When Horses Had Wings (4 page)

FOUR

T
he smell of baby oil permeated the bedroom even with both windows open. I’d been greasing my belly because Granny Henderson had sworn that if I kept my stomach and breasts anointed, my stretch marks would vanish along with my pregnancy. And I’d believed her on the grounds that anyone who’d had seven babies ought to know. However, most of what Granny Henderson told me was suspect. Like when she said that if I stared at that stray dog, the one that had been run over in front of our house, I would mark my baby. “Your child’s gonna have a birthmark shaped like that flattened mutt.” But I’d looked anyway, out of pure identification with the victim.

“Wanna see Mr. Wiggly?” Kenny said, stroking himself. I didn’t know why he felt the need to name his privates.

“No. Really. I’d rather not. I don’t feel well.” I rubbed at my belly, hoping he’d notice, then climbed into bed, socks and all.

“You never want to
do
it with me anymore,” he fumed. “Ever since you got
pregnant
.” He said it as if pregnancy was something I might have purchased through mail order or found packaged inside a cereal box. Rolling onto his side, Kenny walled himself against my assorted ailments, sneering under his breath, “You ought to be glad I still find you worth screwing.”

He was right, I figured. Nobody but Kenny would take a second look at me. On a regular basis, he reminded me of that. “You think anybody besides me would want your fat ass?” Then he’d add, “But I’ll keep you, I guess. You’re still young enough to train. Like they say, old enough for bleedin’s old enough for breedin’.” But he saved that kind of talk for intimate times like these.

“I’m sorry.” I traced his lower back with my fingertips. The apology turned him around. Substituting my hands for his, I took up his rhythm, hoping that he might settle for something less than expected. But he didn’t.

Two hours later, I felt a tightening in my abdomen and pressure mounting along my spine. A steady squeeze gripped me like a python. The torturing pains tapered off, only to return again within twenty minutes. My middle grew rigid; my toes curled under. I held my breath, but that only made things worse. If this was labor, I wanted none of it.

“Kenny?” His back was turned to me, in typical fashion. I nudged him with one elbow. “Kenny, wake up.”

“Nnn. Huh? Wha’da you want?”

“I think I’m in labor. We’ve got to go to the hospital. Now!”

He turned his face away and pulled a pillow over one ear. “Go back to sleep. It’s nothing.”

Right then, more than ever, I wanted Momma. If only she were there to protect me, take my hand and guide me through this mysterious passage, I’d be okay. I needed to grasp the palms of someone experienced, someone comforting and compassionate. While that might not have fully described Momma, it didn’t remotely identify Kenny Ray.

The contractions rolled over me in waves. I tried telling myself that each one would be the last. Midnight. Any minute, the pain would stop and I’d go to sleep. But no amount of denial could make the spasms cease.

I checked the clock: two a.m. Had I dozed off? I couldn’t be sure. My insides rose and fell like the seas. At any second, I feared it would be high tide. If only I could hang on a little longer maybe the moon would free me from its gravitational spell.

I drifted into a twilight sleep and dreamed I’d fallen overboard from a ship. Above, passengers milled around, sipping cocktails, and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. “Hey!” I called. “Down here! Help!” Didn’t anyone notice the woman bobbing in the waters below? Why didn’t somebody hear or see me?

Caught up in the vessel’s wake, helpless, I watched the crew sailing farther away. Darkness rendered me invisible as the ship drifted beyond any chance of reach.

A sudden sting in my right side startled me from the nightmare. Five a.m.

Soon Momma would be awake. She’d rise to make Daddy’s, and later Ricky’s, breakfast, though it was Saturday, and she could sleep in if she wanted. If only I could get to her, everything would be better.

Momma was a creature of habits, mostly good ones, a woman to whom routine brought security and a sense of purpose. She was predictable to a fault. And in my immediate need, I recognized that predictable meant reliable, too.

“Kenny!” I pushed him hard. “I need to go to Momma’s.”

“Hmm? What?” He peered at me through narrow slits. “You wanna go to your momma’s? Now? What time is it?” He propped himself on one elbow and then collapsed back onto the mattress.

“It’s five o’clock. I’ve been awake all night.” A pain stole my next breath, spiraling through my chest and ribs. “Please.” My voice weakened and climbed to a new range. “I need to see Momma. Please, get up and take me there, then you can come home and go back to sleep.”

