BILLY’S BOY
Published by Robert Curreli at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Robert Curreli
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Part One
Prologue
Hannah Bennett had dropped her five-month-old daughter, Angela, off across the street at her parents’ house. She took a shower, dried her long hazelnut hair and put it back in a pony tail. She dressed in her bedroom, an old tee-shirt, an even older pair of threadbare shorts and oddly enough no underwear. She wore no socks, no shoes. The weather was warmer than usual for early September, so Hannah was quite comfortable puttering around the house waiting for her husband, Mario, to arrive home from work.
She peeked out the living room window at her parents’ house wondering how Angela was doing. About once a month her parents would watch Angela while she and Mario would have date night. This, at the insistence of Hannah’s mother, would give the young couple “alone time” together – beneficial to any marriage – as well as provide time for the grandparents to bond with and enjoy their granddaughter whose extra bedroom was converted into another Angela room complete with a crib, changing table, extra clothing and about a million dollars worth of toys. Although Hannah knew Angela couldn’t be safer than she was across the street, she still couldn’t shake her concern and couldn’t help but miss her daughter; though she did enjoy the alone time with Mario.
With Hannah a stay-at-home-mom and Mario, as he would say, not yet earning his worth, money was tight and prevented any expensive evening. But the Bennetts occasionally managed to swing a movie or a dinner at a cheap restaurant. Mostly though, they’d get take-out, rent a movie and have unbridled, passionate sex.
Hannah made sure the draperies were completely closed – that there was not even an inch of window not hermetically sealed. She gave the house a quick once-over making sure it was relatively clean and straightened up. She went to the kitchen, feeling sexy as she walked sans underwear. She opened the refrigerator. “Hmm, should we cook, order in, or go out?” she said. “Cabrina’s. That’s what we’ll do. Mario likes it there.” She shut the fridge door. She thought she heard the door or something from the living room. She looked up at the clock. Not yet six. Too early for Mario. She looked out the back door. It was getting dark already. “Summer’s over,” she said. There was more noise from the living room. Hannah froze. It sounded like the front door lock, the deadbolt.
“Hon, is that you?” she said coming around the corner of the kitchen into the dining room. She saw no one. She moved slowly into the living room. “Mario? Mario?” Nothing. “What am I nuts? I could have sworn I heard something.”
From behind she felt his presence. Before she could turn he had his hand over her mouth. His arm wrapped around her chest, clutching her arms to her sides. Her muffled screams excited him. He dragged her to the couch and threw her down. Before she could catch her breath to scream the intruder pulled a switchblade from his pocket. The blade swung open. He pointed it to her throat.
“I’d be quiet if I were you,” he said, his voice guttural, a whisper. He reached down, grabbed the bottom of her tee-shirt. He tugged. He tore it easily away from her body.
“No,” Hannah said softly. Her arms covered her breasts. “No, please.”
The intruder knelt beside her. He placed the point of the knife against her neck. He kissed her. She didn’t dare budge. When he broke the kiss, she recognized the lust in his eyes. She shivered. He smiled. He traced the blade of the knife down her throat. “Move your arms,” he said in that throaty whisper. Slowly Hannah slipped her arms away from her breasts. The intruder leaned back to get a better view.
“Please don’t,” Hannah said. The intruder reached down and took hold of her shorts. In one violent move he tore them from her.
#
When it was over the intruder lay on the floor beside Hannah panting. “Now you know, I’m not a violent person, but that was the best,” he said. Although they had been married for only five years, a few months ago they had begun fantasy night – just a little something to keep the sex part of their marriage a little spicy.
Hannah giggled. “Where the heck did you get that thing?” Mario reached over for the knife, a plastic novelty that couldn’t cut its way out of a paper bag, and shook it at Hannah. The blade wobbled in front of her face. She giggled again.
“I got it at Party City last week just for a situation like this,” Mario said and kissed her.
“Ow. Be careful. My lips are sore.”
“Sorry, I really got into it.”
“Yes, I know. I was there.” Hannah sat up. Her eyes set on her husband. She couldn’t believe how much she loved him – how happy she was with her little daughter and a man who idolized them both. “Well, I really got into it too. But don’t you ever tell anyone about our – our fantasies. You remember Lorena Bobbitt? What she did was nothing compared to what I would do to you.” Hannah giggled yet again. She always giggled after sex.
“I would never do that. You’re my little secret. You think I want anybody to know how hot you are?”
“So, what do you want to do next time?” Hannah said and rolled on top of Mario.
“Well, we’ve done most of the usuals. I liked the cheerleader and the quarterback.”
“Me, too. But could I be the cheerleader next time?” Hannah said and stood. She was still as naked as a jay bird.
“Oh, you’re funny,” Mario said. He smacked her ass that was right above his head.
“Hey!”
“Sorry. There was a strange looking bug on your butt.”
“Yeah, right.” Hannah giggled.
~ ~ ~ ~
Chapter 1: The Crash
Hannah had slept through the blowing of the amniotic sac, the rupture of the membranes, the expulsion of the protective fluid that surrounded her baby for nine months; she slept through the bursting of the damn that soaked her huge panties, the sheets and most of Mario’s favorite jammie-boxers, the ones plastered with the New York Yankees logo. Mario slept unusually soundly beside her. It would take more than a little meconium-tainted amniotic fluid leeching through his boxers to wake him. Hannah on the other hand stirred in bed as the wetness chilled her to consciousness. She was surprised at the amount of water that had already escaped her womb. At this point she was clueless that her amniotic fluid was anything but normal.
Her last child was a trickler. About two years prior, walking around Kohl’s with her mother, Old Margaret, amniotic fluid seeped from her most intimate of places and dribbled down her leg collecting in her Nike cross-trainer. At the time she thought she had merely lost control of her bladder until she realized the leak wouldn’t stop.
