by Dale Cramer
Miriam stopped suddenly and pressed a hand against her swollen belly. “My niño is kicking,” she said. “He’ll want out soon.”
She folded the letter and slid it into the pocket of her skirt as she started walking again.
“There is something about Domingo’s writing that bothers me, Kyra. He has always been honest about the fighting and how things are going, but I sense a change in him. He’s not himself. He seems dark and angry. Something is not right.”
“Read it to me—the part you’re talking about.”
Miriam opened the letter again and read the last half out loud.
Kyra nodded. “You’re right. He doesn’t say it, but he is deeply troubled. Something is wrong.”
Near the end of April word came down through the ranks that the Cristeros were going on a different kind of mission, and something about it filled Domingo with a dark sense of foreboding.
“We’re pulling out in the morning,” he told Father Noceda. “There are rumors about a train, a shipment of gold. Now I suppose we’re going to be train robbers for God.”
Noceda shrugged. “It takes money to finance a rebellion. All for the cause,” he said.
Not everyone went, but Domingo and Noceda were among the handpicked company Father Vega led out in the gray light of dawn, a hundred of his best warriors on horseback. They rode north for four hours, and Vega himself chose the place for the ambush, a mountain pass where the railroad tracks made a climbing curve with plenty of trees and rocks on both sides of the tracks. His men used dynamite to blow a section of track, leaving a crater under disjointed rails.
Vega knew the schedule, and the Cristeros were hiding on the flanks when the train came along right on time. The curve of the tracks prevented the engineer from seeing the trap until it was too late, and sparks flew from steel wheels thrown desperately in reverse. Couplings clanked as the engine braked and cars jammed against one another, but the engine was still grinding forward when it nosed over into the crater and canted to one side belching black smoke.
The Cristeros swarmed out of the woods on horseback and on foot, shouting their battle cries. Yet before they could cross the fifty yards of open ground the doors slid open on two freight cars. Vega had warned his men there would be an army escort, but they didn’t expect to be met with machine guns.
The Cristeros eventually secured the train, after a brutal firefight and heavy casualties. Horses and men lay writhing and dying all across the killing ground while the unscathed poured into the freight cars to finish off what remained of the soldiers.
Domingo was down, shot through the thigh. He took cover behind his dead horse while he cinched a bandanna around the wound. It was all over in minutes, and as the gunfire trailed off he struggled to his feet and went looking for Noceda. He found the priest not far away, unhurt except for a twisted leg trapped under his dead horse. Domingo freed the leg and they limped away to the shade of the trees, holding each other up.
Noceda was cinching a proper bandage around Domingo’s thigh in the edge of the woods when a bone-chilling wail ripped the air. They glanced up at the train in the distance, where a squad of Cristeros heaved small, heavy crates from a freight car onto a wagon, but that wasn’t where the wail came from.
In the middle ground they saw a group of officers huddled together. Father Vega staggered out from among them clutching his head, then fell to his knees, his face a twisted mask of anguish. Curiously he didn’t appear to be wounded.
A bleeding Cristero came from that direction and hobbled into the woods near them.
Noceda stopped him. “Qué pasa?”
The soldier glanced over his shoulder. “The general’s brother is dead. Shot through the head.”
They stood together, watching as Father Vega leaped to his feet and waved his arms about, screaming orders at his officers.
Men with kerosene cans rushed toward the train, and for the first time Domingo noticed the passenger cars—two of them, full of civilians. Men, women and children hunkered in their seats, peering out the bottoms of the windows.
Noceda shook his head. “Father Vega would never do that. Surely he wouldn’t do that.”
But he did.
A chorus of terrified shrieks rose up from the passenger cars as the troops doused them with kerosene and then tossed the empty cans under the cars as they ran.
Vega shook a fist, shouting in an incoherent rage, leaping for joy when someone struck a match and the two passenger cars burst into flames.
