Book of Mercy (21 page)
She sought the old feelings she usually met on the road, the feelings of freedom and adventure and forgetfulness. But on this trip, no dotted lines, no voices on the radio, could distract her. She still saw Fancy in her mind, still felt life leaving the deer in an exhausted huff. She could not forget the mess her life was in—alone, on the side of the road, with a child anxious to come and no hospital, or husband, in sight.
A pain corkscrewed up her middle, turning her inside out. Antigone bit her lip. She tried to remember how the perky Lamaze teacher told them to breathe. She tried Sam again, and this time someone answered. “Where the hell have you been?” she cried.
“Sorry, technical difficulties,” Sam said. “You okay?”
“Talk to me,” she begged.
She pushed her back against the corner of the Mustang’s backseat, stretched her legs across it, and listened to Sam’s comforting voice. She followed his words through the twisting trails of pain, grasping on for dear life to images and moments they had shared. “Remember that time at the beach,” he said. “That sand crab attacked me, and the pelicans . . .”
“No birds, pelicans or storks,” she grunted.
“Okay, okay, breathe. In and out like with the waves.”
“I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Hang on, honey. I’m coming. Breathe, Tigg, just breathe.” On and on Sam talked and she listened, the phone on the floor beside her on speaker, both hands clutching the seat with white knuckles. She gritted her teeth. “Don’t fight it,” the Lamaze teacher had told them. Fight? Someone give her a white flag; she was ready to surrender. Only Sam’s voice was real, her only strength, and she clung to it.
More than once Antigone thought she was going to die that night. She thought the pain would just carry her away, and she would never see Sam or Ryder again; she’d never get to meet her baby. She was going to die, she sobbed, and so she made promises to the universe.
“I’ll be a good girl. I’ll stop stirring up trouble. No more binge driving. No more talk radio shows. I’ll be the perfect mother. I’ll bake cookies and make things with craft paper and pipe cleaners. I’ll be nicer to everyone—even Irene. I’ll even close the library, if only you’ll keep my baby safe . . .”
Sam and the highway patrol reached Antigone at the same time. It was close to 7:00 a.m., and the sun was struggling to punch its way through the overcast sky. The officer took one look at Antigone, radioed for paramedics, and announced, “This baby’s not going to wait.”
“No kidding,” Antigone cried.
“It’s too soon,” Sam said.
“Not according to this little one,” said the officer.
And so, Antigone, Sam, Ryder, and a highway patrol officer named Ginelli brought into the world a perfect baby girl in the backseat of a red Mustang convertible. Ginelli, with seven children of his own, was an expert and calmly directed operations. When it was done and Antigone and baby were each wrapped in crackling space blankets scavenged from Ginelli’s emergency kit, Sam turned to Ryder and said, “Well, that involved more blood and screaming than I ever want to see or hear again.”
“I’m with you,” Ryder said.
Sometime, during the hollering and panting, the skies had cleared and the snow had stopped. Outside the sun was bright, glistening on the snow-covered hills. Inside the car, bundled in the backseat next to Sam, an exhausted Antigone watched Ryder instruct her husband on how to hold his new daughter.
“You gotta support her head. Like this.” Ryder leaned in through the window and positioned Sam’s hands.
Sam cupped the baby’s head with his big hands. It was amazing, Antigone thought, that their daughter was almost exactly a handful, fitting nicely into her father’s palm.
“There’s nothing to her. I’m afraid I’ll crush her,” Sam said.
“First-time fathers,” Officer Ginelli laughed.
Sam’s cell phone rang. Ryder reached into Sam’s shirt pocket and retrieved it. It was William.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, if Sam can figure out how to hold a baby,” Ryder said. “It’s a girl. Star nailed it—as usual.”
I
RENE STRODE THROUGH THE
door of the O. Henry Café just as William stabbed the off button on his cell phone and hollered, “It’s a girl! Oolong tea on the house!”
She glanced around the restaurant. The place was packed. She spotted Star and Earthly in a booth.
“I knew it,” Star said, jumping out of the booth and whirling around in a circle.
“How’s Antigone?” Earthly asked.
William pulled up. “Oh, I don’t know!”
Earthly sighed, “Men.”
“She must be all right,” William stammered. “I mean Ryder would have told me if something was wrong, wouldn’t he?”
“Probably,” Irene said, clutching her purse and walking over to an empty stool at the counter.
As she passed Earthly’s booth, she said, “I can be here if I want.”
“It’s a free country, Irene.” Earthly smiled.
William offered Irene a cup of tea. She made a face and ordered coffee, black. She didn’t know why she was here. For some reason, when she got up this morning, she’d felt this need to be at the restaurant. She sipped her coffee, listening to people worry about Antigone and discuss the recent events in Mercy. After one glance, she avoided looking at the door leading to Antigone’s library. Bookhenge, she thought with disgust, what kind of name is that for a library?