She hiked her lopsided body up in bed banging her head against the headboard, the sting of which helped clear away the fog bringing her to the realization that in short order she will be painfully split apart. An image of a wishbone snapping in two at Old Margaret’s Thanksgiving table flashed through her mind.
Hannah sighed, then tried to yank her pillow up to support her back while she gathered her thoughts, but the weight of her body kept the pillow flat under what she thought was an enormous ass, but was really not much bigger in pregnancy than it was the time in between her pregnancy with her first trickling child and this one whose introduction to the world was a short time away.
Angela tugged on the pillow another time or two, then gave up frustrated. She leaned on her elbows, gingerly resting her head on the cheap headboard of her cheap bed. The loose headboard knocked against the wall as it did whenever Hannah and Mario had sex. Hannah smiled at the sound until she felt the little devil kick, or punch, or do whatever it did to get Hannah’s attention.
“What?” Hannah whispered to her belly. “What? Do you want to come out? Are you ready? I’ll be right with you, baby. Let me just get my thoughts together, my little ducks in a row. Okay?” Hannah looked down at her belly which was barely visible in the weak streetlight coming in from the window and the Mickey Mouse nightlight that was plugged into the socket near the bedroom door. She placed a hand on her belly where she felt the poke. There was another poke. And another. And another. “Wait, baby,” she said. “Let’s see. I have to wake Mario. Call the doctor. Call Mom. Take a quick shower. Make sure Mario has the bag in the car. Make sure Mom gets here and give her last minute instructions for Angela. Leave. There, that should be it. Okay, baby? Now we can get the show on the road.”
Sometimes though, things have a way of not working out exactly as they’re planned. When Hannah switched on the reading light on the night table and flung off the covers from her side of the bed, she noticed the wetness around her was the color of swamp water. This was not right. No. This was not as it should be. Meconium. Fetal distress. She’d read about it when she was pregnant with Angela. Her baby was in trouble.
She looked over her shoulder to Mario, still snoring. She swatted him on the back. She swatted him again and swung her legs to the floor. “Now, Mario! Now!” she said. She hobbled over to the doorway of their bedroom, her wet pajamas sticking to her thighs, and flicked on the light switch.
“Now?” Mario said practically still asleep. “It’s now?”
“There’s something wrong, Mario,” Hannah said squinting from the light.
By the time Angela’s eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the overhead light Mario was standing in front of her. His closeness surprised her and she took a step backwards, banging her head on the wall.
“Get dressed, Mario. I have to call the doctor,” Hannah said trying to get out of Mario’s way.
“Did you say there’s something wrong?” Mario was confused by Hannah’s sudden calmness. He rubbed his eyes, waited.
“Look at the sheets,” Hannah said taking the phone from its holder from her night table. “See how they’re discolored. I think that’s meconium which is fecal matter from the baby.
“Fecal matter?”
“Crap, Mario. Baby crapped. And I’m pretty sure that shouldn’t have happened. I think it means there’s something wrong. Alright? I’m calling the doctor. Please, get dressed.”
Mario hopped to it while Hannah hit speed dial on the phone. The answering service said the doctor would return her call promptly.
“I need to take a shower,” Hannah said. She placed the phone in its cradle and turned her attention to the bed. “Strip the sheets,” she said. Mechanically, she pulled the blankets from the bed. She removed the sheets, rolled them up and tossed them in a heap near the hamper. She also took off the waterproof mat she had the foresight to use to protect the mattress in case such a thing were to happen. “We won’t be needing this anymore.”
“Are you okay? How do you feel?” Mario said. The look of concern on his face, the anguish, brought pangs of sympathy to Hannah. If there was anything that Mario could do, it was worry. “He’s going to worry himself right into the hospital,” his mother used to say.
“I’m fine, Mario. I feel fine. And Baby is fine too. Hannah placed her hands on her belly. I feel Baby moving right now. Okay?”
“Do you want to sit?”
“I want to take a shower.”
“Do you think you should?”
The phone rang. “Thank God,” Hannah said lumbering to the phone. Confident that it was the doctor returning her call Hannah didn’t bother to check the caller ID. “Yes?”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning. Why is your bedroom light on?” It was Old Margaret. There was a perfect view of Hannah’s house, especially after Old Margaret had the pine tree removed from her front yard. She had told Hannah and Mario that Joe, her husband and Hannah’s father, had said that the tree was diseased but they knew the reason was so she could have an unobstructed view of their house from her bedroom window. Joe even admitted such. Old Margaret loved to lie in bed at night, watch television and gaze out her bedroom window at her daughter’s house. She’d see lights go on and off, see who was coming and who was going. It made her feel comfortable, content in the fact that at least half of her family was right there. The other half, Hannah’s sister, Jessica, had moved to California soon after her wedding to Larry Savage, a scatologist who worked for the San Diego Zoo.
Hannah and Mario had planned to rent an apartment directly after they were married and save to buy a house, but an unbelievable opportunity to buy the house across the street from where Hannah grew up arose, and with a combination of an extremely low selling price and a gift of a down payment from Old Margaret and Joe – well, let’s just say it was too good even for Mario to pass up. Besides, they wouldn’t have to live there forever. If things got too bad, they’d sell and move away. If Jessica could do it, why couldn’t they?
“My bedroom light is on because my water broke and I’m waiting for the doctor to call me back, Mom,” Hannah said impatiently into the phone.
“Oh, my God! Are you alright? When were you going to call me?” Old Margaret said.
“After the doctor called me back. I have to go.” Hannah raised her voice in frustration.
