Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large

by Nina Wright

  “You could still have many hours of labor ahead,” she told me, “but you should go to the E.R. Doc will meet you there later.”

  “How much later?”

  Assuring me that my baby-catcher would arrive in plenty of time, she recommended using a deep-breathing technique to stay focused and calm.

  “Calm?” I echoed. “How the hell can I be calm? I’m having my first baby, and I’ve lost my husband and my mother.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, and I realized she thought they were dead.

  “No, I mean, I can’t find them,” I said. “Both my birthing coaches are missing, just like my damned dog. The difference is the dog is usually lost and comes back, but I have no precedent for my birthing coaches.”

  My P.A. placidly reminded me to inhale. Before I could scream at her, MacArthur pried his phone from my grip and assured the woman that I was in good hands. I busied myself breathing.

  Meanwhile, Helen sat next to me on the sofa, making soothing sounds that I was not in the mood to hear. Between breaths, I told her to go find my mother. She got up and left.

  MacArthur dropped to his haunches in front of me, his eyes level with mine.

  “Good job with the breathing,” he said. “You are going to be fine, and so is Baby.”

  “I need a birthing coach,” I reminded him. “Both my first- and second-string coaches are gone.”

  Before he could reply, Helen popped back into the room.

  “I just texted your mother that she should meet you at the hospital,” she said. “The landline call was from Chester. He’s been texting you, but you don’t answer. He’s on his way here with Brady and Roscoe.”

  “I’m a little too busy to have company right now.”

  “You’re missing the point, Miss Whiskey,” Helen said sweetly. “Your back-up team is en route. Chester took a childbirth class online from Johns Hopkins, Brady has two babies at home, and Roscoe can be very reassuring. They’ll fill in for Jeb and Irene until we find them.”

  I couldn’t imagine Coastal Medical Center accepting a nine-and-a-half-year-old birthing coach who looked six-and-a-half, even if he supplied his own latex gloves, which he would.

  And, as much as I liked Brady, I liked him better out looking for my family than filling in for them at the hospital.

  As for Roscoe, let me just say this. The last thing any woman in hard labor needs is a dog panting next to her. I don’t care if he’s Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin.

  MacArthur, who was still squatting before me, gave me that great Scottish grin.

  “Listen closely, girl. Nobody is going to let you down.”

  Just then his cell phone rang, or rather sang. I recognized Avery’s ringtone. It was the theme from the movie “Body Heat.” He sprang up and stepped away to take her call.

  I told Helen I wanted to clean up and get changed before heading to the hospital. Apparently, Mom had prepared for just such an event. On my behalf, she had stashed a crisp Curvy Mommy shift and fresh undergarments in the hall closet. Helen would fetch them while I shuffled to the downstairs bathroom.

  First, she needed to lever me off the sofa. Despite our mutually loud grunts as she did so, I overheard MacArthur pleading with Avery to let him explain himself. That was intriguing enough to be truly distracting, until I got vertical and surveyed my leakage. Yup, Baby was en route. I needed to move.

  In the bathroom, I managed to clean myself up and dress for the trip to the hospital. Grimly eyeing my reflection, I realized this was as good as I was going to look for God-knew-how-long. Once at CMC I would exchange my clean outfit for a flimsy hospital gown, and the real fun would begin. I had become a sweaty, bloated, miserable hippo in a shapeless dress. At least I wasn’t screaming. Yet. Bring on the drugs.

  Avery was screaming when I emerged from the bathroom. I could hear her strident tones coming through MacArthur’s cell phone. The repeated phrase “that damn bitch Dani” definitely caught my attention. MacArthur mumbled something I couldn’t understand and spun around to face me, sliding his phone into his hip pocket.

  “Whiskey, so sorry, but I’ve a bit of an emergency,” he began. I noticed an unusually high degree of color in the Cleaner’s face.

  “Avery is by definition an emergency,” I agreed, “but Baby trumps everything. You are not going anywhere except to CMC with me.”

