Another kick and Johnny whispered with awe, “She’s strong.”
His eyes, filled with a mixture of sadness and wonder, came up to hers. She was a little surprised by his wonder. Surely he had been around many a pregnant horse.
And then again they were both gazing down at Etta’s belly, which sat there between them, an elemental barrier.
Johnny said, “We’d better go in before Miss Latrice comes out.”
Etta watched him slip from the truck and come around the hood. She felt tears choking her throat and held them back with all her might.
He did not enter the kitchen but stood in the door and bade both Etta and Latrice good night. Etta watched through the screen, as he got back into his truck. Then she closed the door and turned to Latrice, who waved her to sit and brought forth a steaming cup of cola.
“Okay. Tell me all about it,” Latrice said.
Etta attempted to give a synopsis of the happenings of the day and evening, although it ended up being a very brief synopsis as she was tired and in such a fog of emotion that she really did not want to reveal to Latrice. Her feelings about Johnny were her own, dear and confusing, and there existed the enormous possibility of being misunderstood about all of it.
About the incident with Corinne and her mother, Etta concluded, “I know now that Roy was drawn to her for the same reasons that he was drawn to me. Whatever we are, we are each the product of crazy mothers. She is worse off than me, though,” she said. “She can’t manage to keep her lipstick from smearing all over her face.”
Etta went up to bed, complacent in the way exhaustion brings, and wanting only to hang on to the vibrant tender feelings regarding Johnny. She fell into her feelings like she fell into her feather pillow, completely and gratefully, letting them surround her, comfort her, and choke her all up at the same time.
Latrice was sitting in her rocker and listening to the radio and musing over life in general, when Johnny came to give her the winnings from her bets. She saw his face peering cautiously in the window before he opened the door.
“You are not a very adept Peeping Tom,” she told him. He still had not learned to recognize her sarcasm and quickly defended himself. “I wasn’t tryin’ to peep, no ma’am. I thought I should check to make sure Etta was gone, before I gave you your money. I thought you wanted it that way.’’
She eased him with a gesture, and he handed a wad of money to her. It was warm, obviously from his body heat. Pointing at it, he said, “I could have gotten down to Mexico and had a pretty good time on that.”
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t. You might take a horse or a woman; but you wouldn’t take money."
He gave a sad little smile, as if he was sorry she didn’t think him capable of stealing her money.
She said, “I will make fried ham and apples for breakfast and biscuits, of course,” offering it as her thanks for him betting her money.
“I’ll be here,” he said, looking pleased.
He opened the door and was through it and pulling it closed behind him, when Latrice stepped forward, caught open the door, and told him, “You won’t have to wait much longer for her. From what I observed of her a bit ago, she will likely have the baby tomorrow evening.”
His eyebrows jumped, and he reddened as his eyes avoided hers.
“She’ll be nearly three weeks early, but the barometer is goin’ to drop tomorrow, so that baby will come on. You had better decide where you’re sittin’ in this thing, hadn’t you?”
She saw clearly that he didn’t know what to say, and she expected nothing from him in any case. She told him good night and shut the door.
She thought that her talent for discombobulating people was grand, and that perhaps she should feel a little ashamed at such pride. In her own defense, she believed that if the Lord wanted her to behave better, He would have changed her.
Counting her money, Latrice returned it to her hideaway with satisfaction. She could have paid at Overman’s grocery, but that had been handled for her, so she continued to save for dire circumstances that could come about in the future. Oh, yes, things were tight, but not dire yet. This was a hedge against starvation, and if they were fortunate for that threat to never come about, then it would send Etta’s daughter to college and perhaps provide for Latrice and Etta in their old ages.
She had recently been reading the newspaper and teaching herself about the stock market. There was an electronics company in Texas that looked to be a secure investment—when she could get enough saved. Electronics was coming on like gangbusters these days.