“I’m coming over now,” Old Margaret said and slammed the phone down.
The phone rang again. This time she checked the caller ID. “Yes, Doctor.” Hannah said.
“Hello, Hannah?” It was Doctor Rosen.
“How are you, Doctor Rosen?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “My water broke. But there’s meconium in it,” Hannah said. Her calmness amazed Mario who was all ears sitting on the edge of the naked bed.
“How do you know there’s meconium?” Doctor Rosen said.
“It’s not clear. The first time it was clear and I read…”
“What color is it? Does it look like pea soup?”
“It – it’s the color of swamp water.”
“Are you in any discomfort? Have you any contractions?”
“No. Nothing. But I can feel Baby moving around – as usual. Can I take a shower?”
“Yes, you can take a shower,” Doctor Rosen said and chuckled.
Mario got up from the bed. “Is there anything to worry about? Is everything alright?” he said loudly enough for the doctor and Old Margaret to hear.
“Tell your husband to relax,” Doctor Rosen said. “He’s going to be father again pretty soon.”
“The Doctor said, ‘Relax, Mario,’” Hannah said.
“Alright, after you take a quick shower, go to the hospital and I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay. Thank you, Doctor,” Hannah said. She hung up the phone and turned to Mario. “The doctor also told me to tell you that you’re going to be a father again real soon.”
Mario took a deep breath and smiled. He hugged Hannah. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too. “I’m going to take a really quick shower,” Hannah said.
“I’ll get ready and get your bag.” Mario said and started downstairs.
Hannah waddled to the bathroom. She started the water for her shower and struggled to remove her wet pajamas. She ran her fingers over the stretch marks of her belly, then got into the shower where the warm water splashed on her face. It helped relax her as did the prayer she whispered into the falling water.
#
Old Margaret stood at the Bennetts’ front door clutching Peter, her small black poodle, in her arms. Her pink robe wrapped around a powder blue nightgown, helped her feel fashionable just in case a neighbor happened to be awake and catch a glimpse of her standing there, waiting, freezing in the extremely early, damp, chilly June morning.
“Jees, you’d think they’d at least have the porch light on for me,” she said to Peter, lisping. Old Margaret, in her haste, had shoved her dentures in her robe pocket instead of her mouth. “Why don’t they answer the door? What’s taking them so long?”
She tried the doorknob. The door was locked and she didn’t have her key – a key given to her for emergencies only. Mario and Hannah were still in the habit of doing stuff, as they were fond of saying, where ever and whenever the mood hit. “How embarrassing would that be getting caught doing stuff by your mother?” Hannah told her mother as she handed her the key shortly after she and Mario closed on the house.
“It’s disgusting,” Old Margaret said. “You expect me to feel comfortable in a house where you and your husband lay naked all over the place? God knows what you’ll wind up sitting in. It’s repulsive, I tell you. That’s why you have a bedroom. Stuff like that is to be done in the bedroom. Your father and I never did anything like that. Who brought you up like that? It certainly wasn’t me.”
That was almost ten years ago. In time, she forgot the reason why the key was for emergencies only. Not that it mattered to her anyway. To Old Margaret using the key when nobody was home for any reason was considered an emergency.
“Hello! Anybody home?” Old Margaret called. She had been standing out there a while and was losing patience. If she had only realized that she never rang the doorbell or knocked. But in her excitement she neglected to do either just as she neglected to put on her right, purple, fuzzy Barney slipper that Angela had given to her through her mother last Christmas. So, she stood and waited wearing the one fuzzy slipper, with her poodle in her arms and her dentures sitting in her robe pocket. “Hello? Are you people alright in there?” Finally, she banged on the door. She felt her rather large breasts jiggle with each slam of her knuckles against the storm door. She closed her robe more with her free hand and cinched the robe’s belt.
The porch light went on and Old Margaret put on her favorite scowl. The one where her eyebrows were so pursed that they nearly met at the bridge of her nose. The one where her lips were so tight they disappeared into her mouth, especially when she was not wearing her teeth. The one where her eyes were so squinted it looked as though she just sucked a lemon.
The door opened. “Old Margaret, how are you?” Mario said pushing open the storm door. “Come in.”
“How am I? I’m freezing. I’ve been waiting here an hour. What took you so long?” Old Margaret lisped.
“I’m sorry,” Mario said. “I just heard you knock.”
It dawned on Old Margaret that perhaps she’d been there a while without actually knocking on the door or ringing the bell, but she’d never admit to that. “Well, I’ve been out there a while and it’s cold. Isn’t it, Peter?” She leaned over and set Peter on the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry Old Margaret. I guess I didn’t hear it.”
“Well, how is she?”
“She’s okay.”
“Where’s my kiss?” Old Margaret said lifting her face to Mario. “You forgot my kiss.”
Mario reached down to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re missing something, Old Margaret,” Mario said.
“I am?” she said, then realized. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s right. I don’t have my teeth in. I didn’t have time. I thought you wanted me over here right away. I didn’t know I’d be standing outside for so long.”
“I’m sorry, Old Margaret. Maybe the bell isn’t working.”
“I have them in my pocket. See?” She took them from her robe pocket. “I’ll just wash them off in the kitchen. “Where is she? Taking a shower?”
“Yes.”
As Old Margaret walked by Mario, he noticed that she was wearing only one slipper. “Old Margaret, do you know you have only one slipper on?”
“Of course I know. My foot’s frozen.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I couldn’t find the one and I thought I had to hurry over here. Remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”
Old Margaret smiled sarcastically. “Now let me put my teeth in. I don’t want to scare little Angela when she wakes up,” she said and headed off to the kitchen.
