Never Again Once More

by Morrison, Mary B.

  “Yes.” Jada spoke the word that continued her groove. Again she said, “Yes,” softly but a little louder. By the time Wellington put the head in all the way, Jada could feel the uncontrollable throbbing along the lining of her uterus.

  “Yes, that feels so damn good, baby.” Jada removed her hand and tasted herself. Her mama said, “Never feed a man anything until you’ve tasted it first.” Her last memories of Darryl left a bitter tang. Thankfully it wasn’t in her mouth.

  Jada took a deep breath as she dialed Darryl’s cellular phone. It was now or never, and she truly wanted the moment behind her.

  “Hi, Darryl.”

  “Yeah, who is this?” he asked as if he were screening his calls.

  “Ja-da.” She was pissed he needed to ask.

  “Hey! I didn’t catch your voice. You sound um, different. Where’ve you been? Have you moved yet? Are you in Oaktown? Or in La La Land?”

  He’d perked up, probably because he thought he was going to get laid. Never again. Darryl was officially and permanently moved to her inactive list. “I called to tell you I’m pregnant.” Jada tapped her foot and waited for his response.

  “And?”

  “And, what?” Jada’s forehead wrinkled. Instantly, tension built up from one temple to the other like a rainbow, but this one didn’t bear good fortunes. Perhaps her blessings lay behind her soon-to-be potbelly.

  “So who’s the father? Not me.” Darryl’s voice escalated and deepened. “I know because I pulled my snake out of your pussy the last time we fucked.”

  Jada moved the phone away from her ear. She wrapped all eight fingers and both thumbs around the receiver. Her grip was so tight her knuckles cracked. The back-and-forth motion should have been Darryl’s neck. Was this the same person she’d known since high school? She spoke into the receiver so close her cinnamon-colored lipstick filled the opening.

  “Well, I’m not one hundred percent sure it isn’t yours!” Jada responded with an equivalent volume. “Maybe your venom had already poisoned my womb.”

  “Well, look-a-here. Call me when you’re ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent sure. I know the routine all too well. I thought you were different, but all you bitches are just alike. I’m glad I didn’t marry you! Better yet, don’t ever call me again! I can’t believe you’re trying to stick me with a kid. I know your rich ass don’t need my money, but if you want child support, you’re going to have to pawn the engagement ring I left at your house. I’ve just been hit for child support up the ass for two kids that I just found out are mine. This shit will not come in threes. You’d better call Wellington—mister lover-boy financial advisor—Jones and let him foot the bill.” Then Darryl mumbled, “I don’t believe this bullshit. Pregnant?”

  Instantly she hated Darryl’s guts. If Jada never saw him again as long as she lived, it wouldn’t matter. Two kids. Damn, that was a hell of a way to discover Darryl had children. As her heartbeat quickened, Jada’s breasts moved up and down. Her eyes filled with tears. Her baby definitely didn’t need an asshole for a father, and Darryl had obviously lost his frickin’ mind. Or had she? Otherwise, how could she rationalize such bizarre behavior? In the midst of Darryl’s relentless outrage, Jada slammed the phone on the base so hard it cracked, snapped, and pinched her thumb.

  “Shit!” Jada became so enraged she snatched the base from the wall and slammed it to the floor.

  That was the day Jada independently concluded the paternity of her unborn child. There were some things a woman knew but didn’t tell. Darryl had pulled out before cumming, and Wellington had not. But based on the rhythm method, her window of conception was definitely during her affair with Darryl. Unless the embryo growing inside of her was a miracle baby, Jada disappointingly knew that Wellington was not the biological father.

  Chapter 4

  “Not so deep, you’re poking the baby in the head.” Jada held her stomach. Each of her orgasms accompanied a mild contraction. Wellington’s body curled into a fetal position behind hers.

  “I’m trying not to, ba, but this feels so warm and wonderful I could stay inside of you forever.” The fellas weren’t lying when they said pregnant pussy was top shelf. Wellington kissed the nape of Jada’s neck and rubbed her cocoa-butter-saturated belly.

  “Feels like the baby is punching and kicking. I think you should pull out.” Jada tried stretching her legs.

