Today, it was the eighth of April.
The child crawled near the fireplace. A man, dusky complexion and harried
eyes, watched every least movement of her nomadic feet. She rolled a quick
turn on the rug and scowled, curling her lip. He began to simper weakly,
but stopped. He gazed at his two-month-old daughter in apprehension and
sensed memories around him, like vultures, pecking at decompose and a
fleshless, flawed past.
February 29, 22:04 P.M, 1989. � Annie was twisting the cotton out of the
new pillows, and cursing like a teenager (Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh Virgin Mary!
Hurry up, Sherman!). Sherman hadn�t been quite ready for it (Not now god.
Not here. Not like this).
He had acted principally. Number one: Pick up sheets and towels (For god�s
sake, Sherman! I�m not going to have it in the cab!). Number two: Hurry
Annie outside (Old Mrs. Kellerman in the scantily lit window � Christ,
what�s all the commotion about?). Number three: Get a cab (Goddamit! Can�t
you drive any faster?).
February 29, 22:15 P.M., 1989 � Caught outside the ward, waiting like a
grain in a sand-clock, an unlit cigarette rolling between greasy, nervous
fingers, glances at the counterfeit Rolex � 22:15� 22:15� 22:15�
February 29, 22:25 P.M., 1989 � The doctor said it like a whore � to the
point and without the menace of pity. There are no chances, Mr. Gabriels.
The developed fetus has stopped respiring. The baby has died in the womb
itself. We are very sorry.
February 29, 22:45 P.M., 1989 �
�Mr. Gabriels?�
Ripple on the ocean floor.
�Mr. Gabriels?�
�Yes,� Sherman shambled onto his feet, flicking away a morbid tear.
�I am Doctor Sheppard,� a matter-of-factly uptight baritone, �I was
operating on your wife and I believe we have good and bad news.�
He paused. �The good news is that your child somehow� breached our
assumptions, is a way of putting it. Somehow, she survived.�
�What�s the bad news?� Sherman asked. Old man in a bottle: The teeny-tiny
toddler got your bitch, Sherman! Got her for good!
The doctor hesitated. �We are good doctors here, Mr. Gabriels. And I give
you my word � the infant was dead. Your wife was in a hypothetic state and
we were about to deliver the abortion but suddenly the womb started to
swell. As I said, somehow the girl lived but the thing was going
hyperactive inside� it was as if giving a desperate effort to its birth ��
�Is Annie alright?� Old man in a bottle: Got her good, Sherman! Got her
real good!
�We didn�t have an option,� his eyes averted, �and if it�s any consolation �
she didn�t struggle.� he murmured as sheepishly as �I didn�t eat my
pudding, ma. And if it�s any consolation, it�s still warm.�
Sherman flinched back into the chair. He felt a cold, odorous sadness; a
lethal knot tightened in his stomach. Annie � dead. The words were grossly
wrong together. They didn�t belong together. It wasn�t fair!
Annie� dead.
March 1 - 19, 1989 �
Circumstances changed � Annie, the funeral and of course, Rose. Rose
Antoinette Sherman Gabriels. That�s what he had named her.
A taut face, beautiful red eyes and twin moles, each above an ear � she was
nothing like him or Annie.
After the first few weeks, he had started to consider the fact that Rose
might have fostered a grudge against him. She never allowed him to handle
her and whenever he had tried to swab her up in his arms, she sobbed and
squealed for grievous, unending hours. He knew that he didn�t have much of
a maternal mind or a motherly instinct, but he knew enough to understand
that Rose was, a bit, different.
Since her birth, she had never laughed.
Nourishing a healthier child, chapter four � Children in their earlier
months are prone to casual and often hysterical laughter�
Rose wouldn�t even spread her lips, no matter how much he tickled or
fondled or kidded. She didn�t take a shit regularly, while she was meant to
be doing it after every feeding. This made him nervous and wary with awry
misgivings � Is she sick? Is it some post-natal problem? Is this congenital
behavior of something genital? Is it�
She never touched a toy he bought her - not a hazel �I luv u, Daddy� teddy,
not an �on sale� Miss Kitty doll, not a stuffed Popeye and not even a pizza-
shaped chew toy. Instead she gaped at them with vapid eyes, as if saying �
Yeah, so?
