Alfie Carter

by BJ Mayo

It seemed like yesterday that Alfie carried her bleeding to his truck and rushed her into the Spring Memorial emergency room. Seven and a half months had come and gone, radiantly pregnant up until that moment, and she knew that something was drastically wrong when the bright red blood appeared on the toilet tissue. She could feel the beginnings of contractions.

  Nearly passing out on the toilet, she screamed for Alfie, who rushed in to find her near hysteria. “I think I am going into labor. My baby is not due for another six weeks.” Alfie made no comment as he grabbed her housecoat and was able to get it around her and buttoned up. He grabbed a handful of toilet paper, placing it on her vaginal area, and told her to hold it until he got the truck. He ran out the door.

  He came back and she saw the fear in his eyes when he saw the blood now soaking her housecoat. He gently picked her up and managed to get her outside the door of the house and into the seat of the pickup. Alfie raced through stop signs and red lights to get to the hospital. When he came to a stop at the outside emergency room exit, he ran inside with bloody hands, screaming that his wife was trying to have a baby early and bleeding real bad.

  The nurses, taking control, had Alfie wash his hands and had him sit in the waiting room, shaking uncontrollably.

  Beatrice’s instincts told her that the situation was somewhat dire, and she was more than a little comforted when Dr. Lynn, her obstetrician, strolled through the door. He quietly comforted her and put her feet in the stirrups of the examination table. Nurses applied absorbent cloth beneath her pelvis as he gently probed. He said, “Beatrice, your water has broken and this baby is coming. You are bleeding bright red blood and there is the possibility that you are hemorrhaging due to a tear in the vaginal wall.”

  The contractions were now coming at short intervals and were extreme. Dr. Lynn summoned a rolling gurney and had the nurses rush her up to the operating room. Beatrice was starting to hemorrhage severely. If immediate action was not taken, there was a strong possibility they would lose her and the baby.

  * * *

  When Beatrice awakened, she was in a hospital room. Still groggy, she searched the room for Alfie. She could see him looking out the window. His far-off stare was unsettling.

  She tried to sit up, but IVs would not allow it. “Alfie, where is my baby?” she said.

  He did not turn around for a while. Heavy tears dropped from his face as he turned to face her. “Girly, we lost her. She didn’t make it. It was a little girl,” he sobbed, wiping the curtains against his ruddy face.

  Beatrice, blinking through tears, put her arms out to him. He fell on her chest, heaving. She held him for a long while, until his sobbing subsided, much like a mother would hold her son. Instinctively, she caressed his hair as he let it all on her hospital gown, crying a bucketful of tears.

  She never recalled seeing him cry before. She held him tight for a long while. He quietly stood up, holding both of her hands in his. His eyes were hollow from no sleep. His whole complexion had changed overnight. The man she knew yesterday was not in the room. He looked like he did not want to be there. He looked like he wanted to run out the door.

  “Damn, Bea, why us? I wanted that baby girl real bad. I mean, I was already planning her first birthday party and shit, even her first fishing trip and a . . . a doll house. I was going to buy her that little tricycle down at Millburn’s department store that we saw a while back. Everything was going to be perfect. Me and her were going to spend a lot of time together. You know, get her a horse and all. Teach her to ride. Go to her sporting events. My dad never spent no time with me. All that has changed now. There’s a hell of a lot of people that don’t want kids that have ’em and don’t take care of ’em. Why did God take ours away? Am I not good enough?”

  Beatrice did not speak.

  “Why did he take her away?” he began shouting. “Them preachers keeps preaching how wonderful God is, well, tell me how wonderful he is now! All of them do-gooders in your church are nothing but a bunch of assholes trying to feel better about themselves. Set in the front seat, Baptists saying amen, and acting a whole lot different when they ain’t there. Hell, even those people have kids. I ain’t believing none of it no more.”

  She only listened and looked into his eyes. Tears filled her eyes. He never spoke much about his feelings. Maybe it was best to let him try and get it out.

