The Stud Book Read Online Free

formula sweetened with rice syrup was full of arsenic half the time. She’d read the reports.
    Bella started to wail again; Georgie’s milk was a drug deal that couldn’t happen. What was the advice for this?
    She and her daughter waited together, alone. They waited for the phone to ring, for Humble or a nurse to call. Georgie cracked the lid off a bottle, and it came off with a pop. She screwed the artificial nipple in place and tipped the bottle to Bella’s blessed mouth.
    Bella didn’t want it. Georgie started to pull it away, and a reflex kicked in—the girl latched on to the fake boob. Oxycodone, that opiate, eased its way into Georgie’s blood, and she started to feel lighter. The pain in her stitches backed off. She took a breath and relaxed against the counter.
    The phone rang, and caller ID showed it was the hospital. It was either the advice nurse or the baby police calling to tell her she’d failed as a mom. The baby, her living dissertation, was perfect, yes, but Georgie wasn’t.
    The phone rang again, singing its song.
    The hospital knew where they lived. They had her address, her employer, her health insurance ID numbers.
    Georgie needed to lie down. Bella was still breathing. Even the red welt on her head had already quieted.
    “We’ll be okay,” she whispered, giving voice to what she most wanted to hear. She’d be her own advice nurse. Her voice was good enough. She was in her house, in this room, on her own with her daughter, alone and in it together. One more ring and the phone would go to voice messaging. This was her job: to raise her daughter.
    The doorbell rang.
    The doorbell? Hum wouldn’t ring, unless he’d lost his keys. It was a visitor, a stranger, maybe a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
    It might be cops. Paramedics. Child protective services. Could they have gotten there so quickly? Of course they could. Georgie’s soaked nightshirt clung to her boobs and postpartum stomach in a frump’s rendition of a wet T-shirt contest.
    Oxycodone slowed her brain’s synapses, let the endorphins step in, and lifted her head in a clouded way. They offered the best advice in the room: Go back to bed. She moved away from the door and windows and carried Bella to the bedroom. The doorbell rang again. Georgie’s heart knocked in response. She took a breath. She was okay, as long as she didn’t open that door.
    Then the phone started again, too.
    The phone, the doorbell, the phone—Georgie slunk away from them both.
    This is what separates humans from animals: free will.
    She had TV. She had the comforting hand of granny panties and narcotics. Her daughter was fine—awake and nursing. Nobody looked high! Neither one was nodding off. Well, okay, Bella was nodding off, but that was normal for a newborn, right? Georgie tickled the girl’s foot and saw her eyes widen, evidence she was alert. Together the two of them climbed into the privacy of sheets that smelled like sweat, like their bodies, like milk and blood and piss and love. She climbed back into her nest of blankets and books.
    Safe.
    Where was Humble? She needed him to come home.
    A hand slapped against the bedroom window from outside. It was a hard crack, like a bird breaking its own neck against the glass. It was a bad omen, and Georgie jumped at the noise. She sat up, looked, and saw that it wasn’t a bird. Worse: it was human. There was a palm, fingers, and a thumb, splayed, for a moment flattened against the pane.

“E ver play dead girl shots?” Humble Johnson slouched at the bar. The first wash of alcohol encouraged his brain to move gamely.
    The bartender said, “Dead girl shot?” He leaned forward to better hear over the music. The bartender was young, with hair in his eyes and in a button-down shirt. He was relaxed behind the counter, like somebody’s son hired to mix drinks for a family wedding.
    Humble said, “Shots.” He lifted his glass to illustrate. “Drinking game.”
    The bartender shook his head, tossed a damp