“Is it the baby?” he said.
She nodded and convulsed again.
Believe it or not, he was ready. He wasn’t the same boy who left that dusty farm not long ago. For one thing, he totally forgot about the money and everything they’d gone through in the city. He didn’t care about being a hero either. It was as if it all didn’t exist anymore. It was as if the entire journey had been leading up to this moment instead. He felt a sudden sense of completeness, the kind he thought he would only feel when he finally reached his ultimate goal of securing the money. This new feeling of wholeness swelled inside him. It was like when he stared at a star gleaming in the night and felt strangely connected to it, as though a part of what shined so brightly up there was also a shining part of him.
Mary’s legs swung open and water splashed on the floorboards like an over-turned bucket. He knew what the broken water meant. He’d seen animals give birth on the farm. A convulsion made Mary double over and rock forward into the dashboard. She was in agony. Joe pulled the reins and the wagon skidded on the slick rocks before coming to a halt.
In the wagon, he made a bed for her by spreading out the dirty blankets. He stripped the shirt from his back to swaddle the baby after it was born. Then he went to her side of the cab. He shoveled his arms beneath her tiny body and scooped her off the bench. He carried her to the back of the wagon where he lifted her higher and cradled her onto the bed. After he crawled in, he knelt beside her and pushed her smashed-up hat off her head. He brushed away the strings of stiff yellow hair crusted to her brow. Her eyes reached out to him like grasping hands.
When he moved in front of her and lifted her torn dress, she immediately snapped her legs shut. He pulled her wet soiled underpants off her thin hips and down her legs. Gently, he slid his hands over her bony knees and pried them open. To his surprise, the crown of the baby’s head, shiny and slick, was already pushing its way out. Within a few minutes, it popped through completely. Joe smoothed his hands around the baby’s wet head. Bloody liquid spilled over his arms.
A moment later, the child’s whole body slipped out, followed by the glug-glug of more liquid. The baby was limp and slippery. The umbilical cord was twisted around its neck. Joe was afraid it wasn’t alive anymore. It felt like a stillborn calf, wet and floppy. He quickly unwound the cord and fished his pocketknife out of his pants and severed the cord with one rapid slice. He grabbed his shirt and wrapped it around the limp baby before he set it on Mary’s chest. She cradled it and lifted her head to look at the newborn child. With the back of her fingers, she stroked its tiny cheeks and lips and eyes. She made a soft cooing sound and smiled. The baby still hadn’t moved.
“It’s ours,” she said.
Joe didn’t say anything. He thought it was dead. Then all of a sudden the child began to wail.
Acknowledgements
Tremendous thanks goes to the following: my wife, Jessica; my mother, Cynthia; my brother, John; my sister, Amy; my sister-in-law, Verna; my friend, Chris; and my former agent Stephen Barbara, who helped shape this book beyond my expectations.
About the Author
Thomas Christopher grew up in Iowa. He received his MFA from Western Michigan University. His short stories have appeared in The Louisville Review, The MacGuffin, Redivider, and Cooweescoowee. He was also awarded an Irving S. Gilmore Emerging Artist Grant and was a finalist for the Matthew Clark Prize in Fiction. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife and son.
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