  “I don’t believe a true, loving God would do this. He loves children, don’t He? Why in the hell did He take mine?”

  Beatrice calmed him a little with her smile. “Alfie, we will try again. Life is not over.”

  “Shit no, and I mean shit no, girly, we will never try again. I am done. I ain’t going through this shit again. This is not what it was cracked up to be. This is a total pile of shit. Maybe God thought I wouldn’t be a good daddy. Maybe He’s punishing me. To hell with ever trying again. He is not going to do this to me again. I am not sure He even exists. If He does, He sure don’t care about me. I ain’t never going to church again. Why would I waste my time?” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t He—why didn’t He just kill me instead of her?”

  He was becoming irrational and uncontrollable, sobbing in great heaves.

  Dr. Lynn came in. His quiet demeanor was comforting but not reassuring. “How’s my girl?”

  He checked Alfie with his eyes. Alfie stood and quickly turned to the window. Beatrice shrugged meekly: “Okay, I guess.” He checked her vitals and checked for bleeding before facing them. “Your daughter lived about thirty minutes after we delivered her. Her lungs were not quite ready for this world. Your water sack broke early, and you went into premature labor. You did nothing wrong to endanger your baby, it just happened. My advice is that once you two have a little time behind you, you might both consider getting a counselor that specializes in grief counseling, together. I recommend that you stay in the hospital for at least three days, so we can keep a close eye on you. You lost a tremendous amount of blood. We ended up giving you four pints. Hopefully, you will start to have a little energy, going forward. I am truly sorry about your loss. I really am.

  “I will check on you again, my next round. Call me immediately if you need anything.” He paused at the door. “You are both still very young. Don’t give up.”

  Alfie turned and continued his long gaze out the window with nothing betraying his thoughts. Beatrice looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Alfie, I am so sorry.”

  He turned slowly, approaching the bed. He gently touched her hand with his, bent, and gave her a gentle kiss. “I’ve got a few things to take care of. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Alfie, don’t leave, I need you.”

  “Beatrice, I said I have things to take care of.”

  “What things?” she asked.

  “Dr. Lynn is preparing the death certificate. I have to pick it up. Then I have to go to the funeral home.”

  Alfie turned and walked away, leaving her alone. The grim realities of the last twenty-four hours began to implode her brain. She dissected each day leading up to the miscarriage. She had religiously followed Dr. Lynn’s orders and diet. She never knew she was in danger of miscarriage.

  Her eyes clouded up again as she thought of Alfie. Her lovely, redheaded, blue-eyed fighter. Her track boy. Her detective. So determined to win. She admired his fighting spirit and she had just seen it go out the window. All of it was gone now. He had done something she never dreamed he would do. He gave up.

  The few times he had joined her at church, he did a fairly good job of hiding his reluctance to join her. Only because of her insistent nagging did she prevail a few times. She presumed it was his father’s influence that so turned him against any and all things religious.

  Beatrice had seen Alfie’s mom on occasion, during their high school days and during the first part of their marriage. The haggard face of premature aging. The worried eyes, but the fierce, determined look of a woman who would somehow survive it all. Bruised forearms and the slight appearance of a puffy black eye hidden by makeup. All
of this Beatrice observed from behind a stack of canned goods on an aisle at the local Thrifty Way store in Spring. Alfie’s mother was inspecting the sacks of potatoes in the produce aisle with great intensity, unaware of Bea. She would hold up each sack and inspect each potato, presumably to ensure there were no rotten ones—a strong indication of someone who had little money to waste on spoiled food. Her hair was neatly pulled back in a ponytail with a rubber band. Her jeans and denim shirt were clean and ironed, but showed signs of a lot of wear.

  Then she thought of his father. Alfie never spoke much at all about him, only of his mama and how she did the best she could with what they had, and that his daddy drank up most of the money he brought home. He would take them to church on some Sundays, and say amen just about every time the preacher said something.

  She knew that there was never any hope of Alfie going to church again. He might even leave her. What would a man want with a woman that could not carry his child to term? She knew that there would never be another chance, and so resigned herself to her fate that night. She tried to look at it from his view, but murkiness and mind fog prevailed.

