“She knows we’re not Mom and Dad and that this situation is jacked up,” Penelope stated.
“Does she have one of those, you know”—he held his arm at a diagonal angle—“baby seat things?”
“Yes.”
“If you’ll go get it, Madeline and I will meet you in the laundry room.”
“I will not allow you to place my niece in the washing machine.”
He laughed. “Meet us in the laundry room.”
Inside the small space, he cleared items off the dryer, then turned it on.
Penelope arrived with the seat. “Are you wanting me to set this on top?”
“Yes, please.”
She did so. “Is this another of your brother’s techniques?”
“Yep.”
They worked together to snap the sobbing baby into the seat.
“This is what happens,” Penelope whispered, “when two sane, responsible parents leave their child in the care of an aunt who bakes pies and a fighter pilot.”
“If we can bake pies and fly planes, we can handle this.”
“Naivety is empowering.” She repeated her statement from yesterday, then tipped a wry look at her niece. “That’s Madeline’s why-did-you-rookies-put-me-on-the-dryer face.”
“Pacifier, please.”
“Are you now the baby happiness doctor? I’m her aunt, so I should be the doctor. You should be my nurse.”
“This is no time to protest this hospital’s hierarchy.” Humor curved his lips.
She darted away. Moments later, she handed him a pacifier. Over and over again, he tried to get Madeline to take it. She kept refusing, but the dryer’s sound and vibration did seem to be calming her a little. On his tenth attempt to interest her in the pacifier, she finally accepted it.
“That a girl.” Eli kept his fingertip on the pacifier’s end, whispering lullaby words. “Cat in the cradle... Peter pumpkin eater... The dish ran away with the spoon.”
Penelope sank onto the laundry room’s wooden stool. “Thank you Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Quiet has never sounded so sweet.”
Madeline sucked her pacifier with rhythmic concentration, her watery eyes wide open.
“That’s her you’re-so-unorthodox-that-I’ve-decided-to-give-you-brownie-points-for-creativity face,” Eli said.
When Penelope didn’t reply, he glanced at her and caught her staring at him as if in the middle of a daydream. “I...” She clicked her teeth together and said nothing more.
“In case you’re hungry, I brought dinner,” he told her. “It’s from The Junction.”
“Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, bread?” she asked hopefully. Old-fashioned, Southern comfort food was her favorite.
“You got it.”
“Bless your soul. I’ll start getting it ready.”
“I’d help but—”
“You have your finger on a crack in a dam. I’d prefer you not move until she’s asleep.”