* * * *
The following morning, as she brought his coffee to the porch, Latrice told Obie that Etta was likely to have the baby that evening and asked him to stand ready. She didn’t know exactly ready for what (and she had never asked anyone’s help in delivering a baby), but feeling the need for explanation, said she might need him to calm Johnny.
When Walter Fudge called a little later, at only quarter past eight, which revealed his lack of manners, requesting to speak to Etta, Latrice told him Etta could not be disturbed. “Miz Rivers is on the brink of delivery and needs to rest. You’ll have to wait, like everyone else.”
She told this to Leon Thibodeaux and then Corinne Salyer, when each of them telephoned, too, later in the morning. Leon Thibodeaux was so stunned that he stumbled over his words, then managed to get straight and say he’d come to the hospital right away. Latrice screamed into the receiver for him to stop, afraid he would hang up and run out like a mad man in a useless try and perhaps kill himself in a wreck.
“She’s not deliverin’ yet, “ Latrice said, going on to explain that she expected the event to take place that evening. “And you might as well not go to the hospital, because she’ll be here, in my bed.”
Mr. Thibodeaux was not happy about that, and Latrice had to wear herself out reassuring him. She gave him enough references that he would keep himself busy all day calling around. She promised to notify him when the event took place. And she wondered at his wife’s crying her heart out at Mr. Roy’s funeral and now Mr. Thibodeaux showing such a personal interest in Etta.
When Miss Corinne Salyer phoned, she was insistent. “I really need to speak to her,” she said, urgency and hysteria vibrating in her voice and annoying Latrice, who was not nearly as soft-hearted and forgiving as Etta.
“Write her a letter,” she said, and hung up.
After that she took the phone off the hook. The dang thing had not rung so much in a month of Sundays.
During all these calls, Etta slept away, until almost eleven o’clock, when she finally appeared in the kitchen, still in her gown, looking like someone dazed. “Were you goin’ to let me sleep the day away?” she said, a little crossly.
“I figured you needed sleep after being up half the night.”
Latrice made no mention to Etta of the ordeal she would face in a few hours. She thought that if she told Etta, the knowledge might interfere with nature. She said calmly, “Here . . . drink this warm Co-Cola, while I make you some spoonbread.”
“I want some eggs,” Etta said, as if she had just thought of them, “and can you fry these leftover biscuits?” She took one, nibbling.
Latrice made Etta all she wished—she had not changed her opinion that the event would take place that night, so there was as yet no danger in Etta’s overeating. While she cooked, she watched Etta go to the screen door and look out at Johnny, who was in the corral with a horse. He had his shirt off, Latrice saw, and his tanned skin glistened with sweat in the sun. She mused that Etta’s body was stirring harder than ever at that moment, filling and budding in readiness for delivery . . . and things would be no less stirring after the delivery of the baby, with breasts making milk and womb drawing tight.
She was shaking her head with it all, when Etta asked what was the matter.
“The weather’s gonna change . . . rain tonight,” Latrice said.
If she had had any doubt in her prediction that Etta would go
into labor that evening, (and she didn’t have much, but she always allowed for changes in fate) they faded as the day wore on, and she watched Etta set into washing things: showering and washing her hair, and then bedsheets, and the pillowcase of laundry that Johnny brought to the door.
Johnny did not come in with his laundry. He seemed vaguely afraid of what Latrice had told him was going to happen. Or perhaps vaguely afraid of his own feelings. If he was going to leave, Latrice thought, it would be now.
Etta complained that her back ached, but she continued around the house, as if she could not be still and could not settle her mind on any one thing. She started outside once to see the red gelding, but then she stopped at the door and simply gazed out for long minutes at the horse, rubbing her hands over her upper arms. Then she said she needed to count the money and get it to the bank, yet she never did get the money but went off to dust the baby’s room. She returned with the telephone book, looking up the bank’s telephone number.
“I want to get an appointment with Edward. I’ll do better to talk to him myself, instead of leaving it to Leon. Leon has his own opinions and forgets mine.”
