Scrambled Babies (13 page)

“I’m hungry.  And I have to go to the bathroom.”  Madison wasn’t whining.  She was simply keeping her mother informed.

Paeton craned her head around, looking for the restrooms.  She saw a woman stop and search her face as she went by.
 I don’t know if I like this fame business after all. There.
 The restroom sign registered in her view. 

Ba-ding!

Paeton sensed something that made her come to such an abrupt halt that she almost pulled Madison’s arm off.

Paeton’s vision blurred.  Goose bumps ran from the back of her neck to her ankles.  Then she realized—this was the spot!  Her eyes scanned the area intently, drinking in the surroundings.  What did she expect to find?

Oh!
  Her legs threatened to give way.  There, directly to her right, on the back of a seat in the waiting area, was the graffiti she had dimly remembered—a purple magic-marker heart with letters in it.  As she stood over the seat, a terrible shake racked her body.

“Why are you shaking, Mommy?” Madison asked innocently.

Inside the heart, stroked in an elegant, old-English style, were the letters “
P + S
”, and they exploded in Paeton’s head like neon fireworks!

She gulped for air and steadied herself.  “Nothing, honey.  I’m—I’m all right.”

She hastened toward the restroom in an attempt to leave the heart behind.  But as the hollow click-click-click of her high heels rang in her ears, she had the strange sensation that the magic-marker message, with its foreboding “P + S,” was also scrawled across her own heart and was moving rhythmically with her every step.

#

Ring!

            Steve’s hand shot up for the phone.  He was immediately, totally awake!  It was exactly noon.

“Paeton McPhilomy?  Steve Kaselman.  God, it’s good—”  Steve hadn’t shaken like this since his high school girlfriend had told him her period was three months late.

“Mr. Kaselman?  Mr. Steve Kaselman, sportscaster for CBS?”

Steve held the phone away from his ear and surveyed it curiously.  He was hearing a wrong voice.  He put it back to his extremely dry mouth.  “Yes, this is Steve Kaselman.  Hello?  Is this Paeton?”

The voice at the other end kept talking as if it were a computerized phone solicitation.  “Mr. Kaselman, we want you to know how wonderful we think it is that you are such a swell Mr. Mom.  I have been authorized by my company, ComfyDype, the country’s largest manufacturer of disposable diapers, to pay you five million dollars for exclusive commercial rights to use your public image.  I have spoken to your agent and—”

Steve swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.  He was trying to adjust to the fact that the voice on the other end of the line was not Paeton McPhilomy’s.  At first, he almost hung up in frustration.  But the capitalistic segment of his mind registered the words “pay you five million dollars.”

“This is Steve Kaselman.”

“Yes, Mr. Kaselman.  The whole world heard the wonderful sound of your delightful baby yesterday.  You are a global folk hero, sir.  You are the ultimate Mr. Mom.  We want you to sell our diapers.  All the Mr. Moms in the country and all Ms. Moms in the country will buy diapers from you because of your proclaimed and unswerving dedication to your young son.”

Recent sleep and the eagerness to have this conversation be with Paeton McPhilomy were clouding Steve’s reaction.  “I’m a sportscaster.  I’m not going to sell diapers.  Are you crazy?” 

Then he realized what he was almost doing.
 Wait a minute, Steve!  Did the guy say “five million dollars?”

The voice on the other end cleared its throat.  “No, you don’t
sell
the diapers, per se, Mr. Kaselman.  Our advertising company will shoot a commercial with you telling the world how wonderful our diapers are.  And, Mr. Kaselman, that’s all I’m authorized to offer you at this time.  Your agent seemed to think—you do use our diapers, don’t you?”

Truthfully, Steve didn’t have a clue.  Greta bought them.  He put them on sometimes. 
Five million dollars!
  His mind was beginning to function now.  “No, no.  Five million dollars sounds okay—that is, for starters.  Uh, sure, sure, I use them,” Steve lied. 
What difference did it make?  For five million dollars, I’ll put the kid in burlap!
  Steve had never made that much money at one shot.  He had worked his annual salary up to eight hundred thousand just this year.  But five million?  To shoot a lousy commercial?  His wasn’t to reason why.  If Maury had said it was good, it was good.  That’s why he paid him, right?

“Mr. Kaselman?”  The voice seemed ready to get everything wrapped up because there were other people he was scheduled to offer five-million-dollar deals to.

“Yes?”

“So you can come over to our offices sometime today to sign the papers and finalize the deal?”

“Yes, yes.  I can be over.  Where are your offices?  And who am I talking to?”

“My name is Olivier Saint Marquette.”  The voice pronounced the first name Oh-liv-ee-yea.  “I am the senior vice president of marketing.  Our offices are located at One ComfyDype Square.  We’re that huge building right on Ponderosa Avenue.  Come and see me on the thirty-fourth floor, please.  My phone number is seven one four ComfyDype.”

Steve scribbled down the information.  He hated it when people gave a name instead of a number.  How the hell did you spell ComfyDype, anyway?  “Great, great, Ollie.  When should I be there?  I haven’t had anything to eat or—”  Steve thought he heard a sort of choke after he called the guy Ollie.  But there was no way he would call any male he was associated with Oh-liv-ee-yea.

“Yes, uh, whenever it’s convenient for you, Mr. Kaselman.”

“Okay, be there in an hour.  Thank you, Ollie.  Look forward to working with you.”  He hung up feeling five million dollars richer!  He started humming “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” again.

