Chris Bohjalian - Midwives

"There are still a lot of people out there who are even more freaked out about Charlotte's death than we are, if that's possible, but at least it looks like they don't think your mom is a"-and she paused as she pulled from within her the strength she needed to verbalize the word-"murderer."

And then quickly she grinned, and added through lips parted in sarcasm, "They just think your old lady's one really lousy midwife."

Stephen bent to wipe some dry dirt from his one-click-above, shiny black loafers, and said, "Sibyl, I don't think that anyone believes that."

"Pardon me. They just think I can't tell if a woman is dead or alive."

"They think that once-one time-you made a mistake."

"A gross mistake. A reckless mistake."

Stephen stared at my mother, and I could see by the expression on his face that he was trying to put the brakes on her emotions, to calm her down for my benefit. He then turned to me, his hands behind his back as he leaned against the post, and said, "Assuming this whole nasty ordeal ever goes to court, it probably won't be a murder trial. That's the news."

I thought for a moment, the words murder and manslaughter and willful a tremendous jumble in my mind. I tried to remember all the distinctions. Finally I gave up and asked, "What kind of trial will it be?"

"Involuntary manslaughter. At least that's what it looks like the charge will be right now."

"Do you understand what that means, sweetie?" my mother asked.

"Sort of."

"Sort of, but not completely?"

"Yup."

"What that means," Stephen continued, "is that the State is going to say your mom was responsible for Mrs. Bedford's death, and she acted illegally when she did the C-section. But it was an accident. She didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"If they think it was an accident, why are they bothering to have a trial?"

"Just because something is an accident doesn't mean it isn't also a crime."

"That's the manslaughter thing, right?"

"The involuntary manslaughter thing. That's right."

Fifteen years. For an accident. I stood there, trying to absorb a number of years longer than I'd been alive.

"When will the trial begin?" I asked.

"Months from now. Hopefully years," Stephen said.

"Years?"

"If it even goes to trial."

"Stephen, I don't want this thing to drag on for years," my mother said.

"Delay is our friend, Sibyl."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "A case like this always starts out with a lot of prosecutorial energy, and it always loses momentum over time. It's a fact of nature. Bill has to focus on prosecuting the real bad guys, not some nice lady midwife and mother like Sibyl Danforth. And all of those doctors who seem so angry right now will move on to other things. Let's assume nobody else dies in a home birth: Eventually they'll lose interest. Eventually the press will lose interest. Besides, the longer you're out on bail without any problems, the more likely you are to walk away with probation even if you're found guilty."

"Bail," my mother murmured, not so much a question as it was perhaps the first dawning comprehension that along with a charge would come an arrest.

"It's one of those strange absolutes no lawyer completely understands. But delay always benefits the defense. It really does. The last thing we want is for this thing to go to trial before Christmas-or even next spring."

My mother took long strands of her dirty blond hair between her thumb and fingers and contemplated the brownish lengths as if she disliked their color. Bringing the tips close to her eyes, she said to me, "We probably won't eat till late, honey, so why don't you go inside and make yourself a snack?"

I've never had any sort of weight problem, but like many teenage girls I snacked on low- and no-cal products. And so it was a diet cola and a bowl of freezer-burned chocolate ice milk that I brought with me to the dining room, the best room from which to eavesdrop upon a conversation on our porch. Just because my mother didn't want me to hear what she and Stephen were saying didn't mean that I didn't want to listen.

The storm windows were still sealed for the winter, but there was one on the far side of the curio cabinet close enough to the front steps that I could sit beneath it and hear clearly the adults' conversation through the two layers of glass.

I sat against the wall with my ice milk in my lap, careful that my head remained below the sill.

"What makes you think this thing might not go to trial?" my mother asked as I settled in.

"We just might not have to."

"Of course we will."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've delivered too many babies over the years, and pissed off too many doctors. They're not going to let me off the hook."

"First of all, Bill Tanner has a spine. He's not proceeding because some ob-gyn has a grudge against you-"

"We're not talking about some ob-gyn, we're talking about lots of them. We're talking the entire medical board."

"I understand that. I know there are some doctors who don't approve of home birth-"

"Or of midwives."

"Or of midwives. But whatever else I think or don't think about Bill Tanner, he's not the type who would proceed unless he honestly believed a crime had been committed. He's not doing all this just because you've pissed off some doctors."

"But that's a factor."

"At best, a small one. They may have alerted him on some level that in their eyes there's a problem, but it's his decision to go forward."

"Then why do you think we might not have to go to trial?"

"Perhaps we can settle things ahead of time."

The conversation went quiet, and I held my spoon in the air. I was afraid they knew I was listening, and I didn't want the sound of the spoon on the bowl to give me away. But then my mother spoke, and I realized she was just digesting the idea of a settlement.

"What does that mean?" she asked. "I pay a fine and I get on with my life?"

"No, it's more complicated than that."

"Tell me."

I heard Stephen laugh, a sort of self-deprecating chuckle. "You want to know too much too soon. You're moving too fast for me."

"I want to understand my options."

"It's too soon. I don't even know your options. It depends on what kind of case the State has. What kind of case we have."

"Give me an example, then."

"An example? An example of what?"

"A settlement."

"Settlement's a civil term. Not a criminal one."

"You used it, Counsel."

"If I did, I'm sorry. But I think I only said settle."

"You lawyers are all alike," my mother said lightly. "You'll argue over the smallest points."

"God, I hope you haven't had to deal with that many lawyers in your life that you can generalize with accuracy."

"Oh, a few. But it's usually just been to defend me those times I've killed people by mistake."

"Seriously, have you ever needed a criminal lawyer before?"

"I told you the day we met that I hadn't."

"I only asked if you had any prior convictions-not if you'd ever used a criminal lawyer."

"Good Lord, of course I haven't! When would I have needed a criminal lawyer?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

"No, Stephen, this is a new experience in my life, I assure you."

"I'm your first."

"You're my first."

"I'm flattered."

"An old lady like me can flatter you? God, you've been divorced too long."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four."

"A mere babe in the woods."

"Oh, I don't think so. I'm definitely too old to throw around expressions like 'old lady' and 'old man' the way I once did."

"I think it's the expressions that have aged badly. Not you."

"You're biased."

"Because I like you?"

"Because you weren't exactly a part of the counterculture."

"You don't think I was a revolutionary?"