What's at Hand

** This is just a short story that was born from a discussion with my wife where I might have joked a bit crassly about using the baby carrier as a weapon to defend her. It's a bit too long for "flash fiction" as I understand it, but there's a lot that should come out of the first half in an edit. I'm actually considering putting together a flash fiction podcast, so this is a result of working on doing some short stories for that. If you're interested in submitting work to the 'cast or know someone who would be, let me know **




What’s at Hand


When Janine died, the reduction of income meant that my daughter and I had to move into a row home in the city. The 500 block of Chestnut isn’t exactly the best environment to raise an infant, but for the first couple years she would spend about a third of her time in daycare one twelfth on the commute with me and most of the rest on the inside of our house, which might as well be Buckingham Palace to an infant. I used what was at hand to get what we needed to get by.

Besides, we had off-street parking, and what little equity we had into the four years of mortgage on the other house gave me enough to make the inside of the house just about the nicest on the block even if the outside was just another dingy downtown facade. Camille had a room on the second floor in the back, which kept her on the quiet side from the hourly sirens screaming by, and the heavy curtains kept the neighbors from peeking in too much.

I felt a little guilty about the daycare thing, but Camille seemed to thrive in the company of the other toddlers and babies. It’s not like there was any choice, anyway. My folks were out of state and Jan’s didn’t want anything to do with me after her death, as if I had intentionally given their daughter ovarian cancer. They cared enough about Camille to send clothes and toys on her birthday and other holidays but couldn’t be troubled to help with watching after her. That would have been too much like helping me, I guess.

Ungh, Camille’s screaming for the 9 PM bottle, I’ll be right back.


Anyway, Camille and I stopped off at the Giant supermarket on the way home for some overpriced formula for her and a trip to the salad bar for me. I generally don’t shop there, we go to the Super Wal Mart in Exeter on Saturdays because it’s like twenty percent less on the bill and we’re on a tight budget with daycare and mortgage taking a third of my pay each month right off the top.

We had already passed the Wal Mart when I remembered we needed formula to get through the night, and I had no desire to turn around. The Giant was at hand so that’s where we went.
The trip in was uneventful, but Camille started feeling the hunger pangs on and started up the waterworks as the automatic door wooshed open to let us out into the spitting November evening. If you’re not a parent, you won’t fully appreciate the mind set I was in. Imagine yourself with grocery bags in each hand, car keys looped over one finger in the naive hope that you will figure out how to get a hand free to use them before getting to your car while the swirling wind tears your hood off your head to give the cold, sprinkling rain full access to your exposed cheek. If you are a parent, put all the bags in one hand and a heavy child carrier/car seat in the other that contains the hungry, crying fruit of your loins which you are trying to protect from the wind at the same time. It’s amazing the stress you can pile up in thirty seconds.

We reached the car, I put the carrier on the pavement, opened the door, set the groceries inside, picked up the carrier -- screaming child and all -- and set it into the base in the back seat. Then pretty much fully drenched, I shut her door, got in mine, started the car and took a deep breath before shifting into gear and moving out of the lot.

I had enough on my mind that the ten minute trip home passed robotically. I know Camille cried the whole way. I know I spoke to her constantly trying to soothe her, but we had done it all enough times that it didn’t really require my consciousness and I didn’t fully step back into reality until I parked in my carport behind the house.

I worked the unload in reverse from the loading I had done in the Giant parking lot -- adding the nylon handles of my work bag between my teeth to save the second trip -- and shuffled toward my back door. We passed the gate that never seemed to get closed or locked and made it about half way up the thirty foot path when I heard someone step behind me from beside the small shed. There was a harsh clack, something pressed against the back of my head and a deep, low voice behind me saying “give me your money.”

My jaw dropped and my work bag scattered files around my feet. This was one more thing stacked on my already strained my nerves and I knew I was defeated. “I can’t, my hands are full,” I said, resigned.

“Just go to the house, you can give me what you have inside,” came the reply.

Horror. Complete horror shot through my brain at the thought of letting this guy into my safe place with my precious baby. I doubt my face betrayed the fear, or that the guy would have seen it, being behind me and all, but my full bladder nearly voided itself and I had to pause to consciously control it before moving.

He tapped the back of my head with the barrel of his gun, the hard metal sent an echo through my skull. Maybe it was the vibration that began to turn the tide of my fear, but two new emotions radiated from that spot where I was tapped: hate and anger.

