The Birthing House

'Of murder?'

'Yes, what is the polar opposite of murder?'

'Life.'

'Close. Murder is removing life from this world.' Laski was a professor now. 'Bringing life into this world is . . . ?'

'Birth.'

'Birth. Now let's say dare's a house. A house where not one murder was committed, but birth was committed, and frequently. Hundreds of babies entering the world through this house. Women come and go. Women are drawn to it. Women from all walks of life, from next door, from the next town over, hell, some of them from out of state. And the folks who live dare too, the family. Young ones and old ones. Women on top of women. You got pregnant mothers and children and runaways and strays. Dey come to this house. Why? Because it has magical vibes? Because God has blessed this house?'

'That's what your wife thinks.'

'Excuse me, but fuck m'wife. She's crazier'na badger with a sticka corn up its ass.'

They finished their beers. Conrad had arrived at drunk, and Laski was close behind. The man had begun to philosophize.

Conrad flagged the waitress. 'She said God has blessed this house. It doesn't feel like God blessed this house.'

'And fuck God, too,' Laski said. 'This is about the women.'

'The women in the photo?'

'Some of them. Some others.'

'What happened to them? Something bad happened?'

'Not necessarily. Women give birth and die in hospitals, too, and in greater numbers. A soul for a soul, if ya like. But that's not why dey come. Dey come 'cause the man who lives dare's a doctor. And this is all happening in a time when the nearest hospital, the only real hospital in the northern part of the Midwest for hundreds of miles around, is in Chicago. Later, another one opens in Iowa City or Des Moines, M'waukee. But back den, if you lived in south-west Wisconsin, you had few options outside of the home. These women don't want the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Dey want the miracle of modern medicine. Dey want their baby to have the best chance at a healthy life. Even the ones who believe God created the world in seven days, comes to life and death, or in this case birth, do dey put their faith in God? No, dey put dare faith in science. Or a midwife. Folk remedies, natural birth, modern medicine. It all comes down to getting the most knowledgeable person in the room when the nipper's slidin' downda chute.'

'This is insane. How can you sit there and tell me this?'

'Ain't telling you a thing a hundred cultures on this earth don't already believe. You're gonna believe what you wanna believe anyway. I can see dat.'

'I might also sue your ass off.'

'You ever see women around babies? Just makes 'em want more babies. Dey can't help it. Da cunnie is a grand mystery to men. What do we know?'

'Tell me what happened.'

'Life. Life's what happened. All this blood splashed on the floor and the walls and the wailing women and the sweat and the pain and the prayer. It's just birth. And what does all this birth do to a house? Your supernatural tales would suggest that death opens a door. And why not? It's a violent act, the spirit leaving the body and all that crap. But birth is violent, too, make no mistake about that. Bringing a new soul into this world makes a helluva racket. Some cultures, dey move the pregnant females away just before birth, or during them menses, figurin' if the evil spirits a comin', might swoop down now when she's got her legs open. I don't know shit about spirits, but I know the Indians got a special teepee for the women. Some folks, like them nutters up in Idaho what got shot in the back by dem Federalis, dey had a birthing shack. Dey were afraid of something besides the government, all right. I don't know about opening no doors, but if dare's doors to be opened, then birth must be one way to open them. Maybe all this ushering of babies into the world could do that.'

'Is that what you believe is happening?' Conrad said. 'The birthing house wants another baby? Are you telling me that's how you kept it . . . happy for the past twenty-six years? Having babies?'

'I'm just a family man,' Laski said, his shit-eating grin revealing yellow teeth.

'Right,' Conrad said. 'And your kids?'

'What about my kids?'

'They're all . . . each one has an abnormality. What happened to them?'

'Bad genes.' Laski went back to watching the game, like they were discussing Ford versus GM.

Bullshit. 'You had more, didn't you? More than the three I saw your wife with.'

'Who tol' you dat?'

'Is it true?'

'You got no idea what you're talking about. You've never been a father.'

'What happened to them? Did they die, or did someone . . . did something . . . murder them?'

'You know . . .' Laski stood and hooked his beer into his arm, shelling a peanut. 'We were happy dare, once. Good times, bad times. Not so different from any life in any other house.'

'Then why'd you leave?'

Laski turned to Conrad, weighing his response. 'My wife, she didn't wanna sell. But we got her for a song. I figured the market was ripe.'

'Fuck you, Laski. What the fuck did you tell me all that for if not to tell me something? You want to confess? Because if something happens to my wife--'

'Yeah, what you gonna do? Move back to California?'

Suddenly the argument was over. Conrad wanted to crawl across the table and smash his bottle over Laski's head.

'My wife is pregnant. I don't know what to do, Leon. I need help.'

Laski looked Conrad in the eye and nodded very slowly, imparting his last and only real piece of advice. 'Listen to the woman of the house. Be a man, but keep your pecker in your pocket unless you're planning on putting it to righteous use. And listen to the woman of the house.'

18

Conrad stood leaning over the bathroom sink with a tube of ointment in his good hand. The problem was, they were both good hands now. The dog bite that had started as a hole requiring sutures was now but a faint red dot, the surrounding tissue pink, clean and dry as paper.

It's healed, he thought. Damned if it hasn't healed itself up in two days.

He turned again to the bathroom window facing the backyard, not admitting to himself that he was hoping to see Nadia Grum. He thought he'd seen her there each night since her parents left town, standing still or pacing by the fence. He thought she might be sleepwalking, but eventually she seemed to snap out of it before darting back behind her house.

Twenty minutes later he was dozing on his feet, his face pleasantly cooling against the window, when he saw movement, a shape. It took him another half a minute for his eyes to adjust and see the woman standing in his backyard. Not on the Grum side; this time she had crossed over. She looked up at him and tiredly raised one hand, then turned away slowly.

He lost her for a moment, but she reappeared, walking the flagstone path toward the detached garage at the rear of the property. No, not Nadia. Nadia was blonde as a cocker spaniel, and even in the darkness he could see that this woman had black hair. He might have tried pretending she was Nadia if she had been wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, or even a white nightgown that implied sleepwalking. But the woman who was now headed toward the overgrown vegetable garden at the end of the property wasn't wearing street clothes or pajamas. She was wearing a black dress, the kind that billowed under the waist and fit snuggly above it.

She's crazy, he thought. One of the locals gone off the radar. She needs help before she wanders into the garden and steps on a rusted rake.