flashquake Fiction

PURPLE HAT
by Anne Bauer

Three bottles of formula, a clean diaper, lots of plastic toys — not stuffed, so he doesn't smother in his sleep: she's really a good mother, she thought of everything. She moved the crib next to the bathroom door, in the hall, and switched the light on. There. Nobody would hear or see him and the light would be on so he could see, but not so bright it would keep him up.

She scooped him off the floor and raised him over her head, kissing his sweet belly as she arced him back down. "There you go, little man," she said, kissing the top of his head and depositing him in the crib. "Mommy will be back soon."

Little Man didn't cry as he watched her grab her purse, adjust her bra straps, put on lipstick in the mirror next to the door, walk out, walk back in and turn the radio on low, walk back out and lock the door. He waited in the twilight of the bathroom light for her to return. The radio talked and sang to him, the clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed. He drank a bottle, got gas and cried until the bubble worked itself out. He raised himself to the top of the crib and chinned himself a couple of times. He crawled to the left side and did the same. He sat down and chewed a plastic stacking doughnut, the remains of a set presented by one of uncles. He waited. His diaper was sagging down, full, pulling itself off of him.

He dozed, dreaming of her, her arms and hair, her smell, her smile and coo. He woke up cooing back and laughing, but his laughter died when he didn't see her. He cried. The clock ticked and the refrigerator hummed. He hiccupped and drank another bottle. He crawled around the crib, following the sides, one two three four and back again. His diaper came off. He stuck his hand into the brown goo and looked at it a minute before licking it. No good. He spit it out, and rubbed his hand on his fire engine, the smooth padded rails of the crib, his left leg. He fell asleep and woke up hungry, to the sound of the door opening and his mother's new friend caroming down the hall. He reached up and cried, Momma, Momma! His mother lurched over and he stopped crying. She picked him up and put him in the hall closet, among the winter boots. He cried the harder, muffled among the wool and vinyl, as his mother took this night's lover into her bed.

He stayed awake, and quieted, keening inside, listening to the thump and moan, then the soft crying of his mother when the man left. He was hungry, and the wet from his undiapered butt got cold in the carpet. He felt around for something in the closet for something to hold on to, found a soft knit hat and cuddled up to it best he could.

He woke to the click of his mother's cigarette lighter and the sounds of her feet padding around the house. He cried until she opened the closet door and clutched him so hard he couldn't move his arms. He hung onto the hat, purple-colored in the light of day, while she fed him cheerios and cut up hot dogs and cleaned up the messes. She gave him a bath and a clean diaper and explained how it was; everyone needed to have a break now and then. She didn't have anyone to help her out. But she wasn't making excuses. It was wrong, sick and wrong, to put him in the closet, she'd drunk too much again, and this had to stop. She meant it, and she was sorry. She read him "Pat the Bunny" over and over and stayed home for the night. He woke up in his crib the next morning, with the hat right beside him.

Copyright 2003 by Anne Bauer

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