Lazaretto by Diane Mckinney-Whetstone Page B

her mother rights herself, or I figure summin else out. Please, Sister, please.”
    Maze’s first instinct, before she even considered the baby, was to comment on her brother’s diction. She hated that he talked like those black people who’d recently migrated from the fields, even though he was Philadelphia-born and -raised. She’d taken special pride in the fact that the only dirt her hands pushed into was on this patch of backyard land that she and her husband owned that grew the flowers that filled her window planters out front and were the envy of the block. But this situation, with this baby, superseded even his cringe-worthy dialect. “Mason, you are insane,” she said, hands on her hips, as Sylvia hunched her shoulders and gave her uncle a playful, you’re-in-trouble-now look. Sylvia was mostly amused by her uncle, and by the ire he was so good at arousing in Maze. “I cannot just take in a baby,” Maze continued.
    â€œYou godda, Maze. I swear to you, her momma tain’t right in the head.”
    â€œFirst of all, there is no such word as ‘tain’t’ used the way you just did. Secondly, Levi and I are preparing for a large job, and this infant certainly cannot join us, and Sylvia has her lessons, and her work with the midwife, which means we are not positioned to help you. We just cannot. How do I even know this child is your blood? Looks like a white child to me.”
    â€œDon’t look at her coloring, Maze. Look at her features.” Heturned the baby so that her face was fully visible. “Say hello to your aunt Maze, Vergilina—”
    â€œVergi- who ?”
    â€œVergilina Mayella,” he gushed as he looked at the child and kissed her forehead.
    â€œLeave it to you to come up with such a country name.”
    â€œForget about the name, Sister, just look at her.” He tried to thrust the infant into Maze’s arms, but Maze kept her arms wrapped tight across her own chest. “You cain’t deny she my flesh and blood,” he persisted. “Means she yourn, too, Sister.”
    The baby flapped her legs and swayed and even in her new life seemed to be laughing. Maze could see that the baby and Sylvia had identical mouths, dark and full. The resemblance softened her, and she thought about what she would do. Only one thing she could do. She snatched the baby from her brother. She was careful not to let the newborn-scent catch her nose, because she knew that was such an irresistible scent and she might well jeopardize the catering job that was to be especially lucrative and instead stay here to hold and rock and feed and coddle this apparent niece of hers.
    She quickly passed the baby to Sylvia. “She’s yours,” she said. “Until your daddy and I return. Perhaps Dr. Miss will allow her to accompany you during your hours there.”
    Sylvia took the baby as her uncle bolted from the yard and was halfway through the alley calling out “Thank you” and “Love you” as he went. She sat on the steps under the shirts still hanging on the line and rocked the baby and kissed her forehead and thought back to how old Meda’s daughter would be now; two, she would be just about two years old. “She died. The baby died. She died.” Sylvia repeated it to herself now, the way Dr. Miss had made her repeat it over and over until it became a truth that settled into her fiber the way it apparently had for Dr. Miss. As she sat on thesteps now, swaying and rocking this newborn cousin, the drying shirts flapping back and forth in the morning breeze hiding the sun and then allowing its warmth to swipe against her forehead, she fought the urge to cry.
    â€œNew life will bring tears to your eyes,” her mother said then. “You can go ahead and allow yourself to get attached. My sense is that your uncle won’t be returning anytime soon to permanently claim his child.”
    SYLVIA DID GET