Noceda didn’t blink, nor turn away from the scene. He made himself watch it all, made himself listen to the screams, his back straight and his jaw tight. Domingo understood. It was a kind of penance.
He leaned close to Raul. “Have you seen enough now, Padre?”
Father Noceda didn’t say a word, didn’t look at him. Slowly he pinched the crown of his slouch hat, lifting it enough to pull the skullcap from underneath, then dropped the cap on the ground beside his rifle. Unbuttoning the collar of his jacket he reached inside and tore out the white clerical collar. It fell to the ground beside the skullcap. There was a dead, lost look in his eyes as he turned his back and limped away, unarmed, into the woods.
Domingo took a long look around to see if anybody was watching, but all eyes were riveted to the burning passenger cars.
He left his rifle and limped after Raul.
Chapter 31
On May Day the Benders’ church held Sunday services at the Weaver farm. Rachel was waiting by the barn when Emma and Levi rolled up. Helping her sister down from the buggy Rachel took one glance at Emma’s swollen belly and said, “That baby will be born this week. I’m coming home with you today.”
Emma smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. As long as you’re there I know everything will be all right.”
“Are you worried? Is something wrong?”
Emma beamed. “No. Finally, for once, everything has gone perfectly. I guess that’s what worries me.”
Rachel carried Will while Mose and little Clara followed them toward the barn where services would be held. She leaned close and whispered to Emma, “It’s going to be a boy.”
Emma studied her face. “How do you know?”
“You’re glowing. A girl baby steals your beauty for herself, but you’re not missing one ounce of yours. This one is a boy.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, blushing.
“I got a letter from Miriam this week,” Rachel said. “Her little one is due, too. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your babies were born on the same day?”
“Jah, it would.” But a darkness passed over Emma at the mention of Miriam. “I only hope she’ll be all right—without you there to take care of her.”
“Kyra is there,” Rachel said. “And her mother.”
———
In the late afternoon when Levi and Emma were ready to go home, Rachel went to pack a few things. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” she told Jake.
“I do,” he said. “You’ll be gone until after Emma’s baby is born and she’s back on her feet. I’m proud of you, Red.” He only called her that in private, and it made her blush. “Be safe. Do good.”
That was the very thing she so loved about Jake. He always understood, always supported her. She kissed him then, without even looking to see if anybody was watching.
In Kyra’s front room in San Rafael, Mexico, Miriam sat in a rocker, knitting constantly, mainly because it was the only thing Kyra would allow her to do. No more walking to the post office or anywhere else. Her time was too close.
Her needles came to rest in her lap as she stared wistfully out the window. “I’m worried about Domingo,” she said. “There hasn’t been a letter for ten days. I wish he was here. His last letter sounded so depressed, and then nothing.”
“Domingo can take care of himself,” Kyra said as she stirred a pot of beans.
“That’s exactly what worries me. In his last letter he said it’s different in a battle—unpredictable, men and bu
llets flying every which way. He said every man’s life is in the hands of his compadres.” Her needles went back to their clicking. “It’s his compadres I don’t trust.”
Kyra glanced over her shoulder. “You can trust Raul. Anyway, you’re in no condition to go looking for him again, and I wouldn’t know where to start.”
The needles clicked, the pot of beans bubbled.
“What’s it like?” Miriam asked.
“What?”
“Having a baby. What’s it like?”
Kyra laid aside the big spoon and wiped her hands on her apron. She squatted beside Miriam’s rocker and took her arm. “It’s the very heart of life, sister. Unbearable pain and unbearable joy all rolled into the same tortilla, and you cannot refuse a bite of it. Never in your life will you feel more alive than the day your first child is born. When it is over you forget the pain and keep only the joy.”
“Oh, I hope so.” But she sighed heavily. Just now there was very little joy in her.
“What’s wrong?” Kyra said gently.
Miriam shook her head. “I don’t know. Please don’t think I don’t trust you, Kyra. I do. You’re the most capable woman I’ve ever met and I trust you with my life, but I have had a dark feeling about the coming days. A shadow lies over them, and I am afraid. I wish Rachel was here.”