#
Rain started to fall as Mario threw Hannah’s bag into the back seat of their Ford Escort. He went back to the house and helped Hannah down the porch stairs and into the car. Old Margaret followed close behind them yapping instructions.
“Call, me,” she said. “Don’t forget to call me. The minute the little guy squirts out of there, call me.”
“Squirt?” Hannah said. “I hope you’re right. Although, he feels like he’s going to squirt out any time now.” Hannah was clearly uncomfortable. Her contractions started while she was in the shower and were quickly getting closer together.
“Okay, get going. Drive safely and good luck, Honey,” Old Margaret said. She leaned in the window of the car and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom,” Hannah said and was thankful that Mario began to back out of the driveway.
“Sometimes I wonder about leaving Angela alone with her,” Mario said as he pulled on to Bloomfield Avenue.
“Why would you say that?” Hannah said. “Angela loves her.”
“Yes, I know, but… She seems to be getting a little kookier every day.”
“Don’t worry about her, Mario. She’s always been wacky.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re right.”
The next five minutes or so they drove in silence along the wet, empty roads leading to the hospital. Mario was lost in thought about his new son. He hoped to God that everything would turn out alright. He had never heard of meconium. “Jesus God, please make the little nipper be okay,” he said under his breath. “I have to think of something else, or I’m going to have a stroke.” So, he thought: There’s another mouth to feed, another body to dress, another tuition to pay. Of course, he had thought about all this many times before, but now it was reality and it made him almost as nervous as the meconium.
Hannah wasn’t concerned about any of that right now. She was troubled over her contractions. “Mario?” Hannah said. Her hands clutched the bottom of her stomach. She looked down at herself then to Mario. “I think maybe you should hurry a little bit. I mean don’t get us killed or anything but if this is anything like Angela’s birth…”
“You okay?”
“They’re really strong, the contractions.”
“Oh, my God. How much time do we have?” Mario said, his eyes glowed huge in the darkness. “Is it happening? It’s not happening now, is it?”
“No, Honey, no. It’s not happening now. Just drive. Everything’s okay.” Hannah was sorry she mentioned the contractions.
So, as Mario drove the Escort along Oakley Road, Hannah tried to keep her mind off the contractions by imagining how Angela would react to her new sibling. But that thought was wiped from her mind when she noticed how tightly Mario was gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles were so white Hannah thought his fingers would turn gangrene before they got to the hospital. It was a horrible night though. The rain drove. The wind blew. The leaves swirled. The roads were a slippery mess.
It wasn’t surprising then, when a carload of – what Mario thought were teenagers –actually he thought they were an evil teenage gang out to do no-good, and who probably stole the BMW they were in, swerved into his lane and headed right for them. Mario managed to tear his rigid fingers away from the steering wheel then slam his palm against the center of it. The horn blared, but the oncoming car did not change direction. It did not change speed. Mario waited until the last second to hit the gas and turn the wheel to the right. He figured he would hop the curb, pass the attacking death machine and land back down on the road as quickly as possible thereby missing the sixty-foot oak which was directly in his path.
That wasn’t to be, though. Mario did manage to drive his car up the curb, missing a head-on collision with the other car. But once his Escort straddled the sidewalk and the road it lost all traction in the watery mud, leaving Mario unable to steer; unable to stop. What he could do though, was plow smack dab into the huge, thick tree that grew in the patch of land between the sidewalk and the curb.
Hannah saw it coming and along with her shouts of warning and screams of fear, wrapped her arms around her gigantic belly and hunched over as far as she could. Rather she suffer a broken neck than any harm come to her baby. Like the implosion of the Escort’s headlights as the car smashed against the massive tree, Hannah’s future burst before her. In that almost imperceptible fraction of a second, she saw her lifeless body on a stretcher inside an ambulance and an E.M.T. slicing her open to remove her baby. “No!” she moaned and she summoned her image of God, the tall thin man in a long white robe with auburn hair and crystal blue eyes. “God, don’t let anything happen to my baby,” ran through her mind.
The impact, loud and violent, jerked Hannah forward against the seatbelt. Because of her awkward position, the top strap did not prevent her from slamming her head into the dashboard. The force of the blow, even against a padded dashboard, left her unconscious. Her body jerked back and lay limp against the seat.
Mario pushed the airbag away that had deployed from the steering wheel. He turned to Hannah. “Are you alright? Hannah! Hannah!” he yelled. He struggled to get out of the car, but his seatbelt held him in. He quickly unbuckled himself and hurried to the other side of the car where he flung open the door and tended to Hannah. He held her head between her hands. “Hannah. Hannah,” he said. He kissed her cheek. He stood. He looked for a car driving by. Nothing. He looked for a house, someplace where he could get help. But they were on a section of Oakley Road that was desolate after nine o’clock. This part of Oakley was lined with a school, two cemeteries and a church. Mario thought about running the few blocks to get to a house. Instead he screamed for help and honked his horn. Somebody just had to hear him and call the police.
Somebody did hear him. Father Olenshaw, the pastor of Christ Episcopal Church, heard the crash, threw on a pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt and flew outside. He saw the Bennetts’ car up the curb crashed against the tree with Mario honking and screaming. He stood in front of his church, waved his arms and yelled in his proper English accent. “Over here! I’ll call the police!”
“My wife is pregnant. She’s hurt. Hurry!” Mario yelled. He pleaded.