  I said the last sentence through my teeth, not because I was angry, which I was, but because I was experiencing another surge of pain. One hand supported my stomach while the other flailed for support. Helen appeared at my side to steady me.

  “UberSpringer posted that I had a dalliance with Dani Glancy,” MacArthur explained. “If I don’t go straight home to Avery and fix this thing, she’s taking the twins and leaving me.”

  “She can’t leave,” I panted. “She works for me now.”

  “Sadly, that is irrelevant,” MacArthur said. “Cassina pays her a small fortune to do almost nothing, and there’s no way you can compete with that.”

  “But I need you to drive me to the hospital—”

  He raised a hand to stop me. “Helen can take you.”

  “Of course I can, Miss Whiskey,” the elderly driver agreed. “Let’s roll.”

  Ignoring Helen, I pleaded, “MacArthur, I don’t just need a driver, I need a stand-in birthing coach. If there were ever a job for the Cleaner, this is it.”

  I heard the front door open and close. Assuming it was Anouk, I prayed she had secured Napoleon in her SUV. I would not tolerate a second round of rolling, groping, sex-crazed canines.

  “No worries, Whiskey,” a familiar voice cried out. Not Anouk’s voice but rather that of local law enforcement. Volunteer law enforcement. Deputy Chester.

  “Is Jeb with you?” I called.

  “No.”

  “Is my mother with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t say ‘no worries,’ Chester, because I have every reason to be very, very worried.”

  “No, you don’t. Brady just dropped me off. He and Roscoe are meeting up with Jenx and the State Boys. They’ll find Irene and Jeb.”

  At least Brady hadn’t unleashed his siren. I supposed I should give thanks for that. My young neighbor hurried into the dining room, where I leaned heavily against Helen. He peered up at me with the most determined expression I had ever seen on his young face.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” he declared. “In the meantime, you have me, and I’m almost always the smartest person in the room.”

  The sweetest, too, I thought. I didn’t say it, though, because I didn’t want to cry. Tears were gathering in my eyes anyhow. MacArthur offered me another gigantic monogrammed Cassina Enterprises handkerchief, and I grabbed it gratefully.

  “Better get me more of those,” I muttered. “This birthing business is messy.”

  MacArthur nodded. “I’ll load you, your bag, and an extra case of Cassina Enterprises hankies in the Town Car. Helen will drive you and Chester to the hospital. As soon as I finish my business with Avery, I’ll join you there.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  The manly way he rolled that R, I could almost forgive him for putting his marriage ahead of my ride to the hospital. Within moments, I was in the Town Car’s backseat surrounded by so many giant hankies I knew I was a perceived risk to leather upholstery. In the front seat next to Helen, Chester held up an oversized metal hand mirror to ensure a view of me from his seat-belted position.

  “Where’d you get the mirror?” I asked Chester.

  “They’re all over our house,” he said. “Cassina is self-aware.”

  I thought “narcissistic” was the word he wanted, but I kept it to myself.

  “Your contractions have been about ten minutes apart, and the last one was five minutes ago,” MacArthur informed me, adding, “Chester is timing them now.”

  My neighbor tapped a sleek wristwatch on the arm that was holding up the mirror.

  “This is a Tag-Heuer
Mikrogirder,” he explained. “The most accurate mechanical chronograph ever. With this, I could time an Olympic event.”

  MacArthur winked at me before softly closing the car door and stepping back so that Helen could speed away. As we zipped down my curving driveway, I noticed that Anouk’s vehicle was gone.

  “I heard about Napoleon and Sandra,” Chester volunteered, “and you’re not going to like it.”

  “I already know about it,” I said, “and of course I don’t like it. Their behavior was disgusting.”

  “I mean you’re not going to like how I heard about it.”

  “Not UberSpringer?”

  Chester was so short I had to lean forward to see his nodding head.

  “It’s all over Twitter and Facebook.”

  Instead of reading me the gory details, he simply handed me his smart phone. What I read amounted to a play-by-play account in one hundred, forty-character installments.

  “I hope that’s all of it,” I said when I came, cringing, to the last tweet.

