I try to be nice about my stealing. I never take more than one thing from a campsite, if I can help it, and I’ve scored some decent supplies—a little two-burner cook stove, a coffeepot, a cot, an air mattress, a couple of lanterns, shampoo, conditioner, soap, toothpaste, clothes, sandals and sneakers, and about a dozen of those mini-size tanks of propane.
Not to mention food.
People cook on grills and over campfires, and they always walk away long enough for me to grab a piece of whatever. I scored some good clothes from the campground laundry last week, after the mom of a girl about my size threw a load into the dryer and walked away.
I broke my own rule and took a pair of jeans, a pair shorts, and two T-shirts from her. I felt bad about that, but I was desperate for clothes that fit.
I found both pairs of shoes in the pool area. Kids leave them everywhere. Towels, too, and sunglasses and water bottles.
I really would like some new books to read, so I’m on the lookout for careless readers.
My new spot is near a secluded spot by the river, where a skinny strand branches off behind a finger of ground, and a whole bunch of stuff washes up. Something about the current, I guess. I’ve been going there every day. I’ve found all sorts of things—a good denim jacket, soaked in mud and muck. A couple of cooking pots. A pair of boots with their laces tied together that were only a little bit too big.
So this morning, like the past few, I walked down to that spot. I was thinking how good the air smelled there, like the river washes the air, although it’s a little fishy-smelling where the refuse gathers. And there, lying in a few inches of water, wet and very still, was a little baby.
I couldn’t even believe it.
His skin was brown and sunburned, his hair was dark and plastered to his head, and his eyes were closed. I thought he was dead at first. I figured some immigrant family lost him trying to cross the river, and I wondered if any of them had survived. My heart broke to think the little baby hadn’t.
And then like a miracle, just like the sun breaking the horizon, he opened his eyes and looked right at me. I was so surprised I fell over backwards in the shallows. But then I scrambled to him, because he was still in the water, too. I gathered him up and took him back to my little tent, talking soft to him the whole time.
He didn’t cry. I know all about babies. I’ve been babysitting for two years—three different newborns, too. So I knew this baby’s quiet wasn’t the good kind. He ought to be crying.
I rifled through my stuff, found the sunburn ointment I’d swiped from some careless campers—I’m a pale-skinned, green-eyed redhead from the southern tier of New York state. The Texas sun is not my friend. So I dabbed it on his little nose, cheeks, and forehead and on the red patches on his arms and chubby thighs.
He wore a dirty white baby T-shirt with snaps between the legs that were unsnapped. His diaper was long gone, and that was probably a good thing. It might’ve dragged him under.
He still didn’t cry as I fussed with him. I took off his wet T-shirt. He had a bracelet tied around his wrist, snug but not tight. Braided leather, I thought, with a beaded border, and theword “WOLF” spelled out in beads. The letter O was a white stone engraved with a wolf’s head, tipped back, howling.
I washed the river water off him, then wrapped him in my soft blanket. Still, he didn’t cry. He didn’t gurgle or coo either. I thought he might be too weak or sick. I thought about taking him to a hospital, but I’ve heard awful things about what happens to immigrant children when they’re caught by authorities.
I remembered that there was a couple with a new baby in a big fancy camper out on the road that led to the pool. I didn’t want to leave my baby alone, but I figured he’d been alone for a while now. He’d be okay for a few more minutes. Heck, he was okay on the river all by himself. Somehow. He could handle another few minutes bundled, warm, dry, and safe.
He closed his eyes again, maybe went to sleep. I hoped so. His little chest moved up and down rapidly, and I didn’t know if that was normal. But he didn’t have a fever and wasn’t wheezing or coughing or anything.
When I left, I zipped the tent up tight and prayed he wouldn’t wake and cry and call in a big cat or a coyote or a bear or whatever might be out there. All I’ve seen so far are scrawny red deer, and a few skinny rabbits or hares, I guess, down here. New York wildlife were way fatter. There could be anything out there, for all I know. I’ve only been in Texas for a few weeks now.
I told myself to be fast and smart, hopped on my bike, and rode straight to the site where the big camper was parked. It had two sliders, fully extended, and was lit up like a castle.
I skidded to a halt on the narrow lane, inches beyond the pool of light their camper spread, just as the couple came out together. The dad carried the baby, and the mom carried a huge diaper bag over her shoulder. She walked to the car, put the bag into the trunk, and left it open. The dad leaned into thecar to put the baby into its car seat and began fussing with the buckles.
I saw my moment. I didn’t sneak. I ran to that open trunk, snatched the diaper bag, and raced back to my bike. I didn’t know if anyone saw me or not. I just picked up my bike and took off, pedaling like mad.
No one shouted or came running after me.
I sped all the way back to the baby. The whole trip took around ten minutes.
That diaper bag turned out to be a pure treasure! Bottles, baby clothes, diapers, cans of formula with pop tops and instructions, thank goodness, and three hundred dollars in cash.
I took one of the bottles, filled it from a can as instructed, didn’t bother warming it, as room-temperature down here was pretty warm. Cradling the baby in my arms, I held the bottle to his lips.
He didn’t react at first, but I tapped his lips with the nipple, like I’d had to do for the Hutchinsons’ preemie. I moved it back and forth across his pouty little mouth. He tried to grab on. I squeezed a little formula out for him, and that seemed to light his fuse. He latched on and sucked two ounces down. He slept a little, and then woke up just now, and I fed him some more. He downed more this time, and now he’s sleeping again.
I curled up beside him and slept for a little while, too.
And then just a little while ago, he woke me up with strong, healthy crying that sounded like a baby’s supposed to sound. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be okay.
“Hi, little guy,” I said. “I’m Cilla.”