Old man in a bottle: if ya gotta live here you gotta live by her rules,
Sherman! Sonny, gotta live by HER rules!
March 21, 1989 - He had been speaking for about ten minutes and his eyes
kept skulking back to the funny calendar on the wall. Besides it, a sagging
toy slate boasted � Marsha Fieldstone, Pediatrician. He glimpsed at the
door and wondered if it had been okay to leave Rose outside with the
matron.
He felt he had said enough, and fell quiet. He nibbled on his thumbnail,
chewing out the edges. She answered sluggishly �
�O.K., Mr. Gabriels. In very specific terms, you are telling me that your
daughter doesn�t laugh and excrete that often, has shown a negative
approach towards� delight, shall we call it, and displays an ill response
towards your approach.�
�Yes. That sums it up quite nicely.� Chew, chew, chew.
�I am sorry to say this but the problem is not with the kid. In fact, I
believe it lies completely with the parent.�
He gawped, spitting out a slit nail.
�I am no big shot psychiatrist Mr. Gabriels, but every week I have at least
four parents who want to get their child vaccinated of every known disease
in the book. Just this Thursday, I had a man enquiring if smallpox affected
children,� she grunted, �this I term as overprotection. But in your case
it�s over-assumption.
�The object of being a good parent is to keep always to the brighter side
of things. If she isn�t excreting, dehydration will probably never bother
you. If she isn�t playing with the things you get her, the chances of her
choking on any of them are second to none. It�s like when you are testing
whether the iron is hot or not. You are curious to know but all the same,
you are also scared to hurt your hand. In a mature world you call it
inhibition and in a child�s world it�s simply indecision. It�s like
handling puberty without anyone to tell you that it�s natural. You�re her
father, expect that eventually she would become familiar with you and give
her time, lots of time. In the meanwhile, all I would recommend is a nanny
to ward off her inhibitions with company. Maybe even a pet. No dogs! Or
cats, in that case. A goldfish or a bird will do. To keep on the safe side,
I am writing down a mild laxative for her excretions.�
That had been it. And she had made it sound so darn easy. I didn�t eat my
pudding, ma.
March 22, 1989 - Rose hadn�t been too keen on the mild laxative and Sherman
had to pry her mouth open every time to make her swallow it. As it slicked
down her throat, she would glare at him rottenly, like the mariner who
could hold the wedding guest with his eye.
Old man in a bottle: By her rules, Sherman. By HER rules!
He hired a nanny for Rose. Nourishing a healthier child, chapter six: Your
pediatrician is always right. The woman was a catholic with a background of
good recommendations and a wonky British accent.
March 24, 1989 � Rose was loud that night; so loud that dick-head Freddy
across the street had called up to tell him to pipe it down. Sherman
circled the dining table, wrapping it in small grave traipses with Rose in
his arms, still loud.
Woozily his eyes began to drift, shutting up and down like a seesaw� his
hands felt hollow and willowy� the clammy thud of his heart beating like
footfalls on slush� (Seesaw, seesaw)� he heard a dreamy scratch as if a bed-
sheet was ripping itself into two � three � four �
�Ouch!�
(Seesaw, seesaw)
His eyes tore open in pain and his hand leapt to his cheek, feeling the wet
gash. A cut arced from his temple to his chin, like a wry smile on slender,
red lips. It stung only a bit, but scarred his jaw-line.
He looked down at Rose. She was sound asleep, mute as a clock.
His face had rubbed across her flimsy, corn-silk hair. He chased on her
head with his free hand. Above the left ear, his finger prodded something
sharp and blood crawled out. He winced. There were red moles on twin sides
of her head. Barbed and hard. No, not exactly moles. Bones. Twin bones. Red
bones? No. Maybe� horns.