Kyra squeezed her arm. “You have a sister here, Miriam. I may not have Rachel’s gift, but I love you, and I swear to you I will let nothing bad happen.”
Long after midnight on Tuesday night Miriam awoke in pain, profoundly surprised to hear her own voice crying out in the pitch-black silence. She tried to sit up, but the pains intensified.
Kyra came running in her nightgown, the golden halo of an oil lamp lighting her way. She knelt by the cot, the very one where Domingo slept before he was married.
“Miriam, is it happening?”
She nodded, clutching her belly. “I think so.”
Another halo of light floated from the back bedroom. Kyra’s mother.
“What do I do?” Miriam asked, breathless and panicked.
“Nothing,” her mother-in-law said, smiling. “Try to relax. The niño will tell you when he is ready. Make yourself comfortable if you can. This is your first. He will not be in any hurry.”
Kyra put on a pot of coffee. They lit the lanterns and fired the stove, then made themselves a small breakfast, though Miriam wanted none of it.
The pains gripped her like an iron fist when they came, but her mother-in-law assured her she was not yet ready. “Be patient. Rest. You’re going to need your strength.”
Three hours passed, and the window faded from black to pearly gray. The sun rose, yet Kyra and her mother seemed unconcerned. Kyra boiled water, ironed rags and blankets. Her mother knelt several times before the little corner shrine, lit candles and prayed to her crucifix. Several times between spasms they came and rubbed the aching muscles in Miriam’s back, but they did nothing to make the baby come. Miriam’s patience was wearing thin.
“The pains are still too far apart,” her mother-in-law said. “Wait. Save your strength.”
That same morning in a two-story, white frame farmhouse in Apple Creek, Ohio, Emma doubled over suddenly at the breakfast table, a look of shock on her face. It took her a few seconds to regain her composure, but then she said calmly, “I think it’s time.”
Levi panicked, spilling lukewarm coffee on Mose as he jumped up from the table.
Rachel gripped his shoulders to get his attention. “Calm down, Levi. I want you out of here, but I’m going to need some help. Take the children next door and tell Ida Mae to come when she can. Then go to work. We’ll take care of Emma, and I’ll let you know when it’s time for you to come in. It’ll be a while yet. Shoo!”
Levi’s fearful eyes lingered on Emma, but after a moment he gathered up the children and left.
The Miller farmhouse was a quarter mile away. By the time Ida Mae let herself in, Emma was already in bed and Rachel was standing by the stove, ironing. A big pot of water was just beginning to boil. An Old Order Amish woman in her mid-thirties, Ida Mae Miller had seven children of her own, the youngest only six months.
“Are you sure the children will be okay by themselves?” Rachel asked as Ida took over the ironing.
“Oh, jah. My Mary is fifteen—good as grown. She’ll look after the young ones while the boys see to their chores.”
It was a good thing Ida Mae was there. Childbirth had never gone quickly for Emma, but this time it did. It all went smoothly, and two hours later she held a brand-new baby boy in her arms.
Rachel sat beside her, wiping Emma’s flushed face with a freshly ironed rag.
“Big sister, I think you finally got it figured out. I told you this one was a boy, didn’t I? Do you have a name?”
Emma grinned broadly. “Tobe. It was Levi’s pick, and it suits him, don’t you think?”
Rachel smiled, gently stroking the infant’s face. “Perfectly. He looks like a Tobe. As soon as we get everything cleaned up I’ll call Levi in to meet his new son.”
Finally, after the sun had risen and the oil lamps were snuffed out, Kyra and her mother sat down beside Miriam and timed the interval.
Kyra’s mother nodded. “It is time.”
The next hour was the most intense of Miriam’s life—unbearable pain and exquisite joy mingled, exactly as Kyra had described it, and she could not refuse a single bite.