Exchanging another look with Earthly, who nodded and smiled again, Irene wondered why she wasn’t more upset. On Monday morning, those awful books would be back on the shelves in the Mercy High School Media Center. Maybe it was the phone call she’d intercepted this morning. It was the Japanese couple calling again, asking for Arthur. Irene had looked right across the breakfast table at her husband and said, “He’s not here, and we aren’t interested in selling the house.”
Arthur didn’t say a word.
And now there was a new child in Mercy. It had been quite a morning, Irene thought. She took a sip of her coffee and almost smiled.
W
AITING FOR THE AMBULANCE
to arrive to take his wife and child to the nearest hospital, Sam watched Tigg drift off toward sleep. Just as she was about to enter the place of dreams, she jerked awake and mumbled, “Sam?”
Sam leaned over and gently stroked his wife’s damp hair. He adjusted the extra coats they’d bundled under Antigone’s head for a pillow.
“What?” he whispered.
“I made some promises.”
“I heard. The speaker phone was working just fine. You were yelling loud enough for my mom to hear you in Florida.”
“I promised to give up the library.”
“You also promised to be nicer to Irene. Like that’s going to happen.”
“But about the library . . .”
Sam personally thought pledges made in the throes of labor—while another human being was trying to crawl out of you head first—didn’t count. Now was not the time to say so, though.
“Our daughter’s going to need good books to read to her mother,” he said, looking down at the tiny, sleeping babe cradled protectively inside his jacket. He heart was so full he was amazed it didn’t just explode from his chest.
Antigone smiled. “Yes, she is.” And then Sam watched utter exhaustion overtake his wife, just as he had the very first time they met. He’d touched her cheek then, too, while she was asleep and wouldn’t remember. That day, he’d sat on the trunk of the Mustang, inexplicably happy, watching over her. And he’d felt a lightness, the world coming into balance—just like now.
The End
T
HIS BOOK WAS MANY
years in its making. It lost its fire for a while, then my daughter came home from high school with a disturbing report, “They’re banning books,” and the embers were re-ignited. Suddenly, my ideals as a writer ran smack against my protectiveness as a parent. I watched censorship challenge individual freedoms in our North Carolina town, cause a beloved teacher to resign, and prompt many of us to examine the sides we take in such conflicts.
According to the American Library Association, on average about five hundred books are challenged every year in the United States—and those are just the ones we know about. Some would say this is horrible. But I think if we didn't have a way to challenge the actions of others, we wouldn't be truly free. So I accept that challenges are necessary, but I also am happy when they fail.
I would like to thank those who have so generously given me their time, attention, and wisdom while writing this book: Marlys Dooley, Lois West Duffy, Miriam Karmel, Janet Hanafin, Jean Housh, Connie Szarke, Ann Woodbeck, and our talented leader, Faith Sullivan. You have made me an infinitely better writer. I am in awe of your work and feel so lucky to have you.
Thank you also to several mentors: Barbara Graybeal, who has always been a keen supporter and smart editor; Ellen Hart, who is unfailingly kind, a wonderful writer, and the first person to introduce me to Dennis LeHane's books; Mary Carroll Moore, who gave me detailed and excellent advice; and sculptor Jim Gallucci, who let me weld with him for a day.
To Suzanne Roberts and Sarah Roberts Delacueva, thank you for your love and energy, which brighten my every day. Also, I am grateful to Sarah for editing this book not once, but twice, and stunning me each time with her intelligent observations (and good catches). Finally, and most importantly, thank you to Tony—you never give up on me, never stop trying to inspire me, and never let me rest too long. Yes, I know there is always another mountain, and you are waiting for me, hand outstretched, ready to help me climb it. I'm there with you until the end of time.
S
HERRY
R
OBERTS IS THE
author of a novel about art and creativity called
Maud’s House
,
two nonfiction books on the city of Greensboro, North Carolina, and several short fiction pieces. She has contributed essays and articles to national publications such as
USA Today.
After years as a newspaper reporter and magazine editor, she started her own company with her husband,
The Roberts Group
, to provide editorial services and Web development. She lives in Minnesota, where she feeds the hummingbirds in the summer; walks in the snow in the winter; and writes, edits, and designs books as well as newsletters, marketing materials, and websites. She follows the Minnesota Timberwolves basketball team (much to her despair) and is trying not to get too attached to baseball and the Twins. She fears she might have a bit of her mother in her, who was a
huge
St. Louis Cardinals fan and complained when they stopped taking her calls.
Visit Sherry’s blog is at
http://www.sherry-roberts.com
.
