Tarnished Gold

  severe.

  "Take deep breaths," Mama advised.

  "Is it coming? Is it coming?" Gladys asked,

  excitedly.

  "Not yet, no," Mama said. "I told you. I'm not

  sure this is real labor yet, and besides, babies don't

  come busting into this world that fast, especially when

  a woman's giving birth for the first time."

  "Yes," Gladys said, more to herself than to us.

  "My first time."

  She waddled over to her own bed and sat down,

  her hands on her padded stomach. She closed her eyes

  and bit down on her lower lip. Mama wiped my face

  with a cold washcloth. I forced a smile and gazed at

  Gladys, who looked like she was breaking into a

  sweat herself. Watching her actions, her silent moans,

  her deep breaths, distracted me from my own. pain for

  the moment. Mama just shrugged and shook her head. Mama said the contractions were a good five

  minutes apart and didn't last long enough to be that

  significant yet, but it went on for hours. All the while Gladys Tate lay in her bed beside mine. She ate nothing, drank a little ice tea, but for the most part, just watched me and mimicked my every action, my

  every groan.

  As the sun began to go down and the room

  darkened, my labor pains grew longer and with

  shorter and shorter intervals. I saw from Mama's face

  that she thought something significant was happening

  now.

  "I'm going to give birth soon, aren't 1, Mama?"

  She nodded. "I believe so, honey."

  "But it's too soon, isn't it, Mama? I'm barely

  eight months."

  She nodded, but made no comment. Worry and

  concern were etched in the ripples along her forehead

  and the darkness that entered her eyes. My heart

  pounded. In fact, it had been beating so hard and so

  fast for so long, I was worried it would just give out.

  These thoughts brought more cold sweats. I squeezed

  Mama's hand harder and she tried to keep me calm.

  She gave me tablespoons of one of her herbal

  medicines that kept me from getting nauseous. Gladys

  Tate insisted on knowing what it was, and when

  Mama explained it, Gladys insisted she be given

  some.

  "I want to be sure it's not some Cajun poison

  that works on babies," she said.

  Mama checked her anger and let her have a

  tablespoon. Gladys swallowed it quickly and chased it

  down with some ice tea. Then she waited to see what

  sort of reaction she would have. When she said

  nothing, Mama smirked.

  "I guess it ain't poison," Mama said, but Gladys

  looked unconvinced.

  Suddenly it began to rain, the drops drumming

  on the window, the wind coming up to blow sheet

  after sheet of the downpour against the house. There

  was a flash of lightning and then a crash of thunder

  that seemed to shake the very foundation of the great

  house and rock my bed as well. We could hear the

  rain pounding the roof. It seemed to pound right

  through and into my heart.

  Mama asked Gladys to turn on the lamps. As if

  it took all her effort to rise from the bed and cross the

  room, she groaned and stood up with an exaggerated

  slowness. As soon as she had the lights on, she

  returned to her bed and watched me enduring my

  labor, closing her eyes, mumbling to herself and

  sighing.

  "How long can this last?" she finally inquired

  with impatience.

  "Ten, fifteen, twenty hours," Mama told her. "If

  you have something else to do . . ."

  "What else would I have to do? Are you mad or

  are you trying to get rid of me?"

  "Forget I said anything," Mama muttered, and

  turned her attention back to me.

  Suddenly, at the end of one contraction, I felt a

  gush of warm liquid down my legs.

  "Mama!"

  "It's your bag of waters," Mama exclaimed.

  "The baby's going to come tonight," she declared with

  certainty. Gladys Tate uttered a cry of excitement, and

  when we looked over at her, we saw she had wet her

  own bed.

  Neither Mama nor I said anything. Our

  attention was mainly focused now on my efforts to

  bring a newborn child into the world.

  Hours passed, the contractions continuing to

  grow in intensity and the intervals continuing to

  shorten, but Mama didn't look pleased with my

  progress. She examined me periodically and shook

  her head with concern. The pain grew more and more

  intense. I was breathing faster and heavier, gasping at

  times. When I looked at Gladys, I saw her face was crimson, her eyes glassy. She had run her fingers through her hair so much, the strands were like broken piano wires, curling up in every direction. She writhed on her bed, groaning. Mama was concentrating firmly

  on me now and barely paid her notice.

  Mama referred to the watch, felt my

  contractions, checked me and bit down on her lip. I

  saw the alarm building in her eyes, the muscles in her

  face tense.

  "What's wrong, Mama?" I gasped between deep

  breaths.

  "It's breech," she said sorrowfully. "I was afraid

  of this. It's not uncommon with premature births." "Breech?" Gladys Tate cried, pausing in her

  imitation of my agony. "What does that mean?" "It means the baby is in the wrong position. Its

  buttocks is pointing out instead of its head," she

  explained.

  "It's more painful, isn't it? Oh no. Oh no," she

  cried, wringing her hands. "What will I do?" "I have no time for this sort of stupidity,"

  Mama said. She hurried to the door. Octavious was

  nearby, pacing. "Bring me some whiskey," she

  shouted at him.

