Where was he? He couldn’t have left. Had he fallen asleep next to Marshall? Suddenly Marshall’s new room all the way down the hall seemed like a terrible choice. They couldn’t leave Marshall on the other end of the house. What if he cried, and they didn’t hear him? Another contraction. June gritted her teeth and watched it grip its way across her belly. It was something separate from her, this force that kneaded her from within, that was making it so hard to breathe.
She couldn’t stay in the tub. Were babies born in tubs? Hadn’t she read that? Well, she couldn’t stay in. She’d drown if she slipped underneath; if she loosened her grip on the rim. June was beginning to panic, the panic was rising in her, she couldn’t stop it. She could drown, the baby could die, was the baby coming, why was this so different from Marshall, where was Del, couldn’t he hear her, if she tried to get up, she might fall, she would fall, she could hit her head, what would happen to the baby? And another contraction. And another. What was this? Her body was bucking in the tub, and she was screaming, and holding onto the side, and suddenly, finally, there was Del.
“June! What’s happening? Is it the baby?”
“The baby’s coming! I feel his head. He’s coming right now.”
“He can’t be coming. You haven’t even been in labor. Just breathe. Take a breath. I’ll get you out of the tub.”
June screamed.
Del lifted her, wet and slippery and awkward, her belly bucking again, again, from the tub. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, held her upright, half carried her, half walked her toward their bed, murmuring, “It’s okay. It’s okay, June. We did this before. I’ll call the doctor. I’m going to set you on the bed, and I’ll call Dr. Bruno, and you’re okay, we did this before.”
The bathtub was pink and red with blood, her legs ran with blood, there was blood on the floor, there was blood on Del’s light-brown pants. June closed her eyes. It was too early. It was too fast. Something was wrong. She had never felt this kind of terror.
Del laid her on the bed and piled the pillows behind her. When the contraction came again, he held her shoulders with his hands and stared right into her eyes. He said, “You can do this June. It’s okay. We’re having a baby. It’s going to be okay.” And she was hoping he was right: they were having a baby, this was somehow normal, but she was also afraid, and she had lost control of her body, and this baby wanted out, and Del needed to call the doctor, and she needed to get to the hospital, and how would she possibly get to the hospital? Would they take her in an ambulance? Oh, the pain. Would the baby be born in the ambulance? Was the baby okay? This was not what she had planned. Why was this happening so fast?
“I’m scared.”
“I know you are. But you’re okay. I’m going to call the doctor. I’m just going to the hall. I’m calling the doctor.”
Another contraction came, and this time June felt the head. She remembered Marshall’s head, and there was no doubt: she could feel the baby’s head.
“He’s coming! He’s coming now.”
“June, I’m just going to call the doctor.”
“Now!”
And she arched her back, and gave one great long push, and the baby’s head was out; she could see the wet black crown between her legs, but not his face, and she was crying, and Del was saying, “Oh! Oh!” and he was holding the baby’s head, and now he was afraid—more afraid than she was—and she pushed again, and the baby turned slightly in Del’s hands, and then his shoulders slipped out, and then one last push, and he was free: a glistening, perfect Negro girl.
The next seconds were all feeling—exhilaration (a baby), shock (this was not Del’s baby), chaos (June’s body was still heaving, she was pushing, there was everything else to be born)—and Del was gripping the wet, slippery baby, and he was crying, and he was holding the cord and watching as everything else came out. He looked at June, and there was so much there, in that look, in that instant; June would never forget it. And then the baby hiccupped, and Marshall opened the door, said: “Mommy, I’m scared.”
Somehow, Del put the baby in her arms, and he hoisted a fascinated Marshall on his hip, and went to the hall to call Dr. Bruno, but he didn’t call an ambulance. And Dr. Bruno, who had known Del since he was a child—since Del’s grandfather Nathan had helped him lay pavers in his carport—came by himself. He cut the baby’s cord, and he washed her gently, and squeezed something into her eyes, and estimated that she was small, perhaps six pounds, but healthy. He left the baby at June’s breast, with Marshall asleep on the pillow beside her, and he and Del went in the living room. June could hear the low rumble of their voices, and the doctor giving Del instructions, and Del saying something else. The conversation lasted awhile.
For three days, June and the baby stayed in the bedroom. Del did not go to work. He took care of Marshall, and of June, and of the baby. They didn’t say anything about a name. He didn’t call his grandmother. Nobody from El Capitan phoned, at least that June heard. She wouldn’t have thought it possible that the three—no, four—of them could live entirely in a bubble alone, even for three days, but they did. Dr. Bruno came each afternoon. He was cheerful. He said nothing about the baby’s skin, her hair, her face. He didn’t ask her name. He came to see June, and he checked her carefully, and he was kind to all of them, but he didn’t say anything.
Marshall stayed in the room with them for hours. He brought in all his cars, and his stuffed animals, and his favorite books. He chatted to his “brother sister” as he always had, telling her which car was fastest, which one she could drive, how many races he had won. He liked to watch the baby while she nursed. He would stroke her head, and say, “Did I do that, Mommy? Did I eat you too?” And June would pull his blond curls away from his forehead, and nod, and say yes, Marshall had done everything just like baby.
Marshall seemed to think her name was Baby, and did not ask for any other.
Del was the most surprising. He held the baby tenderly. He sat and rocked with her in the chair in the nursery, and June could hear him humming, and she could hear him talk to the baby while he changed her diaper, while he carefully washed the skin around her cord, while he jiggled out a burp.
He did these things with love.
This was what June remembered.
This was what she would cling to for all the years after. How Del had loved the baby. How Del had been tender.
And for three days, they lived in this way, and Del did not say anything about how the baby looked or about Eddie, and June began to believe that it was going to be okay—that as impossible as it seemed, this too was going to be part of the deal between her and Del.