Читать книгу The Changeling - Victor LaValle - Страница 25

IN THE BRADLEY method class their teacher taught them that the majority of women had been having babies without the aid of modern hospitals, obstetricians, crash teams, pediatric nurses, and—most of all, Pitocin—for, well, always. The female body knew exactly how to deliver a child, just as all living things do, and the job of the midwife was basically just to get the twenty-first-century out of the way. Apollo and Emma hadn’t been as adamant about home birth as others: if they truly needed to go to a hospital, they agreed they would. Emma had even packed a small suitcase for just such a contingency. They kept it under their bed. Nonetheless, Tonya explained, these Bradley Method classes were designed, in part, so that even the fathers could do the job of assisting with the delivery if needed. Apollo had believed this, had—with a degree of arrogance—repeated all this to Patrice when they were out on an estate sale together. But let’s be clear, Apollo Kagwa had been a staunch believer in the idea that he could deliver a baby because he was absolutely sure he would never, ever actually have to do that.

But there they were, on the stalled A train, no midwives in sight.

Maybe the nine-year-old girl, no longer able to read her book in the dark, might also be an accredited doula? Or could the four-man crew of dancers please also be a team of traveling obstetricians? At least the toddler in the stroller hadn’t woken up. How was this possible? Maybe the mom had dosed the kid with Night Time Triaminic.

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” Emma made the sound, and Apollo, in his fear, almost clamped a hand over her mouth. He was worried not about decorum but about what that sound indicated. They’d practiced this moan in class. When the woman couldn’t simply breathe through the pain anymore, she was supposed to release exactly this moan.

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” Emma did it again.

In class one of the other expectant mothers had asked when she should make that call, when she should tell herself to begin. But Tonya—mother of two—had smiled kindly and said, When you’re in true labor, you can’t help but do it.

“Ohhhhhhhhh.”

When you’re in true labor.

“Why you hurting your girl?”

Apollo looked up to find the four dancers crowding close. One of them held his phone up, using it like a flashlight, which wasn’t really necessary—their eyes were already adjusting to the dim glow coming from the LED bulbs and signal lights in the tunnel. Being this near, he realized how young they were. Their leader, the oldest, couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He stood over Apollo, already making a fist.

“Why you hurting your girl?” he said again.

Apollo actually laughed at them. They thought they were coming to Emma’s aid, but once they looked at her instead of Apollo, all four boys lost their courage.

“Yo! She’s pregnant!”

Emma corrected them. “I’m starting labor.”

He felt surprised by how calm she sounded, and these four boys seemed shocked as well. The kid in front, their leader—his closed fists loosened. When his mouth went slack, he looked as young as the toddler in the stroller.

“We need some help,” Apollo said. “Could one of you run up and find the conductor?”

None of them moved. The other three had actually stepped back, shrunk behind the oldest. Twelve or thirteen, the others couldn’t have been older than that. They peeked around the oldest one’s muscled arms. Emma had to make the same request.

“One of you run and find the conductor,” she said, locking eyes with them.

“I’ll go,” the youngest of them said. He pulled open the car door and sprinted.

“Ohhhhhhhh.”

Apollo stood up, and the other three boys moved away. The woman across from them watched only Emma. The girl leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder, her book now facedown on her knees. She watched Emma, too.

“I need to get her on her feet,” Apollo said.

“But she’s having a kid,” the oldest said quietly. “She’s supposed to lie down, right?”

“What’s your name?” Apollo asked.

“I’m Cowboy,” the boy said. “I used to live in Dallas, like ten years back, then we came up here with my parents so everybody calls me Cowboy, but my real name is—”

“Cowboy,” Apollo said, and the kid looked up at him. “That’s a good name. Can we call you that?”

Cowboy took a breath, spoke slower. “I want to help,” he said.

“The best way to help my wife is to get her on her feet,” Apollo said. “Two of you hold her hands and pull while I lift her hips. Yeah?”

Cowboy nodded and looked to the kid on his left. They positioned themselves in front of Emma and grabbed her fingers.

“Wait,” Emma said. “Don’t hold my fingers. Hold my wrists.”

The boys watched her quietly and didn’t move.

Emma smiled softly at both of them. “You’re doing great,” she said. “You’re brave boys.”

When they rose, as one mass, they nearly crashed into the stroller. The mother pulled it to the side just in time.