Father Olenshaw, realizing the gravity of the situation, ran back to the rectory faster than his sixty-year-old legs could take him. Stumbling on the way, he tore the knee of his pants and scraped the palms of his hands attempting to break his fall. When he got to the rectory door he found it shut. He tried the doorknob. “Oh God, no,” he said sounding as though he were praying. Actually, with the tenor of his voice and his accent he always sounded like he was praying. He pushed on the door. He banged on the door in frustration. It had to be frustration. He lived alone. Who did he think would answer it? “From the church,” he said. He ran around to the front doors of the church. He swung the huge door open and hurried inside. In the darkness, he ran down the center aisle of the church and from habit in front of the chancellery rail, he quickly genuflected to the crucifix. He turned left and hurried to the door leading from the church to the chancellery. He tried the doorknob and pushed. It was locked. He felt the wall near the door for the light switch. He flicked the switch and the church warmed with yellow light. He tried the door again as if seeing the door in better light would unlock it. He twisted and turned and jiggled the doorknob. He slammed the door with his hands, leaving blood marks from the cuts he received from his fall. He took a couple of steps back and attacked the door. He jumped throwing his entire body weight against the door. The heavy steel door did not budge and Father Olenshaw sank to the floor with great pain to his left shoulder. He stood; he leaned against the door woozy from the pain. He gently held his shoulder with his right hand. The pain was tremendous. He moved his arm. From the elbow there wasn’t a problem. But moving it from the shoulder was nearly impossible. He looked down at his left hand; the palm was facing away from his body. He stood back from the door and kicked it with his slippered right foot. Nothing, except pain to his arm and now to his foot. He rushed back outside, this time neglecting to genuflect before the crucifix.
Father Olenshaw crossed the street and found Mario in the car trying to comfort Hannah by petting her face as if she were a kitten. Hannah was coming around. She tossed her head back and forth as if she were waking from a nightmare. Her eyes popped opened. “Oh, my baby!” she cried. “My baby is coming!”
“It’s coming?” Father Olenshaw said. “Is it coming?” Father Olenshaw gave the tiny car a once-over. “There’s no room. There’s not enough room in the car to deliver. We’ve got to move her.”
The rain came in sheets now. The streets flooded. Water collected in huge muddy puddles along the road. Father Olenshaw quickly surveyed the situation. He looked directly into Mario’s eyes. “You’ve got to move her,” he said. “You – you have to lift her and bring her into the church. I hurt my arm. I cannot help. Do you understand? Can you do this?”
Mario did not answer. He got out of the car and stood at the open car door at Hannah’s side. He took a deep breath, bent over Hannah and sliding his hands under her, scooped her up as if she were his year-and-a-half-old daughter. Now Mario wasn’t the largest or the strongest man in Vagary. Standing at five feet, ten inches and about a hundred and sixty-five pounds, he was about as average as they come. But as they say, in times of emergency, when that adrenalin kicks in we’re able to accomplish remarkable things. Although Hannah was a rather small woman, didn’t weigh very much, she was at this time with all that baby bulk, not exactly a lightweight.
Mario, clutching Hannah to his chest, took a step backwards. His foot sank into the mud. He yanked it out leaving behind his shoe. He hobbled around the car into the street. The rushing water flowed over his feet. The torrents of rain nearly blinded him. He hobbled across the street doing his best to keep up with Father Olenshaw. The priest opened the church door using his good arm. Mario stepped on a piece of broken bottle glass that tumbled along with the streaming water in the gutter. Without a sound he stopped in his tracks, lifted his bare foot and while holding Hannah, shook his leg in an attempt to free the glass impaling his foot. After a couple of shakes the glass flew into the street. Mario then stubbed his shoeless bleeding foot against the curb on the other side of the street. He stumbled but amazingly managed to hang on to Hannah.
Father Olenshaw opened the inside door of the vestibule. “Can you bring her to the front of the church? There’s carpeting,” he said.
Mario said nothing, just limped along to the front of the church to the chancellery rail. He bent over to gently place her down on the maroon carpet before the altar. He felt a pain in his back so sharp he no longer could hold Hannah and from about a foot off the floor dropped her. Hannah let out a soft moan which was nothing at all like the blood-curdling scream Mario yowled. He fell to the floor beside Hannah. On his back with his legs held over his body and folded at the knees, with his shoeless right foot rusty with blood and water and mud, Mario rocked from side to side.
“I can’t move! I can’t move!” he wailed.
“You don’t have to,” Father Olenshaw said. “Just lie there.” He raced to the altar and with his good arm tore off the fair linen cloth covering the altar. Vases with flowers, candlesticks with candles, crashed to the floor. “Sorry, Lord,” Father Olenshaw said. He ran back to Hannah and Mario who were both moaning in agony.
Hannah’s legs were spread; her feet were flat on the floor. She was ready. Mario had rolled over to his side and curled up into the fetal position. He watched as Father Olenshaw, using only his right arm, shook out the fair linen and placed it at Hannah’s feet. He slid it under them and pulled it up to her hips one side at a time. He tugged on it until it was under her. He pulled Hannah’s dress above her huge stomach to her breasts. He took hold of the side of her underpants and for the first time since he was sixteen years old, removed undergarments from a member of the opposite sex.
Father Olenshaw struggled removing Hannah’s panties, as he had all those years ago, removing the panties of his girlfriend. Of course, the panties he worked so hard to remove as a teenager had its effort steeped in the throes of passion. With one hand on the young girl’s breast and his mouth pressed against hers, he had with his free hand, fumbled and tore at the girl’s flimsy underwear. This time though, gigantic bloomers were soaked and cleaved to the pregnant woman’s damp flesh. It was impossible getting them past her spread and raised legs. So, Father Olenshaw, with all his might, and with only one hand, ripped the underpants away from Hannah’s bottom and tossed them over his shoulder just as he had done the previous time and for the same reason, for good luck.
“Okay, how are we doing?” Father Olenshaw said to Hannah. “We’re all set and ready here. So, any time now. You want to push – that’s what they say, right? Looks as though you might want to do just that. Right?”
