Jane Smiley - Early Warning

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WHEN RICHIE GOT HOME from work, Ivy told him that Michael and Loretta would be there for dinner in twenty minutes. He put his coat in the closet. The intercom buzzed, and when he pressed the button, Michael’s voice said, “This is going to take both of us.”

Richie said, aloud, “Isn’t she due, like, last week? I can’t believe they came.” He knew that Michael could hear him. Ivy walked over and removed his hand from proximity to the intercom and said, “Why would you think that she wouldn’t rise to the challenge? Just because she, who once weighed a hundred pounds, now weighs a hundred and forty-eight?”

“Why are you so mean to her?”

“It’s a fact. She’s going crazy waiting. And I don’t think inviting them to supper, doing all the cooking and dishes, and giving them a way to twiddle their thumbs in public is mean.”

Richie wasn’t so sure about that when he got downstairs and discovered that, because their building didn’t have an elevator, he and Michael had to get Loretta up the steps. Michael, without seeming to find it strange, came up behind her and pushed, one hand on each cheek. Richie held her arm. It took a long time.

Loretta kept talking: “Don’t you think I’m in good shape? I feel absolutely fine. The doctor says he’s never really seen anyone sail through a pregnancy like this before. When I went to my appointment yesterday, he estimated at least eight pounds, and that must come from your side, because I weighed six and a half, and my cousins were all six to seven, too. Ungh! There!”

Ivy was standing in the open doorway, wooden spoon in her hand. She said, “Oh, darling. I hope this is worth it, but I did make all your favorite dishes.”

This turned out to be rib-eyes, baked potatoes, and broccoli. But, in fact, Richie wasn’t as interested in Loretta as he was in Michael, since Michael was being especially nice to Loretta, not teasing her, gazing at her fondly, saying “mmm-hmm” when she spoke. What this meant to Richie was that Michael probably had a girlfriend — he had always been nice as pie for about the first six weeks of any new relationship. Michael knew better than to confide in Richie, but Richie did not snitch any longer, even to Ivy. Knowing was enough. Richie thought of himself as “profiling” Michael.

Part of Michael’s profile these days was letting Loretta go on in detail about how they were going to raise their son. There were two larger parts: On a horse by the time he was a year old. (Didn’t they know there was a stable in Central Park? The horses went up and down in a freight elevator.) And the other part was structure. A child felt more secure with structure, a boy especially. Girls, you could be a little lazy; Loretta had seen that in her child-development classes, but boys, no meant no. She shifted position and let out an involuntary groan. Ivy said nothing as she placed the platter of steaks on the table. Richie said, “I can’t think of a single structure that either of us ever liked.”

Loretta looked right at him. She said, “I doubt that was your fault. And anyway, you were in an incubator for weeks. That interferes with the attachment process.” As always, Loretta spoke crisply and with conviction; she had never had a doubt in her life. Michael nodded at this as if he had come to some understanding of their upbringing, a subject Richie preferred to ignore.

As if by common agreement, the conversation backed away from these subjects. Michael said that he expected Braniff to shut down, then that the market had closed at 807 (“But not before I sold a lot of GM stock — no one is buying cars anymore”), crude prices were sinking, gold at 345 an ounce, blah, blah, blah, and then Richie felt a splash. As he bent down to look under the table, Loretta half rose out of her chair, and Ivy said, “What?”

Michael said, “Did your waters break, babe?” And he said it calmly. Loretta said, “Worse than that.”

“What?”

“I feel like pushing.”

“Pushing what?” said Richie.

“Pushing the baby!” shouted Loretta, who then closed her eyes, stood up, and staggered toward the doorway. Ivy went after her. She said, “Have you been in labor?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve had Braxton Hicks for days.”

Ivy grabbed her shoulders and steered her toward the bathroom. Richie and Michael followed. Richie felt that he was gaping. He said, “Didn’t you guys go to some kind of class?”

“Kind of,” said Michael. “We kept forgetting. We went the first time. It was stupid. Hh-hh-hh-hh, a-a-a! We couldn’t stop laughing, so they asked us not to come back.”

Where had Richie heard this before?

Ivy said, “I worked on a book a couple of years ago about nonviolent birth and baby massage. It said the baby should be born into water. Like in a bathtub.” She steered Loretta to the tub, and began stripping off her pants. Richie said, “I’m calling an ambulance!” As he left, Ivy shouted, “Don’t forget to tell them about the stairs!” Michael followed him, and Ivy slammed the bathroom door.

The whole time Richie was looking for the phone book, then leafing through to the emergency page, then realizing that all he had to do was dial 911, then dialing 911, Michael was practically on top of him, not saying a word. As he gave his address, said “unexpected labor,” described the stairs, then repeated, “Okay, maybe ten minutes, thanks,” Michael looked unlike Richie had ever seen him, struck dumb. Richie bumped against him, experimentally. No response. He said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I can’t believe she’s having a baby.”

“What did you think was in there, a pillow?”

“I can’t believe it. I have to call the nurse.” They had arranged for a nurse for the first six weeks. But Michael made no move. He said, “I don’t have her number. Loretta has the number somewhere.”

Richie said, “I had no idea you were such a fucking idiot.”

Michael gazed at him.

He nudged Michael back toward the bathroom door, but when they got there, he knew in his very being that neither of them wanted to open it. They stood. From inside, Richie could hear the sound of the bathtub faucet as well as Loretta’s cries and Ivy’s lower, reassuring tones as she said, “Bite this washcloth. It’s clean.” Then a more muffled grunt, then the sound of the tap being turned off. Richie was used to thinking of Ivy as knowledgeable and competent, but he knew for a fact that she had never assisted in childbirth before. Then a siren sounded in the distance, came closer. Richie bumped Michael gently on the shoulder. “Go downstairs and let them in.”

“Where’s the freight elevator?”

“There is no freight elevator.”

“You’re shitting me!” Now Michael looked very white and close to panic. But the howl of the siren retreated and disappeared. Richie said, “Just go. Maybe you can wave down a cop car or something, if the ambulance doesn’t get here.”

Michael nodded. Loretta gave out a cry. Ivy mumbled something, then said, “It’s nice and warm. Just relax. Try to reeeellaaaxxxxx. There you go. Mummble mumble.” There was another cry, but softer, less desperate.

“Go down,” said Richie.

“Shout if something happens.”

“Why should I do that?”

Michael gaped.

“I’m joking! Go!”

Michael sailed out of the apartment, leaving the door wide open. When he had pounded down at least a flight of stairs, Richie gave in to his curiosity and slowly turned the handle. Loretta was sitting naked in the tub, huge and pale, her breasts resting on her belly. She had a washcloth in her mouth and her head was back, but as she cried out again, it tilted forward. Ivy was on her knees, leaning over the rim of the tub. On the toilet lid, she had set several folded towels. Loretta cried out again, a rich, even scary, vibrato howl. Richie looked at his watch. There was no more, and maybe less, than a minute between the cries. According to every movie he had ever seen, that was a bad sign if you were waiting for an ambulance and three guys to carry a stretcher up and a mom down lots and lots of steps. He said, “Can I do anything?”