“Now walk me to the closest pole,” Emma said.

It was only three steps. It took four minutes. When Emma reached the pole, Apollo, who’d been behind her, his arms around her middle, reminded her of the next step.

“Darlin’, you have to grab hold.”

Emma held the pole.

“Any of you have something to drink?”

The boys looked through their book bags. “Red Bull?” one offered.

“No,” Emma said firmly.

Apollo turned to the mother. Between the nine-year-old and the toddler, this woman had to have a juice box or something.

“Agua?” Emma said.

The mother reached into the back of the stroller, found a pouch, and revealed a red and black sippy cup. Apollo didn’t have hands free, so he looked to the only boy who hadn’t been given a job yet. The kid almost looked grateful for the simple task. He brought it back and set it down on the floor.

“Ohhhhhhhhh!”

Emma’s hands slipped off the pole. They were already too sweaty to hold on.

“Hands and knees,” Emma said to Apollo. “I have to be on my hands and knees. Get me down.”

“Fellas,” Apollo said. “I’m going to need you to hold her up a little longer.”

“Where you going?” Cowboy asked, panicked, stricken.

“I’m going over there to get my coat.”

“I don’t need the coat!” Emma shouted.

But Apollo couldn’t stop himself. He got the coat. He laid it flat. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t much. He wished he’d kept the loaner jacket they’d given him at Bouley. He leaned in close to Emma again. “I’m going to have to take down your tights,” he said apologetically.

“Well get on with it,” Emma growled.

Then the rumbling roll of the car door opening. The fourth boy returned with the conductor, who looked almost as young as the dancers.

“God damn,” the conductor said.

“Any chance we’re going to move soon?” Apollo asked.

“God damn,” the conductor repeated.

The mother reached over her son’s stroller and pinched the conductor on the leg.

“Lost power to the third rail,” the conductor explained, coming back to himself as he rubbed his thigh. “This train ain’t moving. I’ll go back and radio this in. They’ll send EMTs. But even that’s going to take awhile.”

“Ohhhhhhhh.”

Apollo told him to make the call, but knew no one could arrive in time. The only help Emma would get was already in this train car. The conductor left, and when the door of the next car rolled shut again, the glass filled with faces. Spectators. Folks who’d figured out something big was happening in this car. At the other end people in the next car were gathering, too. Now they had a viewing public. Even worse, Apollo could already see the light of cellphones held up to record the event.

“Cowboy! Could you and your team keep all those people out of this car? Block the windows?”

The kid looked to both ends. “We could do that easy.”

There were a lot of folks at both doors, and many more behind them. “You sure?” Apollo asked.

The one who’d run to the conductor laughed. “Most of these people shrink up as soon as we step on a train.” He clutched his hands to his chest and shivered. “Those black boys are so intimidating!” The others laughed.

“We’ll keep them out,” Cowboy said, smiling.

And with that they broke off, two boys to a side.

“No showtime for you, ladies and gentlemen!” Cowboy shouted.

“No showtime for you!” the other three called back.

Apollo got down on his hands and knees and crawled around close to Emma’s face. Her head was down, hair like a shroud and matted flat from perspiration. He brought the sippy cup of water closer and lifted her head. He tilted the cup and let her have two sips.

Apollo set the bottle down. He didn’t know how he could post up behind Emma to receive the baby but also keep giving her sips of water, keep up reassuring contact. He looked over Emma. The mother watched them. When they’d first boarded the train, she and Emma had seemed to share a powerful moment, locking eyes to communicate something Apollo knew he could never understand. He gazed at her, pleading. After a moment the woman patted her daughter and rose from the seat. She pushed the stroller closer to the little girl, who peeked in on her brother.

The mother took the sippy cup and spoke quietly, in Spanish, to Emma. The woman’s tone seemed soothing, and maybe that was all Emma needed. Emma even leaned forward and touched her forehead to the woman’s shoulder, intimacy so acute it appeared mystical.

Now Apollo looked over his shoulder, the boys had their backs to the scene, their arms up and flailing to reject all attempts at a shot. He pulled off Emma’s shoes. He slipped her tights down to her knees. He brought his hands to either side of her hips and pressed gently, something that soothed her in the third trimester. He spoke now not to his wife but to their baby.

“We can’t wait to meet you,” he said.