Then she set the telephone number aside and started refolding diapers, changing their shape slightly, while at the same time fooling with the Scrabble game letters to make girl names.
“Everyone will tell her about Corinne,” she said out of the blue, raising dark eyes. “What will we tell her?”
“The truth,” Latrice said. “These things happen . . . and it has nothing to do with her.”
Etta frowned and rubbed her hands in a circle over her belly, appearing deep in thought. The next minute she went to the pantry in search of a snack.
The afternoon stretched long and humid, with clouds blooming in the sky and growing ever darker and thicker. Latrice prayed that fierce storms would pass over and dump further north, on Tulsa perhaps. She did not look forward to having Etta give birth beneath the stairway, or worse, down in the cellar.
She decided instantly that was how Obie could help, and she slipped out to request he clean the cellar, just in case, while she made soup and cornbread, which would digest easily for Etta, for supper. Pitching in to help, Johnny came and requested the Pine-Sol, for cleaning the cellar.
“Anything yet?” he asked in a low voice, casting an anxious glance at the kitchen, while he remained safely outside the door.
Latrice shook her head, and to forestall him asking the same thing in another hour, she said, “About midnight tonight.” Since Johnny appeared hesitant about coming into the house, she added, “Are you comin’ in to supper tonight, or do you wish to eat it on the porch?”
He looked puzzled. “I’ll come for supper,” he said.
Latrice had not truly known the hour, but as if she had set an appointment, Etta’s water broke at five minutes before midnight, just when the wind rose and the sky rumbled. She came down the stairs and into the kitchen with her eyes wide, already going into her first hard contraction. Latrice had everything in readiness, her bed with the rubber sheet over the feather mattress, towels and baby blankets neatly folded, medical kit open nearby.
“You’re gonna do just fine, honey,” Latrice said, taking hold of Etta around the shoulders. For the first time in her life, Latrice herself felt the pain, too, as if it were her own.
Etta said, “Damn,” and gritted her teeth, then relaxed and breathed deeply.
Latrice made her walk around the kitchen for ten minutes, while she observed the contractions and the sky, trying to decide whether it would be the bed or beneath the stairs or the cellar. The storm appeared to be blowing by, so Latrice helped Etta into the bed.
Etta, finishing a hard contraction, said breathlessly, “Go call Johnny.”
* * * *
Etta labored a bare two hours to bring forth her baby. She did not particularly find it hard going until the last twenty minutes, when a number of ripe moans escaped. Latrice told her that it might be better to let out her pain in a few good whoops, as Indians used to do to build courage when they attacked.
“I don’t want Johnny to hear . . . he’s out there isn’t he?” Etta said breathlessly and sucked the sweat from her upper lip. Her body was soaked with it.
“Yes, honey . . . I told you he’s been out there the entire time. He’s ‘bout to wear out the floor.”
“Well, I hope he isn’t drinkin’,” Etta said, and then was taken up into a great wave of pain that seemed to have no relation to her at all.
Latrice went to commanding her to breathe and to push. She came and took Etta by the shoulders and helped her into almost sitting position, and then the baby was coming, slipping right out of Etta and into the world, ready or not.
Etta lay back, dizzy, trying to find the breath to ask if the baby was okay . . . please, God, let her be okay . . . then being rewarded by a lusty cry, and causing Etta to cry, too, and to thank God.
Moments later, Latrice placed a wriggling, warm, slippery being on Etta’s chest. The soft lamplight encompassed them, and it seemed that Etta’s mother was there, and Roy, too, and all the seasons and feelings of her entire life, as Latrice leaned close and held the baby in place on Etta’s body with her dark hand on the baby’s pale skin, while she murmured a blessing upon the precious new soul.
“Her name is Latrice Katherine Rivers,” Etta said, the name coming in a commanding rush into her mind and out her lips.
Latrice stared at her. “We’ll get confused. We’ll have to call her Kate,” she said, turning quickly away.