(Seesaw, seesaw)
March 26, 1989 � Charlie was expensive. The man behind the counter had
chuckled on a mouthful of cigarette smoke and guffawed � Mistuh, they�re
good if ya gotta stuff �em and put �em up on the mantel, else all they do
is sit on their asses and yap. This one just sits on his ass. The canary
could ah-least sing fer ya. I might even let you in cheap. Get it. Cheep.
Cheep, cheep. Haw, haw.
He bought Charlie. It was a macaw, a front-seat species on the parrot
family wagon. Sherman perched it in a cage he had unburied from the attic.
Nourishing a healthier child, chapter eight � Never take chances with issue
of safety. He tensed one-half of a hairpin round the cage-door.
In the noon, he slinked into Rose�s room and hung Charlie against the
cabinet, remote from the window. Rose hunched inside the crib, making it
wave, and watched the bird. Sherman felt as if something had clicked its
fingers inside his head.
Old man in a bottle: Bad move, son! Tellin� ya like it is. Bad move. HER
rules!
Hush tip-toed. Both of them � Rose and Charlie, ogled at each other and
then, in a sort of weird synchrony, both tilted their heads towards
Sherman. They stared on.
March 27, 1989 - Sherman was murdering oatmeal in the kitchen. He heard a
shattering over the cries of the blender, resounding the way hail does on
alloy tin. The noise had lifted from Rose�s room.
He hastened. Quick steps on the beige tiles. He swung open the door and
seized the place.
Rose, upright in her crib� jagged shards of bottle glass splashed near the
dresser� a stamp of marshy fluid spotting the rug� Rose, upright in her
crib.
Sherman bent forward and picked a piece. A ragged scrape of letter-pad
paper clung to it - ROSE�S LAXATIVE, Sherman�s odd, bold handwriting.
Old man in a bottle:
Sherman. Boy, hadn�t ya kept the bottle carefully? Oh, yes. You had!
I know, Sherman. You kept it good and comfy, Sherman. Real comfy.
BUT THE BITCH GOT THE BOTTLE! Sherman, she got it!
But she ain�t no Mike Tyson! She couldn�t have jumped three feet in the
air, knocked the bottle down and raced back to her crib and lie there,
still as a log!
HA! The little soggy bitch can�t even walk!
But who pulled down the bottle, Sherman!
There ain�t no goddam� tornado brimmin� up fer ya bottle!
And why only one fuckin� miserable little bottle out of a shelf full of
them?
How did it fall, Sherman! How�
Ripple on the ocean floor: HER rules, Sherman! HER rules!
March 28, 1989 � Stealthy dings stirred him up and he skittered into Rose�s
room. Same quick steps on the beige tiles. The macaw was tolling its beak
on the bars. Rose was still asleep. He went over and held the cage for a
moment. (Shut up, Charlie!)
He turned and had almost left the room when a rasp, so husky and guttural
that Sherman felt as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder, snipped
behind him � Rose� red. He jerked around. Charlie cricked its nimble neck
forward, and whispered � Rose� red. Its beady eyes swelled out at Sherman.
Then again, verbatim � Rose� red.
March 29, 1989 � The doorbell hollered him awake and he invited the lady
inside, shifting the way a slug does down a tree bark. Her card said: C&c
Co., Mrs. Julia Livingstone. The nanny, he guessed.
She was broad shouldered with young respectful eyes. If he hadn�t seen her
card, Sherman would have guessed her as one of those social workers who�re
the misery of weekends. He had seen her credentials and had instructed her
about the wares and the whereabouts.
Finally, as he was readied for office downtown, Mrs. Livingstone now
besides him with a slack, mulling face, he reached for his daughter,
kissing her (she resisted), he heard her murmur �
�Bah-ay dada.�
He wasn�t sure until she repeated it. Rose had spoken her first words. They
sloppily rolled over in his head. Bah-ay dada. For that swaying instant he
forgot that his wife was dead, forgot how distraught and alone he felt,
forgot all his disquiet, unapparent misery, and forgot that a woman was
standing beside him like a twig, watching a grown man cry�
That evening, the bus dropped him half-a-mile ahead. Sherman hauled a sick
man�s walk up to his house. Ripple on the ocean floor: Bah-ay dada.
