Changeling

“I’d like a pizza for three. With, um, pepperoni. And sausage. Italian sausage. Not chicken sausage.” the man says slowly. “Yeah, in a box.”

He looks as if he’s going to cry any second.

I nod, but before putting it in the machine, or stop myself, I blurt out, “Are you alright, sir?”

He bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir? Just for while, you know, while you wait?”

“Um. Not yet?” As he signs the bill, his hands are shaking. He speaks in curt phrases, separated by just-a-half-beat-too-long pauses. He’s sweating profusely.

“No hurry, sir. It’ll be ready in about 15 minutes, sir. Would you like to wait here?”

“No, no. I’ll go and come back. Actually-” His face draws in even more, his eyebrows curling in. “Could you hold it? My wife is at the doctor’s office. I don’t know how long it will take.”




“We can make it whenever you like, sir. Now, later, or whenever works best.” I try not to mimic his jerky speech pattern.

He nods and takes a minute to think. He’s slender, wearing an Italy football jersey that doesn’t fit him. It’s too big, too blue, and too vibrant, nearly washing out his pale face and blondish hair. Sweat has soaked through the armpits, staining the sleeves.

“Okay. Okay. I guess, now. And then we’ll get here when we get here. I mean, you’ll make it, yeah, whether we’re here or not?”

“Sure, sir! Of course. May I have your name?”

“Brian,” he waves, awkwardly, “I’ll be back soon.”



Once the man leaves, I start cleaning the bar. I enjoy it, all the refilling, slicing, cleaning, tidying. I always wait till the end of the lunch rush to do it, so it can feel like my little reward for surviving another lunch.

I unload the dishwasher, taking my time. I dry off each glass and slide them into place. We have an uneven selection of glasses – totally fine for beer and wine, but totally lacking for cocktails or mixed drinks. We don’t really have low-balls.

In my time, I’ve become a pretty apt bartender. I’d never call myself a ‘mixologist,’ but I can make a fine martini, and some diabolical cocktails. I love making Manhattans.

Every Tuesday, an elderly woman comes in and orders two Manhattans. She stoops, but flashes very quick smiles, and recounts how this place used to be, fifty years ago. Her husband eats very slowly, with great relish. Their names are Irene and Henry.

“This is magnificent,” Henry says, always spilling onto his belly. Irene sips her Manhattan and takes a tiny bite of her meal. She eats very small portions, and seems to take all of her nutrients from the whiskey. She smacks her lips after a big gulp, and says, “It keeps me young.”

Henry laughs, “You’ll always be young.”




Brian walks back to the bar about a half-hour later, looking much more chipper. “I was wrong. We want it for here.” He shoots me a docile smile – he’s not even sweating anymore.

“Sure, sir!” I say, nodding. “Sit anywhere you like!”

He joins a lovely, dark-haired woman at a table by the wall, pulling his chair out noisily. She is holding a lump in a green shall. I rush to bring them cutlery and water, taking a moment to smile at the woman. She does not smile back. Her face is a pale cream, the color of cement guardrails.

The thing within the shall is much too small to be a baby. I wonder if it’s a large vegetable, or one of those awful little dogs.

A dog would be a problem. It’s double-shift Wednesday: if I let customers eat with their inbred animals, I’d be smelling dog shit for the next 7 hours.

Then she passes the item to her husband.

It is an infant.

I see babies often enough, but rarely newborns. The infant is the size of a potato, with a head just bigger than a tennis ball. Its face is alien, the too-small features smushed together. It makes no noise, and just looks out vacantly, seemingly unaware of the attention piled onto it by its parents. Its mouth is the length of a quarter, lips slightly pursed out.

Norwegians are very conscious of changelings.

In my old book of Norse myths, the author gave lengthy instructions on how to spot a changeling within your crib. Even in the first few days, there were clear indications that your baby had been exchanged with a monster from the fairy-world. First, it would never speak, learn any language, or make any noise. Even after being bathed, it has an indistinct smell of ashes and dirt. Its toes are a bit longer than a normal baby, with fuzzy tufts of hair on the feet.

The faerie child starts out tiny, but grows at an alarming rate, eating all that it can. As it ages, the child gnaws on furniture, especially chairs, and eventually on the walls and the rafters. A famished changeling can swallow a home in two weeks. Sometimes, changelings crawl into the marriage bed and feast on their own foster parents, devouring them as they slept.

Mothers need to be careful.

-

In the kitchen, the smell of bread is nearly intoxicating. Huge pans rest on every available surface, covering the tables with a new brown layer. In the back, Rafael sculpts little indentations into the dough, painting little lines to give the bread more volume. When the dinner prep cooks arrive, they cut the bread into long flat pieces, with pale interiors and honey-colored sides. They covering a few slices in spices and oil, and re-toast it to form croutons.

