Stork Raving Mad (3 page)

And was there any hope that someone could convince him to play quiet, subdued, soothing flamenco music? Or was that an oxymoron?

Everybody seemed to be looking expectantly at me. Had I zoned out again and missed a question? I blinked, hoping someone would enlighten me. No one did.

The only creature in the hallway not staring expectantly at me was Spike, who was sniffing suspiciously at Señor Mendoza’s shoes. To my horror, he uttered the briefest of growls before sinking his teeth into the playwright’s left ankle.

Everyone was horrified except Mendoza.

“
Que diablito!
” He picked Spike up, not seeming to mind getting nipped in the process, and held him up at eye level. “What a ferocious watchdog!”

Spike was squirming madly. I wasn’t sure whether he was uncomfortable or just frantic to get out of the playwright’s grip so he could counterattack. Luckily Mendoza seemed to have a good hold on him.

And some of my linguistic ability surged back.

“
Chien mechant,
” I said finally, hoping my memory was working, and I had just called Spike a bad dog. “
Et maintenant, je dois dormir
.”

Never before had news of an impending nap been greeted with such laughter and enthusiasm, so I was more convinced than ever that I’d mistranslated. Time enough later to worry about it. At least Señor Mendoza, after chuckling, tucked Spike under one arm, and kissed my hand. Then he followed my grandfather to the kitchen, still carrying Spike.

I ignored the chuckles and cries of “
Brava!
” as I shuffled upstairs.

It wasn’t till I was curling up in bed, trying to find a position that was comfortable for me and my two passengers, that I realized I’d spoken in French rather than Spanish.

Ah, well. Maybe they’d think I’d done it on purpose. Catalonia was on the border with France, wasn’t it? Or was it on the border with Portugal?

Normally I’d have fretted about this for hours while tossing and turning, but instead I fell asleep while trying to remember.

It was darker when I woke up. Had I slept till nightfall? Had I missed hearing that we were having a storm?

No, someone had tiptoed in while I was asleep and pulled all the blinds. Probably Rose Noire, since I also noticed a thermal mug on the bedside table. Another infusion of some obscure, healthy, herbal tea whose very smell would set my stomach churning. In the morning, the mug might contain a yogurt smoothie so laced with vitamins, supplements, and herbs that it had the same unsettling effect on my stomach. But luckily, in the afternoons the offerings were almost always herbal teas. I had to walk all the way to the bathroom to dump the smoothies, but unloading the teas was easier.

I shuffled to the windowsill with the mug and held my breath as I opened the top and poured the contents into the dirt around one of the potted plants. The Boston fern this time. The spider plant and the English ivy were looking distinctly unhealthy. Difficult to say whether this was due to some toxic effect from their daily doses of herbal teas, or whether they merely resented having their roots repeatedly scalded with hot liquid. The Boston fern, on the other hand, was thriving. Was
this because it liked the herbal brews, or had I not been giving it as much as the others?

“Sorry,” I said to the Boston fern. “But better you than me.”

I allowed myself a moment of guilt about pouring out yet another well-intended offering from my cousin. I would be the first to admit that she had been immensely helpful throughout my pregnancy. And especially during the last two months, when she had waited on me hand and foot and enabled me to get the all-important rest my doctor recommended. I knew that the closer I could get to full term, the better it would be for Kirk and Spock, and whenever people congratulated me on how long I’d lasted, I gave full credit to Rose Noire. And it probably was just a coincidence that my morning sickness had finally ended the week I’d stopped trying to drink all her herbal offerings. She meant well.

I just sometimes wished she had an off switch.

I checked the clock. I’d been asleep less than an hour. Par for the course. These days I could nod off sitting up, but Boris and Natasha never let me sleep for long. They weren’t even born yet, and already I was stumbling around in a constant state of sleep deprivation.

Time to see what was going on downstairs. Apologize to my houseguest—my latest houseguest—for my abrupt disappearance.

After a brief detour to the bathroom, I opened the bedroom door and almost keeled over at the strong, nauseating smell that permeated the hall outside.