  She probably would not have been a good mother anyway, she reasoned. Otherwise, God would have let her have this baby.

  * * *

  Alfie entered Dr. Lynn’s office. Dr. Lynn spoke quietly to the young man before him who was, only weeks before, jubilant. Now he was in utter despair.

  “Alfie, I know words cannot—”

  Alfie cut him off mid-sentence with a simple wave of the hand. “Doc, just give me the damn death certificate and let’s get it over with.”

  Dr. Lynn said, “I have arranged to have it brought to the hospital, in the morning, to my office. Why don’t you come in around mid-morning and pick it up? You will need it for various legal issues, including burial.”

  Burial had never crossed Alfie’s mind. He did not own a burial plot, nor did he and Beatrice have enough money to buy one, he supposed. He did not know how much it even cost.

  “Where do I go to see about getting her buried? Hell, how do you bury a child?”

  Dr. Lynn said, “You will need to go out to the cemetery and talk to Mr. Baldwin. He owns the cemetery and can guide you on burial arrangements for your child. If there is anything I can do, let me know.”

  Alfie turned and walked out the door with his mind spinning, knowing they were fixing to go into debt. His plans were to get it over as soon as possible and tell no one. He would only tell his parents and her parents. He did not give a shit if either pair showed up at the funeral, if there was one.

  Maybe he could have her buried privately with no one there but him. Maybe he did not have to be there because he never saw her. He certainly never got to hold her.

  Maybe that was part of God’s overall punishment for him, for some reason. Build his hopes for eight months and then, in one slam-dunk move, crush him to the ground and put him in debt at the same time with absolutely nothing to show for it. They had scrimped and saved to buy a baby bed and infant clothes. Bea had been careful, decorating the baby room, and had somehow only managed to spend a couple hundred dollars. She had done all of the painting herself, glowing and singing with every stroke of the paintbrush, happily pregnant.

  Alfie entered the office at the graveyard stoically. The place was actually very peaceful and green. Ground squirrels scampered around headstones to their burrows, to escape the Texas heat. Water sprinklers gently watered the manicured grasses and trees.

  “Can I help you?”

  Alfie shook his gaze from the view, to see a short, bald man in a black suit. Hell, he even looked like an owner of a graveyard.

  “Are you interested in a grave plot, or are you here to view a gravesite of a deceased love one?”

  “I am here to see about—” Alfie fell short and started again. “I am here to see about, about seeing how to—about trying to bury my baby daughter. She just died.”

  He began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Sir, I believe we can help you with that,” Mr. Baldwin said, giving him a Kleenex and a moment to gather himself. “Would you be interested in a cup of coffee?”

  Alfie nodded. Mr. Baldwin poured a cup of coffee into a paper cup.

  “Were you interested in interment or cremation?”

  “Cremation?” yelled Alfie. “Hell no, you ain’t going to burn my baby.”

  “Sir, I was just asking. Some folks prefer that method over interment.”

  “Well, you sure as hell ain’t going to burn her. How much does it cost to bury her?”

  “Well let’s take a look at our price listing in the Garden of Gethsemane. It is our exclusive children-only area of the facility. Looks like interment there will run around $700 for a child’s plot.”

  Alfie’s eyebrows raised. “$700? Damn, I just wanted to get her buried, not buy the place.”

  I am afraid that is what you are doing, sir. You are purchasing that plot forever.”

  “Well, how much is a casket?”

  Mr. Baldwin stopped and extended his hand. “My name is Dave Baldwin, what is yours?”

  “My name is Alfie, Alfie Carter,” he said as he shook Mr. Baldwin’s hand.

  “Mr. Carter, you are a very young man and I am very sorry for your loss. Is your wife in your vehicle?”

  “No, sir, she is in the hospital. She lost a lot of blood and is going to be there for a few days.”

  “When did you want to have the funeral?”

  “Hell, I would like to do it today, if I can, but I don’t have $700 to spare.”