Then, at the very peak of her endurance, came relief. She lay back, exhausted, too tired to raise her head even when she heard the squeals of delight from Kyra and her mother. But her heart shivered when she heard that rusty little cry, and her strength came rushing back.
“You have a son!” Kyra said, her smile as full of sunlight as the kitchen window.
They cleaned him up and laid him against her, raw. For the first time Miriam felt the flesh of her own son warm against her, felt the pounding of his tiny heart, smelled that unique infant smell.
His eyes cracked open for the barest instant, and she grinned up at Kyra. “He has his father’s dark eyes,” she said.
Kyra nodded proudly. “And his cheekbones. He will grow into a handsome young man.”
“What will you name him?” Kyra’s mother asked.
Miriam’s eyes went to the window, to the sunlight streaming in on a house devoid of a man. She was silent for a moment, but her heart poured out a desperate plea. She shook her head. “I will wait and let his father name him.”
It was an act of faith, a hope that her prayer would be answered.
Kyra came and knelt by her cot, took her hand. “How do you feel now, sister?”
“Oh my. I feel like a woman who just gave birth. It was as you said. Already the memory of the pain is fading, but I hold the joy in my arms.”
“But the other thing,” Kyra said. “Now that the birth is behind you, what of the darkness that has plagued you? Is the shadow gone now?”
Miriam looked into Kyra’s eyes and saw fear. She looked into her mother-in-law’s eyes and saw the same. Both of them were waiting for an answer, and it suddenly became clear to her. They were worried that her premonition, this shadow of impending doom that had clouded her mind the last few days, was not about the baby at all, but about Domingo. They were terrified that some deep place in Miriam had sensed the unspeakable.
Miriam smiled. “The shadow is gone,” she said.
It was a compassionate lie, but a lie nonetheless. Still, she was confused, because in her bones she knew—absolutely knew, without reservation—that Domingo was alive.
And yet the shadow remained.
She fed her nameless child and held him close, kept him warm—her little piece of Domingo. After a while she was able to eat something herself and then, completely spent, fell sound asleep.
———
When she awoke, he was there.
Domingo. Sitting quietly at her side, holding their son.
“Rachel?”
Rachel glanced over her s
houlder, and the worried look on Ida Mae’s face made her heart skip.
“It hasn’t stopped,” Ida said.
A chill ran up Rachel’s spine. For the first time in all her experience as a midwife she didn’t know what to do. In a shaky voice she said to Ida, “Go find Levi. Tell him to get to the nearest Englisher house where they have a phone and call Dr. Beachy in Mount Eaton.”
Emma chuckled. “Don’t worry, child, I’ll be fine. I just always have to do something to make things complicated.”
“Ida,” Rachel said, stopping the older woman in the doorway, “tell him to hurry.”
Rachel fought valiantly, using every trick she knew and even inventing a few new ones, but nothing worked. Twenty minutes later she could see the color draining from Emma’s cheeks, and she seemed tired and listless. Rachel’s own breath came quicker, for the situation was getting desperate. If things didn’t change very soon she knew how this could end.
The door hinges squeaked and Ida Mae crept back into the room. Emma lay quiet, her eyes closed.
“I found Levi,” Ida Mae said, putting a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “He jumped on a horse, bareback, and rode away like a crazy man. Has it gotten any better?”
Rachel shook her head, said nothing. She would not voice her deepest fears in front of Emma.
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“Pray,” Rachel said. And they did.
“I’m cold,” Emma mumbled, “and so tired.” The arm holding Tobe slipped a notch. She didn’t object when Ida reached out and took the baby from her.
Emma lay still for a long time. It seemed like an hour passed before her eyes drifted halfway open and she caught Rachel in an unguarded moment of profound fear, staring at her.
Her eyes locked on Rachel’s, her face ash gray, her voice high and raspy. “Am I going to die?”
Tears came to Rachel’s eyes. “No, Emma, no. The doctor will be here any minute. You just hang on!”