If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  "I love you, Armand," she answered. "I always have."

  It was a tender moment, but the heat of desire, the needs of the body, the lure of the flesh were honed too sharply to be denied.

  "Move with me," he ordered. "Meet me and match me."

  She did as he bid, greeting him stroke for stroke, flesh against flesh in an ancient rhythm that was both universally human and peculiarly their very own.

  As they gained confidence in the pairing of their bodies, their tempo increased. Aida felt herself spiraling once more. She urged him on, begging, pleading. He was pounding now, pounding, thrusting. It was wild and rough and sweet, oh so sweet, as her body tightened like a wire. Pulled taut and more and more and more.

  When she flew apart she cried out. And she heard him calling her name as if it were an echo.

  "Felicite, I'm sick," Jean Baptiste told her. "I am sicker than I think I have ever been in my life."

  As if to answer, she bent over nearly double, clutching her distended belly for a long moment.

  "It's coming fast, it's coming very fast, the second pain nearly on top of the first."

  Jean Baptiste's eyes widened in disbelief. " ‘T amie, you can't have the baby tonight. I am sick."

  She moaned and shook her head. "As if your will alone should stop it!" she told him. "Go get Madame Landry, go get me some help."

  She doubled over in pain once more. Jean Baptiste shot outside as if the demons of hell were after him.

  He made it all the way to the porch steps before another wave of nausea overtook him. He hesitated, praying that the ensuing weakness would pass. An instant later, everything went black.

  "Jean Baptiste, Jean Baptiste." „

  He awakened to find her nudging him awake. She was holding on to the porch rail and prodding him with her bare foot.

  "Wake up!" she demanded. "You have to wake up, I need you."

  "I'm awake, Felicite," he said, moving slowly as he made his way to a sitting position. "I'm awake, and I'll get to the boat. I know I can get to the boat."

  "There is no time for the boat now," she said. "There is no time for anything. Come into the house, Jean Baptiste. You are going to have to help me have this baby."

  As if to emphasize her words another pain went through her and her step faltered. For an instant Jean Baptiste thought that she might fall from the step and shot to his feet, hurrying to steady her.

  She didn't fall, but he nearly did as lightheadedness assailed him once more. The smell of his own sickness and the vile bitter taste in his mouth was abhorrent. As he helped her back into the house, he began to explain his predicament.

  "I think I can make it to the boat and even if I pass out there, it will drift downstream," he said. "I don't think that I can pole to Tante Celeste's for Madame Landry. But I can get some woman, somewhere surely."

  "There is no time for you to go out looking for some woman," she said firmly. "This baby is going to be here very soon."

  "It can't be this soon," he told her. "The other babies took hours and hours. Why, the day Marie was born Armand and I managed to put up the whole west fence while we were waiting."

  Felicite moaned again and leaned heavily against him. Jean Baptiste held her, worried. Felicite had to be wrong. A baby shouldn't come this fast. If it did, something might be wrong. And whether there was something wrong or not, he absolutely, positively could not help her have a baby.

  Once the contraction passed, she seemed exhausted.

  "You'd better lie down," he said.

  "Not yet, no not yet, it helps to walk. Help me walk." They began to move across the room.

  "Jean Baptiste you are going to have to help me bring this child into the world," she said.

  He shook his head. "I can't," he told her simply. "I haven't the vaguest idea of what to do."

  They reached the far corner of the room and turned, heading back the way they came.

  "I think I know what to do," she said. "I've had three, remember, this one can't be that different than those. Of course, Madame Landry said that each one is different."

  Jean Baptiste's queasy stomach was beginning to trouble him again.

  "That old witch!" he proclaimed angrily. She'd not only left his wife alone while she was in labor, she'd poisoned him as well.

  "You'll need to put some water on to boil," she said. "In that basket near the bed I've been saving rags. Put that old oilcloth table cover over the bed, then cover it with a sheet. I don't mind a big pile of laundry, but I don't want to lose that bed tick. That old one was never the same after I spilled all over it with Gaston."

