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Near the end of December, beneath the Long Night Moon, Marie went into labor.
Virgil stood at the entrance of the living room, stared with morbid fascination as the pain worked its way up to her face.
No sooner had she started making gross bodily noises than he turned and walked away. He switched on the transistor radio on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Fetched a bottle of Tennessee bourbon and a shot glass from the cupboard.
He intended to get rid of the kid, he believed wasn’t his, soon after it’s born. Visions of him killing the thing with his bare hands, though, gave him the willies. More than that, he was certain God would strike him deaf and blind if he outright murdered it. “Bad, bad mojo.” He couldn’t bury it alive anywhere on his property, either, knowing the Almighty would be watching.
One thing he knew without a doubt, God truly approved of Marie’s punishment for committing adultery. The proof was in the abundant crop the Wentzels had that year.
Gospel music bouncing off the walls, he plucked a set of work gloves out of the back pocket of his tan cargo pants. Sat at the table, and filled the glass to the rim.
The first drink calmed him.
Marie hadn’t fixed his supper yet. Drinking on an empty stomach, the seventh shot of whiskey made his head swim.
When Virgil lifted the glass for the last time she screamed. His hand shook, sloshing the brown liquor on his faded blue and red flannel shirt. He slammed the glass down on the table, got to his feet after a couple of attempts, and pulled up his suspenders.
On the way to the living room it occurred to him he hadn’t seen his son. “Bernie? Where y’at? Bring your ass in here and help your damn mama.”
Virgil felt his blood pressure rising. He went to Marie. “What’s wrong with you, woman? You act like you got a burr up your ass. You’ve had a kid before. You know what to do. Just squeeze the slimy thing outta ya same as any animal do. How hard can it be?” He rubbed spittle off his chin. Stomped out of the room.
He knew when the end came he’d have to help her. He’d have to cut the cord. Final confirmation of the unwanted plan made his stomach queasy. He cranked up the volume on the radio. Downed another slug of whiskey. He was dizzy as hell, but he’d finally worked up the nerve to face the task when or if the time came, which he hoped would be nev—
“Virrrgil. Anmwe mwen! Please, please help me.”
He slapped his open hands on his unshaven face. “Shit.”
* * *
Marie laid on the couch with her head turned away from Virgil. “It’s a girl,” she’d heard him mutter before she passed out from exhaustion.
She awoke with a start. Her breathing had grown shallow and raspy. Was she going to bleed to death? She knew she and her baby belonged in the hospital. The delivery had been far more painful than she remembered with Bernie. Maybe because back then she was in a hospital.
Bernard Jacques. An odd name. She didn’t know why she didn’t realize that when she read the name typed below a picture of a porcelain boy doll in a Louisiana magazine right next to a girl doll named Bérénice Jacquette.
Marie knew she would’ve loved baby Bernie had she loved his papa. The boy had become nothing but a constant source of irritation for her. Every time she saw his face, handsome though it was, it was still Virgil’s. She’d made his life miserable the way his papa had made hers. She waited all the time for him to do something wrong so she’d have an excuse to punish him. Too afraid to lash out at Virgil, she directed her anger toward their son.
Marie had to admit, every once in a great while the boy actually did something that pleased her. Not Virgil. Not ever.
* * *
Virgil peeked into the living room. Marie had fallen asleep again. With the amount of liquor he’d consumed, he was in a mood for a little sex. He started to wake her up. Colorful imagery of the birth of the nasty-looking tot flooded his mind. He shuddered.
“Bleh!”
In the wee hours of early morn, he put the whiskey bottle in the pocket of his heavy winter jacket, picked up the bloody thing wrapped in an old blanket, and headed out to his truck.
Due to a rare southern Louisiana snowstorm he drove slowly over the curvy rural route until he reached the Catholic Church five miles away from his farm. He deposited the tiny bundle named Bérénice Jacquette on the doorsteps at the rear of the building.
The church had been his parent’s place of worship. As a boy he wasn’t interested in religion even though he was raised with a strict religious code. They beat him, on a regular basis, until he changed his mind.
It never occurred to him murdering his wife’s lover was a sin. Getting rid of the baby was the only thing that would bring the fury of God down on him. Babies grow up to be workers.
Halfway home, he made a U-turn and returned to the church.