-
The Brown Boy and the Baby
- University of Pittsburgh Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
40 the brown boy and the baby the baby could speak. the brown boy remembers lifting the baby up on his shoulders and carrying him up a ramp into a room where there were dozens of fish tanks next to one another. it was not a pet store, because in front of the aquariums there were vats of cooked seafood, each of which matched the fish in the tanks: crab cakes next to crabs, butterfly shrimp next to shrimp, ginger-steamed cod next to cod. the baby was fascinated, and it asked all the appropriate questions: What’s that? What’s this? the brown boy and the baby left the tanks and trays of fish and walked down the ramp. outside, they were surrounded by a green ocean. it was cold and the sky was darkening. He carried the baby to the edge of the water, where he looked up into the grey, knowing that he had to take care of this baby and somehow get him home. the baby laughed and played. in joy, after being tossed into the air and caught by his stomach, he looked down at the brown boy, then glared into his face and said, I went to the bathroom. His diaper was sticking out in a mound, in which there was an immense load of shit. Did the brown boy have to change him? And how could he, given that the only diaper they had was the one the baby was wearing? He waited for the baby to explain itself. Maybe it was a nod? it was some sign—not speech—the baby gave him, some sign that let him know that he had to rinse him in the green water and let his shit fly loose into 41 the sea. So he did. He took the baby in the water where it was warm, where it turned, for one second, from green to clear, the sand shown to bottom, the shit breaking up in the tide. the brown boy held him tight. though the baby was bottomless, and it was getting cold, he didn’t care; in fact, the baby said, I’m enjoying myself. the brown boy played with the baby as he carried him back up the ramp. though ashamed to bring the baby back to whomever he belonged with neither pants nor diaper, the brown boy felt he had to take the baby back happy. Just as he got closer to the room with the fish, the trays, and the tanks, the baby vomited all over his stomach, spilling down the brown boy’s shirt, his chest, and down to his shoes. Panicked, the brown boy ran back down the ramp that led to the shore. What he remembers is the cold of the wind down the stretch of beach where he’d never been, and how badly he wanted to rinse the baby off in the water, again, but how afraid he was that getting him wet would make the child even sicker. Around them, water started to rise, quickly, on all sides. Green surrounded them, and the brown boy’s only thought was, Save the baby. Sure, in the dream, he found higher places in the sand, peak after peak, where they could escape the water’s rush. But in the end, where would they go? When the baby asked, How will we get out of here?—the brown boy said Pocket!—knowing as fast as if he’d asked the baby’s question himself. Pocket, a suburban paradise in South Sacramento is where the brown boy, growing up, [3.238.142.134] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 17:57 GMT) 42 always wanted to live. it is filled with manmade lakes and nice houses and is all the way down at the end of Florin road. Before the growing water overtook the last surviving mound of sand, the brown boy remembers leaping with the baby in his arms away from the rush of it. if he could only get close to one of the manmade lakes in Pocket. if he could only get to a dock, on the lake, near the houses, where the rich people kept their boats. if only he could spring from the shifting sand, carrying the baby up, out of danger, onto one of the large, lush, front yards. ...