by Kate Flora
We went on, following a seemingly endless uphill stripe of worn gray road, with thick woods gradually giving way on the right hand side to open blueberry fields, recently harvested and still lined with rows of white string.
“Slow down,” I said, “it’s on the left just around this curve.”
Andre slowed and crawled around the curve, stopping when the little A-frame, isolated in its bedraggled lot, was just visible through the trees. So was the gray Volvo, tucked in beside the house. No other cars and no signs of life. He went forward and pulled into the driveway. He and Kinsman were out of the car in a flash, moving toward the house, guns up and ready, checking the surroundings like they’d worked together all their lives.
Anxious as I was, I chose to play the “little woman” and wait until they told me it was all clear, kind of foolish since I was a perfect sitting duck here in the car as well. From a bad guy’s point of view, shooting me would be a perfect distraction.
They checked all around the house before trying the door. Unlocked. I watched them disappear inside. After they’d cleared the tiny house, Andre came back to the car to get me. He looked grim but said nothing. I gathered my basket and followed him back to the house, a short walk that felt surreal.
I’ve done some scary walks in my time. Once in my underwear in front of a lot of cops and an armed bad guy. That one, to my eternal humiliation, made the paper. Another on the night I actually shot someone. Once to an isolated cottage to see a man I thought I knew—and didn’t. Those memories piled in on me now, coming at me out of the blue summer sky like meteors bursting into my brain. By the time we reached the door and I stepped inside, I was breathless and shaking.
Charity Kinsman was lying on the couch, her knees drawn up, red-faced and sweating. Her brother knelt beside her. Despite the pain of her labor, she was yelling at him, and he was answering her in a calm, if shaky, voice.
“You weren’t supposed to leave him,” she said. “Isn’t that your credo? Don’t leave someone behind? So how did that happen?”
Her question trailed off as she gasped her way through another contraction. I wondered if she’d had a chance to go to birthing classes. How long her husband had been gone and whether she’d gone to them alone.
Kinsman’s answers were calm as he explained why he was here. He wasn’t getting drawn into an argument. His calm was not making a dent in her anger.
I figured she needed the anger to keep her fear at bay. Who knew how long she’d been here, knowing her baby was coming and with no one to help her? Had she been in labor since last night, when someone made those mysterious calls to me?
This argument wasn’t helping her. We needed to know how advanced the labor was and whether the best course was to move her to a hospital.
I stepped up to the couch and knelt down, nudging Kinsman out of the way and taking her hand. “How long have you been in labor?”
“Feels like forever,” she said. “It started last night. For a long time, it didn’t feel like I was making any…” She grabbed my hand, and together we breathed through the contraction.
I looked at Kinsman. “Let’s start timing these.”
“…progress,” she gasped.
I realized Andre wasn’t in the room. “Where’s Andre?”
“Outside.”
I decided not to ask why. She held my hand and we waited.
“Oh no. Here’s another one,” she said.
Her grip on my hand was like a vise. For months, I’d been imagining being where she was. Now I tried to recall the advice Andre had been given as my coach. I looked sideways at Kinsman. “How long?”
“Two minutes,” he said.
That wasn’t good. Intense contractions, lasting a minute, only two minutes apart. I was no expert, but it sounded like she was getting close. I didn’t know how to decide whether we should try to get her to a hospital or if it was too late.
“Get me a cool cloth,” I said, “and if there’s ice, bring me some ice chips.”
Kinsman unfolded from his crouch beside me and went to the kitchen. He was back a moment later with a wet dishtowel. I wiped her face while he went to see if there was ice. I heard some banging and then he handed me a cup full of ice. I sensed, rather than saw, him going to the window and looking out. Then he went outside to join Andre.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are they outside?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “If there’s anything to worry about, they’ll handle it. Let’s focus on you and your baby, okay?”
“Okay.”
We breathed our way through another contraction, this one bad enough to make me wish I would never have to go through this. I was too busy to be scared, though. I was trying to recall my baby lore. Labor lore. I really was going to have to read up. And soon.
“Did your water break?” I asked.
“Yes. A couple hours ago.”
That was one thing I did remember—if your water breaks, go to the hospital.
Outside, there was a gunshot.
I looked around. Basically, we were sitting in a flimsy wood and glass box. Not the safest of places. “Does this place have a bathtub?” I asked.
Gritting her teeth, she nodded. We held hands and breathed through the contraction. Then I said, “We’re going to put you in the bathtub. It’s the safest place until we can get you to a hospital.”
I helped her to her feet and we managed the short distance to the tub. I lined it with a blanket and some towels and eased her in. Then I went back for the Moses basket, my bag, and the ice chips. The basket took up what little floor space there was. I perched on the edge of the tub, wiped her face, and gave her some ice. The next contraction arrived, and after that, there was little time between them. No way we were going to make it to a hospital, at least not before Amy arrived. I tried to concentrate on the business at hand and not worry about what was happening outside.
Charity clung to me like I was a lifeline, using some pretty unladylike language as we breathed our way through what seemed like one long, endless contraction.