Wait a minute!  Feeling what?  Who in the hell would pay five mil for one commercial, much less people who sold diapers? 

Bam!  Then it hit him.  The guys at the network.  That was it.  It was a joke!  Oh, man, the guys at the network were working him over after the crying-baby-in-the-booth scene.  Christ, did they think he was that stupid, even though he did probably deserve it? 

He had to chortle to himself.  It was the kind of thing Steve would have done to one of his colleagues. 
I bet whoever played Oh-liv-ee-yea is doubled up in laughter with the rest of the guys.  Oh-liv-ee-yea!  Funny!  Who the hell ever heard of a guy with a first name like that?  And, Jesus, there can’t be a diaper named ComfyDype!  They could have done better on that one.  I’m calling Maury right now and telling him I’m not that gullible.

He stopped right in the middle of Maury’s number. 
If I’m on the phone, and Paeton can’t get through because I screw up that damn call-waiting thing like I do—?  What, am I losing it?  Screw the network clowns, I’ve got to get this baby business taken care of.

Suddenly his pager went off.  He looked at the number.  It was Maury calling from New York
.  Maybe I should play along.  Let them think—son of a bitch, I don’t have time for fun and games!  I’ll call him, inform him I’m not that dumb, and get the hell off.

Steve dialed Maury.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, it’s me.  Funny, Maury.  Very funny.  A million—no, five million laughs!”

“Huh?  Laughs?  It’s five million bucks, Steve!  For one goddam commercial.  I mean, that’s the best part.”

“Come on, don’t kid around, Maury.  I’m expecting an important—”

“Hey, this is no joke, Kaselman.  This is the big time.  You are America’s Mr. Mom!”

“No shit?  This isn’t a joke?  It’s for real?”

“Real as Ryan!”

Ryan!  Jesus Christ, I’ve got to get off the phone!
  “Hey, great, Maury, sensational!  I’ve got to hang up, okay?  I’ll call you later.  In a few minutes.  Okay?”

Steve could tell Maury was confused.  His agent had recently made him a multimillionaire, and Steve was kicking him off the phone instead of thanking him.  But he would understand when this whole mess was over.  “Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.  You’re a strange guy, Steve, you know that?  Very strange guy sometimes.”

“I know.  I’ll—listen, I’ll explain later.  Okay?  Bye, Maury.”

“You’re going right over to cement the deal, though, right?”  Maury stood to collect a fat fee on this, and he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going right over.  I’ll be there within the hour.  Promise.  See you, Maury.  And thanks.”

“Yeah.  You’re welcome.  I guess.”  Maury hung up.

Steve hated to hurt the guy, but—he looked at the phone in his hand—why didn’t it ring, for god’s sake?  Where the hell was the bewitching Paeton McPhilomy?  Did she sleep forever?

#

Steve had given his cell phone number to the hotel clerk on the way to ComfyDype.  The tick in his left eye was finding its old self.  Why hadn’t she called?  Was it possible that it was a different Paeton McPhilomy staying at the hotel?  How many women named Paeton McPhilomy could afford to stay at the Beverly Hills Arms?  He looked at his breast pocket as if to encourage a ring.

Steve felt guilty as he ascended in the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor.  The baby girl was still clothed in what he had found her in.  He had rinsed the nightgown out in the hotel sink.  So at least it was clean.  He wanted to buy some clothes, but his time had been limited, and he didn’t know what to buy for a girl anyway.  Besides, everyone—the whole global village—knew he had a son.  But he hadn’t the heart to dress this adorable creature in a boy’s outfit.  The mother wrote romances, for god’s sake!  Paeton might really go off if she saw her darling baby girl dressed like a little man.

Steve stood in the opulent lobby of ComfyDype.  A gorgeous receptionist greeted him.  “May I help you?”

Yes, have Paeton McPhilomy call me!
  “Uh, yes, I’m Steve Kaselman.  I’m here to see Ollie, uh, Mr.—”

“Mr. Saint Marquette?”

Steve flushed a little.  “Yes, that’s the guy.” 
I should remember the name of a guy who was going to give me  five million dollars, for god’s sake!

Moments later, he was in the plush office of Olivier Saint Marquette to sign papers.  Everything was just terrific—except that the kid billing and cooing in a travelseat on Ollie’s desk wasn’t Steve’s! 
Where in the hell was Paeton McPhilomy?

Ollie rose to greet him as he entered the office.  Olivier was exactly as Steve had pictured him:  power-blue suit, fashionably gauche tie, matching silk square in his breast pocket, full head of hair that might have been his, tinted contacts, and a Clark Gable mustache.  In other words,  a high-quality executive package, ready for marketing at any moment.

“Steve.”  Ollie gave him a marketing handshake.  “So good to meet you.”

Steve grasped Ollie’s hand and administered a withering return shake.  Ollie held strong.  “Same here, Ollie.  Where do I sign?”

Ollie was somewhat put off by Steve’s extreme haste.  He flipped through the contract to the signature block and handed it to Steve.  “Uh, right here, Steve.”

Steve sat down and signed the contract.  He put the pen down and stood up to shake hands again.  “Thank you, Ollie, I am—”

Vrrrr!  Steve felt the vibration against his leg.  His hand shot from Ollie’s expectant hand to his pocket.  He yanked out his pager. 
My god, it’s my office—and it’s nine-one-one!
  “Ollie, excuse me, but I have to return an extremely urgent phone call.  The sports business.  You understand.”  Steve pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket.