Robin Hobb - The Inheritance and Other Stories

“It’s the baby I feel sorry for,” Katie says suddenly.

“Baby?” All the hair on my body stands up in sudden horror.

“Mary’s baby. She decided to have her baby done; the midwife is doing the baby first.”

I didn’t even know Mary had a baby. She is only a year older than Patsy. “But she can’t! She has no right to make a decision like that, to scar her daughter for the rest of her life!”

Again the bitter smile makes Katie a sour old woman I don’t know. “It’s the flip side of the Freedom of Choice Act. The compromise Congress made to get it passed. Under the age of fourteen, a parent can make any choice for the child.”

“It’s barbaric.”

“You had Mike circumcised when he was three days old.”

That jolts me. I try to justify it. “It was a different time. Almost all boys were circumcised then. Your dad and I didn’t even think about it, it was just what you did. If the baby was a boy, you had him circumcised. They told us it made it easier to keep the baby clean, that it helped prevent cancer of the penis, that it would make him like all the other boys in the locker room.”

“They do it without anesthetic.”

I am silent. I am no longer sure if we are talking about Mary’s baby girl, or my own tiny son, all those years ago. I remember tending to the fresh cut on his penis, dabbing on petroleum jelly to keep his diaper from sticking to it. I am suddenly ashamed of myself. I had not hesitated, all those years ago. I had charged ahead and done what others told me was wise.

Just like Patsy.

The silence has stretched long and said more than words. “She invited me to be there,” I say quietly. “Do you think I should go? Is that like giving my approval?”

“Go,” Katie pleads quickly. “If it all goes wrong, you can rush her to a hospital. She won’t tell me where it is, and I won’t ask you to betray that confidence. But be there for her, Mom. Please.”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Katie has started to cry.

“I love you, baby. You’re a good mom,” I tell her. She shakes her head wildly, tears and hair flying, and breaks the connection.

For a time I stare at my rain forest. Then I get up. There is a backpack in the hall closet. I go to the bathroom and begin to put things in it. Clean towels. Bandaging. I shudder as I put in the alcohol. I try to think what else. There is a spray antiseptic with a “nonsting, pain-relieving ingredient.” Feeble. What else should I take, what else?

I draw a breath and look in the mirror. Katie’s face is an echo of mine, made perfect. Patsy, I see you in my green eyes and almost cleft chin. They are mine, the daughter of my body and my daughter’s daughter. Born so soft and pink and perfect. I make my arms a cradle and wish they were both still mine to hold and protect.

I grope up behind the towels and take it down. Shining silver, it slips from the holster. There is a horsie on the handle. Fred always loved Colts. There is a dusty box of ammunition, too.

I am suddenly calm. Don’t be afraid, baby. Not my baby, not Mary’s baby, no one’s baby need fear. Granma is coming. No one’s going to cut you.

I think for a moment of what a mess I’m going to make of my life. I think of the echoes that will spread out from one bullet, and I wonder how Patsy and her friends will deal with it, and what it will do to Katie. Then I know I am too close to any of it to understand. Maybe we should just leave the midwife’s body where it falls. In situ. Perhaps in a hundred years or two, someone else will know what to make of it all.

Oh my, this one is one of those stories that has so many roots in different parts of my life that it’s difficult for me to remember where it began. Certainly it owes much to my days of working in a restaurant. And to many road trips taken in vehicles held together with string and prayers. There is a nod to the friendships that are based not on mutual interests but on proximity and need. Not to mention those mornings after a full moon when some stretches of rural highway seem to be partially upholstered in small furry bodies.

But I think the biggest influence on this one is a small pet peeve I have with many fantasy tales. In so many of them, the main character discovers that he or she is the chosen one, the one gifted, for no particular reason, with the ability to do magic. The protagonist receives the gift and becomes the hero. Or heroine. In the worst of these stories, the magic and the mantle of being the hero is bestowed without effort by or cost to the protagonist.

Herewith, my protest to such tales.

That’s the fourth squashed cat we’ve passed today,” Cheryl observed as the left front wheel bumped gently. I didn’t trust myself to reply. I was trying to remember why driving cross-country to New Mexico with Cheryl had seemed like a good idea. Had working at Ernie’s Trucker Inn really been that bad? The grease. The noise. The rude customers. Ernie’s flatulence. The peepholes poked through the wall from the men’s room to the ladies’ room that Ernie would “repair” by poking full of wet paper towels. The witty way Cheryl would shout, “Hey, Sheila! Drop another order of chicken tits in the fryer. This guy’s no leg man.” Watching her turn back and simper at some infatuated trucker while I tried to fix six orders at once. All of that had added up to make me believe there must be a better job somewhere.

Chicken tits. I pulled irritably at my seat belt. Resettled, I focused my eyes down the endless stretch of rainy afternoon freeway. So I had quit my job, to drive to New Mexico, where it was warmer and maybe there would be better work. That much made sense. But why had I chosen to take someone who thought “chicken tits” the epitome of humor? Why hadn’t I realized that the same person would find counting squashed cats an exercise in higher mathematics?

“Hey, where are the Cheetos? I know we had nearly a full bag back here somewhere. You eat them while I was asleep?”

“No, Cheryl, I didn’t eat your Cheetos.” Nor your Ding-Dongs, Nerds, Twinkies, not even your Jalapeno and Sour Cream Flavored Pork Rinds. God only knew how I had resisted them, but I had.

She had twisted around and was hanging into the backseat, rummaging for food. I glanced over at her and saw only a pair of blue-jeaned cheeks. She continued to rustle papers and toss unwanted items to the floor. Reminded me of a black bear ransacking a garbage can.

“You sure you didn’t eat my Cheetos?” she asked again, a small whine slinking into her voice. “ ’Cause remember, when we bought them, you said you didn’t like them, and I said, ‘Okay, I’ll eat them, then,’ and you said okay. Remember? ’Cause I don’t think it’s fair if you ate them like that, after you said you didn’t like them. If you’d said you’d liked them, I woulda bought two bags and then there would have been enough for both of us. But you said you didn’t . . .”

“Cheryl,” I said in a level, reasonable voice. “I didn’t eat your crummy Cheetos.”

“Well, jeez, don’t get all bent out of shape about it.” She dived deeper into the wreckage in the backseat. “I just wanted to, you know, ask . . .” Her rear end pressed against the ceiling of the car. I wondered what passing motorists thought she was doing.

It was then that I saw the hitchhiker. He was carrying a backpack with a green sleeping bag strapped to the bottom of it, and his worn felt hat was dripping water off the brim. He wore old green fatigue pants and a red checked wool jacket and high-laced hiking boots. The hair that stuck out from under his hat was gray. He was hoofing along the side of the road, his querying thumb stuck out almost like an afterthought. I like that, when hitchhikers are walking while they hitch. I never pick up the ones who just stand there with their thumbs stuck out. They’re too much like beggars. I like the ones who look like they’re determined to get somewhere, whether you help or not. I hit the turn signal and tapped the brakes to get a station wagon off my bumper before I swerved to the shoulder of the road. Cheryl gave a squeal of distress.