“Guns and Roses,” Dr. Bonnart said. “My son loves ’em. He walks around wearing a baseball cap turned backward, and he’s been talking about getting tattoos.” He shifted the position of his fingers. Laura felt him prodding around inside her, but she was as numb down there as if she were stuffed with wet cotton. “I told him one tattoo and I’d break his neck. Could you lift your hips just a bit, Laura? Yes, that’s fine.”
Red Car turned on a videotape camera on a tripod, its lens aimed between Laura’s legs. “Here we go, Laura,” Dr. Bonnart said as the other nurse put a fresh pair of surgical gloves on his hands. “You ready to do a little work?”
“I’m ready.” Ready or not, she thought, she would have to do it.
The nurse tied a surgical mask over Dr. Bonnart’s nose and mouth. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get it done.” He sat down on the stool again, Laura’s gown folded back over her knees. “I want you to start pushing, Laura. Push until I say stop, and then rest for a few seconds. He’s crowning very nicely, and I believe he wants to come on out and join us, but you’re going to have to give him a shove. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“All right. Start pushing right now.”
She began. Damned if she didn’t have that Guns and Roses tune snagged in her brain.
“Push, push. Relax. Push, push.” A cloth mopped her face. Breathing hard. David wasn’t coming out. Why wasn’t he coming out? “Push, push. That’s good, Laura, very good.” She heard the silvery click of an instrument at work, but she could feel only a slight tugging. “Push, Laura. Keep pushing, he wants to come out.”
“Doing just fine,” Red Car told her, and squeezed her hand.
“He’s stuck,” Laura heard herself say; a stupid thing. Dr. Bonnart told her to keep pushing, and she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth and did what he said, her thighs trembling with the effort.
Near eleven-ten, Laura thought she felt David begin to squeeze out. It was a movement of maybe an inch or two, but it thrilled her. She was wet with sweat and her hair was damp around her shoulders. It amazed her that anybody had ever been born. She pushed until she thought her muscles would give out, then she rested for a little while and pushed again. Her thighs and back rippled with cramps. “Oh, Jesus!” she whispered, her body strained and weary.
“You’re doing great,” Dr. Bonnart said. “Keep it up.”
A surge of anger rose within her. What was Doug doing right now, while she was laboring under spotlights? Damn him to hell, she was going to sue his ass for divorce when this was over! She pushed and pushed, her face reddening. David moved maybe another inch. She thought she must surely be about to bend the stirrups from their sockets; she pushed against them with all her strength as Red Car swabbed her forehead.
Click, click went the instrument in Dr. Bonnart’s hand. Click, click.
“Here he comes,” Dr. Bonnart said as the clock ticked past eleven-thirty.
Laura felt her baby leaving her. It was a feeling of great relief mingled with great anxiety, because in the midst of the wet squeezing and the beep of monitors Laura realized her body was being separated from the living creature who had grown there. David was emerging into the world, and from this point on he would be at its mercy like every other human being.
“Keep pushing, don’t stop,” Dr. Bonnart urged.
She strained, the muscles of her back throbbing. She heard a damp, sucking sound. She glanced at the wall clock through swollen eyes: eleven forty-three. Red Car and the other nurse moved forward to help Dr. Bonnart. Something snipped and clipped. “Big push,” the doctor said. She did, and David’s weight was gone.
Slap. Slap. A third quick slap.
His crying began, like the thin, high noise of a motor being jump-started. Tears sprang to Laura’s eyes, and she took a long, deep breath and released it.
“Here’s your son,” Dr. Bonnart told her, and he offered her something that was wailing and splotched with red and blue and had a froggish face in a head like a misshapen cone.
She had never seen such a beautiful boy, and she smiled like the sun through clouds. The storm was over.
Dr. Bonnart laid David on Laura’s stomach. She pressed him close, feeling his heat. He was still crying, but it was a wonderful sound. She could smell the thick, coppery aromas of blood and birth fluids. David’s body, still connected to her by the damp bluish-red umbilical cord, moved under her fingers. He was a fragile-looking thing, with tiny fingers and toes, the bump of a nose, and a pink-lipped mouth. There was nothing, however, fragile about his voice. It rose and fell, an undulation of what might have been adamant anger. Announcing himself, Laura thought. Letting the world know that David Douglas Clayborne had arrived, and demanding that room be made. As the umbilical was clipped off and tied, David trembled in a spite of infant fury and his wailing grew ragged. Laura said, “Shhhh, shhhh,” as her fingers stroked the baby’s smooth back. She felt the little shoulder blades and the ridges of his spine. Skeleton, nerves, veins, intestines, brain; he was whole and complete, and he was hers.
She felt it kick in then. What other women who’d had babies had told her to expect: a warm, radiant rush through her body that seemed to make her heart pound and swell. She recognized it as a mother’s love, and as she stroked her baby she felt David relax from rigid indignance to soft compliance. His crying eased, became a quiet whimper, and ended on a gurgling sigh. “My baby,” Laura said, and she looked up at Dr. Bonnart and the nurses with tears in her eyes. “My baby.”