  Wellington nestled into the groove so The Ruler wouldn’t slide out. “Okay, ba. A few more strokes, please. I’m almost there.” When he squeezed Jada’s breast, milk expressed from her nipple. He massaged her breast until he released himself. Then Wellington rolled her over, snuggled into her bosom, and breast-fed himself.

  “Leave some for the baby,” Jada laughed and pushed his head backward.

  Wellington mumbled, “I’m just sampling.”

  When Jada sat up, Wellington’s lips detached, making a smacking noise. Placing her feet on the floor, Jada used both hands to push herself up. “I’m going to shower.”

  In the bathroom, a stream of amniotic fluid trickled down her inner thighs all the way to her feet. “Wellington!” Jada froze as the flow of mucus continued. “Get me a towel.”

  Wellington sprang from the bed. “Damn! Did I do that? Are you okay?” He wiped from her ankles all the way up to her vagina. “Ba, you’re bleeding!”

  “Call my mama first and then the doctor. I’m going to take a quick shower.” Lifting her foot, Jada yelled, “Oooooooo!” sandwiching her fetus between her breasts and thighs.

  Wellington grabbed the cordless phone and speed dialed the number. “Mama Ruby, I think Jada’s in labor. She’s leaking and bleeding. Is she supposed to bleed? She said she’s getting ready to shower, and we’ll meet you at Alta Bates in an hour.” He listened. “No, the blood isn’t heavy.” He paused again, shaking his head. “No, there are no thick clots falling out.” Wellington was quiet, then said, “Okay,” and hung up the phone. Something had told him to let Jada spend the night at her mother’s, but no, his dick begged her to stay.

  “Your mama said no shower. I’ve got to get you to the hospital right away. She’ll bring your bag.”

  “This hurts too much,” Jada cried, doubling over, holding her stomach. “Nobody said it would hurt so much. I feel like I’m gonna die.”

  Wellington tossed Jada’s bath towel on the shower bar. He eased her arms into his thick black cotton robe. Then he hurried into his pants and shirt so fast he bypassed putting on underwear. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not leaving the house like this. Look at me. I’m all slimy, nasty, and naked except for this heavy-ass robe.” A series of ooooooos turned into oooooows.

  Kissing her temple, he said, “You look lovely. Now let’s go.” Wellington coaxed Jada down the stairs and to the car.

  “Shit! I locked the keys in the house.” He picked up a cobblestone from his front lawn, broke the side window, and unlocked the front door. Returning with the keys fumbling in his hand, he helped Jada into the car. “Hang in there, ba.” The tires screeched against the driveway, generating a smoke cloud that reeked of burnt rubber. Wellington shifted into drive and sped down the hill.

  “The baby isn’t due for another two weeks,” Jada said, taking short, quick breaths like her Lamaze and yoga instructors taught her. “I’m ready to push! Get it out of me, I’m scared!”

  Monday morning rush hour in the Bay Area was hectic, especially along Interstate 880 with more eighteen-wheelers than automobiles. The two-passenger car-pool lane provided minimal relief.

  “Uhhh!” Jada strained.

  “No! Don’t do that! Don’t push. We’re almost there,” he lied, hoping Jada was too preoccupied to notice the truth. Maybe since she was sitting, the baby would stay inside. Wellington flagged the Alameda County Sheriff in the next lane. The police owed him restitution from issuing that bogus citation. He lowered Jada’s window and shouted, “My wife is in labor! Can you help us get to Alta Bates in Berkeley?”

  Rocking in her seat,
Jada screamed, “Pleeeeeeease! Help me!” so loud Wellington almost pissed in his pants.

  Merging in front of Wellington, the officer fired up his siren, motioning for him to follow.

  Tailing the dark blue car, Wellington said, “Hang in there, ba. We’re on our way.”

  Wellington parked in front of Alta Bates’ emergency sliding glass doors and waved goodbye to the officer who kept on driving.

  Mama Ruby was waiting in the lobby. Her hair was combed, and her earth-tone lipstick matched her outfit. She must have been dressed when he phoned.

  Wellington raced to the counter, signaling for Mama Ruby to go to the car. “My wife is in labor.”

  “Who is your doctor? And what’s your wife’s full name?” the assistant asked.

  Wellington stamped his foot. “Damn! I knew I was forgetting something. I forgot to call Dr. Watson.” He rubbed his head and told the assistant Jada’s first, middle, and last names.