“Oh my God! Thea! Oh my God! I’ve got to push.”
Oh hell. Most of what I knew about pushing came from watching “Call the Midwife,” which hardly qualified me as someone to assist at a birth. On TV, they had a whole protocol of when to push and when to breathe, and magically the baby’s head would emerge and then the rest of it, and everyone would be full of joy and tears except when things went wrong. None of that was helpful now.
“Okay,” I said. “On the next contraction, you’ll push. You’ll rest and breathe and then push again.” I had to ask, “Do you have any idea what to do here?”
Her laugh became a scream as I held her hand and she pushed until it passed. I figured I was supposed to look and see if I could see the baby’s head, so I flipped up her dress. Yup. I thought that was the baby’s head. Thought being the operative word.
“All right. I think I can see the top of her head, so next contraction, you’ll push again, and let’s see if we can get this little girl born.”
She pushed.
We breathed.
The little head appeared. It was flat out the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.
“There’s her head!” I said, grabbing another towel from the basket and getting it ready to receive a baby.
Another contraction. Another huge, screaming push. The rest of the baby appeared. I wrapped it in a towel, cleaned off the tiny face, and waited. Right on cue, Amy screwed up that face and wailed.
I got my scissors, wiped them with alcohol, and cut the cord. Then I handed the wailing bundle to Charity. I knew we had to wait for the placenta. For this, my PBS tutorial wasn’t very helpful, though I thought it could be a long time.
Meanwhile, I helped Charity sit up and watched her meet her daughter. Her face was rapt with amazement as she traced the outlines of tiny Amy’s face. “Oh, my, Thea. We did it. We did it.”
Tears poured down her face.
Amy’s great
dark eyes stared up at her mother.
“This is amazing,” Charity said.
It was.
Outside this tiny room, things had gone scarily quiet. I needed to know what was happening out there. I didn’t dare leave this room and wasn’t sure whether I could safely leave Charity. I veered from elation—we’d actually birthed this baby—to terror. What if something had happened to Andre and because we’d helped Charity, MOC would be born without a father?
“I’m going to leave you for minute. See what’s happening out there.”
She nodded, though I wasn’t sure she’d heard me. She was wrapped up in the baby in her arms.
I got my gun and stood, a little unsteady from crouching so long, from the emotional impact of what had just happened.
I opened the door and stepped slowly out, looking around. The room was empty. As I stood there, trying to decide whether to approach the windows, the door opened and a man stepped in.
I raised the gun. “Stop right there,” I said.
He took one step closer, then stopped. Put up one hand. The other hung loosely by his side. I waited. He’d moved into the light where I could see him better. Malcolm Kinsman. Blood stained his sleeve and dripped off his hand. He looked ravaged, barely able to stay on his feet, yet held himself erect. I lowered my gun.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You have a beautiful new niece. Now, where is my husband?”
Thirty-Three
“He’s okay. Just making sure there aren’t more surprises. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
“I hope it’s an ambulance built for two.”
“Where’s my sister? And the baby?” He shook his head like he was clearing cobwebs. “Are they really okay?”
“They’re in the bathtub,” I said. “It seemed like the safest place. As for okay? Midwifery is not my department, but I think we’ve done this successfully.”
He took a few stumbling steps. I crossed the room, put my shoulder under his arm, and led him to the couch.
“You’ll see her soon enough. She doesn’t need to be scared by you fainting right after what she’s been through.” I left him there and headed for the door. The outside door. The door between me and Andre.
“You shouldn’t go out there,” he said.
It felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water on me. I stopped, turning to him as a wave of dread swept through me. “You said that he was okay.”
“He is okay. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?” I think I yelled it. Then I grabbed for some control. I wasn’t supposed to upset Charity. The last thing I wanted was to scare her into coming out here, minutes after giving birth, clutching tiny Amy.
“It’s just what?” I repeated quietly. “What is going on out there?”
“Fred and Alice. The Marshals Service inspectors. They’re not.”
“Not what, Kinsman? They’re more fake federal agents?” Like Davenport had claimed to be.
He nodded.
“And they have Andre? They’ve taken him?”
“Not exactly. Uh…” He leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes.
“Dammit, Kinsman, don’t fade on me now. Not exactly what?” I was forgetting to use my indoor voice again. “If he’s in trouble, why aren’t you out there with him?”
Me in a nutshell. Guy gets shot, he’s bleeding on the couch, and I stand there and yell at him.
He mustered the energy for two more sentences. “He’s not alone. Tommy and Norah…”
“Are with him?”
He nodded.
How on earth had it come to this? A woman knocks on my door, introduces herself as my new neighbor, and suddenly everything about my life and plans keep getting turned upside down. It was a relief that Andre had Tommy and Norah with him. He didn’t need me and my gun out there, too. But I wanted this over. I wanted to be at home, barefoot and pregnant and having a cookout. Instead, I had just delivered a baby, and now I had to deal with a bleeding man. And last night, I’d invited a pair of bad guys to dinner. Well, Andre had. Said he was suspicious and wanted to keep them close. At least he’d hinted at that. Had he known?