  Jean Baptiste was going to vomit again. He knew that there could be nothing left in his stomach to heave, but he was going to have to heave it anyway. As he moved to run outside, Felicite gasped as the next contraction overtook her. It was much stronger than the last and she cried out loud.

  She had clutched her belly and through the layers of clothing, Jean Baptiste could see the coursing wavelike movements.

  "Sacre!" he whispered breathlessly to himself. He was holding her entire body weight in his arms and he felt as if his weak legs would give out from under him at any moment.

  He tamped down determinedly on the nausea rising in his stomach. He was not about to throw up on his wife in labor.

  The long agonizing pain passed and she straightened.

  Immediately Jean Baptiste raced out to the porch and threw up the last bit of bitter brown bile in his craw. He was weak, weak and sick. He couldn't possibly do this. He should get on the pirogue and get Felicite some help. That's what he should do.

  "Jean Baptiste!" she called out. "Come here, I need you."

  He hurried back inside the house.

  His wife was walking and moaning. She'd gathered up the harness straps for the bed and an old metal dishpan.

  "He's already started to roll inside me," she said. "You'd best get the bed ready. We're going to need it soon, very soon."

  Jean Baptiste ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Felicite, ‘T amie, I can't do this."

  She turned to stare at him.

  "I simply can't. It is ... I just cannot. Perhaps if I felt better I would try to . . ."

  He watched his wife's face as it changed, as it changed very drastically. Her brow drew down, her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowed. Without further warning she hurled the dishpan at his head. Her aim was nearly true and she caught him smartly on the shoulder.

  "You lousy, no-account, worthless swamp leech!" she screamed. "Just get out of this house, get out of my life and stay out of my bed. You can't do this, you can't do this!" she mocked his words. "Do you think that I can do this? Do you think I want to? I'll tell you what I want to do. If I could I'd go back to nine months ago. And when you pulled that big thing out of your pants, I'd beat you both senseless with an ax handle before I'd let it near me!"

  She was crying now, yelling and crying.

  "It's so easy for you," she told him. "You just put the baby in my belly and then get out of the way. Oh, you ask me if I'm fine and you tell me not to work too hard. But do you massage my back and rub my feet at night? Do you take on any of the work that is so hard for me? Do you just snuggle in bed and hold me close and kiss me without trying to get that thing inside again? No, you don't, Jean Baptiste, you never have and I guess I know that you never will. You lie up in that loft, dreaming of being a free man, dreaming of other women."

  "I have never been unfaithful," he declared.

  "Oh no, you wouldn't do that," she growled back. "You wouldn't openly bring shame upon me or lower yourself to indecency. But what you do is just as evil. You are irresolute in your heart."

  "Felicite, I love you. I have always loved you."

  She shook her head, but her tone softened. "You married me to be my lover. Having a lover is a great pleasure, but it is not a necessity. A woman doesn't need a lover, but a woman needs a husband. I need a husband. I need a husband this night and if you can't be one ... If you can't ..." Another pain
commenced and it brought her to her knees.

  "Oh God!"

  Jean Baptiste ran to her rescue. He squatted on the floor with her, holding her in his arms. She was screaming as he rubbed the spasms in her belly and whispered words of comfort.

  "It will be fine," he heard himself whispering to her. "We ... we can do this, we will do this and we will have a beautiful, beautiful baby. We love babies, Felicite. Remember how they are, ‘T amie, they are so tiny and helpless and just so sweet that you can't look away from them. All this pain is going to bring us a sweet little baby."

  As the pain passed, he helped her to her feet, still whispering words of comfort and kissing her brow tenderly.

  "Can you stand right here?" he asked her, propping her up in the doorframe. "Or would you rather sit?"

  "I'll stand."

  "Let me get the bed made up. Where is that oilcloth table cover?"

  "In the cedar chest," she answered.