  "Whiskey?"

  "Hurry."

  "What are you going to do, Mama?" I asked. "I've got to try to turn the baby, honey. Just

  relax. Put your mind on something else. Think about

  your swamp, your animals, flowers, anything," she

  said.

  A few moments later, Octavious appeared with

  a bottle of bourbon. He stood there in shock. Gladys

  was writhing on her bed, her eyes closed, moaning

  and occasionally screaming.

  "What's wrong with her?" he asked Mama. "I wouldn't even try to answer that," she told

  him, and took the whiskey. She poured it over her

  hands and scrubbed them with the alcohol, while

  Octavious went to Gladys's side and tried to rouse her

  out of her strange state, but she didn't acknowledge

  him. Whenever he touched her, she screamed louder.

  He stood back, shuddering, confused, pleading with

  her to get control of herself.

  Mama returned to my bedside and began her

  effort to turn the baby. I thought I must have gone in

  and out of consciousness because I couldn't remember

  what happened or how long I was crying and

  moaning. Once, I looked over and saw the expression

  of utter horror on Octavious's face. I knew Mama was happy he was in the room, witnessing all the pain and turmoil, hoping he would see it for years in

  nightmares.

  Fortunately for me and the baby, Mama had

&nbs
p; miraculous hands. Later she would tell me if she had

  failed, the only alternative was a cesarean section. But

  Mama was truly the Cajun healer. I saw from the

  happy expression on her face that she had managed to

  turn the baby. Then, guiding me, coaxing and

  coaching me along, she continued the birthing

  process.

  "Push when you have the contractions, honey.

  This way two forces, the contraction and your

  pushing, combine to move the baby and saves you

  some energy," she advised. I did as she said and soon

  I began to feel the baby's movement.

  My own grunts and cries filled my ears, so I

  didn't hear the grunts and cries coming from Gladys

  Tate, but I caught a glimpse of Octavious holding her

  hand and continually trying to calm her. She had her

  legs up and was actually pushing down on her

  padding so that it slipped off her stomach and toward

  her legs.

  "He's coming!" Mama announced, and we all

  knew it was a boy. The room was a cacophony of bedlam: Gladys's mad cries (louder than mine), Octavious trying to get her to stop, my own screams, Mama mumbling prayers and orders, and then that great sense of completion, that sweet feeling of

  emptiness followed by my baby's first cry.

  His tiny voice stopped my screams and

  Gladys's as well. Mama held him up, the placenta still

  attached and dangling.

  "He's big," Mama exclaimed. "Big enough to

  do well even though he's early."

  I tried to catch my breath, my eyes fixed on the

  wonder that had emerged from my body, the living

  thing that had dwelled inside my stomach.

  Mama cut and tied the cord and then began to

  wash the baby, doing everything quickly and with an

  expertise born of years and years of experience, while

  I lay back trying to get my heart to slow, my breathing

  regular. When I gazed at Gladys Tate, I saw she was

  mesmerized by the sight of the baby. She didn't move.

  Octavious watched with interest and awe. Mama

  wrapped the baby in a blanket and held him for a

  moment.

  "Perfect features," she said.

  "Give me my baby," Gladys demanded. "Give

  him to me now!" she screamed.

  Mama gazed at her for a moment and then at

  me. I closed my eyes and put my hand over my face. I

  had wanted to hold him, at least for a few moments,

  but I was afraid to say anything. Mama brought the

  baby to Gladys, who cradled him quickly.

  "Look at him, Octavious," she said. "He is

  perfect. Little Mr. Perfect. We're naming him Paul,"

  she added quickly, "after my mother's younger brother

  who died a tragic death in the canals when he was

  only twelve. Right, Octavious?"

  He looked at us. "Yes," he said.

  Mama didn't respond. She returned her

  attention to me. "How are you doing, honey?" "I'm all right, Mama." I turned to Gladys. "Can

  I look at him? Please," I asked.

  She glared fire at me and turned the baby so I

  couldn't view his face. "Of course not. I want you out

  of here immediately," she said. She looked at Mama.

  "Get her up and out of that bed and out of this house

  before anyone comes around."

  "I can't rush her like that," Mama said. "She

  needs to recuperate. She's still bleeding some." "Octavious, take them into another room, your

  room for all I care," she said.

  Mama turned on her, her back up, her eyes blazing back. "No! You go into another room. My daughter will rest here until I say she's fit to leave, and

  that's my final word on it, hear?"

  Gladys saw Mama was adamant. "Very well,"

  she said. "I'll go to Octavious's room to recuperate and

  put the baby in his nursery."

  "Exactly how to you plan to feed the infant?"

  Mama asked.

  Gladys smiled coolly. "We've thought of that.

  I've hired a wet nurse. Octavious will fetch her now.

  Won't you, Octavious?"