Most people would have found the smell delectable, I suspected. As I leaned against the wall, patting P and non-P with one hand, I tried to untangle the components. Garlic, of course. Along with hypersensitivity to smell, my stomach’s sudden hostility to garlic had been one of the first clues that I might be pregnant. I hoped neither was permanent. Along with the garlic I detected a rich potpourri of unfamiliar spices—unfamiliar and, at least for the moment, unappetizing. And, of course, an almost tangible reek of seafood.

Normally I merely found the smell of seafood distasteful. Now I wondered what would happen if my allergy worsened so the mere smell triggered a reaction. I’d ask Dad. Get him to give me an EpiPen, or if they weren’t allowed during pregnancy, get him to enforce a total ban on seafood cooking for the rest of Señor Mendoza’s visit. I sighed. That certainly wouldn’t make me popular.

Along with the smells, sounds were drifting upstairs. I could hear the rise and fall of conversations, accompanied by flamenco music played on a guitar—no, make that several guitars—and a rhythmic staccato rattle that could only be someone dancing to the music.

I felt a wave of nostalgia mingled with resentment. Back in the B.P. days—before pregnancy—I’d have been down in the kitchen. I might not have eaten the seafood, but it wouldn’t have bothered me so much. And I could have enjoyed the music, the conversation, the dancing, and the wine.

And I would again, I told myself, as I carefully descended the stairs. Just not for a while. And there was no reason for
everyone else to do without just because I wasn’t in the mood at the moment.

But at least they could turn on the kitchen exhaust fan to keep the odors from drifting upstairs with such intensity.

Just then the doorbell rang.

I paused on the second step from the bottom. I really didn’t feel like opening the door and having to deal with more visitors, not to mention the cold air.

“Can someone answer that?”

The flamenco music continued unabated. They probably hadn’t even heard me.

“Hello, anyone?” I called.

The doorbell rang again, twice, in quick succession. Our would-be guests were getting impatient.

“Hold your damned horses,” I muttered as I waddled to the door.

While unlocking the deadbolt, I tried to assume a polite, welcoming face. Or at least a neutral face. I’d save the scowl in case the impatient doorbell ringer was someone who really deserved it.

I swung the door open to find a man and a woman standing outside. Both wore frowns that matched my mood. And instead of saying anything, they both gawked at my protruding belly as if they’d never seen a pregnant woman before. They both had that hunched-against-the-cold look that so many people around campus wore these days, probably because they were only wearing light coats.

Okay, I understood their impatience, though it wasn’t my
fault they’d neglected to dress for the weather. But I wasn’t letting them in till I knew they weren’t trying to convert us or sell us something.

“May I help you?” I asked. I was polite, though certainly not warm.

“Is this the residence of Professor Waterston?” the woman said. She was forty-something and might have been attractive if she could lose the scowl, though the lines of her face hinted that it was habitual. She wasn’t wearing a hat over her neatly permed brown hair or gloves on her well-manicured fingers.

“Yes,” I said. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

“I am Dr. Wright,” she said. “From the English department. And this is Dr. Blanco, from administrative services.” She indicated the man, who was tall and also fortyish, with a thin, anxious face. He was bareheaded, too, though at least he wore driving gloves.

“May we come in?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“Of course,” I said, stepping back from the door. Blanco I’d never heard of before, but I had the sinking feeling I should know who Wright was. The drama department, where Michael taught, was technically an unloved subgroup of the English department.

They stepped inside with just enough haste to make me feel sorry for them. They both set down slim, expensive-looking briefcases, and the woman carefully set a purse atop hers—a small, sleek bit of leather, probably a designer brand that a more fashion-conscious woman would have recognized instantly. Then they shed their coats and tried to hand them to me.

I gestured to the coatracks, which still had a few free hangers, and stepped a little farther away. It wasn’t just that I resented being treated like a maid. One of them was wearing an overly strong perfume or aftershave that was making my nose tickle. Hard to tell which of them was the culprit—the scent didn’t seem particularly masculine or feminine. Just unpleasant.

