The Dancer

by Jane Toombs

  "What's the matter?"

  "The pain seems to bore right through me."

  Elena crossed to the chaise. "I'll help you sit up so I can reach your back."

  Using a rose-scented dusting powder, Elena began to rub her friend's back.

  "I can't abide sitting like this," Meg cried, "it makes the pain worse." She eased down onto the chaise, her hands holding her enlarged abdomen. "It hurts all the way through to here," she said fretfully.

  Elena stared down at her, beginning to suspect the pain was something more than a simple backache. Fearing the baby was coming, she cast an alarmed glance at the windows, rattling with the force of the wind-driven rain. Ysabel, she knew, would stay at her daughter's until the storm abated. That might be hours. Her only choice was to send for the doctor.

  Between the Bothwick home and the Los Angeles road was a dry arroyo that became a rushing torrent when it rained hard. Just yesterday Warren had mentioned the ancient bridge over the arroyo wasn't safe for the automobile and he'd have a new one built. But the bridge was safe enough for a horse. She'd send Clem, the stable boy, to fetch Dr. Evans and hope the doctor got here in time.

  Twenty minutes after Clem had ventured forth on a dependable dappled mare, he was back, drenched, shivering and shaking his head.

  "The water in that there arroyo is over the banks, miss, it's covered the bridge. Ole Jessie, she wouldn't set foot on it. Did she, we might've been swept away. Ain't no way to cross I can see. Gonna be a real flood."

  Warren had driven the new automobile into Los Angeles in the morning before the rain started, he and the car would be stranded there. Except for the hired help--the cook and two maids, all Mexican--Elena was alone in the house with Meg. The maids, younger than she, were unlikely to be any help but Ines Flores, the cook, was middle-aged. Before returning to Meg, Elena sought out Ines in the kitchen.

  "No, senorita," Ines said, "I know nothing about babies coming. While my husband still lived, we were never blessed with a child of our own."

  What will I do? Elena asked herself as she hurried up the stairs, hearing Meg's moans before she reached the bedroom. Conchita, the maid she'd left with Meg, met her at the door.

  "My grandmother," she said in a low tone, "she make my mother walk up and down, up and down, when my sisters were ready to be born. Madre, she don't like to walk but my abuela, she say it makes the baby come quick, no time for hurting."

  "Did you see your sisters born?" Elena asked hopefully.

  Conchita shook her head. "My abuela, she make me fetch water and many clean cloths, then she chase me out. I bring to you?"

  "Maybe you'd better," Elena said, wondering, as Conchita hurried away, if she should insist Meg walk.

  "It hurts," Meg cried.

  Elena, beside her, rested a tentative hand on Meg's swollen stomach, finding it hard as a rock. Was that normal?

  "I can't stand it!" Meg's voice rose.

  Elena tamped down her incipient panic. She had to stay calm, she was all Meg had. "Yes, you can." She spoke soothingly but with as much firmness as she could manage. "I'm going to help you stand and we'll walk across the room."

  "No, no, it'll hurt more."

  "It won't." With an arm about Meg, she eased her up and off the chaise, refusing to be frightened off by Meg's groans. Maybe walking wasn't necessary but Elena didn't know what else to try and it might at least take Meg's mind off the pain.

  "Walking makes it easier for the baby to come." Elena tried to sound more positive than she felt. "Walk to the windows and back."

  "I can't," Meg protested but she took one slow step after another, leaning on Elena. At the windows she straightened, staring at the driving rain. "What a terrible storm. The arroyo will overflow." Her eyes were wide with alarm when she looked at Elena.

  "We're dry and cozy inside the house," Elena reminded her. "I'm here with you, there's nothing to be frightened of."

  "Do you really know about babies coming?"

  "I know enough." Elena hoped her lie sounded convincing. "Keep walking."

  Meg turned away from the windows. "I might have known

  Rory's baby would be born in the middle of a storm."

  "To be on the safe side, you'd better stop calling him Rory's baby."

  "I can't think of him as Warren's."

  "Then think of him as yours. Your baby."

  Meg's steps faltered. "It's beginning again." She clutched at her abdomen. "You don't know how it hurts." She sagged against Elena for long moments, then slowly straightened. "It comes and goes in waves," she said tearfully.

  "Then we'll walk between times. Come on."

  "The Lady of Shalott was luckier than she realized," Meg said. "All she had to do was lay down gracefully in a boat and drift down the river singing a beautiful song until she died. No swollen ankles, no pain."

  "You'll change your mind after the baby's born. To the windows and back again."

  Conchita knocked, then came in with a large basin of water and a stack of towels, along with a knife and a long twist of thread. "My abuela uses these for the cord," she said before slipping out the door.

  Elena hoped she'd understand what to do when the time came. She soon noticed Meg's pains growing closer together. Finally, Meg eased herself onto the floor and stretched onto her back with her knees bent, refusing to rise.

  "Just as far as the bed," Elena pleaded, kneeling beside her. "You can lie down there."

  "I can't move," Meg gasped.

  Suddenly blood-stained fluid gushed from between Meg's thighs. , Meg,grunting between her groans, seemed unaware of what had happened.