  “Okay, Mr. Tanner”—she smiled—“you’re in luck because the doctor has been here all night, and he’s here this morning. He’s napping in one of our rooms. I’ll notify Dr. Watson right away. Where’s your wife?”

  Pointing at the entrance, Wellington said, “She’s in the car.”

  “We’ll get a wheelchair and take care of her. Park your car in the garage and come up to labor and delivery.”

  By the time Wellington arrived in the birthing room, Jada’s legs were in stirrups, and Dr. Watson had his fingers stuck up her vagina, pressing on her stomach. “You’ve only dilated two centimeters. Nurse, intravenously induce her labor. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Jada’s contractions grew closer, some within the same minute. “I can’t take anymore. How much longer do I have to suffer?” A series of quick, short breaths followed.

  Dr. Watson returned and asked, “How is she doing?”

  The nurse held the brown clipboard in front of him.

  “Prepare Mrs. Tanner for an emergency cesarean. I’m going to check on my other patient. I’ll meet you in the operating room in ten minutes.”

  “No!” Jada cried. “I can push.” Jada held her breath, and her entire face contracted.

  “Stop! Don’t push, because the baby can’t get out.” The nurse rubbed Jada’s hand. “You’re only two of ten centimeters, sweetheart. Your baby’s heart rate has dropped, and if we wait for you to fully dilate, your baby may suffer brain damage. Or even worse, he might not make it at all. Trust me. You’ll both be fine, but we must take you to surgery immediately. We can put you to sleep or give you an epidural and numb you from the waist down. The choice is yours, but you have to decide quickly.”

  He. Did that mean he was having a son? Wellington smiled.

  Jada reached for her mama and Wellington. “Can they come with me?” When Wellington tried to kiss Jada, she snapped her teeth, almost biting off his lips, so he held her hand instead.

  “Yes, they can come, but they have to be sterilized first.” The nurse instructed the staff and left the room.

  Wellington vigorously cleaned his face and hands. The disposable scrub long-sleeved shirt and pants squished whenever he moved his arms or legs. The white face mask covered his nose, mouth, and goatee while the cap shielded his bald head. He squeezed his fingers into the yellowish gloves, making a popping sound like the doctor.

  In the operating room, the anesthesiologist pressed his forearm across Jada’s back, restricting her movement. “Don’t move,” he insisted.

  “Ouch! You’re hurting me. How am I supposed to stay hunched over while having contractions?” Jada attempted to force his burly arm away, but he pressed harder.

  Wellington frowned. Mama Ruby looked at Wellington and whispered, “Don’t speak. She’s fine. If she moves, and he hits the wrong spot, she could become paralyzed.”

  Dr. Watson entered the room a few moments later and pinched Jada’s legs and stomach. “Can you feel that?”

  “No,” Jada said. “But I’m watching you.”

  Dr. Watson repositioned the mirror. “Don’t watch me. Just relax and tell me if you feel any pain.”

  An aqua-colored plastic screen blocked her view as the assistant shaved Jada’s pubic area cleaner than Wellington’s head. A bright lamp beamed toward the lower half of her body. Jada was covered from head to toe with linen except for her stomach.

  Mama Ruby held Jada’s hand while Wellington focused on Dr. Watson cutting through several layers of Jada’s stomach tissue. Blood oozed with each cut. When the doctor sliced through the last layer, the assistant soaked up the blood with gauze, stretched Jada’s incision to opposite ends of her pelvis, and clamped her flesh on each side.

  Damn. Wellington covered his mouth guard as his body swayed. He definitely had a newfound respect for women. Just when he was about to pass out, he saw his baby’s head emerge sideways between Jada’s flesh. With another tug, the slimy body slipped out, and Dr. Watson announced, “It’s a boy,” and handed Wellington the scissors. “Cut the cord and welcome your son into the world.”

  “Yes! It’s a boy!” Wellington’s hand trembled as he cut the umbilical cord. Darius Henry Jones had arrived: seven pounds, fourteen ounces, and twenty-two and a half inches long. If it were a girl, they had agreed to name her after his biological mother, Katherine. The assistant held Darius close for Jada to see.