“If you’ll wait here in the hall, I’ll tell—
achoo!
—tell my husband you’re here.” I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue and gestured at some of the dining room chairs.

“Actually,” Dr. Blanco said, “we’re looking for one of Professor Waterston’s students. A Ramon Soto.”

“We understand he lives here,” Dr. Wright added. Her face frowned a little more, as if showing her disapproval of any unorthodox living arrangements. In fact, both of them were wearing the sort of disagreeable expressions my nephews used to call prune faces.

“Ramon Soto is staying here,” I said. “Until the heating plant is back in order and the dorms are habitable. We’ve taken in quite a few students.”

Neither professor appeared impressed. I’d bet anything there were no unruly students disturbing the pristine academic quiet of their homes.

“May we speak to Mr. Soto?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“I’ll see if someone can find him.” I turned and began waddling toward the kitchen, sneezing a few more times as I went.

“See if someone can find him?” Dr. Wright said. “Don’t you understand the—”

“I’m sure it’s just a figure of speech,” Dr. Blanco said, in a soothing tone.

When I opened the door the noise, light, and smells almost overwhelmed me. I grabbed the door frame and closed my eyes for a few moments to fight the dizziness and nausea.

“Mrs. Waterston!” I felt hands gripping me, and had to fight the impulse to push them away. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired.” I opened my eyes to find half a dozen solicitous students crowded around me. “Is Ramon here?”

Ramon emerged from the crowd. His face wore an anxious look that had become habitual over the last few weeks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing that I know of,” I said. “Two professors are here to see you.”

“Two professors?” From his tone of voice, you’d think I’d said two masked gunmen.

“Dr. Wright and Dr. Blanco,” I said.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, and rushed out of the kitchen and into the hall.

I looked around to see if anyone else had as strong a reaction, but they’d all returned to their conversations.

Señor Mendoza was standing at the stove, stirring a large pot. Was this some advance prep for the paella, or was he also inflicting a very fishy bouillabaisse on my twitching nose?

As I was turning to go, Mendoza fished something out of the pot with a slotted spoon.

“Hey!
Perro!
”

I heard a familiar gruff bark and looked down to see that
Spike was sitting at Señor Mendoza’s feet, looking up at him with fixed attention.

Mendoza picked something out of the spoon—some kind of shellfish. My stomach lurched.

Spike growled softly. A small stream of drool began dripping from his open mouth.

“Perro! Perro!”

Mendoza grabbed a dishcloth and waved it in front of Spike like a toreador’s cape. He shook it slightly. Spike growled again and swallowed, never taking his eyes from the dishcloth.

“Perro!”
Mendoza said again.

Spike lunged at the dishcloth. Mendoza swept it away in a dramatic arc. Spike braked, turned, and then popped up on his hind feet and whined.

Mendoza threw his head back with a laugh and tossed something at Spike, who leaped into the air to catch it.

I was relieved that Mendoza didn’t seem to hold a grudge about Spike biting him.

Mendoza saw me watching.

“Oyster?” he asked, holding out the spoon.

“No thanks,” I said as I ducked out of the kitchen. I wasn’t retreating, of course. I wasn’t sure whether my protective instincts were aroused or my curiosity, but I realized I should follow Ramon back to the front hall. By the time I got there, he was standing in front of the prunes, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“—highly unsatisfactory,” Dr. Wright was saying. “We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

“Nine days, actually,” Dr. Blanco said.

Ramon stopped shifting and hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow. But he didn’t say anything, and the prunes just sat there, waiting.

I glanced back to see if anyone else was around to help. I saw only one of the women students—the one who had arrived with Ramon. She was watching the scene with a worried frown on her face, but she didn’t seem ready to intervene.

And someone should.

“He’s been here for two weeks,” I said. “And working almost full time on his dissertation and his play. Did you leave a message with the drama department secretary?”

“We e-mailed Mr. Soto,” Dr. Wright said. She turned her frowns on me, and I heard Ramon take a deep breath of relief. “And precisely whom do you mean by the drama department secretary? The last time I checked, the drama curriculum was still under the English department. There is no drama department, and thus no drama department secretary.”