Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

I was glad she said that because it felt to me as if I was putting enough force on the scissors’ handles to cut through a Goodyear tire.

I said, “Get ready to blot up the blood. There won’t be much.”

It took a moment for Joyce to realize I was talking to her. She let out a nervous giggle and jumped to hold tissues under the scissors just as the blades broke through the cord. Some blood spilled out, but most of the blood in the cord had traveled back into the bodies it had linked. Joyce blotted at the nib attached to the baby before she let the end connected to the placenta fall.

I looked at Joyce, and we both let out a sigh of relief. Then we smiled at the young woman.

I said, “It’s okay. Your baby is fine.”

But the words were a lovely lie, because the baby wasn’t fine at all. She had been born on the ground, in the dirt, to a mother who was alone and far from home and nearly a baby herself. There was no promise of security or safety, only a dismal future, riddled with uncertainty. Joyce wrapped the baby in her sweatshirt, and the girl lifted it to her chest and crooned while the baby nuzzled at her thin shoulder blades. The baby looked as worn-out as her mother, and Joyce didn’t look much better.

I couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t even 7:00 A.M. yet, and the day felt like it had already lasted several years.

2

We were all sitting in the brush beside the trail. Me, Joyce, and the young girl holding her newborn baby. I think we were all just trying to get our bearings. Rufus and Henry the VIII were still watching from their post a few yards away.

I said, “What the hell are we going to do with her?”

Joyce looked away. We both knew what we should do. We should call the sheriff’s office and report an illegal alien in our midst. We should report that she had given birth and now there were two people who needed our care, our food, our medical treatment. In time, if the young mother wasn’t deported, her child would need education, and all that would have to be paid for by our tax dollars. We should have been outraged at the young woman for stealing our money.

Joyce said, “Florida has a safe haven law, you know. A mother can leave her baby anonymously at a hospital or fire station within seven days of its birth without prosecution.”

We looked at the girl, who seemed to understand what Joyce had said. She pulled the baby tighter and looked as if she was about to scramble to her feet and run away.

I said, “Would you leave your baby with strangers?”

I thought of how precious my daughter, Christy, had been to me from the moment she was born. I would have fought like a rabid badger if anybody had tried to take her away from me. I had a feeling this young mother felt the same way about her daughter.

Joyce sighed. “I can’t keep her indefinitely, but I have a spare room where she can stay for a while.”

I said, “I’ll bring some clothes and some diapers and things. And some food.”

Joyce knelt down and picked up a leather handbag that was on the ground. “Is this yours?”

The girl nodded.

“You can come to my house. To my casa. ”

The girl nodded, and her eyes welled with tears. Joyce shouldered the bag and tipped her chin at a large cardboard box under a tree. The box was dented and broken, and rain had disintegrated it in places.

She said, “I suppose that’s where she’s been living.”

I got up and walked over to the box, my Keds flopping without their laces. Kneeling at the opening, I pawed through the jumble of clothes and trash, looking for anything else the girl might want to keep, but there was nothing.

Joyce said, “I hate to make her walk, but I don’t know how else to get her home.”

I said, “Fireman’s carry, but first I’ll get the dogs.”

While Joyce helped the girl to her feet, I ran over to Rufus and Henry the VIII and untied them. I gave them both a good scratch behind the ears to let them know that everything was going to be okay, even though I wasn’t sure of it myself.

The young mother was swaying slightly with the newborn tight against her chest. I slipped the leashes around my wrist, and Joyce and I stood behind her and crossed our arms in the classic fireman’s carry, but the leashes got in the way. Rufus had circled around Joyce’s legs, and Henry the VIII looked like he was about to bolt, his tail wagging so vigorously that his little rump was jiggling back and forth. I was holding one leash in my mouth while I tried to untangle the other from Joyce’s legs when the young girl giggled.

“Aquí,” she said.

She gently shifted the baby to her other shoulder and held out her open hand.

I passed her the leashes, and she sat down gingerly on our crossed arms. With the dogs leading the way, we shuffled down the street in the pale morning light like a slow-moving parade. Rufus let out a few commanding wufs! as if he wanted to clear the road. Move it, people! Newborn coming through!

The girl wasn’t heavy, but carrying her was awkward and unpleasant. I could feel her warm blood wet on my arms, and it brought a combined feeling of disgust and awe. Disgust at having another human’s blood on my arms, but awe at the miracle of life asserting itself in all its direct, honest reality.

I started humming an old hymn, “Bringing in the Sheaves,” but I sang it the way I thought it went when I was a little girl: “Bringing in the sheets, bringing in the sheets, we shall go to Joyce’s, bringing in the sheets.” Seemed appropriate at the time.

At Joyce’s house, we carried the girl directly to the shower and undressed her. Her ribs were like piano keys on her thin body. She was too weak to stand, so she slid to the floor and sat under a warm shower with her face tilted back to receive its blessing. Joyce scurried to fetch a clean nightshirt and cotton underpants that she lined with a makeshift pad.

While Joyce took care of the girl, I cleaned the baby at the bathroom sink where the mother could see me. She was a beautiful baby. A little underweight, but healthy otherwise. She had a mop of jet black hair on her head and the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a baby. Joyce brought me a roll of paper towels and some masking tape.

“See if you can make diapers out of this.”

“I’ll get some pads when I get diapers and the other stuff.”

“Better get several boxes. She’s bleeding a lot.”

“The 911 operator asked me if she was hemorrhaging.”

Joyce shook her head. “No. Just heavy bleeding. She’ll be okay as soon as she has some nourishment and rest.”

We led the girl over to the edge of the bed and sat her down. I laid the baby next to her, and Joyce made a barrier out of pillows and blankets along the edge of the bed. I brought a towel from the bathroom and started to pat the girl’s hair dry.

I said, “Your name … como se llama? ”

She smiled weakly. “I am Corina.”

I patted the side of her face. “I am Dixie, and this is Joyce.”

Tears made her dark eyes shine. “Thank you, Dixie and Joyce,” she said. “Ustedes son hijas de Dios.”

We helped her lie down, and within seconds she had fallen asleep, the baby nestled in her arms. We pulled the sheets up over her and laid a blanket over her legs.

I whispered to Joyce, “I’ve got pets to check on, but I can come by after with supplies.”

“Okay,” Joyce said. “I’ll stay here with her while she sleeps, and if anything changes I’ll call you.”

I hoisted my bag over over my shoulder and tiptoed across the room. At the door, I turned and looked back. Joyce had lain down on the bed next to Corina with one hand resting lightly on the baby’s tiny outstretched arm. It looked like she had fallen asleep, too.