The finished pizza sits on top of the oven, still warm, with the cheese having decided on where to settle. I cut two slices and plate them.

“There’s a couple with a real baby!” I announce to Rafael, working in the back by himself. Rafael works from 7:00am to 5:00pm, and makes no secret that feels nothing for the restaurant, except that it allows him to clothe and feed his children. Rafael’s children are the center of his world.

“Do you want to see it? It’s the size of the sandwich loaves.” I make a not-to-scale hand measurement.

“Chica, I’ve seen lots of babies. I’m happy with what I have.”

I serve the couple their food, and ask if they want something to drink. Brian holds the baby as if it is the ninth wonder of the world. His wife taps her fingers on the table, humming a song I don’t recognize.

“A Sprite,” she says.

“For me,” Brian says vacantly.

“Yes, it’s for him,” she repeats.

“How old is…?” I ask.

“She’s six days old,” Brian coos. He is so still now, his voice smoother.

“Can we have a pair of scissors?” the woman says.

She takes the scissors and careful holds the baby’s hand, quickly snipping off the plastic hospital tag. The tag falls onto the table.

I stare at the little thing, its face scrunching up, little lips puckering even more. It fidgets, wriggling and jiggling in the shawl. The woman reaches over, casually moving her shirt and bra aside and lifting the baby to her breast. The baby hasn’t made a single sound.

You couldn’t kill a changeling and expect your own baby to return. You couldn’t leave it out in the woods where it would find its own people. You had to realize there was a physical connection between your child and the fairy child, that there was a pulse between them.

With exotic diagrams of internal organs, the author explained the “science” of the changeling process. Though the two babies look roughly identical, disregarding the long toes, their hearts are completely different organs. The illustration showed the changeling child with a strange, five chambered heart, with an aorta resembling a slug. The vessels connecting the heart to the lungs wound around each other, spooled like television wires. The author had drawn a few diagrams to show the “psychic circuitry” that bound the two babies, a strange half-sewn garment from one heart to another. One needed to accelerate the faery’s heartbeat to allow the human child to return in its place.

The only way to save the family is to put the changeling in a large pot of potatoes. Immerse it with water, and put the heat on high. Do not add any other vegetables, but a dash of salt is helpful. As the water boils, the skin will start to peel off in thick flakes. Watch closely as the water takes on a milky color. As the flakes of skin form a peel on the sides of the pot, take the water down to a simmer. Mix the baby with the potatoes, letting it sink to the bottom, the stirring it to the top. After a few minutes, it should start to cry. As it cries, turn the heat off, and remove the baby from the stewpot.

In my storybook, there’s an illustration of a woman in elbow-length rubber gloves, lifting a bawling babe from the stove. In his tiny fist, the child clutches a potato.

You must dry the child completely, and breast-feed it. Keep the child within close human contact for the next 48 hours, and all should be safe. It should be your child again.

When I look at Brian’s baby, I think of that image of the recently-boiled child, grabbing onto a red-skinned potato.

“This is delicious,” Brian says. “Thanks so much.”

“Can I bring you anything else?”

“More water,” his wife says, and I fill their glasses.

Brian devours his pizza, lifting the slice to his mouth with both hands, chomping through the thick piece. A lump of sausage falls back onto his plate. He lets out a low pitiful whimper. His wife giggles, her breast wobbling. I blush, and look away from the table. Breasts are very distracting.

The author of my children’s book also drew incredibly erotic pictures of mermaids that focused on the muscular composition of the sea-witch breast. When I saw the Little Mermaid for the first time, I remember staring at her stupid shell-bra, and wishing urgently to see the very precise nipples. Her tits were just waiting for an intrepid explorer like myself.

I chug down water, averting my gaze from the too-little child feeding on that too-perfect tit.

I watch Filomena folding napkins. She’s an Italian grandmother, slightly hard of hearing but with a crystal-clear singing voice. When Filomena becomes completely deaf, she’ll still be the best waitress ever. She’s been at Luigi’s over 25 years.

Whenever I think it might not be bad to stay at the restaurant for another week or so, I wonder how many napkins Filomena has folded over the last 25 years. How many glasses I’d clean in a month, how many furious clients I’d placate, how many times I’d be bullied into pulling double-shifts. How little I’d earn, looking forward to so little. How many sad fathers, beautiful mothers, and strange children. How I would serve other people’s lives, and be a forgotten detail of their day.

The couple finish their plates, and I pass them their bill.

“Thank you both so much. Please come again soon.”

The woman snorts. “Unfortunately, I think we will.”

“Unfortunately?” I ask.

“Her doctor is across the street,” she says. “So, in a few days, right back to see Mr. Doctor.”

She wraps the baby in the shawl, and Brian, reaches out for a handshake. He has a firm, sweaty grip.

I never saw them again. I guess that’s a good thing.