The Changeling. Victor LaValle

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      IN THE BRADLEY method class their teacher taught them that the majority of women had been having babies without the aid of modern hospitals, obstetricians, crash teams, pediatric nurses, and—most of all, Pitocin—for, well, always. The female body knew exactly how to deliver a child, just as all living things do, and the job of the midwife was basically just to get the twenty-first-century out of the way. Apollo and Emma hadn’t been as adamant about home birth as others: if they truly needed to go to a hospital, they agreed they would. Emma had even packed a small suitcase for just such a contingency. They kept it under their bed. Nonetheless, Tonya explained, these Bradley Method classes were designed, in part, so that even the fathers could do the job of assisting with the delivery if needed. Apollo had believed this, had—with a degree of arrogance—repeated all this to Patrice when they were out on an estate sale together. But let’s be clear, Apollo Kagwa had been a staunch believer in the idea that he could deliver a baby because he was absolutely sure he would never, ever actually have to do that.

      But there they were, on the stalled A train, no midwives in sight.

      Maybe the nine-year-old girl, no longer able to read her book in the dark, might also be an accredited doula? Or could the four-man crew of dancers please also be a team of traveling obstetricians? At least the toddler in the stroller hadn’t woken up. How was this possible? Maybe the mom had dosed the kid with Night Time Triaminic.

      “Ohhhhhhhhh.” Emma made the sound, and Apollo, in his fear, almost clamped a hand over her mouth. He was worried not about decorum but about what that sound indicated. They’d practiced this moan in class. When the woman couldn’t simply breathe through the pain anymore, she was supposed to release exactly this moan.

      “Ohhhhhhhhh.” Emma did it again.

      In class one of the other expectant mothers had asked when she should make that call, when she should tell herself to begin. But Tonya—mother of two—had smiled kindly and said, When you’re in true labor, you can’t help but do it.

      “Ohhhhhhhhh.”

      When you’re in true labor.

      “Why you hurting your girl?”

      Apollo looked up to find the four dancers crowding close. One of them held his phone up, using it like a flashlight, which wasn’t really necessary—their eyes were already adjusting to the dim glow coming from the LED bulbs and signal lights in the tunnel. Being this near, he realized how young they were. Their leader, the oldest, couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He stood over Apollo, already making a fist.

      “Why you hurting your girl?” he said again.

      Apollo actually laughed at them. They thought they were coming to Emma’s aid, but once they looked at her instead of Apollo, all four boys lost their courage.

      “Yo! She’s pregnant!”

      Emma corrected them. “I’m starting labor.”

      He felt surprised by how calm she sounded, and these four boys seemed shocked as well. The kid in front, their leader—his closed fists loosened. When his mouth went slack, he looked as young as the toddler in the stroller.

      “We need some help,” Apollo said. “Could one of you run up and find the conductor?”

      None of them moved. The other three had actually stepped back, shrunk behind the oldest. Twelve or thirteen, the others couldn’t have been older than that. They peeked around the oldest one’s muscled arms. Emma had to make the same request.

      “One of you run and find the conductor,” she said, locking eyes with them.

      “I’ll go,” the youngest of them said. He pulled open the car door and sprinted.

      “Ohhhhhhhh.”

      Apollo stood up, and the other three boys moved away. The woman across from them watched only Emma. The girl leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder, her book now facedown on her knees. She watched Emma, too.

      “I need to get her on her feet,” Apollo said.

      “But she’s having a kid,” the oldest said quietly. “She’s supposed to lie down, right?”

      “What’s your name?” Apollo asked.

      “I’m Cowboy,” the boy said. “I used to live in Dallas, like ten years back, then we came up here with my parents so everybody calls me Cowboy, but my real name is—”

      “Cowboy,” Apollo said, and the kid looked up at him. “That’s a good name. Can we call you that?”

      Cowboy took a breath, spoke slower. “I want to help,” he said.

      “The best way to help my wife is to get her on her feet,” Apollo said. “Two of you hold her hands and pull while I lift her hips. Yeah?”

      Cowboy nodded and looked to the kid on his left. They positioned themselves in front of Emma and grabbed her fingers.

      “Wait,” Emma said. “Don’t hold my fingers. Hold my wrists.”

      The СКАЧАТЬ