Forty-Five

Martina Alison Rayfield-Wyatt was born on a cloudless spring day, the color of her eyes matching the sky above. I was there for the birth, something, in hindsight, I should have taken a pass on. When I’ve seen births take place in movies, the mother is screaming or moaning or threatening everyone around her. Martina’s birth was soundless, with just a wild-eyed Max looking at everyone encouraging her to “push!” with such deadly intensity that it was beyond frightening. It didn’t help that I kept asking Max at inopportune moments how much it hurt, just to get a handle on whether it was as bad as it looked. It hurt pretty bad, judging from the hold she had on my fingers. Then there was the blood … and the other stuff. I hit the ground when a giant mass resembling a platypus burst forth to great fanfare in the delivery room, the word “placenta” being bandied about. That was all I needed to hear. Here I thought that once you had the baby, it was all over. You put on your silk bed jacket, ordered room service, and accepted visitors. Your husband handed out cigars in the waiting room. Before long you got up, put on your makeup, and went home. I didn’t realize that what came next made some of the dead bodies I’ve seen look positively sterile. When I came to, it was all over—for real this time—and Max was holding what looked like a football with eyes and ears. A beautiful, perfect football that had grabbed hold of her finger and wasn’t letting go.

Fred was uncharacteristically chatty. “That’s my girl!” he said, bending over to get a look at a baby who had his perfectly round head and Max’s bow lips. It was hard to tell how much she had gotten, genetically, from her Samoan African American father and Irish American mother, but time would tell. I said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t grow up to be a six-and-a-half-footer with a bad attitude, just like her dad.

Crawford was in the waiting room when I came out. I gave him two thumbs up. “It’s a girl,” I said, “and she looks just like you. What’s up with that?”

“Very funny,” he said, giving me his fake smile. “How’s Max?”

“Cranky.”

“So how is that different from any other day?”

“I’m going to give her a pass,” I said. “She just passed a watermelon through her hoo-hah. We’re going to cut her some slack.” I sat down on one of the vinyl couches in the waiting room. “You didn’t tell me it looked like a scene from Apocalypse Now when you had a baby.”

“Yes, I may have left that out.” He pulled me close, kissing my head. “You hungry?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

“Last time I checked.” I was starving. Seeing a live birth had taken a lot out of me. “Tim’s Fancy Sandwich Shoppe?” I asked.

“That’s not what it’s called,” he said.

“Yes, but it’s what I like to call it,” I said. Tim’s midlife crisis had turned out surprisingly well. His sandwich shop—the Earl of Sandwich—had opened in Greenwich and had become a bit of a hot spot with the locals, so much so that he was thinking of opening another location in another part of town. Yes, he had quit his job and not told his wife, but his newfound fame and success as the Earl had put him back in her good graces, and things seemed to be better again. Seemed that old Tim had done quite well in the hedge fund business so even if the shop hadn’t done well, they were set for life. He had a silent partner as back up, too; the guy had been on the phone with him the night I had overheard his conversation about the money. I was really in the wrong business. I had a soft spot for his eggplant rollatini wedge, and the minute Crawford mentioned sandwiches, my mouth began to water. “I should really call Kevin before we go,” I said.

“How much is that going to cost me?” Crawford asked.

“A call to Botswana? Well, we’ll probably need to refinance the house, but he really should know about Max’s baby,” I said. I got a little light-headed. “Seriously, that birth stuff is not for the faint of heart,” I said, dropping my head between my knees.

“You think you can still go through with it?”

I patted my growing midsection. “Do I have a choice?”