I’d like to take Suzanne’s advice and avoid situations like this, but I don’t understand how I’d do that. It would involve some basic things like never answer the phone, never answer the door, and never, under any circumstances, care about other people’s well-being.
I opened the bathroom door. Charity looked half-asleep and baby Amy lay quietly on her chest. For now, that situation was under control. I grabbed the last towel from the basket and headed toward Kinsman, using it to protect the couch while I got gauze and bandages and adhesive tape from my bag. I’m practically a full-service pharmacy. I used my scissors, freshly sterilized, to cut away his shirt sleeve, then pressed pads on the wound and wrapped it with gauze and tape. A very temporary fix. For someone who doesn’t like the sight of blood, I was seeing a lot of it today.
Sirens wailing in the distance announced the arrival of the ambulance. It pulled into the yard in a blast of light and sound and two men and a woman in blue shirts headed for the door. Ordinarily, I would have stepped back and directed them to their patients, but after several encounters with people who weren’t who they claimed to be, this time I checked IDs at the door.
They were local. They were licensed. I gladly handed Charity and her baby and her injured brother over to professionals, then collapsed on the couch. Now that babies had been delivered and wounds tended, I was limp as cooked spaghetti.
So much for avoiding stress. If my doctor knew about this, she’d probably put me on bed rest. Or in restraints.
I should clean up the bathroom. Figure out what could be washed and what to throw away. I should pack a bag for Charity and Amy.
Ignoring those shoulds, I stayed on the couch, waiting for Andre to reappear.
Outside it was silent.
Inside it was silent.
I put my hands on MOC, who was being very quiet, and said, “I promise you won’t be born in a bathtub.”
MOC gave my hand a reassuring kick, kind of a “Yo, mama, I get it. So chill.” Smart kid seemed to know that mama was done in.
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes.
The door burst open. I jerked upright and raised my gun. Andre was in the doorway, sweat-soaked and disheveled. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I’ve had enough of guns today.”
I crossed the room. He wrapped his arms around me. I burrowed into my happy spot and stayed there. He was hot and wet and smelled of sweat. I didn’t give a damn.
After a while, I said, “So, Fred and Alice are bad guys, huh? Did you know?”
I felt his chin on my head, nodding an affirmative.
“Took some time to track down the truth. Government, you know. Not particularly forthcoming. A bunch of back and forth. I had to send them pictures of our Fred and Alice before they finally confirmed we were dealing with imposters. The real Fred and Alice are…were…Marshals Service inspectors. The Fred and Alice we met are imposters.”
“When did you know?”
“I’d suspected. Last night I finally got confirmation.”
“Yet you invited them to dinner? And didn’t tell me who they were?”
“I got confirmation after dinner. Before that? I wanted to keep them close and unsuspecting. You would have tossed them out and then followed them and beat the crap out of them.”
“True.”
“While we were keeping our eyes on them.” He nuzzled me with his chin. “So how’d it go in here?”
“Oh. I delivered a baby and then bandaged up Kinsman. All in a day’s work.”
His arms tightened. “Really? You delivered a baby?”
“I did. Bet you have, too.”
“Nope.”
“It was amazing. You should try it some time.”
“Planning to.”
Time stood still. We stood still. Finally, curious, I said, “Did you have Norah and Tommy following us?�
�
“I did. They were behind Fred and Alice.”
“Practically a parade. And you were able to organize this on the spur of the moment on a Saturday?”
“Not quite. I kind of had them on alert after we confirmed that Fred and Alice were fakes.”
“Where are they now?”
“Tommy and Norah? They’ve taken some prisoners to the jail.”
“Fred and Alice?”
“Yup. And cowboy boots. Shall we go home? Someone on this team badly needs a shower.”
“He does.”
He helped me gather things from the bathroom and then pack a bag for Charity and the baby. We carried it all out to the car and headed home. I should have been bursting with questions about what happened outside and how Malcolm Kinsman got injured. Instead, I fell asleep.
Thirty-Four
Jonetta and Lindsay were just back from a swim when we pulled in. They were hanging beach towels and bathing suits on the line and chatting like they’d been friends forever. Andre said a quick hello and headed for the shower. I kicked off my sandals and dumped myself in a chair on the deck. I waved my hand like a princess directing her staff. “Could someone please bring me an Arnold Palmer?”
“With vodka?” Lindsay asked, laughing.
“Just a splash.”
She stared at me for a moment, debating whether to object, then read my face and went inside.
“Bring me one, too, please,” Jonetta called, “with more than a splash.”
She arranged herself in the chair beside mine and said, “Guess your day hasn’t been as restful as ours?”
“I may have broken my record for eventful.” I remembered a professor with a gun and said, “Maybe not. There was a gunfight. I delivered a baby. And bandaged up the wounded. It’s nice to be home.”
“Whew!” she said. “You doing okay?”
