Free Nursery Crimes by Ayelet Waldman

the idea of having another baby. It’s about time.”
    “True, true,” she said. “I’ve been hoping this would happen for a while now. Let’s listen to the baby’s heart.”
    I lay back as she moved the portable Doppler over my belly. After a few false starts we heard the rapid thump-thump of my baby’s heartbeat. My eyes welled up for a moment as I imagined him, this mysterious new creature, so completely familiar to me and so totally unknown.
    “He sounds great. And he’s perfectly in position, with his head down,” Dorothy said.
    “Hi, baby Isaac,” I murmured.
    “So it’s Isaac?” Dorothy asked.
    “Yup. We let Ruby choose between Isaac and Sam. She actually wanted to name him Odysseus but we nixed that.”
    “Odysseus! My goodness.”
    “She knows her Romans,” I said, smiling proudly.
    “Greeks.”
    “Right. I knew that.”
    Dorothy bustled around the room, putting away her instruments. She reached an arm out for me to hoist myself up off the table. I got myself dressed, scheduled my next appointment for two weeks hence, and went out to my car. I squeezed myself behind the wheel and turned on the radio to my favorite talk-radio station. Unfortunately,the Fates were conspiring to keep me involved with Abigail Hathaway. I tuned in just in time for the hour’s news wrap-up, including an announcement that crowds of Hollywood luminary-parents were expected at the preschool director’s memorial service, to be held at two o’clock that afternoon. I looked at my dashboard clock. It was one forty-five.
    For a split second I actually considered going to my prenatal Yoga class and forgetting about Abigail, LeCrone, and the whole Heart’s Song debacle. For a split second, only. I made a U-turn on Santa Monica Boulevard.
    Naturally, there was valet parking. I gave the keys to my Volvo station wagon to a perky young blonde in a blue jacket with “Valet Girls” embroidered on the pocket. She could barely contain her disgust at the state of my car, which really irritated me because I had thoughtfully swept the used Kleenex, dried-out baby wipes, partly eaten apples, ancient Ritz crackers, chewed-up plastic dinosaur, and slightly rancid sippy cup of milk off the passenger seat and onto the floor. Maybe she was just disappointed because she had to park a beat-up old station wagon instead of a brand-new Porsche. As Ruby would say, tough noogies.
    I walked by the ubiquitous television cameras and into the chapel. The pews were crowded, and I saw a surprising number of children’s faces. My impression of her skill with children to the contrary, Abigail Hathaway must have been popular with her students. I was scanning the rows, looking for a spot large enough for my considerable bulk, when I heard a voice.
    “Juliet! Juliet!”
    I looked over my shoulder and spotted Stacy seated near the back of the chapel. She was wearing a severe black suit that showed off her creamy white skin. Herthick, blunt-cut, blond hair was hidden under a hat that was, perhaps, a bit too elegant for a funeral. She leaned down her row, and with a flash of red nails motioned to her pewmates to move over. Miraculously, a space was made. I squeezed in, apologizing to those I mashed on the way. I’ve never figured out what is the appropriate way for a pregnant woman to move down a row of seats. Do you stand with your belly toward the people you are passing, impaling their noses on your jutting navel? Or do you go rear end first, forcing them to contort away from that particular body part? Obviously both options are an exercise in tackiness, but which is worse? I opted for the butt-in-the-face on purely selfish grounds—I wouldn’t have to look at them while I squeezed by—and sat down next to Stacy.
    “How come you didn’t tell me you were coming?” I whispered.
    “It never occurred to me that you’d be here. I mean, you didn’t get in, right?” Stacy didn’t whisper. Up and down the row, heads swiveled in my direction. I