Kenny rose, becoming a bit more coherent. “Aw-right, aw-right,” he growled. “Just let me get dressed first. If that ain’t asking too much.” He scratched his buttocks and then shimmied into yesterday’s crumpled uniform. “Might as well wear this, bein’ as how you’re making me work on a Saturday.”

By the time we arrived at Momma’s, another hour had passed. She took one look at me and asked, “When did you have your first pains?”

“Around ten o’clock.”

“Ten o’clock?” She looked confused. “Last night?” Her normally stoic expression evaporated. “And you’re just
now
thinking of going to the hospital?”

How could I tell her that I’d married a deadbeat, a good-for-nothing, irritable oaf who bullied and ignored me? How could I let anyone know that I’d pulled this guy out of the gene pool and chosen him, of all the men in Limestone County—not that there was a large selection to choose from—to father my child? What kind of statement would that make about me? I’d only end up looking more foolish and wretched than Kenny, if such a thing were possible.

“I didn’t believe, right away, that it was labor.” Something warm and moist escaped from underneath my housecoat before I could finish explaining. I stared with disbelief at what had broken free and pooled beneath me. It didn’t look like pee with all that white stringy stuff laced through it. Nothing had strained the liquid. I hadn’t bothered to put on any underwear because I’d feared I might go full-circle and wind up giving birth right where I’d conceived: in the back seat of Kenny’s car.

Momma grabbed a dishtowel from her kitchen counter and threw it at me.

I paused, not knowing whether to clean up the mess I’d made or wedge the cloth between my thighs. Before I could decide, another spurt gushed out.

“You take off,” Momma ordered Kenny. She snared her purse from the kitchen table. “I’m right behind you.”

~

At the hospital, Momma sat with me in a holding room where I remained until my baby’s head crowned. “This’ll soon be over and you’ll have a beautiful baby to hold,” she cooed. But I didn’t care if I delivered a possum or if I croaked right then and there. Whatever it took to stop this backbreaking punishment, I’d have gladly welcomed. I considered my limited options. I couldn’t afford anesthesia. And to my dismay, no one would administer a lethal injection.

My parents were the only ones fortunate or unfortunate enough, depending on which one you asked, to share my son’s birth experience. Kenny’s momma didn’t come to the hospital right away because nobody thought to call her. I guessed Kenny didn’t contact her because he was too busy pacing the halls and eating that king-size candy bar he’d purchased first thing after I’d been admitted. I heard him say to Daddy, “Comfort food,” followed by the sound of wrapping paper crunching, and then, “I need it to get through this ordeal.” I believed if a contraction hadn’t hit me right then, I’d have screamed a string of obscenities at Kenny that would have given my daddy yet another reason to feel sorely ashamed of me.

FIVE

B
irthing a baby was a bit like celebrating Christmas; afterward, it was difficult for me to wind down from the mental overload. Alone, pain-free, and exhausted, I couldn’t sleep. Possibly I was too hyped-up on hormones. However, I suspected it was something more like maternal love. Lying in the dark, I marveled at the miracle that had taken place, the awesome, unyielding power of creation—of motherhood. I had gained a knowledge that couldn’t be taught and experienced emotions I hadn’t known existed. My life had changed in ways I couldn’t yet fathom. Had my mother and every other mother on the planet undergone this kind of transformation? All I knew was that if Momma had felt like this on the day I was born, from what I could tell, the spell hadn’t stayed with her very long. Or maybe Ricky’s arrival had broken it.

A lighted bank sign pivoted outside my hospital window, inviting trade at an absurd hour. I focused on the red neon glow and thought about the coming day. When the sun rose, people would enter that bank. None of them would know that I had been there all night, steadily watching and eagerly waiting for them to arrive. I needed to see that sign to prove that I was still in Limestone County and to confirm that, despite my current state, the outer world and what kept it divided hadn’t changed.

Inside the hospital muffled cries originating from the nursery filled my room.
That’s my baby
, I thought, hearing his distinct vocals. That one was
mine
. On the farm, I’d learned how an animal’s brain was imprinted by the first sight of its mother. In much the same way I’d been imprinted by my baby’s initial sounds. I needed no one to tell me which cries were his.

