Trying to Kill a Toddler

Zebra-striped throw rugs, gilt chandeliers, and busts of buxom water nymphs that would make the thugs from Scarface feel right at home. Yes, the Bernstein’s mansion was full of late 1970s’ luxuries. Their mess of kids, plus guests like me, wallowed in crushed-velvet upholstery, grabbing meals when hungry, poking holes in the waterbeds when bored. The six Dalmatians and several beagles bred randomly in dark corners.

The kids were supposedly being raised by a couple of teenage maids, but those girls barely spoke English and spent most of their time watching telenovelas. They weren’t mean or anything, just completely uninterested in parenting their employers’ children, not that this seemed to disturb Dr. or Mrs. Bernstein. Actually, I never met the Doctor, although the Mrs. (aka “Dee-Dee") would sometimes say a few words to us, usually while hurrying to leave for someplace more glamorous. She was a petite woman poured into leather thigh-boots, with a hip-switching walk; I thought she was fabulous even though she never noticed me much, but then neither did my own mom.

Anyway, I guess Karen and I were second graders on that sunny California morning when all the grownups went out and left us to baby-sit her toddler cousin, David. At first it was fun because we just gave him lots of candy, but I felt uneasy when he lay on the carpet while I sat on a bed watching his jaws work. My mom had always warned me not to lie flat on my back like that with food in my mouth.

Suddenly, as if in response to my thoughts, the boy produced a gargling, gagging noise followed by alarming silence; he sat up, opened his mouth, and made retching motions but no sound, or candy, came out. He rapidly turned purple while I stared, but Karen just took one look and ran to get an older sister from all the way at the other end of that very large house. Sister Julie, fortunately, proved to be a resourceful 11-year old, having raised herself and several dogs without much supervision. She immediately held David upside down by his feet and shook briskly until he vomited up candy-corns, and finally cried. Sweet, sweet sound.

You might think that Karen, Julie, and I would have poured out our story to the first adult we could find, but that’s not the way things were done in our world. Where we came from, kids didn’t bother grownups who were busy with important careers, parties, prescription medications, and affairs. So we agreed to not tell anyone anything. Little David was cheerful by the time his parents came back, the vomit spots on the shag carpet were covered, and I went home with a clear, untroubled mind.

***

Karen grew up fast and married young. Her husband is in construction, or real estate, or middle management for some large corporation - as straight and sober as she could find. I know this because I ran into her a few years ago at a mall. (I was there for the clearance sale while she was shopping with a gold card.) She had her four little kids with her, who hung off her arms, legs and any other appendage they could reach. “Yep, I’m home full-time,” she said with unmistakable satisfaction. “No babysitters.” She said she doesn’t see her own mom very often.

As for me, I don’t have any kids or husband, just a marginal job. I don’t expect I’ll ever want a family, but if my situation changes, as least I know a few things. For instance, that old warning about fate? It’s a lie: sometimes you can tempt it and win. Sometimes you can even bet the baby’s life on it. I learned well; I’d be a great mom.

(above text by Sarah Flick, photo by Brad Harris)

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