Hush Now, Baby

An old man, white hair poking every which way; a gaggle of Deltas chitchatting about science lab, Karen's new boyfriend, are leg warmers seriously coming back?; a woman of indeterminate age wearing frail wire-rimmed glasses that she is compulsively pushing back into place as they slide down her nose. Odd, there doesn't seem to be any children about. Perhaps it is merely your mind playing a trick. You return your attention to the novel lying open on the bistro style table. Picking up your caramel latte, tall, skinny, extra whipped cream, you scan the little outdoor café one more time before resuming your reading.

A gentle breeze picks up, the scent of fallen leaves, pumpkins, and dirt ruffles the pages as you once again get lost in the sullen halls of Manderley, the elusive, unremitting presence of the first Mrs. de Winter always just beyond your sight. And then again, Oh, baby, Momma's not going anywhere. You're safe. Hush now. This time the desperate whimper of a child wafts behind the words. A tingle, not quite a chill, runs down your spine as you sit up straighter and peer over the top of Du Maurier's haunting tale. The gaze of the woman in the glasses locks with your own; her large doe eyes slick, her papery lips tight in a frown. Uncomfortable, you break the spell and direct your attention across the street to the small park cozy under a rusty maple canopy. A copy of yesterday's newspaper rolls lazily into the gutter just outside the gate. Unsettled by the potent green eyes of the woman, the soft reassurances of the unseen mother, you nearly miss it.

There, a hundred yards from the seat you occupy, on a wrought iron bench sits a young woman, auburn hair blowing in the breeze. At her feet is a boy, no more than three years old. Although it is hard to tell from this distance, it appears as though he is smiling, a stuffed animal of some sort keeping him company in his games as he watches a group of neighborhood teens kick a soccer ball on the sun-dappled lawn. Surely this is not the mother whose heart-felt words of comfort you heard only moments before. This toddler is happy and content, this mother absorbed in her paper. You jump slightly as one of the Deltas scrapes her chair back, the metal squealing on the concrete, on her way to the ladies' room. Deep, even breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth, help to slow your frantic heart. Just return to your latte, your story, put the verbal caresses of the mother out of your mind.

Toby! Oh, baby, you're alright! Momma's got you now. Come here, my darling. Hush now, don't cry. Startled you look to the mother only to find her quietly reading today's horoscope, perhaps perusing the classifieds. Her lips do not move, her attention does not falter. But even as you watch one of the teens gives the soccer ball, its patches of black and white stark against the vivid fall palette, a hard kick. The recipient of the pass is not paying attention and the ball, now flying a course all its own, strikes the small boy in the temple. You gasp. Even from this distance you hear her desperate cry - "Toby! Oh baby, you're alright!"

Your hand shakes as you deposit your paper cup in the trash can. As you wait for the signal to indicate that it is safe to cross the street you glance first at the mother, cradling her son in her lap, his soft whimpers wafting on the breeze, and then to the doe-eyed woman, watching you with her papery frown.