What color were his eyes? I squinted and tried to remember. Blue? His hair? Did he have hair? His grapefruit-size head had felt dewy and warm against my chest. His miniscule fingers had clung to my gown. Instinctively, that small oval mouth had searched for me before the nurses had whisked him away. Why hadn’t they let me hold him a bit longer? Was something wrong? He’d been born three weeks early, and he’d weighed a scant five pounds. “A lightweight,” the doctor had said before giving one of the nurses a suggestive nod. What code had been hidden within that gesture? Like some kind of inside joke, the RNs had both seemed to understand. Whatever it was, they hadn’t let me in on it. Why was I, the mother, left out?

My baby would be all right. He had to be. I’d accept nothing less. For him, I’d endured unspeakable punishments and put up with all manner of stupidity. If a reward was to be had, he was it. Thinking of him heated me through, filled me with rapturous feelings, and renewed my hopes. No longer did it matter that I was homely or uneducated or neglected, because I was that child’s mother. And that, alone, made me someone significant.

~

Maybe folks without insurance recovered faster than those who had hospitalization coverage. That was all I could figure. Twelve hours after giving birth, I was released from Limestone County Memorial Hospital—without my baby.

I’d named our son Sean in honor of his Irish heritage and a James Bond actor that I found particularly handsome. Sean looked as perfect as morning sunshine on a field of winter wheat. Though I’d suffered fears to the contrary, I’d produced an exquisite baby. If only he would eat. My nurse said it was a common condition in “preemies.” But I thought maybe Sean had enough of Kenny in him to make him want to go back to sleep and be left alone.

Nothing about my pregnancy had gone the way it should have. Now our son had arrived too early, before we even had a crib for him to sleep in. However, as it turned out, it would be a while before I needed to worry over that.

Neta Sue turned downright hostile after being left out of her first grandchild’s birth. But what had she expected me to do? Get up off of the delivery table, ask the doctor for a dime, and waddle to a pay phone?

Instead of being angry with Kenny, she’d blasted me. “You’d think the
least
you could have done was
call
me when you checked in.” She didn’t say, “Hello. How are you feeling? What a beautiful boy!” or anything the least bit courteous. To boot, she’d entered my hospital room carrying a sawed-off milk carton stuffed with chicken wire and filled with artificial flowers. Her floral arrangement appeared even more bizarre than her behavior. How, I wondered, could anyone be so insensitive to a woman who had just given birth? And where in nature might anyone actually find
blue
roses?

Neta Sue never liked much about anyone. Sometimes I wondered if Kenny’s father might not have run off at all. Possibly one day his femur bone would surface in Neta Sue’s flowerbed. As conniving as she was, I put nothing past her. To hear her tell it, she was superior to everybody, from pediatricians to the President. No one but her could do anything right. Nobody except maybe Kenny. So knowing Neta Sue, I expected she’d find some way to blame me for Sean’s extended hospital stay, a setback that guaranteed he’d be a bottle baby and we’d be indebted for years.

Initially I’d planned to nurse Sean, not so much because Neta Sue had told me how much better this was for babies but because Kenny had stubbornly insisted upon it. He wasn’t about to get stuck buying baby formula. “That stuff’s more expensive than gold,” he’d declared. “I could buy a set of mags and a CB radio for what six months’ supply of formula costs!”

Kenny knew I hadn’t been keen on nursing. My breasts had always been tender and sore, even when I wasn’t pregnant. The thought of having my delicate glands gobbled at by a hungry infant, someone who didn’t understand the word
ouch,
terrified me. Besides, I’d seen what all that pulling did for a cow’s udder, and I hadn’t found it too becoming. Now it looked as though my nipples had been saved, but those auto accessories Kenny had been eyeing had moved farther beyond his reach. And Kenny didn’t deal well with being told he couldn’t have something when he wanted it.

“Wha’da ya mean?” he yelled the day Momma brought me home without Sean. She’d dropped me off at my front door and then hurriedly left so she could be home when Daddy came in from work. “How long is he going to be in that damn hospital?” Kenny asked.

“I don’t know. They said maybe as long as two weeks.” I lacked the strength to offer any more of an explanation than what should have been apparent. His interrogation threatened to choke the life out of me. I’d grown numb. My insides felt empty and hollow. How would I survive being separated from my baby for so long?

All of my hopes for a better life lay packaged inside a shoebox-sized bundle stored beyond my reach. I’d been separated from the one person who was supposed to love me no matter how grave my flaws. As I stood there arguing with Kenny, it seemed as if Sean might have been a hallucination. I pressed my hands to my swollen breasts and felt the wetness between my faded T-shirt and fingers. The faint smell of lactose and talcum powder reassured me it hadn’t been a dream.

