by Don Noble
"Then whose is it?" he said. "Tell me."
She slipped off her sweater and wrapped it around the fawn. "Is there milk in the mother?"
"Who else'd you fuck?" Jimbo spat, and palmed her belly like he might steal it, might take the ball and run down the court. "It's a girl, isn't it?"
Cassie sat back on her heels and pulled the fawn to her, as if that was her answer.
"I sensed it. Some things you just know in your bones."
"I didn't say it was a girl."
"You didn't have to. Your face said it."
"You had a 50/50 chance."
"I knew it, same as I know it's mine."
Cassie kept stroking the fawn. It blinked but didn't move. "Aren't they born walking?" she asked. "Maybe I should put it down."
He wanted to hear Cassie say it was his. Even if he had to make her, he wanted her to say it. It was beginning to dawn on him that their two worlds were no longer separate. We have something in common, something that's ours.
Cassie swallowed hard. "Here," she said, guiding his hand. "Feel that?"
How could he not? Her belly heaved beneath her shirt. He could see it and feel it. But he wanted to see more. He lifted her shirt and with his eyes traced the veins that spread beneath the translucence. A fragrance rose to his nose—not fruity, not apple—just clean. Soap. He expected to be sorry, to be angry that he hadn't used condoms with her. But the only thing he felt was aroused.
"Look. The fawn's trying to walk," Cassie said. "We've got to do something."
"When's it due?"
"Next week."
"What day? Darrell's birthday's the first."
"The second."
The fawn struggled to steady itself.
Her belly button stuck out like a turtle. Jimbo kissed it. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her belly heaved again. "They're called Braxton Hicks contractions. They're not the real ones," she said, after slowly exhaling. "My father wouldn't let me."
Josiah DeBardelaiwin was a rich prick who thought he owned the entire state. He probably hated the idea that his blood had mixed with a Sutt.
"Say it. I want to hear it. Say it's mine."
"Look! It's up." The fawn was standing, each stick-thin leg quivering. As it wobbled, Cassie's smile spread like a brush fire. Jimbo could drown in that smile; he'd die happy. That wild tongue. Those sharp teeth. Those pink lips. He wanted to put his tongue between her lips so badly that he grabbed her and pressed his mouth on hers so hard that her teeth cut his lip. When he tasted blood, he thought his heart had exploded.
"I love you," he said. He opened his eyes.
She was still looking at the fawn.
"I'll take care of the baby, I promise. I'll be a good father. You'll be surprised. Are you listening?" He'd do anything for his baby. He reached out and pulled the fawn to them. It weighed nothing, felt like grabbing air.
"How do hunters shoot anything with such wondrous eyes?" she said.
It was true about the eyes. Jimbo had learned not to look into them.
"I hope our daughter has your eyes," he said, pressing lightly on the fawn's back until it folded onto Cassie's outstretched legs. It rested its nose on her belly. Jimbo stood and with a boot pushed the doe toward the drain. As he did, the incision tore, and he saw several ribs; one was covered with the telltale white bubbles of TB. If the doe was infected, so was her fawn.
So that Cassie could lean back, he rolled his work cart behind her and locked the wheels.
"Do you know how much I've thought about you? Do you have any idea? Don't sit there and pretend like you didn't think about me. You enjoyed it as much as I did."
He remembered those weeks like they were yesterday. He could picture her coming through the overhead door, half-dressed, and wanting to play, like a little kid. One time she was buck naked. Several times she wore layers and, using antlers like a pole, she'd remove each layer in a striptease. If he was too busy to play, she'd pull up a stool and watch, the sound and smell of her breath driving him so crazy that he could hardly stand it. Most of what they did was her idea. Instead of hide-and-seek, she insisted they play hide-and-hunt, using an unloaded gun and a bow with sponge-tipped arrows. "Even vegetarians have to eat what they kill," she'd said. Until Cassie, Jimbo had thought vegetarians, like zombies, were made up.
Cassie rubbed the fawn's neck and cradled it in her arms. She closed her eyes.
"Damnit, Cassie. Do you hear what I'm saying? Look at me, goddamnit. I'll marry you." There. He'd said it. The first Sutt in no telling how many generations.