  Jean Baptiste hurried to it and opened the lid. When he bent over to search it out, his stomach revolted once more and he had to race to the window. He did a half-dozen wrenching dry heaves before his insides settled once more. Little stars spangled around the edges of his vision but he didn't believe that he was going to faint again. He returned to the chest to find the table cover.

  "You're so pale, Jean Baptiste," Felicite said. He noted that she was not looking quite herself either.

  "Just something I ate," he told her, smiling more bravely than he felt.

  He immediately began to work, trying to do those things that had to be done. He had not, in his lifetime, ever made up the bed and had to learn the mystery of it as he went along. Once he got the oilcloth securely tucked in, he turned with some pride to his wife, only to realize that she was beginning another contraction. He rushed to take her in his arms. He held and stroked her and encouraged her. She gnashed her teeth together and screamed.

  "It's coming, Jean Baptiste," she told him, even before the spasm was completely past. "It's coming now."

  He helped her remove her skirts and get into the bed. Her body looked huge, distended without its modest covering. The reality of what her body was capable of somehow became more real to him than ever before.

  Quickly he harnessed the straps as she directed, one to the head and one to the foot of the bed. She would need them to pull against as she delivered.

  "Get the hot water and rags," she told him.

  Jean Baptiste left her and hurried to the fire. The water was just beginning to boil and using a mitt on the handle, he carried it into the bedroom.

  Felicite was moaning and writhing on the bed.

  "Have you got your knife?" she asked.

  He pulled it out of his pocket.

  "Drop it in the water, that's what Madame Landry always does."

  Jean Baptiste hesitated a moment—water would rust a blade—then he dropped it with a splash into the pot. If his wife wanted a wet knife, then a wet knife was what she would get.

  "Soak some of the rags in the water," she told him.

  "And wring them out good, they should be hot rather than wet. And get that cotton cord out of the cupboard and bring that dishpan I threw at you."

  He nodded and did as she asked. The nausea had eased somewhat. He laid the items he'd retrieved in easy reach on the floor by the bed, then he bent to check the cotton rags in the water.

  They were hot, almost to scalding. He tossed the wet rag from hand to hand for a moment until it had cooled enough to hold.

  Another pain gripped her.

  Jean Baptiste used one of the warm rags to wipe her brow.

  "Not there!" she growled. "A cool cloth for my forehead. The hot ones go down there."

  He didn't ask her to elaborate but hurried to dip a cool cloth for her. Once more he talked to her through the pain, caressing her back and belly and urging her onward.

  When the contraction subsided she turned sideways in the bed, hanging her feet off the side, and spread her legs so that he could stand between them.

  "The hot rags go down there," she said. "On my . . . on my yum-yum."

  Jean Baptiste raised a surprised eyebrow.

  "They loosen up the flesh," she explained. "Help it give without tearing so badly."

  He dipped his hand into the hot water and brought one out. It was almost too hot to wring.

  "I'm afraid I'll scald you," he said.

  Felicite shook her head. "It's better to scald than tear," she assured him.

  He didn't scald her. He packed the hot rags around the opening of her body. Jean Baptiste barely had time to complete the task before the next pain was upon her.

  This time she reached for the straps. He put them into her hands and she pulled against them. She threw her head back and the sound that came from her clenched teeth was almost a howl.

  Jean Baptiste felt frightened, helpless. What if something was wrong? How would he know? What if this baby ripped her apart? How could he stop it? He was her husband, the only husband that she had. He had brought this pain, this danger to her, and he had no idea how to take it away.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her, massaging her legs and thighs and talking, endlessly talking, reminding her of their three beautiful babies. Reminding her of their life together. Reminding her that no matter how he acted or how foolishly he had treated her, he loved her. He completely, totally, truly, and eternally loved her.

  "It's time!" she hollered at him.

  Jean Baptiste removed the hot rags that covered her and the truth of her words was revealed. His brow furrowed in momentary confusion as her intimate body appeared changed. There were tufts of hair inside?

