by Michael Fine
“Hi,” Quinn said, a wide grin on his face, when Derek gave him a “who the fuck are you?” look.
A woman, presumably Zeline Yearwood, came out of the kitchen. She had a bag of frozen peas against her cheek. Charlie boiled inside, realizing he was right about the smacking sound he’d heard.
“Who… who… who are you?” Zeline asked.
“Zeline?” Charlie asked.
“Yes.”
Sanam asked, “What kind of name is ‘Zeline’, anyway?”
“What kind of watch is that, anyway?” Quinn asked Sanam, poking at his friend for asking an inappropriate question by asking one of his own. Sanam’s watch, another new one, only had words on it, which spelled out the time in English sentences.
Charlie shot Sanam and Quinn a look, but the woman ignored Quinn and answered Sanam’s question. She’d clearly heard the question many times before. “My momma was a fan of Celine Dion but she wanted me to have a bit of extra ‘flair.’ That’s what she called it. She was nuts.”
Derek raised his voice and said to his unwelcome visitors, “Get out of my house. Now.”
“My house, Derek. It’s my house,” Zeline Yearwood said.
“Not anymore, and you know it. You signed the papers of your own free will, ain’t that right?” He’d convinced the woman, who had gotten the fully paid-off house when her mother died, to put him on the title. Legally, the house was half his now. Practically speaking, it was his, given how scared she was of him. Stupid bitch.
Charlie looked Zeline directly in the eyes and spoke softly. “Zeline, your friend here is not a nice guy.” He could see the “tell me about it” look in her eyes. “We’re friends of someone whose life he destroyed over a decade ago. It’s taken quite a while, but we’ve finally tracked him down and intend to make things right, if you understand what I’m saying.”
Quinn and Sanam moved to flank Derek, who was now starting to realize just how much trouble he was in.
“He hurts me,” Zeline said in practically a whisper. “All the time.”
“Listen to me carefully Zeline. You shacked up with a really bad dude. You know that. We’re offering you a way out,” Charlie said. He nodded to Quinn who tossed him the wads of cash they’d taken from Derek’s hiding spot. “Take this. Derek here has been holding out on you. Bury it in that nice flower bed you have in back for a few days until the police fade out of the picture.”
Derek, who saw his cash fly across the room, started toward the bedroom, presumably to get a weapon, when Quinn wheeled around and palmed him in the solar plexus. He crumpled to the floor, and Quinn noticed a smile escape from Zeline’s makeup-laden face.
Charlie continued, “You are not going to want to be here for what happens next. Go to a friend’s house, to a bar, wherever you might normally go. Maybe to the grocery store. Yeah. That’s it. Go grocery shopping and take a nice, long time. When the police ask, explain that you hadn’t had anything in the house to make your boyfriend for dinner and needed to shop.”
Zeline understood what was going to happen, if perhaps not the particulars. These men were going to scare, hurt, or kill Derek, the creep, and were offering her a chance at an alibi. She nodded vigorously. Clutching the bundles of cash, she grabbed a sweater from the coat rack in the corner of the living room and said, “Give me a few minutes to bury this in the back. You’ll hear my car when I leave.” She leaned in and gave Charlie a peck on the cheek and added, “And… thank you, whoever you are.”
By the time the men heard Zeline drive away, they had Derek Johnson unconscious, gagged, and roped down on the kitchen table.
As Derek Johnson, serial rapist, regained his senses, he was terrified to realize he was tied down with the three men standing over him. He was even more terrified to realize that his pants were down around his ankles, and that the older man had a cleaver in his hand. Just before he passed out, the man lifted the cleaver and said, “You won’t be needing this anymore.” Derek Johnson bled to death soon thereafter.
Quinn, who had drawn the short straw, put the man’s privates in a small box, which they would send to the home address of a certain high-ranking legal professional who worked in a fancy building at One First Street, NE, Washington, D.C.: Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, Julian Kingsley.
Chapter Fifty
Sunday, December 2
George Washington Hospital
Washington, D.C.
Eleven weeks later
38 weeks after Senator Carrington’s impregnation
Senator Royce Carrington lay in his hospital bed, looking down at his distended belly. It was something he did often since that fateful day. As someone who had always been trim, it was a strange feeling to look down and see an enormous stomach protruding from his body. It seemed so… alien. He supposed it was, in a sense.
After fully recovering from the surgery, something that was made more difficult by his decision to call the early vote on the “Sanctity of Life” bill, Carrington had faced a decision. Should he come up with some excuse to hide from the public eye for up to nine months? In the end, the decision was easy.
At first, it was difficult to conduct regular business as a Senator. Once he started “showing,” his colleagues and members of the press all wanted to talk to him about it. What did it feel like? How did he feed the baby, given that his “plumbing” was different from a woman’s? Did he think he would give birth to a healthy baby? Later, as his belly got even bigger, everyone wanted to touch his stomach. He resented the invasion of personal space when people reached out and rubbed his stomach without asking his permission. For a long time, it made his blood pressure rise every time someone would ask, “When are you due?”
The worst part was having to give up his brandy and cigars.