  “Not quite,” Chester sighed. “On Facebook, UberSpringer says you’re negligent and your dogs are nymphomaniacs.”

  Helen chimed in, “I don’t think I learned that last word until I was married.”

  I closed my eyes. “The next sound you hear is not a labor pain. It’s an UberSpringer pain, and it hurts like hell.”

  I moaned deeply.

  “Well, UberSpringer likes Sandra’s wardrobe,” Chester offered. “If that’s any consolation.”

  “It’s not.”

  Then I reconsidered.

  “What exactly did UberSpringer say about Sandra’s wardrobe?”

  “Oh, lots of stuff. Mainly that she accessorizes boldly and, despite her figure, she’s not afraid to wear bright colors or horizontal stripes.”

  I frowned. “Does UberSpringer describe what Sandra was wearing today?”

  “Oh, yes, UberSpringer particularly liked Sandra’s tiara—”

  The rest of Chester’s reply was lost in the prolonged honk of the Town Car’s horn as Helen swerved the wheel.

  “Did you see that darned cat?” she exclaimed. “I almost hit it!”

  Neither Chester nor I had seen anything, but we weren’t watching the road. He was studying me in his hand mirror, and I was trying hard to think. Something about UberSpringer…

  Now I did glance at the road.

  “This isn’t the way to CMC,” I said.

  “Of course it is,” Helen said. “It’s the shortest way.”

  I blinked. “No, it’s the wrong way. You’re driving in the opposite direction.”

  Chester lowered the hand mirror and peered out the windshield.

  “Whiskey’s right,” he said. “You better turn around.”

  “And you better shut the fuck up,” Helen said.

  Before I could react, she removed her right hand from the steering wheel and punched Chester full force in the face.

  29

  “Chester!” I shrieked.

  “You better shut up, too,” Helen barked at me. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  Keeping her focus on the road, she used her right hand to grope around for Chester’s smart phone. Finding it, she lowered her window and tossed it out.

  I called Chester’s name again but got no reply. I leaned forward until I could see him slumped in his seat, his head at a disturbing angle. Blood oozed from his nose down the front of his navy-blue school blazer.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I screamed at my driver. “You hit him so hard he’s unconscious. He’s just a kid!”

  Instinctively, I reached for Chester, to tilt up his head and inspect the damage. Helen’s right hand grabbed my wrist and wrenched it so sharply I screamed.

  “You’re making me hurt you,” she said. “Stop making me hurt you.”

  I couldn’t compute any of this—her rage, her strength, her insane violence.

  “You weren’t supposed to bring the kid,” she snarled. “Nobody picks a kid as their birthing coach, you stupid bitch.”

  Still clutching my wrist she dug her nails into my flesh. They were surprisingly sharp, and her grip was viselike. I winced, determined not to scream again, at least until the next labor pain.

  “Helen,” I whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

  I barely recognized the twisted face she turned to me. Darkened in rage, it made her gray-white curls seem ludicrous, especially under the monogrammed chauffeur cap.

  “Why?” she repeated nastily. “Miss Whiny-Pants wants to know why? Because I hate you and your prissy know-it-all mother, that’s why. I hate Cassina, too, the way she fobs off her kid on every person who works for her instead of doing one damn bit of mothering herself.”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it.

  “Okay,” I said as evenly as I could. “You hate me because I whine. You hate my mother because she married my father—”

  “No!” Helen shouted, wrenching my wrist again, harder than ever.

  I screamed that time. Helen knew how to hurt people.

  “I don’t just hate you because you’re a whiny, self-absorbed slob,” she snarled. “I don’t just hate your mother because she’s self-satisfied and suspicious and she married the man I loved who should have loved me. I hate you and your mother—and Cassina, too—because you all got to have babies, and I didn’t. I didn’t get any damn thing I wanted or deserved in my whole damn life.”

  I waited a beat, breathless. She seemed to have spoken her piece.

  “Okay,” I said carefully, “but why take it out on Chester?”

  “Damn, you’re dumb,” she said. “To hurt his fucking mother. Try to keep up.”

