Catching Babies
cw: babies
nothing bad happens to the babies, it’s just babies in general
Ted and Katie sit as far away from you and Amir as they can on the sectional. Ted looks uneasily at the baby on your lap. He’s like, is it gonna…? You smile and hold the baby out. Of course not, you reassure him. It’s just a baby. Here, try holding it. They cringe away. Fuck no, goes Ted.
Katie peeks at it squeamishly. It’s not that it’s not cute, she goes. It’s just…oh god, I think I’m gonna hurl. She clutches her stomach and stumbles to the bathroom. There’s an awkward silence during which you glare at Amir, sitting next to you with his bland husband smile, no help at all. When Katie comes back she’s got a baby. She’s like, God DAMN it. I knew this was gonna happen. Now look. It’s a fucking baby.
Ted lurches up, bolting for the door. You knew, he hisses, pointing at you and Amir. You did this to us on purpose.
Out on the driveway you yell, I’m sorry! There’s still room in my baby & me yoga class! Don’t wave at them, you tell Amir, but it’s too late. He’s already got another baby.
The neighborhood is in chaos. People are nailing plywood over their windows to keep out the babies. A man rushes by with a double-wide stroller welded onto another double-wide stroller, swerving into the street to keep his distance from you and your babies. A car fishtails high speed around the corner, slams the brakes and stops with the bumper just binking the double-wide double-tall stroller. Fuck! comes a voice from inside the car. We were so close! A lady bursts out and slaps one of those BABY ON BOARD stickers on the bumper, and they drive away at, like, the speed limit.
We gotta get out of here, you tell Amir. Leave the city, get to the woods. Away from all these fucking babies.
We could just stay indoors, goes Amir. We could hole up. It could be okay. We could make it work, you and me.
You stroke his face. He’s so hot, but he’s never been a thinker. Sweetheart, you say, this is a 1300-square-foot rental condo. There’s nowhere to hide. Install the car seats.
Amir takes forever with the car seats and by the time you leave, it’s too late. The babies are everywhere. Traffic snarls and halts outside the city. Everyone’s got their windows rolled up, glaring at each other and all each other’s babies. A phalanx of storks flies overhead, each carrying a baby in a little blanket, dropping them over the traffic jam. People leap out of their cars, shrieking, to catch the babies, because what are you gonna do? Let them fall?
Who trained all these fucking storks, you cry. Why? It seems so complicated. You turn to Amir, but his door is open. He’s out on the highway, catching babies.
It’s hours before you escape the traffic. Lawns finally become fields, become wilder fields, become woods. You drive until even your phones don’t know where you are, until the minivan runs out of gas in a clearing on a muddy logging trail in the mountains. Way off in the distance, the storks are still flying.
Up here the trees are old feathery pines. The ground is orange with their needles. Birds are singing; they don’t give a shit. The babies are asleep. Amir has bags under his eyes. He looks way less hot than he used to.
He squeezes your hand. At least we all got out together, he says.
Yeah. At least we all got out.
Behind you, the babies stir. They mewl, they stutter, they moan. As one, they begin to howl.
It’s not enough, you sob. There are so many of them. Where will we go? How will we find swim lessons for them all?
Some time later, in the pouring rain, Amir staggers toward a gate in the Michigan woods. He clutches a ragged cloak around him. A wall of sharpened stakes looms.
The ground slopes steeply up from the palisade, and you’re concealed in a thicket near the top. They mustn’t see you; a couple is too suspicious. They would know. You can see it all from up here though, even over the walls. You can watch. You can come down when it’s safe.
Grim souls peer over the barricade at Amir. Don’t come any closer, they yell. We’ll pour boiling oil on you.
Amir’s like please, I’m so hungry. I need to charge my phone. Why do you have that much boiling oil.
The guards purse their lips and an eerie whistle drifts down. It’s the Bluey theme, from the children’s show. You know it by heart. A cheery tune and then it pauses and everyone chants the characters’ names.
The guards’ whistling stops, and Amir’s lips contort. He sweats, but he says nothing.
The tune comes again, stops again.
Bluey, you whisper from your thicket on the hill.
Amir quivers with pain, but he stays silent.
He’s clean! He doesn’t know it! yell the guards. Crank open the gates!
You watch as they meet him in the mud. Behind them, huts glow with activity. People paint, weave, sing, train parrots. They drink wine and chat about outsider art or socialism or whatever. Welcome to our commune, says the guard. I’m sorry for the Bluey test. It’s just that the babies are so insidious—we had to make sure. You don’t know how to play bass, do you?
Thank you, rasps Amir. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
He opens his cloak and the babies spill out. Bouncing, babbling, barfing.
No! cry the commune people. No! We were so careful! They sink to their knees as the rain hammers down. They slick their hands through the mud and clasp babies to their trembling shoulders. They rise; they jog and dance; they sway and sing. Babies crawl off through the art supplies, eating paint and smearing handprints. They spill the wine and threaten to fall into the boiling oil. Amir weeps in a puddle, in a corona of babies.
You can come out now! Amir calls to you. It’s safe! It’ll all be so safe.
You struggle to rise from your thicket in the wilderness. Your feet are asleep, and you stomp to wake them up. You watch Amir making the rounds. Showing the artists how to swaddle, how to soothe. He looks up anxiously, but you don’t think he can see you. You’ll have to go down soon, though. Your family is waiting for you. All the families are waiting.
Sasha Brown (@dantonsix) is a Boston writer, gardener, and dad whose surreal stories have been called “Creative! But in a bad way.” He’s in lit mags like X-R-A-Y and Masters Review and in genre pubs like Bourbon Penn and Weird Horror. He’s online at sashabrownwriter.com.