“Thursday’s child,” the nurse said, checking the clock. “Far to go.”
It was after midnight when Laura was in her room on the hospital’s second-floor maternity ward. She was drained and energized at the same time, and her body wanted to sleep but her mind wanted to replay the drama of birth again and again. She dialed her home number, her hand trembling.
“Hello, you’ve reached the residence of Douglas and Laura Clayborne. Please leave a message at the tone, and thank you for calling.”
Beep.
Words abandoned her. She struggled to speak before the machine’s timer clicked off. Doug wasn’t home. He was still at the Hillandale Apartments, still with his girlfriend.
The end, she thought.
“I’m at the hospital,” Laura forced out. And had to say it: “With David. He’s eight pounds, two ounces.”
Click: the machine, turning a deaf ear.
Laura, hollowed out, lay on the bed and thought about the future. It was a dangerous place, but it had David in it and so it would be bearable. If that future held Doug or not, she didn’t know. She clasped her hands to her empty belly, and she finally drifted away to sleep in the hospital’s peaceful womb.
5
Gaunt Old Dude
THE VOICE OF GOD WAS SINGING IN MARY TERROR’s at thirty-three and a third revolutions per minute. She was sitting on the bed, using a dark blue marker on the white size extra-large uniform she’d rented from Costumes Atlanta on Friday afternoon. The uniforms of the nurses on the maternity ward at St. James had dark blue piping around the collars and the breast pockets, and their hats were trimmed with dark blue. This uniform had snaps instead of buttons, as the real uniforms did, but it was all she could find in her size.
It was near seven o’clock on Saturday morning. The wind had picked up outside, scudding gray clouds over the city. The third of February, Mary thought: fifteen days until her meeting at the weeping lady. She was patient and careful at her work, making sure the ink didn’t run or smear. She had a jar of white-out nearby in case of mistakes, but her hand was steady. On the table beside her bed was a dark blue plastic name tag with white letters: JANETTE LEISTER, in memory of two fallen comrades. She had gotten it from a place in Norcross that made plastic tags and novelties “While U Wait.” It was the same colors as the name tags the nurses at St. James wore. Her white shoes—size 10EE— had also come from the costume rental, and she’d bought white stockings at Rich’s department store.
She’d gone to t
he hospital yesterday, changing from her Burger King uniform after work and putting on jeans and a sweater under a baggy windbreaker. Had taken the elevator up to the maternity ward and walked around. Had gone to the big glass window to look at the babies, and she’d been very careful not to make eye contact with any of the nurses but she’d made mental notes of the dark blue piping on the white uniforms, the white-on-blue plastic name tags, and the fact that the elevator opened right onto the nurses’ station. There had been no security people in sight on the maternity ward, but Mary had seen a pig with a walkie-talkie in the lobby and another one strolling around in the parking deck. Which meant that the parking deck was a scrub; she’d have to find another place to leave her truck, close enough to walk to and from the hospital. Mary had checked out the stairwells, finding one at either end of the long maternity ward corridor. The one on the building’s south wing was next to a supply room, which could make for an unpleasant confrontation; the one on the north wing would have to do. A problem here, though: a sign on the stairwell door said FIRE ESCAPE, ALARM WILL SOUND IF OPENED. She couldn’t check out where the stairwell led to, so she had no idea where she would come out. She didn’t like that, and it was enough to call the whole thing a scrub until she saw an orderly pop the very same door open with the flat of his hand and walk through. There wasn’t a peep. So was the alarm turned off at some times of the day, was the sign a phony, or was there some way to cheat the alarm? Maybe they’d had trouble with it going off, and they’d shut it down. Was it worth the risk?
She’d decided to think about it. As she looked through the window at the babies, some sleeping and some crying soundlessly, Mary knew she could not take a child from this room because it was too close—twenty paces—to the nurses’ station. Some of the perambulators were empty, though they were still tagged: the babies were in the rooms with their mothers. The corridor took a curve between the nurses’ station and the north stairwell, and on almost every door there was a pink or blue ribbon. The last four doors next to the stairwell were promising: three of the four ribbons were blue. If a nurse went into one of those rooms and found a baby with his mother, what reason might she have for going in? Time to feed the baby. No, the mother would know the feeding times, and what were breasts for? Just need to check the baby for a minute. No, the mother would want something more specific. Time to weigh the baby.
Yes. That would work.
Mary walked to the north stairwell door and back to where the corridor curved again. A woman’s laughter trailed from one of the rooms. A baby was crying in another one. She noted the numbers of the three rooms with the blue ribbons: 21, 23, and 24. The door to 21 suddenly opened, and a man walked out. Mary turned away quickly and strode to a nearby water fountain. She watched the man walk in the opposite direction, toward the nurses’ station; he had sandy-brown hair, and he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a dark blue sweater. Polished black wingtips on his feet. Rich bastard, father of a rich kid, she thought as she took a sip of water and listened to his shoes click on the linoleum. Then she walked back to the stairwell’s door and looked at the warning sign. She would have to know where this led if she was going to do it, because she couldn’t come up in the elevator. There was no choice.
