“We need more information,” said Clint, between bites.
“You’ll make yourself sick doing that,” said the doctor, “and spread disease. Spit your fingers from your mouth.”
“I won’t,” said Clint.
“Regardless,” said the doctor. He rose to fetch more to drink from the bar, but found the door locked and barred.
“You dog,” said the doctor to the unyielding oak.
“Is it the appendix?” said the chubby boy.
“A medical man,” said the doctor, turning back to the children grandly, drunkenly, with a stutter in his step and sweat on his brow.
“You took out my dad’s,” said the boy.
“A worthless organ, just waiting to be occupied by this or that malady,” said the doctor. “We’re sacks of vestigial organs and bones. Most of us is hardly necessary.”
He approached the chubby boy then and pinched his gut.
“Ow.”
Clint lowered his hand to laugh and lean forward as if he were planning to take part in what was sure to become an ongoing harassment of the chubby boy.
“No, my boy. It is not the appendix.”
“What then?” said Alice.
“A baby,” said the doctor.
The three children were silent then.
“Did you hear me?” said the doctor.
The chubby boy nodded. Clint cocked his head then looked either way up and down the road. Alice raised her hand.
“Yes, Alice,” said the doctor.
“What baby?” she said.
“Sugar is carrying a baby,” explained the doctor.
“But…” began the chubby boy.
“It does not seem right, does it?” said the doctor.
“How did the baby live inside him?” said Alice.
“He has all the parts of a woman,” said the doctor.
“But he’s not…?” said Alice.
“He is not known as such and has never laid claim to the gender,” said the doctor.
Clint’s open palm met the back of the chubby boy’s head then. Clint broke into laughter and took a few steps back as the chubby boy rose to defend himself.
“Don’t,” said the boy.
Clint nodded, put up his hands, and assured him he would not.
“What does it mean for the baby?” said Alice.
“I don’t know,” said the doctor.
The clap was even louder this time, when Clint’s hand met the back of the other boy’s head. So hard was the blow that the boy tipped forward, his palms to the step in front of him, before he was able to gather himself up and chase after Clint.
“Quit it,” said the doctor, waving his hand as after a fly.
“I’m confused,” said Alice.
“As you should be,” said the doctor.
“Is he really a killer?” said Alice.
“Yes,” said the doctor, settling into his chair and bringing his hat down to block out the blinding light reflected by the dirt of the road before him.
“Are we safe?” said Alice.
“They would like us to think so,” said the doctor.
Across the street, the chubby boy had Clint pinned before a trough full of muck. He was slapping Clint across the face with one hand and scooping muck from the trough with the other. He tipped the muck onto Clint’s face, focusing on the mouth, eyes, and ears, and Clint squirmed and squealed, and the other boy’s face was like a stone.
When the doctor finally arrived at the jail he had a little girl in tow and was the storming drunk of a man who had managed to keep it going through the night and on into the morning. He pointed to Sugar, who had removed all of his clothing except for his shirt and positioned himself on the bed in his cell with his knees bent, as if napping in a tight spot.
“That,” said the doctor, “is crowning.”
There were eight deputies scattered throughout the jail’s main office, which contained a desk, several chairs, a dusty collage of wanted posters, boxes of bullets, some riding gear, and Sugar’s cell at the back.
The deputies appeared confused at the word, but Alice seemed to understand.
“We’re deep into it now, deputies,” said the doctor.
“We’re worried he’s dying,” said one of the deputies. A young boy. The doctor had seen him around but hardly knew him. He was new to town, flirting with Flora Jean, the gravedigger’s daughter. He didn’t drink and he didn’t chew and he kept to himself in a rather superior sort of way.
“That’s because you don’t know anything outside of the deputy’s game of capturing and killing.”
“I served for four years under — ”
“You’re not helping your case, my boy. Can the cell be opened?” The doctor’s mood had shifted entirely. A kind of excitement came over him when it was time to begin. That, and he was enjoying the fact that Alice had come with him out of curiosity and that she seemed to cling to his every word and movement like a pitch-perfect daughter might.
“Birthing is easy, Alice,” explained the doctor, as the young deputy unlocked and cracked the cell’s door. “It is a matter of catching. Like waiting at the bottom of a hill to catch a friend who is sledding down it. There’s only a small bit of risk. More fun than anything else.”
“My mother had seven children and I was the last,” said Alice.
“You see?” said the doctor.
“But she passed after I was born.”
“Yes, well, birthing seven children is very different than facing the task of raising them.”
The doctor sloppily rolled his sleeves.
“I’ll need a stool,” he reported. The youngest deputy fetched one from behind the sheriff’s desk. The other deputies were resigned, reclined, and leaning against this or that. They had done little more than look in the doctor’s way since he arrived. Six worthless men and a sheriff, was all the doctor saw. They were as put out by the whole thing as he was, he determined, but weren’t doing much of anything about it. A man was not measured by what he did or did not want to do, but how he was able to handle getting through those things he did not want to do. The doctor was a man who liked to make a note when he had a thorough thought, but he found himself without a pen.
“Do you men plan to help secure this child’s birth or are you merely hoping for something to go wrong?” said the doctor, addressing the room.
“What child?” said Sugar.
They all turned to watch him. It was as if an object had suddenly come to life.
“You’re giving birth,” said the doctor.
“How?”
“Through your vagina,” said the doctor.
“I do not want it to happen,” said Sugar.
“While many things about you chill me to the core, my son, I do pity you right now,” said the doctor. “This will be the last easy thing you do, I’m sure of it.”
“Bring Brooke,” said Sugar.
“Your brother is dead,” said the doctor.
Sugar moaned and set his head back. He seemed to instinctively know when to push, and the child was working its way out with little effort or coaching from the doctor.
“Gross,” said Alice.
“Yes,” said the doctor.
Sugar moaned.
“Is he going to die?” asked the young deputy. He was at the doctor’s side then, standing just behind Alice. The sheriff lit a cigarette, and stepped onto the porch.
“I doubt it,” said the doctor. “You could get me a basin of clean, warm water. Some soap. Some clean blankets. You could make yourself useful.”
The boy did just that. He vanished with a determined air.
“Do you deliver a lot of babies?” said Alice.
“Some,” said the doctor.
“Do you like it?”
“Sometimes,” said the doctor.
“I am going to die,” said Sugar. “But I am not afraid.”
“Very good on you,” said the doctor.
“Is he going to die?” said Alice.