Just beneath the creaking planks of wood and rotten nails of Tony’s newest acquisition, a brown wicker basket bobbed joyfully to and fro in the Mississippi’s gentle current. The basket was the size of a car’s tire, more or less, and was partially covered with a frayed yellow blanket. The blanket had a large burn mark near the center that reminded Anthony of a spot on the passenger seat in the Cutlass where Joan had gracefully extinguished her cigar one muggy August evening (gone, he thought, all gone now). One long thread dragged unevenly beneath the murky surface, looking like an unnatural, skinny, slimy creature. Tony shuddered and his stomach turned over again.
Quickly he sat up, planted his feet squarely on the floor of the boat, rested his eyes on the top quills of a pine tree at the far edge of the riverbank. After a time, when the slish slush of the water no longer turned his insides into mush, he turned his attention back to his new floating companion. Carefully, methodically, for fear that any fast movement would make him lose his lunch, Tony paddled over to the basket.
Any uncanny, creepy sensation filled the air around him. From this angle, he could see that the blanket was securely fastened to the basket with absurdly large, oblong safety pins. The pins formed a semi-circle around the edge of the basket, keeping most of the blanket in place. A few had slid down low on one side, exposing a corner of the basket’s content to the wind. Something rustled ever so slightly inside.
Tony stopped the boat inches from the basket, and began to reach towards it, stopped, and then thought about paddling away. “I don’t need this,” he thought. “I’ve lost everything I ever knew this week—my family, my wife, my job, my identity: everything that makes me human.” Why pick up this basket among the Reeds? Nothing good could come of it, Tony was sure. No one in Red Wing, or anywhere else in the country for that matter, would ever drop a basket full of money or jewels in a river—that’s for damn sure. This basket could be nothing but trouble. Why not just leave it where he found it, float away placidly? Tony had had enough bad luck for one lifetime; why not quit while he was behind?
But curiosity got the better of him. Anthony reached over the side of the boat and tried to lift the contraption with one arm. It was surprisingly heavy. Tony’s heart sunk. This wasn’t good. He maneuvered the boat a little closer and this time, with his feet curled under a light box of supplies to make sure he didn’t capsize, Tony pulled the basket into the boat with the strength of both his hands.
A small baby—how young, Tony couldn’t be sure—lay in the basket, eyes closed, face blue. It’s tiny mouth was open slightly on one side, and it’s hands were curled beneath it’s tiny chin. Tony’s first harried thought was that it was dead. No baby could survive in this river for long and though he wasn’t far from shore the baby could have been here for hours, maybe even a full day. Tony shuddered as he thought of the wind last night—warm, strong.
He put his head right down next to the baby’s face. Tony had basic CPR training during his brief stint in the navy, but it looked like he wasn’t going to need it. He felt a tiny breath, like the fluttering of a butterfly, against his cheek. A few seconds later came another one. It’s breaths were slow, and uneven, but it was breathing.
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