Out in the kitchen, Johnny was standing, staring at the door. He had gotten to his feet at the sound of the baby’s cry. Now there was only silence. He looked questioningly at Obie.
“We appear to have a baby born,” Obie said with a wide grin. He snatched off his blue ball cap and slapped it against his thigh. “Hot dog! A new baby round this place.”
“But why isn’t it cryin’?” The silence worried Johnny. He thought the baby should be crying.
“There’s some that cry, and some that shut up,” Obie said. “The ones that shut up are preferable.”
Johnny was a little comforted, yet he still worried. He’d been waiting two hours, since Latrice had telephoned him in the barn. The telephone ringing like that had jangled his nerves in the first place, and he’d come running over, only to sit in the kitchen since, drinking Obie’s coffee, which was not at all the quality of Latrice’s, and occasionally pacing. He really wanted a nip of whiskey, but not only did he not have any since he had broken that one bottle, he didn’t dare get any, because he did not want to suffer a weak spell and get drunk and disappoint Etta at this most particular time. He tried to play cards with Obie, but mostly he walked a bit and then stepped to the door and smoked.
Obie said that two hours wasn’t much to wait at all. He had been present at the birth of ten of his nephews; he had waited once with one of his brothers for two days for the birth of a nephew. This report contrasted highly to Johnny’s experience, which was only with mares, who most generally gave birth within thirty minutes. If a mare’s labor went on much longer than that, more than likely either the mare or the foal, or both, died.
Just then the telephone on the wall rang, causing Johnny to about jump out of his boots. He and Obie gazed at it, dumbfounded. It had been off the hook when Johnny had come into the kitchen, and sometime during his pacing he had replaced the receiver.
It rang again before Johnny reached it and said hello in an angry manner—the telephone ringing and disturbing them at that crucial time annoyed him considerably.
“Who’s this?” a vaguely familiar voice demanded.
“Well, who in the hell is this?”
“Leon Thibodeaux,” the man said with some righteousness. “I want to speak to Etta, please.”
“It’s two o’clock in the mornin’,” Johnny pointed out.
“I can tell time,” the man said, then spat out a bunch of questions all strung together: “How’s Etta? Has she had the baby? I want to s
peak with her. Put Latrice on the phone.”
Johnny almost told Thibodeaux to make up his mind, then said simply that Etta had just given birth and therefore was unavailable, and that Latrice was with Etta. “I’ll tell them you called,” he said and hung up.
“That Thibodeaux fella,” he told Obie, and thought to take the receiver off the hook in case the fool or someone else tried to disturb them again.
It was another fifteen minutes before the door of Miss Latrice’s bedroom creaked open, and Miss Latrice stood there, disheveled and sweaty but smiling—at least what passed for smiling for her. She motioned, saying, “You may come and meet Miss Kate.”
Johnny could not move. Obie smacked him on the back, saying, “Well, boy, we got us a girl,” and gave him a shove forward.
Etta was sitting up against puffy pillows in the soft glow of two lamps. Johnny stopped just inside the room, gazing at her and at the small bundle she held in her arms. He thought suddenly that he should have washed his hands and combed his hair . . . and possibly put on a suit and tie, and bowed down, too.
Etta smiled at him. “Come see her . . .”
Johnny went to the side of the bed and looked. Overcome by the sight of Etta so beautiful holding the tiny baby, he went down on his good knee, peering closer at the tiny creature in her arms. Such a tiny, wrinkled thing, with the reddest face, like a turnip plucked out of the red mud, although he didn’t think he was supposed to say anything like that.
“She’s sure pretty,” he said.
Then Obie was leaning over Johnny’s shoulder and poking a finger at the baby and murmuring to her. Latrice sat on the opposite side of the bed and told them they didn’t have to whisper.
Looking around at all of them, Johnny felt oddly like crying. He would have gotten up and left, but Obie was blocking his exit, so he made himself go on acting natural. He had to blink really hard a couple of times.
If Wishes Were Horses Page 25
