She smiled at Caney as she bent and gently slipped the soft bundle into his arms.
“I’d like you all to meet someone,” he said as he peeled the blanket back to reveal a tiny sleeping baby with a shock of black hair, one curled fist pressed against its face.
“This is my son, Caney Paxton the Second. But we call him Pax.”
Then, as if he knew he was the focus of attention, Caney Paxton the Second squinted one eye open and yawned, his mouth stretched into a dime-sized O, and kicked one leg free of his blanket, his foot slipping out of a sock no bigger than a thumb.
Molly O was the first to lift the baby from Caney’s arms, tears spilling down her face as she thought of Dewey whose love had been passed on from his heart to another’s, and now to this one she felt beating against her own.
Then Life slipped in beside her, enfolded her and the baby in his big arms and rocked them gently, his cheek resting against hers, his lips grazing the top of the baby’s head.
One by one the others rose from their places, hugging Vena and shaking Caney’s hand as they waited to meet little Pax.
And as he was passed from one to the other, he offered no com-plaint, his serene expression unchanging as if he accepted that this was what his life was to be—a succession of hands cupping his bottom and rubbing his back, fingers tracing the curve of his toes, lips pressing against the soft flesh of his cheeks . . . each testing and touching and tasting some part of him.
Hooks, holding him gingerly in his good arm, declared that he had the hands of a fisherman. Quinton, awkward with babies, commented that he had a good poker face, a look that would give away nothing when drawing to an inside straight.
Wilma proclaimed that the baby had his daddy’s eyes, but Wanda Sue argued they were clearly his mother’s.
Galilee held the baby’s pink face against her black one and whispered, “He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.”
Bilbo, recovered from his surprise that Caney’s equipment worked just fine, put a quarter in the jukebox when he got hold of Pax. Then, in the center of the floor, he danced the Beedoe Shuffle, holding the baby securely to his chest.
And through it all, Caney smiled, waiting for his baby to be returned to his arms.
*
Bui, the last to leave, had intended to go after he brought in the bassinet, the rocking chair and the boxes they’d moved from San Antonio. But when he finished, Caney motioned him to the kitchen where Vena was getting ready to give the baby a bath.
They watched her with the fascination of boys at their first magic show as she slipped the baby into a small plastic tub on the kitchen counter, held spellbound by her wizardry in handling the tiny, slick body. They were sure it was only by enchantment that she could soap and rinse the squirming creature, then, as if by lev-itation, lift him—dripping legs bicycling the air—before she caused him to disappear into a large, fluffy towel.
They followed her to the bedroom where she opened act two by obscuring their view with a cloud of baby powder, deceptive cover for close sleight of hand—the trick of diapering. She flipped the baby’s legs up in a sudden and smooth motion while, undetected, she slipped a diaper under its bottom and, before the powder had settled, magically secured the diaper.
How she managed to propel the baby’s limbs into the sleeves and legs of terrycloth sleepers the size of a work glove was beyond their comprehension, but knowing a true magician never reveals her secrets, they didn’t ask.
Then, for the finale, she settled Pax against her in the rocking chair, opened her shirt and performed the ultimate feat as the child found her breast.
*
Caney was in the cafe when Vena tiptoed out of the bedroom and closed the door softly behind her. Her hair, still wet from the shower, was wrapped in a towel, and she was wearing a soft flannel gown.
“Is Bui gone?” she asked.
“Yeah, just a few minutes ago. He hugged me twice, looked like he was about to cry.”
“Why?”
“He said it was the miracle of babies. Ours. His. All babies.”
“He’s a sweet man.”
“That he is.”
Vena let her head fall forward as she rubbed the back of her neck.
“You want some coffee?” Caney asked.
“No. I’m too tired to lift a cup.”
“Tired?” He studied her face. “Or is it something else?”
She looked puzzled. “Like what?”
“Vena, you haven’t changed your mind about anything, have you?”
“Changed my mind?”
“About being back here. Being with me.”
“Caney, I have a family here. You and Pax. Bui, Molly O . . .”
“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck. Don’t ever want you to think this is the end of the road.”
“I’ve seen the end of the road, Caney, and believe me, this isn’t it.”
“I’m just scared, I guess.”
“Scared of what?”
“That it can’t last. That you’ll need to go again.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Caney. Seems like this is the place I’ve been heading all my life. I took a thousand wrong turns before I got here, but . . . boat go where boat go.”
“Vena, I love you,” he said as he reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s just hard for me to trust happiness.” He swallowed hard, trying to ease the tightness that thickened his voice.
“But if you love me, I can do anything.”
“Yeah,” she said, hinting at a dare, “like what?”
“Oh, play the saxophone. Write poetry. Eat anchovies. Build you a house on that rise back in the meadow.”
“Where that stand of oaks shades the creek?”
“They’ll be right in your front yard.”
“Well, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “If that’s all you can offer, then . . .”
“Wait! I’m not finished.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll wear a tie at our wedding, paint your portrait.”
“You better be careful.”
“Vena, I can do anything as long as you love me.”
“Even dance?”
“Like Fred Astaire.”
“Now you’ve gone too far.”
“You think so?”
He rolled to the jukebox, dropped in a quarter and punched B7, turned and held out his hand.
Vena pulled off the towel and let it slide to the floor, shaking her wet hair free while she moved toward him.
Gathering her in his arms, pressing her warmth against him, he felt the stir of her breath on his throat when she whispered his name.
Then they danced, circling a floor of cracked linoleum, unaware of the smell of stale grease and onions, unmindful of the blowing rain striking the windows.
They danced, sweeping across a ballroom floor, polished, gleaming, smooth. They danced, filled with the sweet aroma of pine needles and pumpkin and baby powder. They danced, entranced by a crisp, clear sky lit by twinkling stars and a bright, full moon.
They danced, this man and this woman, whirling and spinning together on one magical Christmas night in the Honk and Holler Opening Soon.