  Realization dawned with wonder.

  "I can see him, ‘T amie," he told her. "I can see his little head."

  Felicite didn't answer. She was gripping the harness straps with such force that the bed was shuddering with her effort. She was growling and snarling like an animal as she bore down heavily and pushed, pushed, pushed.

  "Here he comes," Jean Baptiste told her.

  The tiny head eased out of her and he held it in his hands. Felicite was grunting and puffing. The baby turned slightly to let its shoulder pass and then, with a startling whoosh, it was in Jean Baptiste's hands.

  Immediately, unbelievably, it set up an angry wail.

  "It's here, it's alive," Jean Baptiste said, his voice filled with wonder and incredulity. "It's . . . it's . . ." He glanced down to the baby's genitals. "It's a girl!"

  "A girl?" Felicite's first words were weak and near breathless. "I thought it was a boy."

  "It's a girl," he told her with certainty.

  "You must tie the cord and cut it," she said.

  He lay the slippery new little creature on Felicite's abdomen and used the cotton string to tie two knots a handspread apart. Then he fished the knife out of the hot water pot and forever separated his wife from his new daughter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Helga and Laron sat up all night. It was, they knew, their last few hours alone together. Those couldn't be wasted with sleep. They gave little thought to Armand and Aida except to momentarily rue their own thoughtlessness.

  "This is their wedding night," Helga said. "We should have let them have the shelter and the fire."

  Laron nodded. "Or you would have thought that he and I were bright enough to know that we would need two fires and two shelters!"

  "Do you think that they are truly happy?" she asked. "It was all so surprising and hurried."

  Laron shrugged. "I don't know how it happened, but he says that he loves her. I have never known him to be a liar."

  "She must love him, too," Helga said. "When she looks at him her face nearly glows."

  They shrugged at each other at the unfathomable mismatch and then smiled. Laron wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer.

  "I can say that I envy my friend Armand this night," he told Helga.

  She nodded. "Aida is most beautiful," she agreed.

&n
bsp; "No, I don't envy him the possession of her. I envy that this is his first night with the woman he loves. For me and the woman I love, it is the last night."

  Helga nodded, understanding. They kissed, almost dispassionately, storing a memory of taste and texture and feeling.

  "We should not make love," she told him with firm conviction. "We have too many memories together already."

  He agreed.

  "It would be too bittersweet to claim you this night," he said. "And I need your words and your voice to soothe me as much as the feel of your body."

  They lay together side by side, chastely, as friends. Talking, sharing, regretting the past, fearing the future. The hours passed.

  As the night waned and the reality of their time together drew short, things changed between them. Over and over each cast anxious glances toward the eastern sky, fearful, apprehensive. Their kisses became more sensuous, more daring, more urgent. Suddenly and simultaneously they both became almost desperate for the touch of the other.

  Laron ripped her drawers getting them off and she cursed their existence in expressive German. They made love forcefully, passionately, rashly. Biting. Scratching. Pleading. It was a frenzied coupling. Full of fire and lust and recklessness. As if the physicality of their love could drive away the reality of their lives.

  Helga moaned his name as she shuddered with release. Laron moaned in agony as he was barely able to remove himself from her body in time.

  They lay in each other's arms, quaking, shaking, humbled by the power their bodies could create in tune. But as the sweet ecstasy stole away from them, misery took its place.

  Helga cried then. She cried wrenching, bitter tears. Laron held her close and whispered his love to her. He cried, too, his strong, solid chest heaving in grief.

  Afterward, in the quiet of the storm's wake, they dried each other's eyes and kissed each other's cheeks. They joined their bodies again. There was no wildness this time, no primal insistence, only the sweet swell of love expressed, bodies connected. They moved slowly and languidly together, tiptoeing to the brink of passion and retreating again and again, until finally exhaustion alone spurred them to fulfill the climax.