  “You hurt him,” I said. “You really hurt him, and I’m worried. He’s unconscious, and he’s bleeding.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad,” Helen said. “Because this might just hurt Cassina, and she deserves to be hurt. I hope to hell this hurts her a whole lot.”

  I recoiled at the full horror of Helen’s madness. The quaint, quirky mannerisms I had found mildly annoying were gone, replaced by pure geriatric evil. I needed to get us help, and I needed to do it fast. Another contraction seized me, and I moaned like a dying baritone.

  “You better not be faking that,” Helen said.

  “I’m not faking anything… . Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh what?” she snapped.

  “Something’s happening. Feels like Baby’s on the move.”

  Although I couldn’t exactly describe the sensation, I knew things were shifting in a significant way. Suddenly, I experienced a whole new kind of pressure and pain. My body contorted even as Helen tightened her grip on my twisted wrist. Drawing a deep breath was extremely difficult, and yet I needed to do it now more than ever.

  “Listen up, bitch,” Helen commanded. “You’re going to use your free hand to reach in your purse and take out your cell phone. Real slow.”

  I couldn’t have done it any other way. With my free hand, I groped numbly amid the useless contents of my bag.

  “You’re going to do everything I tell you to do just the way I tell you to do it,” Helen said. “Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “You think Chester’s in bad shape now? Just fuck with me and watch what happens.”

  Not a risk I was willing to take. Helen was right about me. I was a whiny, self-absorbed slob, afraid to have her baby alone. Chester had been sucked into this maelstrom because he wanted to help me. Now it was my duty to find a way to help him.

  My fingers closed around my smart phone, and I prepared to extract it. Suddenly, I remembered something, something potentially huge.

  Unlike many women, I didn’t change my purse to match my outfit. First of all, I didn’t care a whit about fashion. Second of all, every outfit I owned was beige. Therefore, I used one bag only, which meant that my old business cell phone was in there somewhere. A phone not linked to Mom’s stalking app. I didn’t know where my mother was, or if she had her new smart phone with he
r, but I ardently hoped that she was safe and well and trying like hell to cyber-find me.

  “Haven’t you found your damn phone yet?” Helen said. “How much shit do you have in there?”

  Grunting, she adjusted her grip on my wrist. Though surprisingly strong and mean, the woman was not young. She could only hold on for so long. I closed my eyes, willing myself to outsmart and outlast her. The only glitch was Baby, who didn’t seem inclined to wait. My fingers moved past my keys and located the business phone.

  “Got it,” I announced.

  “Give it to me real slow,” Helen said, watching me in the rear view mirror.

  “Okay,” I said. “Real slow, just like you told me.”

  In a single very slow and deliberate motion, I brought up the phone from my bag and extended it to the crazy driver. Every fiber of my being was screaming for me to slam it into her face, but I resisted. I would have just one opportunity to undo Helen, and this wasn’t it.

  Releasing the steering wheel, she reached back over her shoulder with her left hand and snatched the phone. Helen must have been steering with her knees. Instantly, she lowered her window, tossed out the phone and returned her left hand to the wheel.

  “I’m going to let go of your wrist now,” she said, “but don’t get any smart ideas, Miss Whiny-Pants. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  I glanced at Chester, who still hadn’t moved, and my heart wrenched.

  “Why is he still unconscious?”

  Something flew at me. Flinching, I felt the crack of pain, and my vision turned dark. I tried to process what had happened. My nose throbbed. The crazy bitch had broken it. Even before I felt my face with my fingers, I knew my nose was bleeding.

  “I told you not to get any smart ideas,” Helen sing-songed, now using both hands to spin the steering wheel counter-clockwise.

  We were turning a corner at too high a speed. Tires squealed, and the car rocked ominously to the left.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I protested.

  “You were thinking about helping Chester, so I hit you,” Helen said, straightening the wheel.

  She produced Chester’s hand mirror. Not so that I could check my appearance but rather to show off her makeshift weapon. When I flinched, she cackled.