Baby Andrew

A gust of wind parted Danny’s housecoat when he opened the door. Embarrassed by his exposed boxers, adorned with clipart saxophones blowing the title “Jazz Man,” he securely tied the rope around his waist and, semi-hidden behind his door frame, peered down each side of the street for potential witnesses. To his relief, not so much as a sprinkler stirred. As usual, the neighbourhood was empty in the early afternoon; the breadwinners were busy breadwinning, the children still a tortuous few hours away from spilling out of their school buses into the pop-up games of street hockey and four square that would dominate the street until their parents yelled dinner. It was a family community for sure. But that didn’t explain why there was a baby at the end of Danny’s porch.

The baby at the end of Danny’s porch hadn’t made so much as a squeak, and Danny, in his desperate vanity, hadn’t seen it until just then. He was in a basket, wrapped in a blanket swaddled so tight that his already pudgy face bulged out of it like a balloon squeezed on one end. His sparse blonde hair was gathered in tufts, weeds fighting through the woollen cocoon to reach for the sun. If there were an onlooker present, it would be difficult for them to determine which party was eyeing the other more warily. The baby seemed distrustful of this housecoat-clad man with the childish boxers who had just flashed him, and the shadow that might have been considered five-o-clock thirty six hours ago. Danny, for his part, seemed confused. Why was he there? He raced through the possibilities, feeling a little ashamed at how quickly he ruled out this being an unforeseen consequence of a romantic encounter. That would require more romantic encounters. Nonetheless, this pudgy little thing certainly didn’t walk itself here, and if it had, it certainly hadn’t reached the doorbell, and even if he was miraculously wrong on those two fronts, Danny was certain of one thing: he didn’t want anything to do with it. He studied the baby again and noticed an envelope neatly tucked against the side of the basket. In eloquent, if not gaudy, penmanship, was a letter addressed to him:

Hello Daniel,

First off, I think we speak for the whole street when we say that you could stand to be a little more timely when retrieving your garbage can. You’re a member of a respectable neighbourhood - act accordingly.

Anyway, this little bundle of joy is Andrew! He’s the newest addition to the Baker-Smith clan and we couldn’t be prouder. Doesn’t he look just like Richard? It’s the ears. He doesn’t see it. This little miracle comes with just one catch: the adoption agency doesn’t give you any heads up with things like this. One moment you’re packing for an all-inclusive on the Sea Princess, the next you're answering the phone and it’s congratulations, you’re parents! Talk about a bombshell. We’d reschedule, but we’ve been planning this for months, and I don’t remember the last time we’ve been so excited to spend some time together. Romantically, our hands are tied.

We know you two will get along swell, and if not, we only need you to look after him for two weeks. If it’s a burden, we really do apologize, it’s just that everyone else is busy with their real jobs. We knew you’d be free, truly such a blessing to have you as a neighbour! Also, we left you this little black book. We’d really appreciate it if you could write down what you two get up to, and any milestones in Andrew’s life; we would hate to feel like we’re missing anything!

Best of luck,

Richard and Lois

P.S.

We left you something for all the trouble. Don’t spend it all in one place.

There was a lot for Danny to unpack there. Firstly, he had to fumble through the mists of his memory to try to recall a Richard. Or a Lois. He was drawing blanks. Best guess: the couple three doors down with the Game of Thrones themed christmas cards and the yin-yang black and white Audis. Secondly, baby Andrew started fighting against his blanket as if it was a straight-jacket. He probably needed air. Lastly, and rather importantly: there was a cheque for twenty thousand dollars taped to the letter, with his name on it.

He set baby Andrew’s basket on the kitchen table and loosened his blanket, encouraging a sharp and admittedly adorable gasp of air. Danny picked up the thin black notebook they left in the basket and paced back and forth, wondering what he should do. He hadn’t the slightest clue how to care for anything other than a hangover, and even then with mixed results. Nor did he have the intention to. This is, of course, until twenty thousand big ones were thrown into the mix, presenting a myriad of monetary motivations. Although Danny wasn’t desperate for cash, (his uncle practically endowed him this house, rent-free, when he expatriated in Phuket following love, a temperate climate, and Mai-Tai-filled coconuts,) his part-time job at Staples didn’t exactly permit a lavish lifestyle. But it was a real job, despite the letter’s rather condescending opinion. A real job he was now going to be late to.

“Hey, Candace,” Danny said into his phone, “I’m a little under the weather, won’t be able to make it in this evening.”

“I didn’t know you were working today,” she replied sleepily, over the din of the copy-machine bullpen.

“I work every Thursday,” he said.

“Huh,” his manager of three years replied. There was a moment of awkward silence, broken finally by the sound of apple juice gurgling out of a carton baby Andrew knocked over on the table. By unknown means he had escaped his basket, and was roaming the tabletop freely, his flailing arms chubby street sweepers that absorbed whatever food scraps there were into his open mouth.

“Baby!” Danny exclaimed.

“Excuse me?” Candace said.

“I mean, Andrew, damn it I gotta go.” Danny hung up and rushed to the table, one hand righting the carton of juice and the other lifting baby Andrew out of the puddle. He pulled Andrew’s juice-sodden thumb out of his mouth and wiped it against his housecoat. It left a faint stain, not unlike a thumbprint, on the chest. As he looked into the baby’s eyes, not far from the colour of the sea his adoptive parents would soon be cruising on, he wondered at the amazing length of time that separated himself from this innocent bundle of potential in his arms, and how quickly that time passed without warning or empathy for what it left behind. In all those years, what had Danny become? What had he accomplished? Why was his entire hand being sloppily engorged by this infant in his arms? Wiping the slobber off, Danny’s thoughts segwayed away from the existential to the more pressing problems at hand, i.e, what counted as baby food.

We ate some peanut butter.

This was the first entry in the babysitter diary requested by Richard and Lois. It was written as he sat on a love-seat opposite of the sectional he placed Andrew on, watching him absorb palm fulls of Kraft extra-smooth straight from the jar. Seeing an opportunity, Danny changed, washed his face, and generally prepared himself for the task at hand. He tidied up the living room, baby-proofed the kitchen by piling all the dishes in the sink and surrounding area which he considered out of reach, and mopped up the mess of apple juice. When he was done, he took the now half-empty jar from baby Andrew and sat across him once more.

“What do you want to do now?” Danny asked.

Baby Andrew cracked a toothless, peanut-butter-stained grin in response. He flopped sideways on the couch and looked at Danny expectantly.

“All right,” Danny said, “Here works.”

We watched First Blood.

Baby Andrew, Danny discovered, was rather sadistic. He giggled incessantly whenever a gun was fired on screen, and spilled blood was sure to be accompanied by a look of rapture. Initially this concerned Danny, but after thinking it over and coming to the conclusion that he was too young to remember any of this, and therefore all sensory input was essentially a formality with no lasting consequences, he began to laugh along with him.

Towards the end of the movie, Danny found himself subconsciously fidgeting with the cheque Richard and Lois had left him. Twenty thousand dollars. The beautiful thing about twenty thousand dollars is that it’s an adept shapeshifter. A replacement for his 03’ Acura? It could look like that. Why not some new overpriced sneakers while we're at it. But first, he’d need some supplies to get through these two weeks with baby Andrew. Diapers; he was lucky he’d made it that far without needing any. More peanut butter. Lego, maybe? Danny would figure it out as he went. He lifted baby Andrew’s pudgy arm and balled his fingers into a little fist.

Andrew learned how to fist bump.

Then, Danny had the same naive thought as many people who have been taking care of a baby for only a handful of hours: this is easy.