Carrington was wealthy enough to pay an obstetrician to come to his home. He couldn’t stomach the idea of having to go to an OB-GYN office and wait in the waiting room with a bunch of pregnant women. The doctor indicated that it was likely the fetus was fully developed and likely healthy, based on the baby’s vital signs.
Now, in his private hospital room, outside of the intrusive eye of the press and the judgmental eye of most of his Senate colleagues, he was ready to “give birth.” What a crazy world that that phrase applied to him, he thought.
The surgeon performed a modified Cesarean section. The operation, commonly known as a C-section, while relatively safe, is still major surgery and carries risks. Still, Carrington had hand-picked this doctor. He was more worried about the health of the baby than his own.
When the surgeon removed Hope’s artificial womb through Carrington’s abdomen, he couldn’t help but admire the device. It had served its purpose well: when he removed the baby, he was a healthy six-pound, five-ounce pink little boy with ten fingers and ten toes.
The labor and delivery nurse administered the Apgar test to the baby and announced to the doctor that the score was an eight. The surgeon once again found himself admiring Hope’s device. Truly remarkable. The baby’s skin color, heart rate, reflexes, muscle tone, and breathing rate were all well into the healthy range. Still, he would recommend to the Senator that the baby undergo frequent checkups for the first few years of its life.
Later, when Carrington came out of the effects of the anesthesia, he was united with his baby. He obviously couldn’t breastfeed the infant, but the nurse lay the little guy on his chest and Carrington was beyond ecstatic that the baby dozed peacefully, his little body rising and falling as he breathed. Carrington gently uncurled his son’s tiny fingertips and found himself in awe of nature and of human life. He silently praised God. Tears of joy slid down his cheeks.
The nurse, noticing the Senator’s emotions, quietly left the room. She came back a half an hour later to tell Carrington she was going to take the baby to the infirmary for a few more tests and to feed him. Carrington gently kissed the baby on his forehead before she took him. She smiled warmly at the man because of his obvious love for the child, surprising her
self. She was well aware of the man’s politics and history of voting to systematically limit or abolish women’s reproductive rights, his recent surprise vote notwithstanding. She silently thanked Hope Hunter, whoever she was. Maybe now things would change.
The following morning, the doctor stopped by on his rounds. After a quick checkup, he declared the Senator to be in good health.
“You’ll need to rest for several days, but you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, doc. For everything.”
“Well, it was a first for me, I’ll say that.”
Carrington said nothing.
The doctor took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he had to say next. He needed to get through it with a straight face. “Listen, I have to tell you,” he said, “that having a C-section— which is pretty much the procedure you underwent—can raise the risk of having difficulties with future pregnancies, and you may have problems attempting a vaginal birth later.” He stopped driving the nail of his thumb into his forefinger.
“What the hell are you telling me that for? Is that your idea of a sick joke? I’ll have your medical license—”
“Sir,” the doctor said calmly, ignoring Carrington’s unfinished threat, “The law clearly states that as your attending physician I must inform you of the possible consequences of having a C-section.”
Carrington was still enraged, but if nothing else he respected the law despite the fact he wasn’t able to put his finger on the particular statute the doctor was citing.
“If you don’t like the law, Senator,” the doctor said, “you could change it. After all, it’s a provision in the ‘Family Values Sex Education’ bill you sponsored several years ago. And if I may say, it’s one of the least offensive provisions in that bill.”
With that, the doctor turned and left.
Senator Royce Carrington stewed for a few minutes, stinging from the man’s rebuke. As a U.S. Senator, and a powerful one at that, he was in a position to change the law, especially one he himself had had a hand in passing, despite having not read it carefully.
More significantly, though, Carrington was still basking in the warm glow of having brought a baby into the world, however odd the circumstances. Nothing would interfere with his enjoyment of the new life he helped bring into the world.
Chapter Fifty-One
Saturday, December 15 (two weeks later)
George Washington Hospital
Washington, D.C.
Two weeks later
Forty weeks after Reverend Brooks’ impregnation
Reverend Porter Brooks was a tired, broken man. He was mad as hell at the crazy woman who put a baby in his body against his will. He was mad as hell at the infernal judge who’d let her off after just six months in prison. He was mad as hell at the world. And he was deeply, deeply embarrassed.
Brooks had spent the past nine months in hiding. At first, he’d needed to recover from the surgery he’d undergone. He was not a young man, and he wasn’t in the best of health to begin with. After he fully recovered, he faced the same decision Royce had, but made a different choice: to remain out of the public eye. His phone rang nonstop and social media was flooded with memes about his being pregnant. He had no choice but to stop answering the phone and to stay off of social media. For a man who craved attention and public affection, the months were like purgatory. He’d remained out of the courtroom during Hope Hunter’s trial. God, how he hated that woman. And Judge Lorraine Jackson, too.
Reverend Brooks couldn’t fathom his friend’s decision to maintain his normal life while carrying an unwanted child. The idea seemed unbearable. When Royce gave birth and called him to tell him the news, the Senator was downright giddy. Brooks couldn’t understand it, and thought his friend was nuts. Brooks would have had an abortion, if that was even the proper term, but he knew his career as a Reverend would be over in a second if he did. The irony of his views didn’t occur to him, despite being someone who claimed that every life was sacred. The best he could do was somehow live through the pregnancy and give the devil child up for adoption.
