HAVING DISCUSSED the price of cheesecake earlier that day, we decided to enter the bakery stall that we found on the second floor of the Boylston Street Garage. We had been combing most of the stores in the Garage, looking for a birthday present.

"How much does your cheesecake cost?" we asked the young woman behind the counter.

"$9.50 per cake," she answered with a smile. "But...it weights 51/4 pounds and you can buy it by the slice."

"Thanks," we laughed and turned to leave.

"Wait!" she said to our turned backs. "You can have a taste for free."

We turned in our tracks and in a few seconds we were standing at the old-fashioned glass-topped counter, eating cheesecake with plastic forks from paper plates.

As we stood there, I noticed the face of a baby printed on the front of the saleswoman's yellow T-shirt. It was a big green baby face that stood out under her long brown hair.

"Is that a special baby on your shirt, or is it just any old baby?" I asked.

"This," she flexed her biceps, "is Baby Watson."

"Oh?"

"And that is Baby Watson." She turned and pointed to a huge black and white photograph of a baby sitting on a shiny floor in a white dress. Baby Watson, it seems, was born last year in Vermont. He is now ten months old and will always be ten months old. The sales girl pointed to a wooden sign lying on a countertop, the name "Baby Watson" carved into its grain.

"Like Oskar in The Tin Drum?" we asked her. But she was not familiar with Oskar.

"Why will Baby Watson always remain ten months old?"

"Because that's his way."

"So what's Baby Watson's message?"