Baby

be responsible for a bastard kid that didn’t belong to him.
    Overhearing his daddy gave him a stomachache. His troubled sleep left him tired and cranky the next morning. But he still managed to promise his mommy he would always protect Abby, even if he had to stand on a chair to do it. He thought it would make his mother happy. He didn’t understand why she cried instead.
    Late one fall day, Scotty came home from grade school, his paperwork in his eager hands. He wanted to show his mom the smiley face the teacher gave him. His daddy was supposed to take Abby to the hospital for her weekly dialysis treatment. Mommy worked six days a week at the grocery store, so Daddy reluctantly took responsibility. When Scotty remarked that Daddy should work so Mommy could stay home more, he claimed he had very important things to do and that a dummy like Scotty wouldn’t understand. Mommy looked like her tummy hurt when Daddy said things like that.
    Actually, the little boy didn’t recall his daddy ever working like Mommy did. He often saw her late at night, removing her shiny leg brace to massage her tired muscles.
    Scotty realized most of the dads in his building didn’t work. They formulated important matters to discuss in the rec room of their building. The dads wouldn’t let little kids in the rec room because of the beer and smoking. So when he found Abby unconscious on the floor of her bedroom, he ran down to the basement rec room and pounded on the locked door.
    “Hello, anyone in there? Daddy, I need you. Daddy, Daddy. Help.” He knew Abby should go to the hospital this morning. Why didn’t Daddy take her? But no one would open the door to a crying six year old. He tried again, banging over and over. The door suddenly opened, omitting smoke and loud raucous music.
    “Kid, what cha doing … screaming out here? Get lost.” The big man wore an old stained shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his fat hairy arms. He exuded an unfamiliar bad smell.
    “Is my daddy here? I need him to come home; Abby’s on the floor.” Scotty danced nervously, his voice small and frightened, his wandering eye floating erratically.
    “I’m not gonna say it again. Don’t be bangin’ on this door.” The big man burped, sending a gust of rancid beer breath in Scotty’s face. He cringed, the door slamming in his face.
    Scotty knew saving Abby by himself would require some bravery.
    He ran outside into the dirty street, his heart pounding so hard he thought the bullies in the neighborhood might hear him. Choking back his sobs, he ran up and down the street, dodging cars and screaming for the police. He glimpsed the old grannies from the neighborhood that congregate at the corner, lounging in cheap plastic chairs, holding court on the sidewalks. He scrambled out of the street, hurrying toward them.
    “Abby’s going to die. She’s on the floor. Please, we need help.”
    Unable to hold back the tears overflowing his wild eyes, he dragged the grannies to his family’s apartment. A nice Muslim lady sat with him while two other black grannies made a few cell phone calls. Soon, three strapping black men entered the apartment. Scotty, positive they might rob the apartment, stuck to them like glue. Relieved, he watched them lift Abby in their arms and carry her out of the apartment. He tried to follow.
    “Hey kiddo, you stay here until your mom comes home. Your sister’s very sick. You need to hold the fort down. This nice lady will stay with you.” One of the black men, his eyes soft and moist, ran his hand along Scotty’s shoulder giving him a reassuring stroke and softly shut the door behind him.
    The nice Muslim lady stayed with him until his mommy came home from work. He hoped Abby didn’t die. Fear made him pray.
    He didn’t know much about what happened after that. His mommy asked him to stay in his room. He heard lots of crying and silences. Then his daddy came home and the screaming started. He didn’t know what it meant but he felt terror stricken anyway. He began to relax when the cops took his daddy away. Abby came home a week later, alive but painfully thin. Scotty began to sleep much, much better.
    A few days later, his mother silently handed him a cardboard box, telling him to pack his toys. She folded up all their clothes except for Daddy’s, the brace on her afflicted leg clanking around the apartment as she packed up their little lives.
    The night before the move, his mother sat them both down for a