EMMA
I am shocked at how good Thatcher is with his nephew. He's so comfortable tossing that baby around. It's damn sexy, and I almost forget the man is a sleaze just looking for sex. When he tells me about how he feels like the molten glass is part of his mind, malleable and able to bring his imagination to solid form…well. It's easy to see why women drop their undies for him. He orders takeout, and we pig out on Indian food while he holds his end of the bargain. Thatcher Stag tells me how the art teachers at his school were his saving grace after his mom died, how they arranged for him to do intensive programs and helped him apply for a scholarship when he decided to study glass blowing in college. "Only Stag to leave the state for college," he says, laughing at how the tiny town of Alfred in New York never stood a chance against his artistic vision…or his libido.
Thatcher talks to me about his work for a while and then he looks at his watch. "Hey," he says, handing Petey a pouch of some sort of food. "My sister in law will be back soon to grab Petey, so we better hash out our plan. Basically, you need to act believably in love with me when my family's around."
"Ok." I chew on my pen. "How did we meet?"
He grins one of those devilish smiles I've come to recognize. He saves those for women he's trying to hit on. "You interviewed me at an opening," he says, "and you were smitten immediately."
"I'd prefer if you were the smitten one and had to work for it a bit," I tell him, and he nods.
"That sounds more plausible. All right, I can just tell my family I was smitten and drove to your office to give you a glass bonsai in an attempt to woo you. Then, you were smitten."
"That was a bonsai?" I think back to the beautiful cluster of neurons I now have on the mantle of my apartment, where it catches the afternoon sun just right and sparkles.
"Well yeah," he looks insulted. "What the hell did you think it was?"
I flush, not meaning to. Of course I hadn't meant to insult his art, but I am taken aback. I thought the gift was so personal to me. That he somehow knew about me and was, I don't know, honoring that by giving me a symbolic artistic creation. "I, um…" I decide I'm just going to be honest. I'm going to have to spend a lot of time with him for the next month and I will be lying to enough people as it is. "I thought it was a bundle of neurons."
He scrunches up his face as if he's thinking about this. "I can see that. The trunk was sort of messed up."
"I really like it, Thatcher." My voice comes out as a whisper. "I like it very much. Thank you again."
"You're welcome, Chezz." We start to talk about the family dinner I will need to attend on Sunday. I'm not sure whether to believe him when he says it's casual. Just because he wears ripped jeans to fancy art openings doesn't mean people won't stare if I do it.
Just then, Petey toddles up to me and smiles. I get low and hold out my hand for a high five. He grasps my finger and scrunches up his face, loudly messing up his diaper. "Jesus, Thatcher." The smell hits the room in a cloud. Petey releases my finger, and he starts to cry. "We have to get him cleaned up," I yell.
"All right. Hm. I don't see the changing pad Alice usually sticks in the bag. Woo, Petey, you outdid yourself." Thatcher rummages through Petey's diaper bag, pulling out tubes of diaper cream and spare clothes. I fan the air, while Petey starts crying louder, so I pick him up, feeling that he's soggy all up his back. I start to bounce him and make shushing sounds.
"What if you put some of that down on the carpet?" I point with my toe at a box of bubble wrap Thatcher has sitting by the door. I guess he uses that to ship his art.
"Great idea! Ok, set him down here."
Together, we strip the soiled clothes off Petey's thrashing body to the chorus of crackles and pops as Petey wriggles around on the bubble wrap. We manage to get the diaper off and we use about 36 wipes scrubbing him from his neck to his knees. He lies on the bubble wrap smiling each time it crackles, while I gather up the messy clothes and the rancid diaper.
"Ok. I'm going to soak these clothes in your utility sink and throw this diaper away outside," I say. "Then I'll come back and it can be your turn to clean up."
"Got it. I'll find Petey some clothes."
I walk through the kitchen of Thatcher's house and open the basement door. I take note that the place is much tidier than I would have thought. Sure, there's wood paneling and 1970s-style wallpaper, but it's neat and it smells clean. The basement isn't even damp. I'm up to my elbows in suds and baby shorts when I hear Thatcher yelling, "No! No! Emma, help! Help!"
I fly up the stairs and into the living room, where Petey is smiling, half dressed, and a shirtless Thatcher Stag is holding an open tube of diaper cream. "Emma! He ate it! I turned away to take off my shirt because it had poop on it and when I looked back at him, he had this in his mouth!"
"Do you remember how full it was before?" I look at the tube. It's organic diaper cream, so I guess there can't be too many harmful ingredients.
Thatcher shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. He looks panicked. "Go wash your hands, Thatcher. You're getting diaper cream everywhere." I pick up the baby. Thatcher looks down at his fingers and silently walks into the kitchen.
Petey is still laughing and clapping. His face is shiny and his breath smells a little like the cream. I sigh, remembering a story I researched not too long before. I dig out my phone and call up Poison Control.
"Yes, hi. My friend and I are babysitting and the little guy just ate some diaper cream." Thatcher walks back in the room and, seeing me on the phone, starts to panic all over again. I mouth "poison control" to him and he grips my arm while I bounce Petey. "No, I'm not sure--hey Thatcher, how old is Petey and what does he weigh?" He snatches the phone from me and talks with the specialist. Within a few minutes Thatcher collapses to the ground in relief.
"He's going to be fine. Absolutely fine."