Shake moved quietly across the floor. Ronnie’s workbench was set up just to the right of the stairs. His back was turned to her as he worked on sewing up the underside of a large black bird.
“Ronnie?” He’d come storming into the farmhouse a half hour ago. She thought he’d been out drinking, but his eyes were rimmed with red and his face was tight and angry, looking like he was about to pop a blood vessel. Had he been in a fight? She could only guess.
“Ronnie?” Shake tried again. “I really need to talk to you.”
Ronnie lifted his head and looked at Shake, as if he had suddenly woken up from a dream and was surprised to find her standing there. “Shake,” was all he said.
Shake knew Ronnie wasn’t good at focusing his attention, that his mind had all the staying power of a steel ball inside a pinball machine. But when he was working on his critters, a nuclear bomb could explode outside the back door and he wouldn’t notice.
“We gotta talk,” Shake said.
“What?” Ronnie asked. He reached for a scalpel that was hung on a brown pegboard, along with his collection of razors, knives, and large sewing needles.
“Your mother’s on my ass again.”
Ronnie unfurled a length of nylon fishing line, cut it neatly with the scalpel, and then threaded the line through a large needle. “So what? She’s always been a little bug-shit.”
“She scares me,” Shake said. “I don’t trust her.”
Ronnie didn’t reply. His mind was still . . . elsewhere.
“I think the smart thing for us to do would be to get out of here.” Shake bit her lip. “Like . . . now.”
“Why would we do that?” Ronnie asked. He was listening to her, but Shake could tell he wasn’t really comprehending her words.
“Because we don’t have any kind of life here. What if we just . . . took off and drove south? Got out of this brutal, cold weather. Tried to start a life someplace else.”
Ronnie swiveled in his chair and frowned at Shake. “You want to just up and leave? What about the baby?”
“I’ll deal with the baby.”
Ronnie shook his head. “She’ll deal with the baby. That’s what she does.”
Shake narrowed her eyes. She’d picked up just a whiff of something that felt oddly tainted. What was it? A lie? Danger lurking somewhere? “Is there something going on?” she asked. “Something you’re not telling me?”
Ronnie turned back to his workbench and resumed stitching his bird. “No.”
“That kid upstairs? You never really did explain that.”
“Cousin,” Ronnie said. One eye fluttered, almost out of control, as he jerked the thread tight.
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” Shake said. She hesitated. “Everything inside me has started to hurt.” She cupped a hand protectively beneath her belly. “Really bad.”
“That’s because you’re pregnant.” Ronnie picked up a long knife, hefted it with a smile, and then set it back down. “Because you’re going to deliver your baby in a week or so.”
“I think it might be something else,” Shake said. “Ever since I got up this morning, there’s been a new kind of pain. Sharp . . . stabbing.” She considered this. “What if something’s really wrong?”
“You’re fine,” he mumbled.
“But what if I’m not fine?” Shake said. “Like what if the baby is upside down or something?” Her voice was shaky now, her mind racing as she considered the awful possibilities. “Ronnie, I think maybe I should go see a doctor.” She wanted to kick herself for being so callous about her pregnancy. No checkups, no prenatal vitamins, just smoking and drinking and eating crappy fast food. What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her?
“You’ve got Mom.”
Shake’s lip curled. “She ain’t no doctor.”
Ronnie took another stitch and pulled it tight. “But she’s had plenty of experience. She’s helped a bunch of girls from that Amish community down near Lockport.”
“You mean, like, she’s some kind of midwife?” Somehow Shake couldn’t picture Marjorie whispering gentle encouragement to a terrified woman who was in the throes of hard labor.
Ronnie swiveled in his chair again, tried for a smile, and then reached out and circled his arms around Shake’s waist. “C’mere, you.” He pulled her tight, praying that she’d stop her endless yammering.
Grateful for his attention, Shake sank against his chest.
Ronnie eyed her with a smirk. “Maybe you just need to . . . you know.”
Shake pulled away from him. “Ronnie, no. I can’t have sex now.”
His face hardened. “You never want to have sex.”
“Is that why you go out at night?” Shake asked. “To be with other women? To have sex with them?” Her heart felt like lead. “Is that where you were tonight?”
“No, of course not.” Ronnie reached out and his hands made soothing little circles on her back. “You think I’d cheat on my girl? No way.” As he stroked her, his eyes darted back to his dead bird and his mind was a million miles away.
“Oh, Ronnie,” Shake sighed. She wished with all her heart that she could believe him.
17