Hannah moaned as she pushed weakly.
“Oh, come on. You’ve got to do better than that,” Father Olenshaw said.
There was a bump at the top of her forehead the size and color of a plum.
“I don’t feel so good,” Hannah said. “I may throw up.”
“Okay, okay,” Father Olenshaw said. “Would you like to lean over?”
Hannah propped herself up on her elbows, turned her head to the side and tried to vomit. Nothing but dry heaves, though.
Mario slowly evolved from his fetal position and kneeled beside his wife. His back was as straight and stiff as the gold crucifix centered above the altar. Mario set his eyes on that crucifix and prayed as maniacally as Joan of Arc must have roasting for royalty all those years ago. Mario’s foot throbbed, his back burned with pain such as he had never experienced. But he was determined to be at his wife’s side to do whatever he could to help. Even if it were just to holler, push, or wipe her brow while offering words of encouragement.
“What happened?” Father Olenshaw said. “How did you two get in this predicament?”
Hannah moaned, but managed to speak. “Well, about nine months ago…” she said.
Mario moaned, but he managed to speak. “I don’t think that’s what he means,” he said.
“No shit, Mario. I’m making a joke,” Hannah said and slammed her fists on the maroon carpet. She grunted and started the breathing they taught her at Lamaze class. She really didn’t think it helped much delivering her first child, but this was a special time that called for special measures.
“That’s it. That’s it. Do your breathing, Honey,” Mario said in staccato speech. He put his hand out for Hannah and winced as she took it pulling him to her.
“Thanks for the encouragement,” she said. “Now let’s get this thing out of me.”
“Okay, let’s do it, then,” Father Olenshaw said.
Hannah, who still grasped Mario’s hand, yanked him back down to her. Mario gasped in pain. “Am I in a church? And who is this man?” Hannah said.
“Yes, you’re in a church. And I’m Father Olenshaw.”
“Father? You’re a priest?” Hannah said.
“Yes. How do you do?”
Hannah, in the middle of a contraction, groaned. As the contraction subsided she answered. “I’ve been better,” she said. “And you?”
“Like you, I’ve been better,” the priest said.
“Has a doctor been called, an ambulance?” Hannah managed to say through great pain. “I mean, it’s nice that you’re a priest and all but…”
“Yes – well. Not to fear – I’m not just any old priest. My mum was a midwife in England and I was around quite a bit so… As far as I know babies are delivered here the same as they are over there,” Father Olenshaw said. “So, I’m it, I suppose. Until help arrives. No fears then. We’ll have a little nipper here straight away.”
“But there may be something wrong with my baby,” Hannah said, then went into another long painful contraction. She continued with broken breath, “My water – my water had meconium in it.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me. We’ll take care of it. There should be no problem, then,” Father Olenshaw said. “Relax and when you feel as though you must push, by all means help out the little nipper.”
“I do. I do. I have to push.”
And push she did. It wasn’t long before the head of the baby crowned and tore Hannah’s perineum. Blood flowed enough to soak a substantial portion of the fair linen cloth. The spot leached across the religious material forming, what looked like, from Father Olenshaw’s perspective, an image of the hand of God reminiscent of the art of the Sistine Chapel as painted by Michelangelo. The fingers of this new blood-hand of God pointed to the crowning head of the baby. It sent chills up Father Olenshaw’s spine.
The next ten minutes had Hannah crushing Mario’s hand in hers while the baby made his way through Hannah’s birth canal. The pain in Mario’s hand, though, was nothing compared to the back pain he suffered and he was sure his back pain was nothing compared to the pain of childbirth Hannah was experiencing. Between pushes Hannah moaned. During pushes she grunted and groaned. And other than the occasional curse word Hannah uttered, Father Olenshaw was amazed with Hannah’s behavior considering her precarious situation.
“Just a little bit more,” Father Olenshaw said. “I know you’re tired, but just a little bit more.”
With one last push and one last cry, the little nipper slid from his mother and into the waiting hand of Father Olenshaw, where he slid again from the priest’s hand to the image of the hand of God on the fair linen. Father Olenshaw quickly wiped the baby’s face and the inside of his mouth with an edge of the linen cloth. Then he picked up the baby and brought the baby’s face up to his mouth. He placed the baby’s nose in his mouth and gently sucked. He did this twice, spitting the meconium from his mouth after each time. Using his injured arm, he wiped the baby’s face with a clean part of the fair linen cloth. He pinched the baby’s bottom and the boy began to cry. He left the baby between Hannah’s legs and rushed to the altar. He opened the door to the tabernacle, removed a cruet and smashed it on the edge of the altar. He studied the broken piece in his hand, saw that it would do the trick and ran back to crying baby.
“Take off your shoe laces!” Father Olenshaw said. “Of one shoe only. Take off the lace.”
“I only have one shoe,” Mario said.
Mario did as he was told and handed the lace to Father Olenshaw who tied the lace tightly around the umbilical cord. He then took the broken cruet glass and cut the cord about an inch away from the laces. He examined the baby all over, just as his mother had taught him. He checked the baby’s mouth and nose again to make sure he had gotten the last of the meconium. A bug of some sort, from out of nowhere, flew in circles around the baby’s head. It landed on the baby’s forehead. Father Olenshaw was about to fillip the bug from the baby’s head, but thought better of it. “Pull up your wife’s brassiere,” Father Olenshaw said. “Your boy wants to be with his mum.”
“My boy?” Mario said. He smiled and did as he was told.
The good Father then gently placed the crying baby on his mother’s breast and covered them as best he could with the fair linen. There was silence inside the church except for the soft sounds of nuzzling from the newborn baby boy.