"Are you nuts?" Cassie kept her eyes closed and lowered her voice to a half squeak, half whisper. "My father would disown me."
"He'll come around. You'll see. What does he know anyway? What did you tell him about us?"
"He thinks you raped me . . . said he would kill you. The sheriff talked him out of it."
"Talked him out of it? What'd Turner say?" For years Jimbo and Sheriff Turner'd had an unspoken agreement about jurisdiction. Fish and Wildlife were from Washington and didn't understand the way things worked around here.
Cassie opened her eyes and stared at her belly. "He said you'd been nothing but decent out here, quietly processing your deer and raising your brother alone. Said there wasn't anybody to take care of Darrell if something happened to you. I let him feel the baby kick. Did you know the sheriff and I are the same age?" With a thumb, she began tracing the shiny purple veins and closed her eyes again.
"Darrell felt the baby? Or do you mean Sheriff Turner?"
"Getting the car fixed is going to be expensive. Daddy's going to be pissed. He stays furious with me since I didn't get an abortion. He said, Sired by a Sutt, there's no telling what you'll give birth to." She pulled herself up against the table leg, her midriff bare and round, and leaned back. "I'd forgotten how things feel out here. All this death makes a body feel more alive." She shifted the fawn in her lap and tucked the hem of her shirt under her arm to hold it in place. Through the thin cotton of her bra, Jimbo saw the complete outline of her nipple. Its roundness appeared to be straining against the material. "I feel free out here. I can let everything go." She rubbed the fawn's nose around her nipple and closed her eyes. As she arched her back, the center hardened to a point. She smiled. "I'll have milk soon."
Weak as it was, the fawn made a perfect rag doll. She lifted her breast over the top of the bra and rubbed it against the fawn's nose. When she pushed her nipple into the fawn's mouth, she started humming some song that sounded familiar.
"The fawn's sick, Cassie. It has TB. Not your fault but it can't live." The smile disappeared from her face. "We'll name our baby Fawna, though. It's perfect, isn't it?" he whispered, as he spread her legs and began rubbing the inside of her thighs. Now his brain spun; no longer paused—fast forward, rewind—it was playing and recording simultaneously, it was running at different speeds. Wasn't he being gentle as he laid her on her side? Wasn't he being careful as he pressed the fawn between them? If he could've, he would've crawled all the way inside Cassie to his baby, where he could touch and hold and kiss her, his perfect, perfect daughter, his Fawna. His. What would she smell like? He would stay there, inside, and be born with her. A perfect daughter deserved a perfect father, didn't she? The kind always there to protect. He could not wait. He would never let Fawna out of his sight. Such warmth. Such softness. With the fawn still between them, he unzipped his pants. The warmth turned to heat.
* * *
Maybe when someone loses their mind, it's like floating in space. Maybe there's no gravity or weight. Or maybe it feels heavy, an anchoring secured by weight. Maybe it feels like finally finding home. Maybe it's not crazy to discover for the first time as middle age nears what it's like for something to belong inexplicably to you. Or maybe Jimbo Sutt didn't lose or find a thing. Maybe he simply fell in love.
Maybe love is where things unravel.
He'd told her he'd talk to her father, hadn't he? Had she heard? Or had she been listening to the f
awn? Did she think death was silent? She'd seen how messy it was in the shop and liked it. That sound was just the lungs struggling. The fawn would quiet soon. He would bury it. He would not feed it to the dogs. He promised. He would do whatever she liked, whatever she wanted. They were going to be a real family. He was going to be a real father. DeBardelaiwin was a fine name. He didn't care about names. Fawna Sutt or Fawna DeBardelaiwin. Blood was what mattered—his blood, his baby. Had Cassie started crying? Why? Why was she looking at him that way? Could she see how beautiful Fawna would be? God, how he'd missed her. Every night he'd dreamed of making love again. He'd never imagined her with his baby inside while they did it. Fawna was going to be perfect. Josiah would see what a perfect baby Jimbo made. Not like Darrell. Not like the fawn. Cassie didn't need to listen to her father. It was Jimbo's turn to make the decisions. He wanted to rock back and forth while Cassie sang all the lullabies in the world. Faster. Faster. He didn't want slow. He didn't want to wait. Was that Cassie singing? Was that the Jackal? Was it him? Hold still and shut up for one lousy goddamn moment. Fawna needs me. We need each other. You'll see. Please God no. Not blood. Please no. I just want to hold her.
