When the Pirate Prays. James B. Johnson

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      “You certainly know the terminology,” she added.

      “Call it malarkey,” said Angie, wiping Sandra Dee’s brow with a wet cloth.

      Ignoring the elderly “Granbo,” I nodded to Mary Lynn. “After I assisted in the emergency birth that time, I went to the library and read up on it. I, um, kind of have a didactic memory for some things.”

      “You can say that again,” said Angie.

      “Damndamndamndamndamndamn,” said Sandra Dee.

      “You better check again, Billy,” said Mary Lynn. Her pony tail bobbed, distracting me for a moment.

      Wishing I really did know what the hell I was doing, I checked again. I was wearing a pair of disposable plastic gloves from a package Tapes had found in the kitchen. He’d microwaved ’em for a few seconds to insure their sterility.

      “Drop your knees to the side,” I directed Sandra Dee.

      Granny shot me a scathing look; but Sandra Dee was in too much pain now to be modest. Soon she’d pay any price to be done with the labor.

      Awkwardly and reluctantly, I felt around in there. “The infant’s head’s right there waiting. Her—” I regrouped. I wasn’t playing to an audience, even though it included the fair Mary Lynn. I should be concentrating on the one person who really needed my help. “Your,” I corrected, “cervix is dilating well. You certain you never had a baby before?”

      “Yes, I, damndamn, mean no, I mean, damndamndamn, I don’t know what the hell I—”

      “I know what you mean,” I said, and pulled the sheet down over her. “You’re close to ten centimeters—”

      “What’s that mean?” asked Sandra Dee panting.

      “Beats me,” I said. “I don’t do metrics.”

      “About four inches,” said Mary Lynn.

      I bent down there again and mopped up a bit of discharge. “The border between the first stage and the second stage begins when you get full dilation of the cervix. Your contractions will become stronger and more frequent.”

      “Damndamndamn that’s reassuring,” Sandra Dee gasped. Her brown hair was splayed out on the pillow, framing her pale face. Her lips were almost bloodless.

      “It’s not really any of my business,” I began, wondering. “But why are you here?”

      “Any of your business?” Granny Maple said.

      “It’s my fault,” said Mary Lynn.

      “Nononono,” said Sandra Dee. “I live over in Placida, just across the bridge. I came to support my friend—damndamn damn.”

      Not being familiar with divorce parties, I didn’t know the protocol about how you support a friend by attending a party in honor of the formal dissolution of her marriage.

      “It’s about ten miles,” said Mary Lynn. She took the pie plate and went into the bathroom and rinsed out the accumulated bile, etc.

      “I’m a licensed cosmetologist and, damndamn, esthetician,” Sandy explained.

      “That must mean something,” I said.

      “I wax, ohnoohno, Mary Lynn’s legs about once a month.…”

      “I’ll trade jobs right now,” I said.

      “See,” she moaned a bit, “after waxing, the new hair is softer than razor stubble—”

      “I’m fantasizing,” I said.

      Mary Lynn returned from the bathroom and my eyes froze on her legs for a moment.

      A series of strong winds buffeted the hotel and the lights flickered and we all held our breaths at the same time and I saw the pure panic in Sandra Dee’s eyes.

      The lights steadied. “No problem,” I said.

      “You say,” said Angie.

      “I do.”

      “Mary Lynn needed her friends, it was—damndamndamn damn—as simple as that.”

      I put my hand gently on her bulging lower stomach. “Sandy, push during the contractions. Use whatever muscles you can control; think abdominal wall, think diaphragm.”

      “Her name is Sandra Dee, not Sandy,” said Granny.

      “It doesn’t mat—damndamndamn.”

      “Push a little this time.”

      Things quieted down for a few minutes.

      Mary Lynn moved to the other side of Sandra Dee and held her hand while looking at me. “My husband was ten years older than I am. We were married for ten years. He became enamored of someone ten years younger than I am.” She dropped her head and hiccupped softly. She still wasn’t over the trauma. Her pony tail wavered atop her bowed head. She raised her head.

      “Some guys don’t know what they’ve got,” I said softly.

      She eyed me, slightly off balance from what I said, and then said, “Several of my friends decided to help me over the hump. The first night of official singleness—some call it freedom.” She stopped as if she didn’t consider being single being free. “It was their idea to celebrate—”

      “Damndamndamndamndamn,” Sandy breathed hard, “we wanted to show her she oughta be glad to be shut of that sneaking sonofa—”

      “Now, now,” smoothed Angie. She looked crossly at me. “It’s none of his business anyway.”

      “Just curious,” I said. “Not prying.”

      “Sure,” Granny said.

      Sandy’s legs spasmed, rippling the sheet. “Goddamn.” Her hair was bunching up around her head and Mary Lynn methodically straightened it.

      A firm knock came at the door. Tapes.

      I held up my gloved hands which I’d taken pains to keep from touching anything other than Sandra Dee Kowalski.

      Angie went to the door and opened it a slice.

      “Shortpants, it’s for you.”

      “Shortcut,” I corrected. At least I was taller than Michael J. Fox and maybe Tom Cruise.

      She held the door open and I walked out, hands elevated like you see on television.

      Tapes was wet around the edges; he’d been outside, but in his foul weather gear.

      “Thought you ought to know,” he said, glancing up and down the corridor. He spoke softly and the thick floor mat or rug or whatever the hell they called it in 1920 absorbed much of the sound.

      “Damndamndamndamn!” СКАЧАТЬ