  “Hey, sweetie. Your eyes are closed, but I know you can hear me. Grandma is here. Daddy is here, and your mommy is here, too.” Jada smiled at the bundle wrapped in a blue receiving blanket, stared at Wellington, then cooed at Darius, kissing his tiny fingers.

  “We need to take him now,” the assistant said, easing Darius away.

  Jada looked at Wellington and said, “Go with them and make sure they put the right tag on our baby.”

  Wellington laughed.

  Jada pointed toward Darius and said, “I’m serious, Wellington. Go with them.”

  He’d go in a minute. What were the odds their child would be switched at birth or kidnapped from the hospital? Jada was overreacting.

  While Dr. Watson was stitching Jada’s bikini cut, Wellington said, “My boy needs to be circumcised before we leave the hospital.”

  “I don’t do circumcisions, but Dr. Lenoir does.”

  That was the second time Wellington thought he’d pass out. Watching his son strapped down like a frog on its back. Dr. Lenoir performed the surgery, clipping and stitches, without any anesthesia. Darius screamed so loud and cried so hard Wellington wanted to push Dr. Lenoir aside and comfort his son. After the surgery, Wellington visited the cafeteria, then returned to the recovery room to check on Jada.

  The nurse was instructing Jada on—what Jada already knew—how to properly breast-feed Darius. Mama Ruby sat nearby. Wellington recalled the Lamaze instructor emphasizing the importance for a nursing mother to breast-feed her child immediately. “Some infants refuse to nurse after receiving a bottle because they have to work twice as hard to get half the milk. So make sure you tell the nurse not to give your child a bottle. No matter how tired you are. You must nurse your baby as soon as he or she is ready to feed.”

  Jada held Darius in the football position, tucking his wrapped frame under her arm as she held his head. She protruded her nipple between her first two fingers and tickled the side of Darius’s mouth until he opened wide enough for her to place the entire nipple in his mouth. They were also taught that if the baby didn’t latch on properly, the mother’s nipples would crack and possibly bleed. Sensing instinctive behavior, Darius aggressively latched on to Jada’s breast and started sucking. After five minutes, Jada eased her pinky finger into the corner of Darius’s mouth to properly break the suctioning. She burped her son, then fed him again. Darius was destined to become a breast man just like his father.

  Chapter 5

  Everything happened for a reason, including how Wellington met Simone Smith. Thirty-three-o-six. Lakeshore Avenue. Oakland, California. The Jahva House. Wellington’s preferred coffee house because everyone was do
wn to earth like the owners, D’Wayne of Tony, Toni, Tone, and his wife, Michelle. Wellington pulled out a stool, turned the back to the counter, and sat with the guys: Rich, Marshal, Kojo, Mike, and Michael.

  Rich started their usual Tuesday morning philosophical discussion. “Why did Socrates say, ‘A good man cannot be harmed’?” Most mornings one could find Rich sitting in the last seat at the end of the counter, wearing his Kangol black leather cap, blue jeans, and a sweatshirt, with his silver peace sign dangling around his neck on a thin, twenty-four-inch black suede cord.

  Rich was retired. Marshal prepared and circulated the monthly community calendar. As an artist, Kojo worked whenever he wanted. Mike was like Tommy from the Martin Lawrence Show, because no one knew exactly what he did for a living. Michael was an entrepreneur like most Jahva House morning patrons.

  Kojo responded immediately in his native St. Vincent Caribbean accent. “If you are man or woman, you can be harmed.” Whenever Kojo got excited, he stood and twisted one of his long, exotic dreadlocks.

  “Kojo. Good is the operative word,” Rich said, sipping his coffee.

  “Like me.” Michael patted his chest. “I’m a good man, and I have a good wife.”

  Rich looked at Michael and responded, “But you still haven’t answered the question.” Rich bit his buttered croissant. “Mike. Maybe you can answer the question.”

  Wellington interjected. “I can answer the question. I agree with Kojo. Any man good or bad—” Wellington paused. “Um, um, um.” He stared and rubbed his goatee.

  The fellas followed pursuit. Kojo tilted his head. Rich leaned over his chair. Mike scratched his beard. Michael nodded. Then they all turned to Rich because he not only knew every regular customer on a first-name basis, but he also knew, with the exception of Mike, what they did for a living.