The beautiful mother of the baby. Will he go back to her? He doesn't go back. He goes on. Unknowingly, I too, may be diminishing, a piece of the past that grows more evil with each new woman, each new recounting. The only unscathed one is that poor baby.

The baby. How does a woman who loves the father of the baby love the baby? By remembering that she is not the mother of the baby. When the father moves away, he will also take the baby. If I haven't already, I am doomed to lose both father and baby.

But why do I want them to begin with, when I could have an honest man and my own baby? Most days I am terrified by the thought of my own baby. About honest men: you must be honest in return, for who knows how long. But with the treacherous, you can be kind and honest while it lasts, knowing it won‘t last. In the end you suffer, of course. The surprise is how, and in which places.

Sometimes he held me all night. Sometimes when he heard me cry in sleep, he clawed my spine until I cried myself awake. When he planned a trip, I found the tickets on the bureau days before he told me he was leaving. ("By the way, I'll be flying to Maryland tomorrow." And after a pause, "Drive me to the airport at eight, would you?" Or, "Pack. You‘re coming with me. ") For two weeks, he telephoned every midnight, though now I haven‘t heard his voice in sixteen days, and I tore open his last letter Saturday. It was all about the baby. The baby is walking perfectly. The baby is making friends with other babies. In so many gestures and baby words, the baby has stated his preference for road life with father, his dread of that split level crowded with mother, grandmother, and every baby toy available in greater Baltimore.