Christmas tree already.
But he didnât know what to do with this crying, stinking kid. Carl spread a bath towel on the living room floor. âAll right, Sammy, okay,â he whispered, pulling him by his feet onto the towel. He ripped apart the snaps on the insides of the overall legs. The baby kicked and squirmed. âPlease, keepâkeep still,â Carl pleaded, choking at the smell.
The baby kept screamingâthat inhuman squealâand Carl worked quickly, cleaning him off, then fastening a new Pamper around him. It seemed so haphazard and temporary. Heâd studied diapering in a baby book, but wasnât sure he put it on right. He had a feeling he wasnât doing anything right.
âStay,â Carl said. He left himâstill cryingâon the living room floor. He threw the soiled diaper in the garbage under the kitchen sink. Then he switched on the stove to heat some milk. Heâd bought it during his last trip to Seattle four days ago.
He hurried back to the living room to check on the baby. â Oh, Jesus⦠â He ran over and yanked the remote control out of his tiny hand. It was slimy. The baby had been gnawing at it, and he screamed in protest. Carl clicked on the TV, and pressed the volume button until the noise matched the babyâs shrieks. âThe Flintstonesâ came up over the tube. âHey, gonna watch TV! Okay?â he said in a strained, cheerful voice. Then he retreated back to the kitchen.
Carl tested the milk heâd been heating in a saucepan: lukewarm, good enough. He spilled some on the counter as he filled one of the new plastic bottles heâd bought.
Back in the living room, Carl scooped up the boy and carried him to the couch. The baby wiggled and cried. It was as if he didnât want any part of him. âOkay, okay, now,â Carl whispered, showing him the bottle. âCalm down.â He sat back and stuck the nipple in the infantâs mouth.
Silence.
It lasted a couple of seconds. The baby started to cry againâlouder and more angry than before. Carl shook him. âCâmon, I thought you were hungryâ¦â He tickled his lips with the nipple, but the kid turned his head away and kept screaming. The milk couldnât have been that hot, the bottle was hardly warm. Carl felt his diaper. âYouâre not wet. Whatâs the matter with you? Hush nowâ¦come onâ¦pleaseâ¦â His hand trembled as he poked and poked at the childâs mouth with the nipple. He rocked him in his lap. âTake it! Câmon, take it, drink it. Whatâs wrong with you? Please, stop crying, goddamn it!â
Carl was ready to start crying himself. He quickly set the baby down on the cushion, then he took a deep breath. Didnât help much. What did the kid want? Was he sick? God, if the baby was sick, what would he do? He couldnât call a doctor. He couldnât call anyone.
Maybe the baby was used to being breast-fed. Carl examined the nipple, turned the bottle upside down, and shook it. Nothing came out. âWhat the hell?â he murmured. He twisted off the top and found a disk inside the nipple portion. âShit, no wonder.â He pried out the disk, then screwed the top back on.
The baby screamed and tried to pull away when Carl reached for him again. âCâmon, câmon,â Carl pleaded. He poked the nipple in the babyâs mouth once more. He waited, counting the seconds of silence and praying it would last this time. The babyâs wet cheeks moved. The large, tear-filled eyes blinked. He was swallowing .
Carl let out a weak laugh. âHallelujah.â
The baby still wiggled and kicked a little, but the angry, red color had left his face. His little fingers spread out from the dimpled fists, and he grabbed hold of Carlâs shirt.
Carl smiled at him. The loud volume of the TV spoiled the moment and he wished he could get up and turn it off.
The cat was throwing
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