  “That is okay, if your credit checks out we can set the whole thing on an installment plan. You can pay it out over forty-eight months, or even up to ten years, if necessary, with interest, of course.”

  “How much is a casket?” Alfie asked again.

  Mr. Baldwin ran his bony finger up and down a list of prices for caskets. “A man in your position might be interested in a modest yet attractive wooden one, preferably white. We do have a small basket type as well, for very small infants.”

  “How much are the wooden ones and the basket types?”

  “Well, let’s see, the small wooden ones look like they will run around $250 or so, and the small basket types? Let’s see, they look like they will run about—well, looks like they will run about seventy-five dollars.”

  “What other expenses are there?”

  “Well, you have your plot, your casket or basket, whichever you prefer, and then there is a small charge for the grave digging, funeral tent, and permanent flowers. Also, Mr. Carter, have you given any thought to a headstone?”

  “I ain’t given no thought to none of this. Hell, I don’t even know what questions to ask. I ain’t never buried no baby before, you son of a bitch.”

  “Please calm down, Mr. Carter, I know you are under great stress and I certainly don’t want to increase it. We here at Baldwin’s Cemetery of Sacred Rest are sensitive to your needs in a time like this. We can arrange a package deal for $950 that will cover everything, including working with the funeral home and embalming.”

  That was exactly the wrong thing to say. Alfie had never considered the embalming of his little Patricia. His eyes felt like they were going to explode in his head. His veins in his forehead were protruding to the point of bursting. “I don’t know nothing about no damn embalming. Why in the hell am I having to handle this shit? I can’t take it anymore.” He began to sob heavily. Thankfully, there were no other customers in the office to see his grief.

  “Mr. Carter, I will set up the entire thing for tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., with your permission. I will not worry about a credit check and will simply set up your account. If you agree, we will set the price at $900. There will be no additional charge for the additional lettering, due to our new engraving machine. It is less time-intensive.”

  “Mr. Baldwin, I don’t give a shit about your new lettering machine.” Catching himself, Alfie apologized. “I am really sorry for behaving like an asshole. I really am.” />
  “Mr. Carter, I know. There is no need for apology. We are here to help. Give me five minutes and I will have your document ready to sign.”

  Alfie studied the small man as he retreated to his office. He slowly came to the conclusion that he was not the enemy, thinking, Surely he was a good man but said the wrong thing. He is one of those turd heads that knew how and about everyone’s grief. Why this one and that one died and how to handle their damn embalming or cremating. What a sadistic life. Somebody has to do it, but what a crap of a life. How could you get into the people-burying business, anyway? How can the man sleep at night?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jackaleena studied the men’s heads on the posts for some time. She wondered if Toto the witchy man would come by and take them away to the spirit world. She wondered if she should scrape a hole in the ground and pile the heads on top of each other, or maybe side by side, and cover them with dirt. At least the animals would have to work to get to them.

  If Toto came by, he might be angry with her if she buried the heads without the right body attached to them. She noted the sharp lines in which the heads were severed from the men’s bodies, and the fine little sinews and pieces of muscle that were cut in half. The only sounds she heard were the birds and maybe a few monkeys talking through the treetops. She called out to Toto and asked him to come in and take them men’s heads and bodies so they could be restored.

  Clapping her hands twice, she decided to leave. She would forever make B’Douro the village of ghosts in her mind.

  Jackaleena took stock of her situation. She would have to grieve for her parents while traveling, to where she did not know. Their bodies were not among the dead, but she knew in her heart they were with the spirits. She had only the tunic sack dress on her body to her name. She had no shoes. Her direction was not readily apparent. Village elders spoke of a village called Benguela by the Sea. She overheard their conversations by the communal fire, saying it was fingers-and-toes days’ walk from B’Douro in the direction where the sun sleeps. They said that there one could be fed and given clothes from the spirit women, and they had many “children of war” living with them. The children of war were protected from the soldiers. She decided to follow the stream in the direction of the sleeping sun.