As soon as they got Wendy onto the bunk, she shuddered and pinched her eyes closed. She grasped the hand Hickey’d laid on her arm, squeezed hard. Her eyes and mouth were scrunched together as though battling to displace her nose. Her shoulders lifted, as her chest rose, then fell as her belly lifted, all the way down to her toes.
The sheriff tossed kindling into the wood stove. Pederson had found a pan and run out to the pump for water.
The twig was still embedded in Wendy’s cheek. Hickey picked it out. Its image remained, like a red flower with folded petals. As her grunting quieted, through the last wavelike roll and push, Hickey bundled his coat and stuffed it under the pillow beneath her head. She sighed and lay still. Her soft moans sounded as if she were trying to run a scale but hadn’t the range. Hickey got up and lifted her brown dress, pulled her panties down and off, then hoisted the dress back over her knees. He squatted beside her. Took her hand. Patted the only spot on her forehead that didn’t look scraped or bruised.
“He’s gonna be a big guy,” she whispered. “Clifford wasn’t so big. Maybe we should call him Tom instead.”
“That’s what middle names are for.” The tip of his finger made circles on her cheek, around the flower. “Babe, will you be sad if he’s a girl?”
“Not if we can think up a name. It isn’t everything sounds good with Hickey, you know?”
“It isn’t anything sounds good with Hickey. Let’s call her Vicki. Mickey. How about Red?”
“Stop, Tom. Don’t make me laugh, please. If he’s a girl, maybe later we’ll have Clifford, okay?”
For a minute he couldn’t answer, with his throat crimped shut and his eyes marveling at the prize he’d never deserved. “Sure you wanta do this again, babe? Doesn’t it hurt awfully?”
“Oh, boy. It hurts, all right.”
The sheriff carried a stool over and sat. “Tom, when you first ran up the hill there, you see any sign of this Meechum?”
Hickey wagged his head. “Soon as Roy or Gene shows, send him up there. It shouldn’t be hard to nab the damn fool. He’s gotta be stupid, or else he wouldn’t of carried a lantern or whatever it was.”
“I don’t think he’s stupid,” Wendy said breathlessly. “He didn’t have any lantern.”
“Sure he did, babe. It’s the only reason I knew you were up there. Without the light—”
“Jack didn’t have any light. Oh!” She shuddered and grunted, fiercely gripping Hickey’s hand. This time she pushed so hard, it made her hips rise high, smashing her head into the pillow. Hickey reached underneath, braced his elbows against the bunk, and cradled her hips with his hands. Her body quaked like his had, on the road not long ago. She howled, then let go. He eased her down.
Pederson had run in with a pan full of water. He’d set it on the wood stove, rushed to the kitchen, and found a rag, wetted it. Now he gave it to Hickey, who dabbed at the splotches of dirt on her face, then folded the rag and held it across her brow.
“The light was Zeke,” Wendy gasped.
“Huh?”
“Zeke.” For a while she seemed lost, gazing around, pausing at each person or object, then passing on. Finally she opened her mouth and frowned, as if she’d done something shameful. “Zeke’s an angel,” she whispered.
Her head flew up and slapped back down on the folded coat. Color drained from her face. Even her lips had turned whitish blue. She sucked air mouth-deep, blew it out quickly and hard. Her body flopped and thrashed; then she fell quiet and stared at Hickey as though he were a strange and peculiar being.
Every half minute, she’d groan and launch her hips upward, let Hickey catch and hold them there while she quaked for the next half minute. Then she collapsed and rested, panting and staring at Hickey as though appalled that he didn’t relieve her.
“Try making her stay flat on the bunk,” the sheriff offered.
“You done this before?”
“One time. I don’t much know what I’m doing. The thing is, arching up like that, all she’s getting is worn out.”
Wendy cried, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
The sheriff jumped to the foot of the bunk and slung the dress back over her knees. As her hips flew up, Hickey grasped both sides of her hipbone from underneath and pulled her down close to the bunk.
“There,” the sheriff yelped. “Looks like brown hair.” Wendy fell back and caught a few breaths before she tried to arch again.
“Come on, kid,” the sheriff cajoled. “There’s steak and potatoes waiting. Apple pie à la mode. You’ve got a swell mama. Your old man’s all right, too. A little bossy, but you and him’ll get along. You’re gonna like it out here.”
Her shoulders, then her chest and belly, rose and fell, but her hips drove Hickey’s hand and forearm into the mattress.
“Hey, look at this! The kid’s got a chin. And shoulders. Whoa, not so fast!”
Hickey didn’t know where to look. He couldn’t stand and peer over her raised knees with his arm pinned beneath her. When he tried to glance between her knees, her legs slapped together. Anyway, he couldn’t pry his eyes off her face for more than a second or two. He crooked his neck and peeked under her knees. All that got him was a view of the sheriff’s elbows.
“There we go. Tom, you got a boy. Two legs. Two arms. Twelve toes. No, make that ten. Pederson, give me a towel, will you? A bunch of ’em.”
Hickey eased her down, caught a glimpse of his bloody son, the tiny legs kicking, hands and arms clutching as though he saw something and wanted it badly. He made gasping sounds and small cries as the sheriff wiped him clean.
Hickey let his head fall onto Wendy’s breast. He closed his eyes and listened to her tremulous, long-winded moan. It sounded miraculous. All at once there was nothing but glee, as if the world had gotten bathed clean.
His chest hardly burned anymore. His vision had cleared. As soon as he got Wendy to the hospital, he’d phone Claire. She’d tell him Leo had arrived safely. The old guy loved kids, the tinier the better.
“Look here, Tom,” the sheriff said.
Hickey rose far enough to gaze at his son. He lay sucking breaths. Only scattered blotches of blood remained, on his hair, his legs, and down the umbilical cord. The boy looked perfect. Glorious.