Her mother had the same last name as I.
I had never met her; I didn't know what she looked like, how old she was,
or anything else about her. But she had the same last name and that was
enough.
Family. Connections.
The old woman, or whoever it was had sneaked up in the predawn
dangerous hour to deposit Olive on my porch, could not have discovered
me in the phone book.
Other than a hysterical fit of fate I could only suspect my family.
Mother, siblings, some one among them must have tracked me down.
Now they'd done this. Probably to avoid having to take Olive themselves.
Sweet mystery of life, I thought, getting into my car after pushing Olive
into the passenger seat and slamming the door. I only said something as
mild as that when I wasn't really thinking about it. I wasn't thinking much
at that point.
I do know that I left the wad of Olive's clothes there on the porch.
Maybe they would be gone by the time I returned.
As though Olive might vanish without the cue of her clothes.
Maybe Andrew Not-Dead-Yet Quincy would pee on them.