Chapter Twenty-Five

Renee Beck, big as a cattle barn, knew she made Clint’s entire family nervous. They’d given her the end seat in their box at the Heart of Texas Coliseum in Waco so she could overflow into the aisle and get up easily for bathroom breaks. That hadn’t been necessary as she’d been sucking only the ice chips in her drink since their arrival at the Texas Circuit Finals Rodeo. Renee knew she had been willful about coming along for Clint’s last performance as a bullfighter, but they’d wanted to leave her safely behind in San Antonio. She wasn’t going to miss his big moment, not for anything.

Clint took her to Texas for Christmas despite the reservations Dr. Maddox had about late term travel. The flight in the corporate jet had been swift and smooth. Forgiving Gunter Beck was tougher. Standing stiffly before a roaring fire in the living room, her father-in-law officially burned the last of the prenuptial copies and gave her a brief and formal hug as a welcome to the family. Lena Beck kissed her husband and ran her be-ringed fingers through his white hair—welcoming him back into the family, too.

The next night on Christmas Eve, a party very like the one Renee imagined on her last visit to Hacienda Hidalgo followed a trip to Mass. Candelaria lined the drive upon their return. Guests, drinks in hand, swarmed the inner and outer courtyards with tiny white lights illuminating their way among swathes of red, pink, and white poinsettias. A mariachi band played outside in the clear, chilly air. The inner courtyard with its adobe walls radiated the warmth of the day and retained the heat of the outdoor kitchen stocked with cast iron kettles of Beck products. The vast dining room table with all its candelabra lit held an array of foods from Lena’s recipes.

Clint’s sisters and his seven nieces and nephews plied her with tidbits, though at this point Renee had to admit she couldn’t hold very much of anything, not food or fluids. She stayed in the rocker by the fire and admired the tall Christmas tree with its interesting combination of antique German ornaments and colorful Mexican decorations of pressed tin and straw since everyone seemed to fear she’d drop those babies right out on the floor if she moved. Guests came to her to be introduced to Clinton’s new and very pregnant wife.

They spent Christmas as a quiet family day. Clint presented his wife once more with the Zuni parure, hers to keep forever, and a platinum wedding band with a channel of deep, green emeralds. A big Christmas dinner followed, then afternoon naps for the elderly and expectant. Grandchildren ranging in age from eight to fifteen ran amok everywhere. When Clint came to the quiet bedroom wing and laid down beside her, his hand on her belly, his babies kicking inside, Renee slept peacefully during a holiday where no Uncle Dewey prowled the halls seeking the moment when he could molest his niece.

On New Year’s Eve, Gunter Beck brought his daughter-in-law a flute of ginger ale to toast the coming year. He clinked his glass against hers and said, “Prost Neujahr”, then looking at her belly, “Zum Wohle!”—Happy New Year and To your Health—old German sayings that passed down in his family. The severe old man smiled when she repeated the words after him.

All cordiality between them vanished the next day when Renee announced she would attend Clint’s last bullfighting performance in Waco and his induction into the Texas Sports Hall of Fame with the rest of the family. Gunter Beck grew red in the face and rocked back on his heels.

“Stay here and rest. You should not be gadding about when you are so—so…”

“Huge? Go ahead and say it. That won’t keep me from going. I’ll rent a car and come after you if I must,” and she stamped her foot.

Clint and Lena gasped as if her action would bring on labor that very moment. It hadn’t. Noreen once commented that Renee must have inherited the child-carrying ability of the legendary Ramona Niles who had given birth to twelve, including one set of twins, with no trouble at all. Renee’s twin pregnancy had been free of problems, and she wanted to see Clint perform if she had to hitchhike to Waco. In the end, the Becks rented a limousine, and they’d gone in style and comfort.

Renee experienced the first labor pain just past Austin. After that, the pangs came irregularly and without any agony. Nothing to worry about. They would probably stop soon. The pains didn’t cease. They increased as she climbed to the box. By the time Clint performed, and the camera switched to his family after he’d jumped the bull in three different ways, she had to paste a brilliant smile on her face to disguise her clenched teeth. Wearing darkest green and the Zuni parure, she surely looked like a gigantic black hole in the universe surrounded by glittering stars on that big screen. Lena assured her she had a radiant glow. Liar, sweet liar.

His post-performance interview seemed endless. Clint waved for her come join him. Nice that he wasn’t ashamed of her size, but oh, the agony of getting down those stairs to reach his side. She’d stayed there, tucked under his arm and grinning like a politician’s wife until the commentator moved away.

Through gritted teeth, Renee said, “Clint, the babies are coming.”

“Wheelchair! Over here!”

She’d married a man of decisive action. Clint whisked her to the medical area where Doc Wiley took one look and said, “You! No way! This is not a delivery room. There’s an ambulance right outside.”

Renee stood up. “I need to push.”

“Don’t!” the doctor ordered—and her water broke over his shoes. If she hadn’t been in so much pain, she would have enjoyed the expression on the man’s face.

“This is why I prefer cowboys and broken bones,” Doc Wiley muttered. “Get up on the table. We’ll have a quick look. Then you go to the hospital.”

The doctor pulled off the fluid-soaked green lace bikini panties and bravely faced a well-waxed crotch. “Ah, durn it, the first one’s crowning.”

He snapped on rubber gloves in time to catch Clint’s son, delivered with a hard push and a long scream. Injured bull riders in nearby cubicles shuddered. The medics from the ambulance arrived to do the rest of the dirty work—deliver the afterbirth and the second twin, who had remained coyly hidden behind her brother on all of the ultrasounds. They cleaned up the mess, too, and allowed Renee a few moments to admire the twins wrapped in light blankets and tucked in her arms while the Beck family gathered around.

“Very small and redheaded,” assessed Gunter Beck.

Doc Wiley, cordial now that the medics had taken over, said, “Good-sized for twins. I’d say five-pounders. Nice color, breathing well, but we need to get them out of Sports Medicine now. All this screaming and crying is unnerving the bull riders.”

“They are beautiful,” said Lena Beck. “What will you call them?”

Clint cleared his throat. “We decided on Ty for the boy.” No sense in explaining that Ty was short for Tiger. His father preferred very traditional names.

“Ty—a cowboy name. Ty what?” his old man asked severely.

“Ty Odulf Beck.” Clint shook his head. Sometimes, you had to give in and get on with life.

“And our little granddaughter?” Lena inquired.

“We picked Serena because that’s the kind of life we want our daughter to have, serene,” Clint said.

“Serena Maria Madalena Beck,” Renee added.

“Perfect.”