  Realizing she'd never get Meg off the floor, Elena quickly wiped up most of the fluid with a towel, placed two fresh ones on the floor between Meg's thighs and, flipping back Meg's dressing robe, crouched beside her apprehensively, waiting for whatever came next.

  Perspiration beaded Meg's brow and the cords stood out in her neck as she grunted, obviously pushing down hard. Pushing the baby out? Something dark appeared in the stretched opening between Meg's thighs. Elena held her breath, watching blood trickle onto the towels.

  Meg pushed and pushed again. It seemed an eternity before the baby's head, then its shoulders, slid free. As Elena reached for the baby, a final push shoved it all the way onto the towels. A boy. He coughed and began to scream.

  Elena couldn't get a good grip on the slippery infant.

  "Why is he crying?" Meg asked weakly.

  "All babies cry." Elena spoke absent-mindedly, her attention on the cord running from the baby's navel, a cord whose other end was somewhere inside Meg. This must be what she was supposed to cut with the knife. And the thread--was that to tie around the cord first so it wouldn't bleed when she cut it?

  Hoping she had it right, Elena reached for the knife and the thread.

  "I want to see him," Meg said.

  "In a minute." Elena looped the thread tightly around the cord about two inches from the baby's stomach and knotted it firmly. She picked up the knife, and, holding her breath, cut through the cord. Blood oozed from the severed end not connected to the baby. Blood also trickled from Meg, worrying Elena. Wrapping a towel around the wailing boy, Elena lifted him from the floor and laid him on Meg’s stomach.

  "Oh my God," Meg said. "He's got red hair." Before Elena had a chance to say anything, Meg groaned. "The pain's coming back!" she cried.

  Blood gushed, then a dark, meaty-looking mass. The afterbirth, Elena realized. She'd heard whisperings about how an afterbirth was supposed to be buried or misfortune would follow but she'd never known exactly what the women meant by the word.

  The bleeding slowed, Meg's pains eased and Elena, after wrapping the afterbirth in a towel, began cleaning the blood from Meg.

  "You must cut his hair," Meg babbled. "Right down to the scalp. All of it. Now."

  "It'll grow back," Elena said.

  Meg burst into tears. "I want his red hair cut off."

  The baby, who'd quieted, began to scream.
>
  "All right, I'll do it." Elena said. "After I get you into bed."

  When Meg, in a clean nightgown, lay with the sleeping baby in her bed, Elena took a pair of small scissors from Meg's embroidery kit. Now that she'd washed the blood and waxy birth covering from the baby, she saw his hair was as bright a red as Rory's. Luckily, there wasn't much of it.

  Gingerly, she snipped at the fine strands, shearing the little head until only a fuzz of indeterminate color remained.

  "Poor little Patrick," Elena murmured. He woke and turned his head, making sucking sounds. "Patrick wants to eat," she told Meg. "Put him to your breast."

  Meg stared up at her. "I don't know how."

  Open your gown. I think he'll do the rest."

  Patrick took only a moment to find his mother's nipple. Meg grimaced. "I don't like the way that feels," she complained. "And I'm getting cramps in my stomach."

  Elena, carefully removing every strand of the hair she'd clipped off, frowned at Meg. "You'll get used to him nursing."

  Tears trickled from Meg's eyes. "Don't scold me. I'm doing the best I can."

  Elena bent and kissed Meg's forehead. "You've been very brave."

  "I've heard that a baby's hair sometimes comes in a different color if it's cut off early," Meg said. "If Patrick's doesn't, maybe we can dye it brown."

  "Not forever."

  Warren will never believe Patrick is his baby. Not with red hair. I'm afraid he'll leave me and then what'll I do?"

  "Don't worry about the day that hasn't come. Perhaps Warren had an ancestor with red hair. Or you did."

  Meg brightened. "I can say I did, whether it's true or not. On my mother's side. No one around here ever saw her people. If Patrick's hair comes in red again, I'll tell everyone my mother's mother had red hair."

  As Elena called Conchita to clean the room, she thought to herself that for someone who had to be cajoled into marrying Warren, Meg seemed eager to stay married to him.

  Which was all to the good. Baby Patrick might even forge a new bond between them.

  She was happy Patrick had been born without trouble. And that there'd been no doctor attending the birth who might say he wasn't an early baby. Whether Meg thought so or not, Elena felt Meg's troubles were over.

  Mike Dugald tossed the empty bottle into the dry arroyo, hearing the clunk as it hit the sand, and led his bay toward the house. No moon tonight, one of the reasons he'd chosen it. Starlight was enough to see by, but too dim to make pursuit easy. Not that he planned to be pursued. He'd watched and waited for almost a week and dropped a few questions in Los Angeles cantinas as well.

  Warren Bothwick played poker every other Friday night at a men's club on what used to be Esperanza Street--Hope Street, they called it now that Anglos were running Los Angeles. Not that he cared. Gringo or greaser made no difference to Mike Dugald, he trusted no one but himself.

  On this Friday night he'd watched from his hiding place in the eucalyptus grove and seen Bothwick rattle over a new-built bridge across the arroyo in one of those automobiles, trailing stinking blue smoke.

