I gave Juliet a murmured, “Hi, how are you?”

“Nice to meet you,” she said her eyes already straying back to her magazine. I couldn’t help noticing that I was competing for her attention with an article about how to be a good listener. She felt for the pack of cigarettes lying near her on the bed. She explored with her index finger, picked up the pack, and peered in. She made a moue of exasperation when she realized it was empty. I found myself transfixed by the sight of her. With that marine corps haircut, she looked like a teenaged boy in eye shadow and dangle earrings. She nudged Michael with her foot. “I thought you said you’re going up to the corner for me. I’m out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. Could you make a run? Please, please, please?”

On the television screen, baseball play was resuming. His sole function as a husband seemed to be fetching cigarettes and Pampers. I gave this marriage another ten months at best. By then she’d be bored with all these nights at home. Oddly enough, as young as Michael was, he struck me as the sort who could really make a go of it. Juliet was the one who’d be testy and petulant, opting out on her responsibilities until the relationship fell apart. Dana would probably end up taking care of the baby.

Michael, his attention still riveted to the set, made a vague reply unattended by any actual move to get up, a fact not lost on her. He was fiddling with the Cotton-wood Academy class ring his mother had given him, turning it around and around.

“Mike-cull, if Brendan pees again, what am I supposed to do? I just used the last diaper.”

“Hey, yeah, babe. Just a sec, okay?”

Juliet’s face got all pouty and she rolled her eyes.

He glanced back at her, sensing her irritation with him. “I can go in a minute. Is the baby asleep? Mom wanted her to see him.”

Startled, I realized the “her” referred to me.

Juliet swung her feet over to the side of the bed. “I don’t know. I can check. I just put him down a little while ago. He hardly ever goes to sleep with the TV so loud.” She got up and crossed the room, moving toward the narrow hallway between bedrooms. I followed, trying quickly to think of a generic baby compliment in case the kid turned out to have a pointy head.

I said, “I better keep my distance. I don’t want him to catch my cold or anything.” Sometimes mothers actually wanted you to hold the little buggers.

Juliet leaned around the door frame into the smaller of the two bedrooms. A wall of cardboard wardrobe cartons had been shoved into the room, all packed with heavily laden hangers dragging at the metal bars affixed across the tops. The baby’s crib had been placed in the center of this fortress of wrinkled cottons and winter clothing. Somehow I pictured the room looking just like this many months from now. It did seem quieter in this jungle of old overcoats, and I imagined in time Brendan would get used to the smell of mothballs and matted wool. One whiff in later life and he’d feel like Marcel Proust. I lifted up on tiptoe, looking over Juliet’s shoulder.

Brendan was sitting bolt upright, his gaze pinned on the doorway as if he knew she’d come to fetch him. He was one of those exquisite babies you see in magazine ads: plump and perfect with big blue eyes, two little teeth showing in his lower gum, dimples in his cheeks. He was wearing blue flannel sleepers with rubber-soled feet, his arms held out on either side of his body for balance. His hands seemed to wave randomly like little digital antennae, picking up signals from the outside world. The minute he caught sight of Juliet, his face was wreathed in smiles and his arms began an agitated pumping motion, indicating much baby joy. Juliet’s face lost its sullen cast and she greeted him in some privately generated mother tongue. He blew bubbles, flirting and drooling. When she picked him up, he buried his face against her shoulder, bunching his knees up in a squirm of happiness. It was the only moment in recorded history when I found myself wishing I had a critter like that.

Juliet was beaming. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

“He’s pretty cute,” I said.

“Michael doesn’t even try to pick him up these days,” she said. “This age, he’s suddenly very possessive of me. I swear, it just happened a week ago. He used to go right to his daddy without a murmur. Now if I’m about to hand him to anyone else? You ought to see his face. His mouth gets all puckery and his chin starts to tremble. And the wailing, my Lord. He’s so pitiful, it would break your heart. Dis little guy wuves his mudder,” Juliet went on. Brendan reached a plump hand forward and stuck some fingers in her mouth. She pretended to bite, which stimulated a low throaty chuckle from the child in her arms. Her expression changed, nose wrinkling. “Oh, God, does he have a load in his drawers?” She stuck an index finger into the back rim of his diaper, peering into the gap. “Mikecull?”