Carrington graciously allowed Brooks to use the services of his personal physician, who now was focused exclusively on helping the Reverend reach the end of his ordeal. Brooks had struggled for the months of his “pregnancy.” Somehow, he experienced more problems with the device, his body fighting fiercely to reject the foreign body within. His stomach had distended to an almost comical extreme, almost as if he was carrying twins. The doctor had told Brooks that everything was fine despite his inability to get clear x-rays due to the stainless steel and titanium mesh Hope had used.
Finally, after forty weeks of hell, Carrington’s physician told Brooks it was time to deliver the baby. He explained the procedure he would perform, the same one he’d performed on Carrington.
In the birthing suite at the hospital, Brooks lay sweating and panting in bed. Despite not understanding his friend’s apparent happiness given all that had happened, Brooks invited Royce to be present. Carrington thought it was to share in his confrère’s joy, but Brooks’ real reason was that he needed someone to help him through the ordeal. He was going crazy from the thought that a human being was going to be removed from his body, one that was put there without his permission.
Carrington stood at the side of Brooks’ bed, holding his baby, rocking slowly side to side.
“How are you doing?” Carrington asked.
“How the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
“Now, now, Reverend. That’s no way to talk. Especially in front of a child.” He nodded down to his son in his arms. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Oh, fuck off, Royce. That baby is an abomination and you know it.
The nurse prepped her patient as quietly and invisibly as possible. It was all she could do to hold back her laughter at the Reverend’s behavior. Man of God, my ass, she thought. Within a few minutes, her work was done and she slunk away before incurring Brooks’ wrath.
The doctor entered the room, fully garbed in surgical scrubs, except for a mask and gloves, which he would don once in the operating room. The nurse returned with him, also in surgical scrubs.
To Brooks he said, “Okay. Here we go.” To Carrington he said, “Senator, you can wait in the waiting room.”
The nurse wheeled Reverend Brooks down the hall and into one of the surgical bays. The anesthesiologist put the man to sleep. After the man’s bloated stomach was rubbed down with Betadine, the doctor ran his scalpel across the Reverend’s abdomen and removed the artificial womb from the man’s body.
The doctor and nurses could all tell immediately that something was very, very wrong. When the doctor opened the gibbous artificial womb to remove the baby, one of the nurses passed out and another vomited.
Inside the artificial womb was a baby lamb.
Epilogue
Senator Royce Carrington was sitting in the waiting room cooing at his son and admiring the sounds of someone playing piano in the atrium below when the surgeon came out to get him. He could tell immediately that something had gone wrong. He prayed the baby was healthy and that his friend had come through the surgery okay. When the surgeon asked to speak to him in private, Carrington walked, his son in his arms, behind the doctor to the man’s private office. It was there that Carrington learned what happened.
The doctor kindly let Carrington sit in his office for as long as it might take for him to process what he’d just been told. Carrington took full advantage, sitting numbly for a half an hour until his son’s cries of hunger stirred him from his funk. He took a bottle of formula from his bag and fed the baby, trying to hide his upset from the little guy. Hope Hunter was one cold-blooded warrior, he had to give her that much. And, he realized, she was out of jail. Out there somewhere. He made a mental note not to go anywhere near Faye Young’s lab if Hope Hunter went back to work there.
Carrington walked to the recovery area to visit his friend, but Brooks was still out from the anesthesia he’d been given for the surgery.
Carrington asked the nurse to tell Brooks that he had stopped by and that he would call him later. For the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea what he would say.
Senator Royce Carrington’s Home
Village of Oyster Bay Cove, Nassau County, New York
Carrington made it home an hour before the monthly Benevolent Overlords Society meeting. Between the sleepless nights of single parenthood and the shock of today’s events, Carrington wanted to cancel, but there was simply no way he was going to break nearly two hundred years of tradition. The meeting would go on, no matter what.
At eight, Carrington and Julian Kingsley sat in Carrington’s study. Carrington’s nanny was with the baby in the upstairs room he had made into a nursery. Carrington nursed a brandy and watched with disgust as Kingsley chugged a beer at the bar, then opened two more and took them to where he was sitting.
“You have a serious problem,” Carrington said. The word ‘serious’ dripped with disdain.
Kingsley said nothing. He sipped on one of the beers.
Reverend Brooks was still recovering at the hospital, so it was just the two of them. Carrington said the standard opening prayer and performed the standard ritual with the card stock. He sloppily wrote 2160 on the new card and tossed it carelessly into his desk drawer.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kingsley asked. He had never seen the Senator so agitated.
Carrington explained to Kingsley what had happened at the hospital.
“That’s sick! That’s perverted!” Kingsley’s skin turned red and blotchy, something that happened when he became angry. “I can’t believe that judge let that bitch go free. She needs to be—”
Carrington found himself wondering if his son was resting peacefully. The little guy was so adorable. Maybe it was just gas, but it sure seemed like he smiled an awful lot.