  Mike had taken care to find that no men-servants were in the house. And the small ranch had no sleep-over hands. Bothwick hired by the day. Except for the young and skinny stable boy, there were no men on the ranch at all. Only women.

  And Rory's baby.

  He'd hit Los Angeles two weeks ago, blowing in on a chubasco from Mexico. An ill wind for the Burwashes. He'd taken care to stay out of sight of anyone who knew him, frequenting Sonoratown, the Mexican slum east and south of the plaza. The yellowbellies were edging into Sonoratown, just like they'd already done to Nigger Alley north of the plaza. Wouldn't surprise him if Los Angeles turned all Chinese some day.

  A man could learn damn near anything he needed to know in Carmona's place on Buena Vista Street. It was there he'd learned that Meg Burwash was married to Bothwick and she'd had a baby named Patrick. Damned clever of Meg to get herself married to some trusting fool so quick. She was like all Burwashes--no damn good.

  Not that he cared. Patrick was all he was interested in. Patrick Dugald, he liked the sound of it.

  Elena lifted the baby from the arms of his sleeping mother. His blue eyes fluttered open only to close again as she carried him to the door. Patrick's cradle had been in her room for two weeks now, ever since he was born. Meg nursed him but otherwise Elena cared for him, since Ysabel was still in El Doblez caring for her ill daughter.

  Because of Meg's feelings for Rory, Elena had expected her friend to dote on little Patrick. But Meg seemed content to have the baby with her only long enough to nurse him.

  "Mrs. Bothwick has a delicate constitution," was Dr. Evans's pronouncement. "It'll be sometime before she regains her strength."

  Perhaps that was it.

  Warren smiled when Patrick was brought to him but showed none of a father's pride, leading Elena to wonder if he didn't suspect the truth--though he seemed as devoted as ever to Meg.

  Elena adored the baby and was convinced he already recognized the sound of her voice. Since Patrick's hair was slow to grow back, it was hard to tell if it would be as red as before.

  As she closed the door to Meg's bedroom, Elena heard someone climbing the front staircase and paused. It wasn't like Warren to return so early on a Friday night and the servants weren't supposed to use the front stairs, though they sometimes did.

  "Warren?" she asked.

  No." A man's voice. A man's figure approaching along the dimly-lit corridor.

  Elena tensed. She'd narrowly avoided Davis last week when he came to see his new nephew. He was the last person in the world she wanted to meet now. "Who is it?" she demanded.

  "Only little Patrick's uncle," the man said.

  Not Davis's voice. Uncle? "Mike Dugald!" she exclaimed in dismay as he strode up to her. "What are you doing here?"

  He reached for Patrick, trying to take the baby from her arms but she turned away, resisting him. "No, don't, he's asleep. And, anyway, you shouldn't--""

  Mike glared down at her. "Don't you go telling me I can't hold my own brother's child."

  "He's not--" she began.

  "I found a note written by his mother that says he is."

  He reached again for the baby. The rank smell of whiskey filled her nostrils.

  A note? The lost note? It must be. Elena shrank against the wall, intent on protecting Patrick. "How did you get into the house?" she asked, realizing no one had announced his arrival.

  "Walked in." Mike put his hand on the hilt of his holstered gun. "You can make this easy on everyone or you can do it the hard way but I mean to take my nephew with me. Bothwick don't want another man's child and she don't deserve him, she's a Burwash."

  "Take Patrick? Are you crazy as well as drunk? He's only two weeks old! What do you know about taking care of a little baby?"

  "Not a damn thing." He smiled at her, a thin-lipped smile that curdled her blood. "Guess you'll have to come along with me and Patrick to save him from his drunk ole uncle." He drew the pistol.

  "No," she whispered, her gaze on the gun.

  "If you don't come along quiet-like," he warned. "I'll kill Patrick first. He's better off dead than living with Burwashes."

  He was crazy. She didn't dare risk the baby's life, she'd have to do what Mike said. "At least let me bring blankets for him," she begged.

  At gunpoint, she entered her room and retrieved the old black cloak for herself, blankets and clothes for the baby. Mike forced her to walk ahead of him down the stairs to the front door. Once outside, despite her protests, he lifted Patrick from her grasp.

  "Tell the stable boy you want a horse saddled," he ordered. "I'll be listening to what you say so you'd best watch your words. You try to give the alarm and Patrick dies first."

  Clem, the stable boy, gawked at her when she asked for a horse. "Right now, tonight?" he asked unbelievingly.

  "I've had bad news from home," she told him, her voice quivering with dread lest Mike misinterpret Clem's de
lay.

  What would he do if the baby began crying? "Please hurry."

  "I'm sorry, miss," Clem said, reaching for a saddle. He paused. "You want a side saddle?"

  She knew he'd asked because she was wearing an ordinary house gown, not a riding habit with a divided skirt but she grown so accustomed to riding astride she didn't dare risk a side saddle.

  "No, a regular saddle is fine."

  He shrugged and bore the saddle inside. When he brought the mare, she noticed it was Meg's palomino, Bella, not her own elderly horse. "Had to give you the missus's," Clem said. "Your mare's lame, I been poulticing her."