Authors: Thomas Christopher
“Stop!” Joe shouted. “Stop! Leave her alone!”
“Enough!” pinch-eyes yelled.
The guard stopped, and Darrell let go of Mary. She slumped to her knees. Her yellow hair shrouded her face. Her hat lay crushed and torn on the ground. She shielded her naked breasts with one arm while she cradled her belly with the other.
Seeing her like that hurt Joe more than seeing her in the grip of the minister. Or perhaps the emotions were different and that was why it felt worse.
Joe wrenched free from the guards and knelt down beside her. He stared into her eyes. What he saw dug even deeper. Her eyes trembled, but it wasn’t out of fear or pain or exhaustion. She looked at him as if he was the only one who ever saw her. He slid his arm gently around her bare shoulders and then slid his other hand across her swollen belly before he helped her to her feet.
Pinch-eyes shook his head at them. “Look at you two pathetic wastes.”
“Yeah,” another guard said, “that girl looks like she’s got a tumor growing out of her.”
“Looks like a boil on my ass,” Darrell said.
“She don’t even look human.”
“Worthless dirt-eaters,” pinch-eyes said. “We should cleanse the city of dregs like you.” He shook his head again. “Get out of here. It’s making me sick looking at you.”
Joe grabbed Mary’s dress and fitted it over her head and pulled it down over her body before he put his own clothes back on. Then he picked up their ratty shoes, and they both got in the cab to finally go.
Chapter 43
The forest road descended along a twisting channel where the air grew colder and damper. Joe dug the bloodstained shirt out from under the bench and put it back on. Dripping moss hung from trees. The darkness grew thicker. Lester and Sam’s hooves slipped on the slick, rocky path. The wagon jerked and jounced. They were finally out of the city, but Joe still felt it on his skin, like slimy grease you couldn’t wash off.
He kept looking behind him, expecting someone to be there, but all he saw was the black darkness like thick, wet tar. He couldn’t get it out of his mind that they weren’t still in danger. The deeper they went into the forest, the more he believed that they had miraculously made it out in one piece.
He hadn’t checked the briefcase of money yet to see if there was actually money in it. A part of him didn’t want to. If there was nothing inside, the disappointment would be overwhelming, especially since they’d dumped the diesel and now they would have no way of getting the money at all. At the same time, he had to know.
He stopped the wagon.
“What is it?” Mary said.
“That case,” Joe said.
Joe pulled the floorboards out and yanked the briefcase up onto his lap. He fumbled with the latch until it sprang open. There, on the cloth that lined the inside of the briefcase, sat several fat stacks of bills. He didn’t know how much it was, but at least it wasn’t empty. Joe should have been happy, but he didn’t feel that way right then. He felt relief more than anything. Maybe later, when the events that led up to getting the money receded in his memory, he would feel all the joy he had anticipated from the very beginning.
Besides, their journey wasn’t over.
They still needed to reach home. But now that they had the money, they could buy needed supplies like food, water, and a new rifle. It was an advantage they didn’t have before, and one that could ease their way back home. All they had to do was make it to Duncan Ridge, the town the guards had talked about.
Chapter 44
Near dawn, the dark and dense forest began to lighten. Joe could see the green and brown lichen covering the stones in the road and coating the tree trunks that crowded the roadside. The thick tree branches overhanging their path began to appear against the heap of leaves stirring above. After all the noise of the city, it somehow seemed too quiet, too isolated, too alone. He couldn’t wait to feel the comfort of the bright, wide
open plains again.
As the wagon bumped along, Mary convulsed in pain and clutched at her belly more and more. She tried to hide her discomfort by turning away, but it was useless. She groaned and twisted in her seat.
“Is it the baby?” he said.
She nodded
and convulsed again.
B
elieve it or not, he was ready. He wasn’t the same boy who left that dusty farm not long ago. For one thing, he totally forgot about the money and everything they’d gone through in the city. He didn’t care about being a hero either. It was as if it all didn’t exist anymore. It was as if the entire journey had been leading up to this moment instead. He felt a sudden sense of completeness, the kind he thought he would only feel when he finally reached his ultimate goal of securing the money. This new feeling of wholeness swelled inside him. It was like when he stared at a star gleaming in the night and felt strangely connected to it, as though a part of what shined so brightly up there was also a shining part of him.
Mary’s legs swung open and water splashed on the floorboards
like an over-turned bucket. He knew what the broken water meant. He’d seen animals give birth on the farm. A convulsion made Mary double over and rock forward into the dashboard. She was in agony. Joe pulled the reins and the wagon skidded on the slick rocks before coming to a halt.
In the wagon, he made a bed for her by spreading out the dirty blankets. He stripped the shirt from his back to swaddle the baby after it was born. Then he went to her side of the cab. He shoveled his arms beneath her tiny body and scooped her off the bench. He carried her to the back of the wagon where he lift
ed her higher and cradled her onto the bed. After he crawled in, he knelt beside her and pushed her smashed-up hat off her head. He brushed away the strings of stiff yellow hair crusted to her brow. Her eyes reached out to him like grasping hands.
When he moved in front of her and lifted her torn dress, she immediately snapped her legs shut. He pulled her wet soiled underpants off her thin hips and down her legs. Gently, he slid his hands over her bony knees and pried them open. To his surprise, the crown of the baby’s head, shiny and slick, was already pushing its way out. Within a few minutes, it popped through completely. Joe smoothed his hands around the baby’s wet head. Bloody liquid spilled over his arms.
A moment later, the child’s whole body slipped out, followed by the glug-glug of more liquid. The baby was limp and slippery. The umbilical cord was twisted around its neck. Joe was afraid it wasn’t alive anymore. It felt like a stillborn calf, wet and floppy. He quickly unwound the cord and fished his pocketknife out of his pants and severed the cord with one rapid slice. He grabbed his shirt and wrapped it around the limp baby before he set it on Mary’s chest. She cradled it and lifted her head to look at the newborn child. With the back of her fingers, she stroked its tiny cheeks and lips and eyes. She made a soft cooing sound and smiled. The baby still hadn’t moved.
“It’s ours,” she said.
Joe didn’t say anything. He thought it was dead. Then all of a sudden the child began to wail.
Acknowledgements
Tremendous thanks goes to the following: my wife
, Jessica; my mother, Cynthia; my brother, John; my sister, Amy; my sister-in-law, Verna; my friend, Chris; and my former agent Stephen Barbara, who helped shape this book beyond my expectations.
About the Author
Thomas Christopher grew up in Iowa. He received his MFA from Western Michigan University. His short stories have appeared in
The Louisville Review, The MacGuffin, Redivider,
and
Cooweescoowee.
He was
also awarded an Irving S. Gilmore Emerging Artist Grant and was a finalist for the Matthew Clark Prize in Fiction. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife and son.