Babies By The Busload. Raye Morgan

needed.well, she wasn’t sure what they needed. J.J. went down on her knees to get closer to the sad little face.

      “Oh, honey, how could that possibly be your fault?”

      She rubbed her eyes with both fists. “I…I didn’t like the pot roast.”

      J.J. blinked. “The pot roast.” There had to be a connection here. If only she could see what it was.

      Annie nodded, finally getting everything but her lower lip under control. “I couldn’t eat it. I just couldn’t.”

      “Oh.” The picture was clearing. “Did Marguerite make the pot roast?” she guessed.

      Annie nodded again. “I hate it.” She made a face, shuddering. “It’s yucky.” She looked up at J.J. earnestly, intent upon explaining. “It’s got like hairy things and then the big globs of jiggly fat stuff and when it gets in your mouth it—”

      “I see. I understand.” J.J. cut her off hurriedly, suppressing a smile, and stroked the little girl’s hair again, her fingers catching in the curls. “And she’s touchy about food critics, is she?”

      “Uh-huh.” Annie nodded vigorously. “She put all her clothes in a bag and she went out the door.”

      “Ah.”

      “And it’s all my fault.”

      “Oh, honey.” A thought occurred to her and she looked at the girl sharply. “Did your daddy tell you that?”

      Annie blinked at her, not understanding the question. “Huh?”

      J.J.’s entire opinion of the man hung in the balance. She spoke again, making the words very clear, and watched for the tiniest reaction.

      “Did your daddy say it was your fault?”

      She shook her head, and her curls, damp from her copious tears, tried to give their usual bounce.

      “Daddy said, ‘Oh, never mind. We can take care of things without her.’”

      “Oh.” Well, there went that theory. At least Jack wasn’t an ogre to his child. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

      “Then the babies started to cry. They won’t stop. And Daddy said, ‘Go get Mrs. Lark to help, quick.’ I said, ‘Okay, Daddy,’ and I went really, really quick. I knocked on Mrs. Lark’s door. I knocked really, really loud, but she didn’t come out. And I knocked on Mr. Gomez’s door, but he wasn’t home. So I came here.”

      “Your daddy needs help, does he?” Startled, she looked toward the still open doorway. “Is it just the crying? Or does he need a doctor? Or the police?” She realized it might be best to make things clear.

      “Uh-uh.” She shook her head so that her curls hit her in the nose. “He needs help with the babies. ‘Cuz they keep crying.”

      “Oh.” She hesitated. That sort of help was supposed to be within the realm of ‘women’s work’, wasn’t it? Which meant she ought to be able to handle it. But she didn’t want to do this. She really didn’t want to see Jack again if she could help it and she was hoping for an excuse not to go.

      “What exactly is wrong with the babies?”

      Annie’s wide brown eyes stared at her. “They’re crying.”

      J.J. narrowly averted rolling her eyes. That fact had pretty much been established. But did babies just cry? Wasn’t there a reason? She hesitated. “Yes, I know that,” she said at last. “In fact, I knew that before you got here.”

      Annie was surprised and somewhat captivated. “You did?”

      “Sure. Listen. You can hear them through the walls.”

      She led her into the living room and took her to the wall, placing her hand against the surface, so she could feel as well as hear. Annie listened and her face brightened.

      “I hear them!” she cried. Then a cloud came over her expression once again. “They’re getting too loud. Come on.” Annie took J.J.’s hand and tugged, looking up at her anxiously. “Come on. Hurry.”

      J.J. managed to keep the groan inside and she followed reluctantly. But she went. And she steeled herself, preparing, against all common sense, to walk right into the lion’s den.

       Three

      The entryway was almost a duplicate of the one for the condo where J.J. was staying, but the rest of the house looked very different. Where her place was starkly dramatic, with chrome and glass and dark polished wood, Jack’s was light and airy—and soft. The couches were overstuffed and the chairs were plump with pillows. The colors were pastels and the carpeting was as thick as winter fur. No angles—everything looked rounded at the edges.

      It’s a cartoon house, she thought to herself as she entered. But the sound track’s all wrong.

      The sound track, in fact, was very loud. Not only were the babies howling at the top of their lungs, but Jack was singing at the top of his. She caught sight of him as she rounded the corner into the family room, and what she saw left her gaping. This was hardly the picture of the debonair sophisticate she remembered.

      One baby sat on a fluffy blue blanket on the floor, her face red from crying. Another, smaller child was lying on his back and screaming at the ceiling, his arms and legs whirling like propellers. And between them, in a padded rocking chair, sat Jack, a third baby propped against his shoulder, rocking furiously and singing for all he was worth.

      The song was some country tune about wives who took their love to town. J.J. was knocked out, speechless. She would have figured him as an Edith Piaf fan, or maybe Billie Holiday—something genteel and just a bit jaded, but always classy. And here he was, singing with a twang.

      He caught sight of her, but that didn’t stop him. In fact, she could have sworn he only got louder, rocking and patting the baby on his shoulder in time to the music, his blue eyes daring her to laugh at him.

      She pulled her gaze away from that amazing sight and looked from one squalling baby to the other with growing horror, then noticed that Annie was looking up into her face as though she expected something that wasn’t happening.

      “Annie,” she said, shrugging helplessly, “I don’t know much about babies. What should I do?”

      “You pick ‘em up,” Annie told her wisely, shouting to be heard over the din. “Look.”

      And she dipped down and scooped one baby, expertly swinging the child up against her shoulder. The move took a major effort, however, as the baby wasn’t much smaller than Annie herself, and she staggered under the weight. J.J. helped her to the couch, then turned and looked down at the last lonely weeper.

      The baby was sitting on the floor, tears running down her fat little cheeks. She wore yellow pajamas and a pink bib with “Kristi” embroidered on it. J.J. gazed at her nervously and flexed her fingers, wondering exactly how she was going to do this.

      Just swing her up, she told herself silently. It looks so easy.

      She took a step toward the child and the baby stopped crying, staring at her, little round eyes huge and wary.

      “Hi,” J.J. said cheerfully, holding out her hand the way she might approach a strange dog. “Hi, Kristi.”

      Kristi stared up at her for a long, long moment, and then her face crumpled again, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth wide and howling. Startled, J.J. pulled back and looked at Jack.

      Mercifully, his song had come to an end and he was mainly humming now. He interrupted that long enough to call out, “He who hesitates is lost. Go for it.”

      And suddenly she realized he was talking to her. She looked at the crying baby, and