He thumbed the doorbell. Once. Twice. Thrice. He buzzed it a fourth time.
The door sledge-hammered to the adjacent wall. Sherman felt the wafting
draught fill his hair. The nanny, Julia Livingstone he remembered, shoved
him aside and shot out like lava. On the third stair, she turned.
Her face was charred with terror. Her eyes were red and bleary, streaming
with moonlight. She was shivering on that summer evening, hugging herself
and staring helplessly at Sherman like a mother who�s watching her son
drive over the cliff.
Her lips broke. She hissed, the same crooked British accent � �It� is a
girl.�
She backed a little more and walked away, never losing the social worker
grace. Sherman wheeled around; Rose was in the very middle of the corridor,
on all fours as a grasshopper, on the fiery March floor, and for the first
time before his very gaze � smiling.
That had been the last time he had seen the woman. A week later, he got a
letter from C&c Co. It said that Mrs. Livingstone died of an abrupt cardiac
arrest on the 31st of March. The postscript said: Contact us if you require
a substitute. Sherman never replied back.
7th April, 1989 - A cry unfolded in Sherman�s mouth but he kept it in, and
it felt almost like keeping a helium balloon under water. The bird cage was
open, the hairpin unscrewed and obliquely under the cage, and Charlie
wasn�t there.
Nourishing a healthier child, chapter twelve, Para one � Animals or birds
are highly unsociable creatures. Though their association provides the
child with a good atmosphere but their lightest, most innocent gesture can
gravely harm or sever the child�
His eyes panicked over Rose but she sat saintly in her crib, muddled in
wooly red quilts. He inhaled the room � corners, niches, closet, window�
everything. Nothing. Charlie was nowhere.
Sherman stood over the crib, breathless from the search. His eyes were
turning when (urp�) Rose belched. His stare fell down.
On her lower lip, Rose had a small, lime-green feather moistening on drool.
A small, lime-green parrot feather.
(urp�)
Rose belched again.
Today, it was the eighth of April.
Sherman lifted from his memories, the vultures scattering away. A yawn cut
a draining O on his face. Rose brushed against the sleeve of his pants.
Old man in a bottle:
What if, Sherman? Just what if? What if yer kid had died on that damned
day � February the 29? And you and I know, sonny that the ruddy dead don�t
crawl back to us living. Eh, Sherman? But what if? Just what if, Sherman?
Someone else had walked back from them dead? Someone who shouldn�t be here,
Sherman? Someone bad. Someone real bad, Sherman! How had the wee bottle
fallen, Sherman? You think those lame-excuses-for-doctors killed your wife,
Sherman? What about that dumpy perky bitch you hired? And where did ol�
Charlie go, Sherman?
He felt sullen, forlorn. He missed Annie. He missed how she could handle
everything so well without him, he missed how almost every time he needed
them, she had patient answers and he missed how she was always there.
Annie� dead. It wasn�t fair!
The grubby finger of grief touched him all over. He picked Rose up and his
grasp hatched around her, groping for comfort. He waited, allowing her to
bawl, but she didn�t. He hugged her closer.
She clung to him like a breath, and then talked into his ear, �Bye, Daddy.�
She said it as if she had sung it.
Sherman gasped. Something grated against his chest. He tried but couldn�t
budge.
His lungs retched air, as Rose hugged him. Hugged him hard.
His spine clicked and the sound rebounded inside the room, sounding like
the crack of a splintering Popsicle stick. The strain concussed his eyes
out; they bulged on the flaccid under-eye skin. His teeth gritted, biting
down on a convulsion, maybe even a scream. A shiny red bulb dragged a lace
of blood out of his nose.
Sherman fell to the ground� Rose in his arms... hugging. He jerked only a
while more, as if voltage was worming through him instead of life. A minute
later, she let him slump out of her arms, and crawled back to the
fireplace.
Rose sat there, watching the pasty corpse of her father.
And then, for the first time since February the twenty ninth� it laughed.