Father Olenshaw delivered the placenta. His dislocated shoulder had become rather numb, so moving it was somewhat easier. Mario knelt stiffly beside Hannah. His back pain had subsided somewhat, only to be replaced with parasthesias of his right leg. He watched Hannah, her hands on the baby’s back, her eyes shut. She slept lightly.
Father Olenshaw, his mission complete, slowly rose from between Hannah’s legs. He stood looking down at the mother and child, and the father kneeling beside them. He was proud of himself, very proud. He could almost hear his mum say, “Oh, how pleased with you I am. You’ve done very, very well, dear.”
“Through the hand of God, Mum,” Father Olenshaw said loudly enough for only he and his mum to hear. He noticed the bug flying again in circles over the baby’s head. Then it flew over him and disappeared.
Chapter 2: Bacon
Hannah sat up in her hospital bed watching television where she was as comfortable as she could ever remember being. If she only had a bag Ghirardelli chocolate chips. She pictured them in her freezer just waiting for her. For the first time in three days, Hannah was homesick. She turned her attention back to the TV where Father Olenshaw, his dislocated arm in a sling, was standing in front of his church, Christ Episcopal, being interviewed about his heroic role in the birth of the little Bennett baby. The scene cut to the massive tree across the street where a huge gash in the bark was evidence of Mario Bennett’s car smashing head-on into it. Then a cut to the interior of the church to the very spot where the Bennett baby was born. Finally, a shot of the hospital room where Hannah, in bed, held her baby in her arms and Mario, complete with a crutch, stood next to the bed smiling like the proud father he was. Father Olenshaw also smiled like a proud father. It was one of those touchy-feely stories that would come at the end of a newscast to make one feel good about life after the many previous stories about death and destruction and greed and corruption.
Not only was the church birth of the Bennett baby on television and radio, it of course was plastered in every newspaper in New Jersey. Hannah gave explicit instructions to Mario to tape all the news shows and buy every paper he could because she planned on preparing a scrapbook of the little boy’s birth – the kind with a copy of the birth announcement, a lock of the baby’s hair and in the Bennett baby’s case, she would include all those articles about his unusual emergence into this world.
As Hannah watched the end of the newscast with her mouth watering for her chocolate, Father Olenshaw tapped on her open hospital room door. “Thought I’d just pop in and check on you and your new boy.” He had been there twice before, but felt a connection to the Bennetts and just wanted to make sure everything was okay before sending them off into the world.
No sooner had Father Olenshaw entered the room did Old Margaret and Mario arrive. Mario complete with crutches, five stitches in the bottom of his foot and Vicodin coursing through his veins, was there to take his wife and son home. Old Margaret was there because she was always there and she had to drive since nobody would get in a car with Mario driving all doped up on Vicodin. Joe was home watching little Angela. He hated hospitals anyway – even the maternity ward. He had spent his fifteen minutes with Hannah the day before, swooned over his new grandson, then had the hebee-gebees all night. Hannah got a kick out of her father’s fear of hospitals. “I don’t know. For a guy who’s not afraid of anything, what’s your problem with hospitals?” she said laughing. Old Margaret loved that Joe was hospital squeamish and busted him about it as often as she could. It wasn’t good-natured busting either. Everything they said to each other since Hannah moved out of their house seemed to have an air of hostility about it – possibly a source for their constant bickering.
The Bennetts, of course, were deeply indebted to Father Olenshaw for coming to the rescue of Hannah and her baby. For what little time he had spent with the Bennetts, he made a great impression on them. They loved him, especially Old Margaret. This was the reason the new Bennett boy, after three days on earth, still had no name. After the family had huddled and huddled deciding how best to honor the priest, they came to the conclusion that most people do when they wish to honor someone who had saved the day by delivering an errant baby: by naming the boy after the good priest. Since Hannah had suffered a slight concussion from the accident as well as needing much rest from her baby birthing ordeal, the final decision took some time to reach. Everyone wanted to be sure that the baby’s name wouldn’t be something they’d be sorry about years down the line.
“Father Olenshaw,” Hannah said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“And why is that, Hannah?” Father Olenshaw said.
Old Margaret wore a smile from ear to ear. She knew what was coming. Mario plopped into a vacant chair near the bed. Despite the Vicodin, his back was still killing him.
“We want you to know that we are naming our baby boy in your honor,” Hannah said.
Father Olenshaw stood motionless. Hannah could see that he was weighing what she said.
“Did I hear you correctly?” Father Olenshaw said.
“They want to name their baby after you,” Old Margaret said. “For what you did for them. I think it’s a marvelous idea.”
“Ebenezer?” he said. “You do realize my name is Ebenezer, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course we do,” Hannah said “Old Margaret read it on the marquee outside your church – the church where little Ebenezer was born. It’s a fine old English name and our new little boy is half English.”
“No, no. I insist,” Father Olenshaw said. “I do appreciate the gesture, but you can’t do that to the boy. Ebenezer? Can you imagine? Going through life as Ebenezer?”
“I think Ebenezer is a wonderful name,” Old Margaret said.
“Besides, what you did for us was beyond heroic,” Hannah said. “We cannot let that go unnoticed.”
“It was nothing of the sort. Anybody in my situation would have done exactly the same thing,” Father Olenshaw said. “I did not put my life on the line. I just helped people who were in trouble.”
“But you know,” Mario said through a drug-dried mouth. “He does sort of look like a little Ebenezer.”
“All babies look like an Ebenezer,” Father Olenshaw said. “I’ll tell you what. If you want to honor someone, honor our Lord and Savior.”
“You want us to name him after God?” Mario said. “God Bennett?”