Hate: no fuckin’ way was this lowlife going to violate the sanctity of my home.

Anger: I’d die before I let this asshole put my daughter in danger.

I began walking toward the house and with every step I seethed a little more. My right hand, the one with the bags, flexed into fists repeatedly. Without any conscious thought I drew my right arm across my body preparing for a swing. I shook my hand enough to jingle my keys, hoping he would think I was just readying them for the lock. Then my fist clenched the bag tight and I pivoted and swung. My brain said the world’s fastest prayer that Similac manufactured their cans with skull-cracking quality steel, and my head turned just in time to see my tormentor raise the pistol high over his head as he rocked back on his rear heel.

The arc of the swinging bag passed an inch from his face. I stopped at 180 degrees. Simultaneously, my eyes widened and my mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. He started to grin as his arm swung down and I looked up in time to watch the butt of the pistol slam into the bridge of my nose with a mushy crack.

I staggered back two steps, blood pouring down over my lips and tears filling my eyes. I caught myself on my left heel before toppling over, the bags and car seat helping by counterbalancing my inertia. I dropped the bags to use the hand to clear my face. Blood, tears and snot painted my palm and I had a brief vision of myself as a zombie in a horror movie, jaw covered in blood from eating brains.

“That’s going to cost you whatever else I can carry out of your house,” he taunted. “You don’t want to try anything else like that if you want that kid to know it’s father.”

I turned back towards the house, and felt a coolness wash over me like authors and playwrights describe happening to soldiers and gunslingers and prize fighters. No fucking way was he going to hurt my baby.

“Camille,” I said under my breath as I looked down at her through stars and tears. I was asking her permission, but he thought I was talking to him.

“What?” he asked, distracted. From the direction of his voice, I could tell he was looking around to see if anyone had witnessed our scuffle so far.

A moment of surreality hit. Time slowed crazily. Camille looked up at me and smiled with the pure sugar only a six month old can radiate. I smiled back, drew the Graco in front of me, gripped the handle with both hands and said slowly and clearly, “My girl’s name...it’s...”

I swung my arms with all my strength and weight like an Olympic hammer throw competitor going for the gold. I said two prayers in the time it took me to say the one before. First, that Graco would prevail where Similac had not, the other that centrifugal force, nylon buckles, and a couple steel screws would keep my most precious treasure safe.

“CAMILLE!” I shouted as the child seat passed 45 degrees of arc. My head swung faster this time and I saw the shape of the bandit turning toward me from his survey of the neighbors. As his eyes met mine, they widened and I saw his gun arm flinch upward. But the car seat was faster and before I could flinch from realizing what I was doing...

Time slowed again. The plastic connected first right at the left hinge of his jaw. His face contorted and compressed like a flat ball after a strong kick. At the same instant, Camille’s round face and equally round eyes came into view. She was frozen in half shock, half glee, and she stared into my soul. I think she might have said a quick prayer that I knew what the hell I was doing. So did I.

And like that, it was over. The would-be robber’s body arched back from the blow in a way you only see in comics and Kung fu movies. I finished the full revolution and slowed Camille as gently as I could. I think it was then that the thud of the contact registered in my ears and I didn’t even turn to look. When a person’s head makes that kind of sound, he’s either dead or not waking from the concussion without professional help.

While stepping, I swooped down and caught one of the bags’ handles and walked to the back door of my house and opened the door. Moving all on automatic, I filled a bottle, put it in the warmer and picked up the phone.


The lady on the other end listened while I gave my address, explained that a guy had tried to rob me was lying in my back yard and that she should send the cops and an ambulance. I hung up, not remembering if I had said ‘goodbye.’

I pulled the bottle and started feeding Camille on top of the table, still in her seat. When the knock came, she was only half finished, but didn’t protest too much when I pulled it to answer the back door.

“Evening sir,” the officer said and I tilted my head in a motion for him to come in while I already turned back to Camille. I sat down and plugged the bottle back in. “That guy’s out cold,” he said. “Paramedics are looking him over now. I don’t know what you hit him with, but...Jesus! Is that blood?” He was looking at the base of Camille’s seat.

I looked up at him slowly, still holding the bottle in place. “I used the only thing I had at hand. He wasn’t going to hurt my baby girl.”

I looked back at Camille just as she started to pull air through the nipple. I unbuckled the straps and she let out a huge belch before I could get her to my shoulder. We caught each other’s eyes and grinned simultaneously.