“Does a baby know the difference between right and wrong?” she asked.
“No. But it’ll learn.”
“But a baby is so new, so amoral, so conscience-free.” She stopped. Her arms dropped from him and she turned swiftly. “That noise? What was it?”
Leiber looked around the room. “I didn’t hear—”
She stared at the library door. “In there,” she said, slowly. Leiber crossed the room, opened the door and switched the library lights on and off. “Not a thing.” He came back to her. “You’re worn out. To bed with you—right now.”
Turning out the lights together, they walked slowly up the soundless hall stairs, not speaking. At the top she apologized. “My wild talk, darling. Forgive me. I’m exhausted.”
He understood, and said so.
She paused, undecided, by the nursery door. Then she fingered the brass knob sharply, walked in. He watched her approach the crib much too carefully, look down, and stiffen as if she’d been struck in the face. “David!”
Leiber stepped forward, reached the crib.
The baby’s face was bright red and very moist; his small pink mouth opened and shut, opened and shut; his eyes were a fiery blue. His hands leapt about on the air.
“Oh,” said Dave, “he’s just been crying.”
“Has he?” Alice Leiber seized the crib-railing to balance herself. “I didn’t hear him.”
“The door was closed.”
“Is that why he breathes so hard, why his face is red?”
“Sure. Poor little guy. Crying all alone in the dark. He can sleep in our room tonight, just in case he cries.”
“You’ll spoil him,” his wife said.
Leiber felt her eyes follow as he rolled the crib into their bedroom. He undressed silently, sat on the edge of the bed. Suddenly he lifted his head, swore under his breath, snapped his fingers. “Damn it! Forgot to tell you. I must fly to Chicago Friday.”
“Oh, David.” Her voice was lost in the room.
“I’ve put this trip off for two months, and now it’s so critical I just have to go.”
“I’m afraid to be alone.”
“We’ll have the new cook by Friday. She’ll be here all the time. I’ll only be gone a few days.”
“I’m afraid. I don’t know of what. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I guess I’m crazy.”
He was in bed now. She darkened the room; he heard her walk around the bed, throw back the cover, slide in. He smelled the warm woman-smell of her next to him. He said, “If you want me to wait a few days, perhaps I could—”
“No,” she said, unconvinced. “You go. I know it’s important. It’s just that I keep thinking about what I told you. Laws and love and protection. Love protects you from me. But, the baby—” She took a breath. “What protects you from him, David?”
Before he could answer, before he could tell her how silly it was, speaking so of infants, she switched on the bed light, abruptly.
“Look,” she said, pointing.
The baby lay wide awake in its crib, staring straight at him, with deep, sharp blue eyes.
The lights went out again. She trembled against him.
“It’s not nice being afraid of the thing you birthed.” Her whisper lowered, became harsh, fierce, swift. “He tried to kill me! He lies there, listens to us talking, waiting for you to go away so he can try to kill me again! I swear it!” Sobs broke from her.
“Please,” he kept saying, soothing her. “Stop it, stop it. Please.”