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apricots. Still, he thought wistfully, it had been pleasing to have the refrigerator filled with food.
    Now it was completely empty except for a small bowl with something green and furry on the bottom and a stack of test candy bars for his factory. He had been, before his tragedy, working on a new bar filled with caramel and nuts in various combinations and coated with rich chocolate. He had thought, then, that it would be his masterpiece. Now the test bars, turning gray with age, lay in uneven stacks on a refrigerator shelf. He groaned slightly when he saw them and closed the heavy door.
    He reached for the telephone, balanced it on his shoulder, and dialed the number of the local grocery store and pizza parlor.

    "This is Commander Melanoff," he said when the grocer answered. "Deliver milk immediately, and, ah..." —he glanced at the baby, — "oatmeal, I think. Yes, oatmeal. Maybe applesauce.
    "And things to wrap around the bottom of an infant. Not dishtowels."
    "Pampers?" asked the grocer.
    "I am an old-fashioned gentleman."
    "Diapers, then?" suggested the grocer. "Or, if you are truly old-fashioned, they would be called nappies."
    "Yes, those."
    "Anything else, sir?"
    "Oh, dear." Commander Melanoff whimpered a bit. "I don't know."
    "Have you acquired an infant, sir?"
    The commander sighed. "Yes," he acknowledged.
    "What size, sir?"
    The melancholy tycoon looked down at it. He remembered holiday celebrations of the past. "The size of a small turkey," he said.
    "That would be about fourteen to sixteen pounds, I'd say. Does it have teeth, sir?"
    Cradling the telephone again on his shoulder, Commander Melanoff gingerly used his free hand to pry open the small mouth so that he could look inside. "A few," he said. "Three, I think. And very stubbly hair."

    "Does it appear capable of chewing, sir?"
    At that moment the baby bit down on Commander Melanoff's finger.
    "Ouch! Yes, it does," he said into the telephone.
    "Very good, sir. Our delivery boy will be there shortly with everything you need. And shall we send tonight's pizza at the same time?"
    Gloomily Commander Melanoff looked around the kitchen. The remains of at least twenty-three pizzas—old crusts dotted with decaying pepperoni slices—and their torn-open, stained boxes were stacked on countertops and tables everywhere. Then he looked at the infant still in his arms. She smiled up at him.
    "No," he told the grocer with a sigh. "Send a salad and some vitamins. I think I'm going to have to rein-vigorate myself.
    "Send soap as well," he added reluctantly, before he hung up. "I am going to need soap." Then he replaced the telephone receiver. He stared down again at the thing in his arms. The placid baby stared back, then reached up and tugged gently at his mustache.

    ***
    And so life began anew for the melancholy tycoon and the affable infant. He called her Ruth, since he had eventually unfolded and read the note that had been pinned to her clothing. "Her name is Ruth" the note had said. He ordered clothes for her, since it would have made him too sad to go to the attic and open the trunks and boxes that contained small clothing that had been his own child's.
    And, too, his own lost child had been a son. This one was a girl. So he bought small, elegant velvet dresses and pinafores with lace. He bought hair ribbons, though the baby's hair was oddly stubbly and short and there was nothing to tie a ribbon to; he hoped it would grow.
    On the advice of an elderly saleslady at the expensive store at which he had placed his order, he also bought more serviceable clothing: overalls and jump suits with small pockets and appliquéd giraffes. "A baby needs to play," the woman had told him. "The little dresses are fine for birthday parties and Christmas photographs. But she will need to crawl on the floor and explore. Let me recommend these very fine play clothes. Shall I add them to your bill?" And he had said yes.

    "We could monogram everything," she added. "A monogram is a very