* * *
Jimbo replays it over and over in his mind, always rewinding, always fast-forwarding. Some things change, but the end is always the same: The knife is sharp. The blood is thick. And Jimbo's left there, all alone.
* * *
When Jimbo visits Darrell at Medical West, he usually parks out front and takes the main elevator. Today, he takes the hospital stairs and walks the four flights to Darrell's floor. "He's asleep," a nurse whispers behind Jimbo, as if he's too stupid to notice. "Why don't you come back later?" Jimbo knows it's not a question.
Darrell looks grown, peaceful, so different than the little boy who haunts Jimbo's memory. He would unmake every mistake if he could. He will not make the mistake now of waking him. Outside Darrell's room, the maze of halls makes Jimbo feel like a rat. He knows what the people here think of Darrell, of him. He won't ask for directions. The ones in the white coats are the worst—pity written all over their faces, thinking they're better than the Sutts because they have education and big words. Jimbo'll be damned before he asks them anything. This is where Cassie would've been taken to stop the bleeding. These are the people who would've taken Fawna.
At the end of the hall, Jimbo sees the automatic door to the parking deck and a sign he can't read until he gets closer: NICU.
Alphabet code for everything. Just before the door is an alcove and another door with a large window. A pair of colored scrubs hurries down the hall, into a bathroom. There's a metal cart by the door like the one Jimbo uses in the shop. This one has a plastic bin on top and is filled with pink-striped blankets. Everything around it smells sweet and clean. A sound rises that resonates somewhere deep in his bones. Jimbo reaches into the cart, scoops up the bundle, and walks through the automatic door.
PART II
Your Cheatin' Heart
THE PRICE OF INDULGENCE
by Carolyn Haines
Downtown Mobile
The fishy smell of Mobile Bay came through the open car window. Jackie watched the sun come up, casting gold shimmers on the light chop. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of the old blue Plymouth Fury, listening to the radio and waiting. The local AM country station was filled with static and aggravation, but soon the Salvation Radio Hour would be on. Brother Fred March preached the fiery word of the Lord and offered to save sinners who bought his prayer cloths or blessed water. Stupid suckers.
Jackie sank deeper into the bench seat, shifting to avoid a spring. She lit a cigarette and let the smoke roll out of her mouth. She'd never learned to make smoke rings.
"Hey, you alive?"
She sat up taller and caught the image of the big man in her side mirror. Merle Boykin, one of her best customers.
"More alive than you want to mess with." She opened the car door and got out.
"You a feisty thing." Merle looked her up and down, lazy and deliberately offensive. "Like those cutoff jeans."
"If you had gunpowder for brains, you couldn't even blow your nose." She brushed past him and opened the trunk. "There it is. You carry it inside if you want it. I'm not your pack mule."
"Girl, your good looks take you only so far. Push a little harder and see what you get."
Jackie grinned. "Try your luck, asshole."
Merle turned his attention to the gallon glass jugs in the trunk. He lifted one and looked through the clear liquid. "You ain't got your daddy's manners but you inherited his touch with a still. Never knew a girl could cook mash like you."
"You want it, haul it out of my trunk after I have the money."
Merle counted out the bills in twenties. He handed her the cash and then lifted the moonshine out of the trunk. He made eight trips to the ramshackle building that sold bait, fishing gear, rented boats, and also offered white lightning to trusted customers. Jackie leaned against the side of the car and watched him work.
"Your daddy always helped carry it in," Merle said as he hefted two more gallons.
"My daddy was a good man. He died about thirty yards from where I'm standing. Being good didn't matter a bit to the man who shot him."
Merle shook his head. "That eats at you long enough, you're gonna be shittin' in a bag."
"Thanks for the medical advice." She slammed the trunk. The rear of the car still sank low to the white shells of the parking lot.
