Doris’s Bio:

Doris first saw the light of day in Panama, was reared in Germany, France and various US locations, served (briefly) as a hand on a Chinese junk, gave birth on St. Croix, and, more recently, rode the back roads of West Africa in cobbled-together buses and vans. In between some of that activity, she received a bachelor’s degree from Spring Hill College, worked as a teacher, newspaper reporter, and in insurance, and reared three sons. She lives in Upstate New York with her husband and best pal, Don, traveling, writing, and pulling weeds.

In addition to writing poetry and short stories, Doris continues to refine her ecologically concerned yet humorous novel, Cabbagehead, about the fruitful relationship between an introverted man and his extroverted, bedding plant. A chapter of the novel can be seen at the Buffalo Street Books “Works in Progress” website. Her latest endeavors include writing a mystery story and dabbling at a memoir.  In the last few years, Doris has taken graduate English courses, participated in the New York State Summer Writers Institute at Skidmore College, Colgate University’s novel and poetry workshops, and the Algonkian novel and pitch workshops.

Natural Selection

By Doris E. Wright

I hate to say it, but my daughter, Delilah, brings to mind a skinny, rat of a woman who lived next door to me years ago.

She seemed to have no thoughts at all, moving like she was asleep, with dishrag hair and little-bitty eyes, and the worst case of adenoids I’d ever heard. Nothing bothered her. Certainly not her baby.

It cried constantly but she was deaf to it. She’d go about her business, blow-drying her hair or applying make-up, or sitting on the stoop looking at magazines. Meanwhile, her child was crying to all get out. Finally I walked over.

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to check on your baby?”

“She’s okay.”

“Well let’s take a look.” 

Oh, what a mess—ankle-deep in dishes, beer cans, pizza boxes.  

And there she was, in a playpen—the reddest, angriest, wettest baby imaginable. The minute I picked her up, she stopped crying and stared at me. Her mother stood there, hip jutted out, studying her cuticles.

I thought it would just be that once, that her mother would see what was supposed to be done and start doing it. I fixed a bottle. That child sucked so hard, thought she’d swallow the nipple. When I asked for clean baby things, the mother rooted around and found a diaper and a stiff, pee-smelling undershirt. It was warm so I let her stay bare-chested in her baggy diaper. I bounced her for a while, patted her, and asked her mother if she wanted to try. She laughed, like I’d made a joke.

When my shift at work was over, I pulled into Wal-Mart and bought diapers, playpen sheets, and a half-a-dozen undershirts. Why I didn’t just report the whole mess to Child Services, I don’t know.

After that, excepting weekends when the boyfriend was around, I’d do what I could. I bought a used crib, painted it nice—I supposed her parents couldn’t afford such things, after buying fake fingernails and beer. Every day I bathed and dressed her—I’d bought her more clothes and washed them when I did my laundry—fed her and took her outside when the weather was nice and she’d play with some little toys I’d picked up. I’d still hear her crying much as ever on weekends. I wonder how long it could’ve gone on. If it weren’t for the monkey.

One Monday when I walked in, she screamed at me to shut the door and ran across the room chasing an ugly, red-eyed monkey. 

“You naughty thing, where’d you think you was going, bad little girl?” 

Like she was talking to a baby. Not her baby, of course, because she never talked to her.

“Butchey got her for me. Ain’t it the cutest thing you ever seen?”

No! I wanted to scream. It’s not! I asked if she wasn’t worried it might hurt her baby?

“Not Mama’s sweet angel,” and launched into more baby talk to the vile animal. 

Meanwhile the real baby was screaming in her crib. Oh, this situation was bad. But it got worse.

She was forever holding the monkey, cooing to it, combing it. Besides the regular chaos, there was monkey shit and vomit and that god-awful, monkey smell. The final straw was the scratch across the baby’s face. 

“What’s this?” I asked, raising my voice.   

“The baby frightened Susie—can’t blame her.”

“Listen,” I yelled. “Get rid of that creature and start taking care of your child!”

She gave me an evil look. “Git! I want you outta here now!”

“What’s going to happen to your baby if I do?”

“Let me worry about that, you fat cow!”

“But you don’t! You don’t worry about her at all!”

And that was that.

But it wasn’t. I couldn’t let go. And now, my Delilah...she’s turned out to be just like her. What’s that they say about the acorn?

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