“Two weeks!” The whites of Kenny’s eyes grew crimson. “And how much goddamn money is that going to cost us?” His gaze shifted from me to the floor and then to the dish strainer where I’d set a case of baby formula. For no reason that I could see, the hospital staff had sent me home with a free supply of Similac and a grocery bag filled with four-ounce glass bottles. He’d spotted both.

“I
tode
you— Tell’em you’re gonna nurse.”

When Kenny was mad, some of his “L”s disappeared, leaving me, often at very inappropriate times, to think about an amphibious creature.

“I did tell them. What do you expect me to do?” I cupped my hands to my breasts. “You want me to nurse a baby from twenty miles away?”

“You did this deliberately. Whore.”

Like some sort of psychomaniac, he darted from room to room in search of his car keys. Finding them, he raced out the door, shouting, “You damn sure better hope I calm down before I get back.”

I heard Kenny rev the Fury’s engine several times before its tires gave a spin. Rock cinders flew and popped against the car’s metal chassis. That caused me to remember that Kenny still owed his momma fifty bucks for the retreads he’d just put on the vehicle. Now that we had to pay for Sean’s extra hospital bills, we’d probably never have the money to repay her. But she wouldn’t care. She’d interpret our delinquent debt as proof that Kenny, unlike his father, still needed her.

As the sounds of rage dwindled in the late afternoon air, I faced my emptiness, no more alone perhaps than I’d ever been. Abandoned. Confused. In need of a womb where I myself might crawl back inside and await better times—if ever there would be any.

From my bed, I stared into our box window fan and watched the blades turn. Round and round the propeller spun, churning air, yet making no real advance.

Mesmerized by the flickering fan motion, I let my thoughts wander. I envisioned Sean’s tiny head. Like some kind of perfect pearl, it seemed impossible that it could have ever formed inside of me. Sean was a beautiful baby, despite my being half-responsible for his looks. He had the complexion of a new peach, flawless and covered with soft blond fuzz. His eyebrows, two faint ivory lines, didn’t even resemble mine. Somehow, he’d been spared. He didn’t look like a puppy after all.

Every time I thought of my baby, I felt as if I had a chicken egg lodged in my throat. I wanted him there with me, to hold, to caress, to rock in my arms, and to make him the kind of promises a mother diligently wishes to fulfill.

I had to concentrate on something else to keep from choking to death, so I turned my thoughts opposite. What would Kenny do when he returned? Would he strike me with his fists, as he had threatened so many times before? Would he drag me by my hair, curse me, and tell me how hideous I was? Or would he insist on having sex while I was still sore and bleeding?

Frightened, I telephoned Momma from the Hendersons’ residence. Granny eavesdropped the whole time, but she never said a word. She didn’t even come outside and sit with me on the front porch while I waited for Momma’s arrival.

“What on Earth has gotten into him?” Momma asked right off. “He’s never been this way before.” That was what Momma thought, anyway. I hadn’t told her about the time Kenny had shoved me down, or the day he had mashed my mouth until my teeth had split both my lips, or about the assortment of degrading remarks he regularly spewed at me. Right then, I was too emotionally upset to mention the past. The present was disturbing enough.

“I don’t know,” I croaked between sobs.

We stepped toward Momma’s station wagon, and Ricky relinquished the front seat so I could have it. Hysteria had a way of unleashing Ricky’s charity.

Momma drove in silence for most of the way to her house. But when she pulled her car into the driveway, she said, “Oh, I see your father’s home already.”

“Uh, oh,” chimed Ricky from the back seat, where I’d all but forgotten he was sitting. “He’s gonna be mad.”

But Ricky was wrong. Daddy didn’t say a word about his missing supper. In fact, I thought he took things pretty well as he listened to me rehash Kenny’s tantrum. That was, until he pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and left the room. I heard him walk down the hall and into his bedroom. It sounded like he opened something, maybe his chest of drawers, and then I heard the back door slam shut.

“Where’s
he
going?” Momma asked in a way that suggested I should know. I had only the vaguest hunch that it had something to do with finding Kenny. I’d have never suspected that, along with him, he’d carried a loaded 22-caliber pistol.