Mary popped the door open with the flat of her hand, as the orderly had done. No alarm sounded. She saw black electrical tape holding down the doors latch, and she knew somebody had decided it was better to cheat the alarm than wait for the elevator. It was a good sign, she thought. She stepped into the stairwell and closed the door behind her.
She started down. The next door had a big red one on it. The stairwell continued down, and Mary followed it. At the bottom of the stairwell the door was unmarked. Through its glass inset, Mary could see a corridor with white walls. She opened it, slowly and carefully. Again there was no alarm and no sign of warning on the other side. She walked along the hallway, her senses questing. At a crossing of corridors, a sign pointed to different destinations: ELEVATORS, LAUNDRY, and MAINTENANCE. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and pipes clung to the ceiling. Mary kept going, in the direction of the laundry. In another moment she heard someone humming, and then a husky black man with close-cropped white hair came around the corner, wheeling a mop in a bucket-and-wringer attachment. He wore a gray uniform that identified him as a member of the hospital’s maintenance crew. Mary instantly put a mask on her face: a tightening of features, a coolness of the eyes. The mask said she was where she was supposed to be, and she had some authority. Surely a maintenance man wouldn’t know everyone who worked in the hospital. His humming stopped. He was looking at her as they neared each other. Mary smiled slightly, said, “Excuse me,” and walked past him as if she were in a hurry to get somewhere—but not too much of a hurry.
“Yes’m,” the maintenance man answered, drawing his bucket out of her path. As she walked on around the corner she heard him start humming again.
Another good sign, she thought as the tension eased from her face. She had learned long ago that you could get into a lot of places you weren’t supposed to be if you stared straight ahead and kept going, and if you masked yourself in an aura of authority. In a place this big, there were a lot of chiefs and the Indians were more concerned with the work at hand.
She came upon an area where there were several laundry hampers standing about. The voices of women neared her. Mary figured one woman alone might not ask questions, but someone in a group possibly would. She stepped around another corner and waited, pressed against a door, until the voices had gone. Then she went on, concentrating on her path and how to get back to the stairwell. She passed through a room full of steam presses, washers, and dryers. Three black women were working there, folding linens on a long table, and as they worked they were talking and laughing over the thumping noise of laboring washing machines. Their backs were to Mary, who moved past them with a fast, powerful stride. She came to another door, opened it without hesitation, and found herself standing on a loading dock at the rear of St. James Hospital, two panel trucks pulled up close and a couple of handcarts left untended.
When she closed the door behind her, she heard the click of a lock. A sign read PRESS BUZZER FOR ADMITTANCE, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She looked at the buzzer’s white button beside the door grip. There was a dirty thumbprint on it. Then she walked down a set of concrete steps to the pavement, and she began the long trek around to the parking deck, her gaze alert for security guards.
Joy sang in her heart.
It could be done.
As she worked on the uniform, Mary began to think about her pickup truck. It was fine for around here, but it wasn’t going to do for a long trip. She needed something she could pull onto a side road and sleep in. A van of some kind would do. She could find a van at one of the used car dealers and trade her pickup for it. But she’d need money, too, because the trade surely wouldn’t be even-steven. She could sell one of her guns, maybe. No, she didn’t have papers on any of them. Would Gordie buy the Magnum from her? Damn, she hadn’t given any thought to money before. She had a little over three hundred dollars in the bank, and a hundred more stashed around the apartment. That wasn’t enough to last her very long on the road, not with a van needing gas and a baby needing food and diapers.
She got up and went to the bedroom closet. She opened it and brought out the boy-sized Buckaroo rifle and telescopic sight she’d taken from Cory Peterson. Maybe she could get a hundred dollars for this, she thought. Seventy would be all right. Gordie might buy this and the Magnum. No, better keep the Magnum; it was a good concealment weapon. He might buy the sawed-off shotgun, though.
As Mary returned to the bed, she caught sight of a figure walking out on the highway in the dim gray light. Shecklett was wearing an overcoat that blew around him in the wind, and he was picking up crushed aluminum cans and putting them into a garbage bag. She knew his routine. He’d be out there for a couple of hours, and then he’d come in and cough his head off on the other side of the wall.
Paula had said that. In the letter Mary had taken from Shecklett’s trash and taped together.
All that money you’ve saved.
Mary watched Shecklett pick up a can, walk a few paces, pick up a can. A truck rushed past, and Shecklett staggered in its cyclone. He fought the garbage bag, and then he picked up another can.
All that money.
Well, it would be in a bank, of course. Wouldn’t it? Or was the old man the type who didn’t trust banks? Maybe kept money stuffed in his mattress, or in shoeboxes tied up with rubber bands? She watched him for a while longer, her mind turning over the possibility like an interesting insect pulled from underneath a rock. Shecklett never had any visitors, and Paula—his daughter, Mary supposed—must live in another state. If something were to happen to him, it might be a long time before anyone found him. She could easily do it, and she didn’t plan on sticking around very long after she took the baby. Okay.
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