  "Yes, dear," he said obediently. He was unable

  to look at me and just gave me a passing glance. "The child needs a lot of attention," Mama said.

  "Remember, he's premature."

  "We'll have a real doctor here in less than an

  hour. He's someone we can trust, but I still want you

  out of the house as soon as possible," she said. She

  handed the baby to Octavious as she rose from her

  bed. Then she took the baby back quickly and started

  out of the bedroom, taking care, it seemed to me, to

  prevent me from getting a good view of him. She

  paused at the doorway.

  "Once you're gone, I don't want to ever see you

  on this property again," she told me.

  "She'd rather step in quicksand," Mama

  retorted. Gladys smiled, satisfied. "Good," she said,

  and walked out with my baby. I hadn't even seen him

  for a full minute and he was already gone from my

  life forever. My lips trembled and my heart ached. Octavious remained behind a moment,

  stuttering some apology and some thanks. "Take as

  long as you need," he concluded, his eyes down. Then

  he hurried to follow his wife and new child. I couldn't help but burst into tears. Mama put

  her arm around me and kissed my hair and forehead,

  trying to comfort and soothe me.

  "Is he really perfect, Mama?"

  "Yes, honey, he is. He's one of the prettiest

  babies I've seen, and you know I've seen a few in my

  time."

  "Will he be all right?"

  "I think so. He was breathing strong on his

  own. It's good that they're having a doctor come

  around, though. Let me tend to your bleeding,

  Gabriel, and then let you rest. Damn your father for

  hurrying away. I could use him now," she muttered. I lay back, exhausted, not only from the

  delivery, but from the emotional pain of having only a

  glimpse of baby Paul and then seeing him swept away from me instantly. Mama was right: This was a terrible feeling. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare

  that would haunt me forever.

  It was very late by the time I felt strong enough

  to get out of the bed and stand on my own. Mama held

  me cautiously and had me walk around the room first.

  Then she sat me down and went to find Octavious.

  Since Daddy hadn't returned, she had to ask Octavious

  to drive us home.

  The house was dim and quiet with all the

  servants gone. I paused outside the bedroom door on

  the upstairs landing because I heard my baby crying. I

  looked at Octavious.

  "I want to see him," I said.

  He looked at Mama and then me.

  "I won't leave before I do," I threatened. He nodded. "Gladys is sleeping. She claims

  she's exhausted. If you're very quiet about it . ." "I will be. I promise," I said.

  "Gabriel. Maybe it's better you just leave,

  honey. You're just prolonging the pain and . . ."

  Mama's voice trailed off.

  "No, Mama. I've got to look at him. Please," I

  begged.

  She shook her head and then turned to

  Octavious and nodded.

  "Very, very quiet," he said, and practically

  tiptoed down the hallway to the nursery
he and Gladys

  had prepared. The wet nurse was already there. She

  was a young girl not much older than me. Octavious

  whispered something to her and she left without

  glancing at me.

  I stepped up to the cradle and peered in at baby

  Paul, wrapped in his blue cotton blanket, his pink face

  no bigger than a fist. His eyes were closed, but he was

  breathing nicely. His skin was so soft. It was a little

  crimson at the cheeks. All of his features were perfect.

  Mama was right. His fingers, clutched at the blanket,

  looked smaller than the fingers of any doll I had ever

  had. My heart ached with my desire to touch him, to

  kiss him, to hold him against my throbbing breasts

  filled with milk that was meant to be his and would

  never touch his lips.

  "We better go," Octavious whispered. "Come on, honey," Mama urged. She put her

  hand through my arm and held me at the elbow. "Good-bye, Paul," I whispered. "You'll never

  know who I am. I'll never hear your cry again; never

  comfort you or hear your laughing somehow,

  somehow, I hope you'll sense that I'm out there, waiting anxiously for the day I can set eyes on you

  again."

  I kissed my finger and then touched his tiny

  forehead. My throat felt like I had a stone caught in it.

  I turned and walked away like one in a trance, not

  feeling, not seeing, not hearing anything but the cries

  of sadness inside me.

  Somehow, we got down the stairway and out

  the front door to Octavious's car. Mama and I sat in

  the back, me lying against her, my eyes closed, my

  hand clutching hers. We slipped through the night like

  shadows indistinguishable from the blanket of

  darkness that had fallen heavily over the world. No

  one spoke until we arrived at our shack. Octavious

  opened the door and helped Mama get me out. "I'll take her from here," Mama told him

  sternly:

  "Will she be all right?" he asked. Mama

  hesitated. I felt her turn to him and I opened my eyes. "She will be fine; she will grow strong again,

  whereas you will grow weaker and smaller under the

  burden of your sin," she predicted. He seemed to

  shrink. "You be sure that that madwoman you call

  your wife treats that child with love and kindness,

  hear?"

  "I will," he promised. "He'll have everything he

  needs and more."

  "He needs love."

  Octavious nodded. "I'm sorry," he muttered one

  final time, and went back to his car.

  Mama turned me to the shack and we made our