightfully easy to conceal and took turns. They rolled it in blankets, towels, carpets, newspaper, plastic wrap, mosquito netting, Venetian blinds and then fit it snugly inside drawers and hollow floorboards. Sometimes they left the baby on the couch beneath a nest of throw pillows. Sometimes they propped it up in the liquor cabinet between the gin and the sweet vermouth, ready to topple out when an unsuspecting guest opened the door. The baby appeared behind bathroom mirrors and dining room chairs. It dangled from chandeliers.



The baby slept a lot. The baby slept all night and most of the day. The baby slept through everything: tottered down the staircase in a dented doll carriage, sailed down the third floor laundry chute, landed quietly in a dainty pile of soiled sheets, slept on. A sleeping baby can be hard to locate. They found the baby delightfully easy to forget and often did. Losing the baby became their favorite game. To win the game, you had to remember the baby smelled of sour milk and cornstarch. You had to remember its exact weight. You had to remember the baby.