"Jackie, there's no undoing what happened to your daddy. I don't know who shot him, and fact is, I wouldn't tell you if I knew. You gone get yourself hurt. There're mean and powerful people out there. They'll shoot you too."
"If I thought you knew, I'd see that you told me."
Merle slammed the trunk hard. "See you in a week."
"My date with destiny." She got behind the wheel, closed the door, and spun out onto the two lanes of the causeway that connected Mobile and Baldwin counties. The bay ruffled on her left, and the marshlands and rivers on her right. In ten minutes, she was cutting under the Mobile River via Bankhead Tunnel, a span of roadway that made her feel like she was in the belly of a snake. When she shot up into the light and sun again, she was in downtown Mobile.
She snapped the radio back on.
"God offers sinners the perfect miracle, absolute redemption. Even those who have died and are moldering in the ground, awaiting Judgment Day, can be helped. God wants to love and forgive. I can intercede with God on behalf of those you love, those awaiting final judgment, those who will live eternally in the fiery lake of hell if you don't take action. Cash, check, or money order will do. Don't let the flames of damnation lick the flesh of those you love. Send twenty-five dollars right now and the name of the person I need to pray for. God hears me, and He listens. Let me save the ones you love from eternal hellfire."
The city had begun to awaken as she drove past the businesses and houses, many sporting evidence of the long occupation of the city by the French and Spanish. Wrought-iron balconies, stucco, windows that opened wide and were used as doors, the patio entrances that led back to what had once been stables and elegant bricked courtyards. This was Mobile, all shaded by the monster live oaks she loved.
When she passed the small, cinder-block AM radio station, WRED, she pulled to the curb and stopped. Brother Fred March was inside, doing his live radio show. She recognized his brand-new black Cadillac parked right at the front door. The morning deejay who ran the station was playing a gospel song, "Jesus Is Coming Soon" by the Oakridge Boys.
For the next half hour, she watched the squirrels run up the live oak trees and listened to Brother Fred.
"The Lord Jesus carries your sins every day. He can wash you clean and intercede for those who have gone before you. Here's that address again. Cash, check, or money order and the name of the person I should pray for."
The show always ended with "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." Before the song had even finished, the door of the radio station o
pened and Brother Fred stepped into the October sunlight. Tall with wide shoulders, he was a handsome man with his pomaded black hair. Before the ministry, he'd been a dock worker. Ten years of hard labor had given him a physical presence. Greed had given him the golden ticket of fleecing the desperate.
March lit a cigarette and a big diamond on his finger glinted. He didn't even glance at the old Plymouth across the street.
Brother Fred wasn't a very perceptive man, but to be on the safe side, Jackie had put on sunglasses and a scarf to hide her white-blond hair. She watched the radio evangelist pull hard on his cigarette and then flick the butt into the grass. He walked around the car and she took note of his fancy suit and cowboy boots. They were made of ostrich and cost a pretty penny, but God wanted him to have them. Brother Fred said so on the radio, and his flock had ponied up the bucks to buy them.
The evangelist left the radio station in a spray of gravel. Jackie waited a minute, then fell in behind him, heading west. The minister's Cadillac cut through the October morning like God's black missile. Brother Fred paid no heed to speed limits, which forced Jackie to do the same. When he turned into a new subdivision of brick ranch-style homes on the outskirts of Mobile, she passed the entrance, then returned, cruising until she found his car parked halfway behind a redbrick house with gray shutters. She brought the camera with a telephoto lens from the backseat just as March got out of the Caddy and knocked on the front door.
The woman who opened it wore a flimsy white negligee and a big red smile. March swept her into his arms and hurried inside, but not before Jackie had half a dozen photos.
* * *
The newsroom of the Mobile Register was already filled with cigarette smoke when she clanked out of the decrepit old elevator and went to her desk in State News. She was little more than a cub reporter. She typed up the columns from far-flung community correspondents, wrote obits, helped the back shop proofread legal notices and the classified ads. When none of the male reporters were available, she sometimes got to pursue a crime story. Her boss said she had a flair for sniffing out stories.