“No, Mario. Don’t be ridiculous,” Hannah said. “You better slow down with those pain killers. He means name him Jesus,” Hannah said.
“Jesus? We can’t name him Jesus. I’d rather name him Ebenezer,” Mario said. “Jesus? We’re not Puerto Rican.”
“That would be Hayzeus,” Old Margaret said.
Father Olenshaw bowed his head as if he were about to pray. “Not Jesus,” he said. “Or Hayzeus – Christopher. Christopher, as in Christ – one who holds Christ in his heart.”
“Oh,” everyone said in unison.
“This would be the best way to honor me by honoring the One that actually made it all possible, Jesus Christ.”
“Christopher – that’s a beautiful name,” Hannah said.
“It is. It’s a great name. My son, Christopher Bennett,” Mario said trying it out, slurring just a tad.
“Christopher, it is,” Hannah said and began to cry. “I’m so happy.”
So the little Bennett boy was named Christopher Bennett – actually Christopher Ebenezer Bennett. He got saddled with Ebenezer as his middle name. Not that Christopher ever minded having Ebenezer as a middle name. Growing up he thought it was kind of cool. The only person he knew in the whole wide world named Ebenezer was Father Olenshaw and of course, Ebenezer Scrooge. That just added to the charm of such a name, as did the fact that Dickens turned out to be Christopher’s favorite writer.
Christopher was supposed to be tagged Joseph William Bennett after his two grandfathers. This was to have been a family surprise, a surprise to everyone except Old Margaret, of course. Old Margaret always had a way of being privy to the family secrets. It was a blessing that their plan had been kept a surprise, though. This avoided any hard feelings when the boy was finally named after God as well as Father Olenshaw instead of his two grandfathers.
#
Several weeks after Christopher was born his entire family, including Joe, spent a Sunday morning at Christ Episcopal Church. This was almost as amazing as Christopher’s birth, since the Bennetts were about as religious as Karl Marx. Not that they had been atheists like Karl, or even agnostics; their belief in God was certainly devout. But their affinity for organized religion was not. In fact, no one in this family had been to church, other than for weddings or funerals, more than ten times in ten years and that included their own wedding which took place at the Vagary Nondenominational Community Church.
Father Olenshaw’s church, if it were painted white instead of the dark, dismal maroon it was painted, would have seemed out of place in Vagary. Christ Episcopal Church, with its simple New England style architecture and its stark but somehow cozy interior, created an atmosphere that made it easy to imagine yourself worshiping in Grovers Corners.
There weren’t many Episcopalians in Vagary, so the amount of parishioners at the church was quite small. At the seven-thirty service the size of the usual congregation was embarrassingly small. Sometimes only ten or so women, mostly older, and a few men wanting to get in a few prayers and holy communion before hooking up with their competition on the golf links.
The final service of the day was at twelve for the late risers. This group consisted of young marrieds and older people who were pretty much on their own – the ones who spent the morning thumbing through The New York Times then spent the afternoon lounging through brunch or joining their grown children and their grandchildren for Sunday dinner and time in front of the TV watching football.
The Bennetts had gone to the ten o’clock service – the family service. This was the most popular of the three Sunday services. This is where Father Olenshaw would direct his sermon to the children in the congregation, occasionally choosing one or two of the children to answer a question. After this service there would be half-hour Sunday-school classes. The children would break off into groups according to age and volunteers would teach God from books paid for by bake sales, Chinese auctions and car washes. After mass, Old Margaret made sure they were the last ones out of church.
While the rest of the family milled around outside, avoiding the congregation and squinting from the early summer sun, Old Margaret stood with Father Olenshaw on the church porch and seemed to be flirting with the bachelor priest.
“I am so glad I came today, Father. Your sermon was wonderful and so inspiring. I love the way you bring the children into it. It forces them to pay attention. Doesn’t it?” Old Margaret said and actually batted her eyes. She smiled broadly revealing those shiny, expensive dentures and coyly cocked her head to one side, her dyed auburn hair hung delicately over one eye.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Sardini. I’m very happy you could come today. Will we be seeing you again?”
“Well, I should say so. I’m sure we’ll be here every Sunday from now on.”
“Well, that’s terrific.”
“You know we were shopping around for a new church,” Old Margaret told her little white lie quietly as if the softer you spoke a lie the less it would matter.
“Well, I hope we passed the audition,” Father Olenshaw said knowing full well that Old Margaret was full of it.
“Tell me, Father. How is your arm?”
“Oh, it’s much better,” Father Olenshaw said proudly raising it, albeit gingerly, over his head. “Thank you for asking, Mrs. Sardini.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. What you did was just so heroic.”
“Anyone else would have done the same, Mrs. Sardini.”
“Oh Father, please call me Old Margaret. Mrs. Sardini is so formal.”
“Certainly. Margaret it is. My sister’s name is Margaret. She’s a dear woman.”
“No, Father. Not Margaret – Old Margaret. Everyone calls me Old Margaret. Ever since I can remember I’ve been Old Margaret. It’s a long story that I’d love to tell you about over dinner next Sunday if you’re free. Just at our house. I make dinner for my family usually every Sunday. Nothing fancy – anyway we’d all just love to have you.”
“Oh, how nice of you, Old Margaret. I would love to come. I would love to hear the story of your highly unusual name.”
#
So, that’s how it all began – with the story of how Old Margaret got her name and a fine family style dinner of roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas, and especially prepared for Father Olenshaw, Yorkshire pudding. Now, you would have had to look far and wide for someone who could prepare a meal better than Old Margaret and this day she had really outdone herself. So, it was no surprise when Father Olenshaw, during a dessert of Bananas Foster said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a more delicious dinner in my life.”