Fools Rush In. Gwynne Forster

baby daughter? Send your love letter to P.O.Box 0001, Washington, D.C. 20017,” Dee Dee wrote in her Thursday column. Duncan read it the next day and considered moving to Alaska. Letters arrived by the dozens and, though the procedure embarrassed him, he interviewed applicants, but didn’t like any of them.

      “Maybe getting a nanny is easier,” his best friend, Wayne Roundtree suggested several weeks later. “Marriage can be such a permanent thing, man. Get a good nanny.”

      “To sleep in and take over my house? No thank you.”

      Wayne shrugged. “What have you got now? A cleaning woman who comes in every day at a time of her choice, leaves when she gets ready, won’t answer the phone, and avoids anything that isn’t six feet tall, male, and human.”

      Duncan couldn’t help laughing. “Mattie’s a real number, but I’m used to her and when I need her in a pinch to look after Tonya, she doesn’t let me down. Besides, Tonya never stops laughing when she’s around Mattie.”

      Wayne’s left eyebrow went up. “Big deal. Neither do I. Tonya probably thinks Mattie’s an oversized rag doll. Every time she looks at the woman, she’s seeing a different color of hair.”

      Duncan’s white teeth flashed against his dark face. “Took me a while to look at her and keep a straight face, but she’s good as gold.” He walked over to the big picture window with its tinted glass and ecru curtains and looked down on Charles Street. His hand fingered the change in his right pants pocket. Maybe a nanny was best. He didn’t really want to be married. Not then. Not ever again. But Tonya needed a mother on whom she could depend, not a nanny who might leave at a minute’s notice.

      He whirled around and started out of Wayne’s office. “Man, I don’t care who decorated your office, it would look a lot better without these fancy curtains.”

      “No argument here. My sister-in-law found me a decorator, and that’s what she put there.”

      “You mean Adam’s wife?”

      “Who else? Adam’s my only brother. He’s a lucky man. Our families strew their path with one obstacle after another, but they persevered. She was made for him. You and I should be so lucky. Forget about that wife business, and hire a nanny.”

      “Yeah. You may be right, man.” Duncan threw Wayne a high five and headed for the heart of West Baltimore, where he put in at least a weekly appearance at CafeAhNay—a local bar, restaurant, and billiards hangout on Liberty Street—to keep up his contacts. As an investigative reporter, he needed to maintain good relations with his sources.

      Several days later, Mattie stopped Duncan when he walked into the house after work. “Mr. B, you know I think you’re a good man, but you also know I don’t do no full time housework and no babysitting. I just been doing all this work ’round here to help you out. And I’m good and sick of all these women that’s started calling here axing about you. It ain’t my business, but having all these women chase you ain’t a proper atmosphere for a baby girl. A sweet little tyke, she is, too. All the same, Mr. B, you know me and phones don’t get along. I wish you’d get a nanny for Tonya. I’ll help you out, but I ain’t happy doing it.”

      He patted her shoulder “I’ve decided to do that, Mattie. Just bear with me.”

      He stared at her two front teeth, a perfect tribute to Bugs Bunny. “Mr. B, there ain’t a woman nowhere what can resist you when you looks helpless like that. If I wasn’t old enough to be your mother, and if I didn’t have my Moe, I’d be in trouble. You make sure you get somebody me and Tonya can get along with, now.”

      “I’ll do my best,” he said and rushed past her to find a place where he could laugh in peace. She hadn’t noticed that he had gaped at her orange hair, front teeth, red lips, and purple dress. She’d called it “looking helpless.”

      Justine listed her house with a real estate agent and began packing her things. She’d leave that torture chamber in which she’d lived with Kenneth, that brick and mortar vessel of pain and horror, if she had to give it away. She couldn’t bear it any more than she could stand the pitying eyes of her neighbors and the thoughtlessness of the store clerks and delivery men who seemed to enjoy greeting her with, “So sorry to hear about Mr. Montgomery, Ms. Montgomery. It sure was a tragedy.” As if they had decided among themselves how best to remind her that her husband would be alive if he hadn’t been unfaithful to her.

      She left the real estate office, bought a copy of The Washington Post at the corner drugstore, and went home, where she made a cup of coffee, went into the guest room, pulled off her shoes, and sat on the bed. She hadn’t been in the master bedroom—the den of lies whose walls probably still echoed his false shouts of ecstasy in her arms—since the day he died, and she never wanted to see the inside of it again. The cleaning woman had removed her things and had packed his and taken them away. She flipped through the want-ads to check the job offers. She had to change her life, but resuming her profession as a clinical psychologist held no interest. She sat forward, more alert than in almost a year. Duncan Banks had advertised for a nanny and had given a postal address. She knew he’d gotten a divorce. Did she dare? She rushed to the phone, ignoring his request that the application be made in writing.

      “Duncan Banks, speaking.”

      “Mr. Banks, this is Justine Taylor. I’d like to apply for the position you advertised in The Washington Post.”

      The voice, soft and refined, set him back a bit. He expected a person applying for a job as babysitter to be somewhat raw around the edges.

      “I prefer applications in writing, Miss Taylor.”

      “I know, but I figured I’d get a lead on the other applicants. I need a job, and I can provide good references. If I have to sleep in, I’d like to visit your home before we talk business.”

      That made sense. He gave her his address and realized that he hoped she’d suit him. “When can you come out?”

      She didn’t hesitate, and he liked that. Coyness in women had always put a sour taste in his mouth. “This evening, if you’d like. Say, a couple of hours from now?”

      He glanced at his watch. “Perfect. I’ll get Tonya ready for bed, but she’ll still be awake when you get here.”

      Justine hung up, fell back across the bed, and kicked up her heels. She made no attempt to squelch the scream of joy that peeled from her throat. She had spoken with him, and she would see her child. She rolled over and said a prayer of thanks. She’d never wanted anything as badly as she wanted that job and the chance to nurture her own child, to know that her baby was well cared for and loved. Tonya. He’d named her daughter Tonya. She liked the name. Her heart thundered as it raced inside her chest like a runaway train. She didn’t trust herself to drive in that state. After all this time. And all the pain. Maybe she was being given another chance. She didn’t mislead herself into believing that what she was about to do was fair to herself, Tonya, or Duncan Banks, but what choice did she have? If she’d been a well woman, she wouldn’t have given up her child for adoption. As a psychologist, she understood what she’d gone through and considered herself fortunate to have survived that awful trauma. She telephoned a deacon of her church who had a notarized letter of recommendation ready for her when she stopped by his house. She’d chosen him because he knew her only by her maiden name. The nursery school at which she’d volunteered since before her marriage and where she was known as Miss Taylor provided her second reference.

      She styled her hair in a French twist, and in spite of the sweltering August heat, dressed carefully in a conservative beige silk suit and olive-green blouse, added brown accessories, debated the advisability of wearing lipstick, decided to apply it, and headed for her door. The phone rang and she almost didn’t answer it fearing that Duncan Banks was calling to cancel their appointment.

      “Hello, Justine, this is Big Al. My sister is your real estate agent, and she tells me you’re changing your life, selling your house, and leaving Alexandria for DC. Can’t say I blame you, honey. How about doing that column I’ve