Christopher Ransom: The Birthing House

'Oh, I dunno,' he lied, reminding himself these people might very well still be friends with the man who once owned his house. 'He came by earlier today and, well, it was weird. Some issues with the closing, I guess.'

Gail pulled the spoon from her mouth slowly. 'Leon can be a touch abrasive at times, but they're good people.'

Big John Grum turned to his wife, 'How long were dey in dare? Ten, twelve years?' At six-six and pushing two hundred and fifty pounds, Big John towered over his little garden gnome of a wife. He was a carpenter and a mason, with the hands to show for it. The gentle giant was also a haggard giant.

'Oh, nooo. More like sixteen,' Gail corrected.

Big John shook his head. 'Leon's just upset he's overextended himself on that farmette. He was probably all in a rush to get the money out of your deal, and now that you're here he doesn't know where to put his family. Don't even have plumbing's what I hear. Be another three months yet.'

'Poor Leon's going to be shitting in the woods all summer long,' Steve Bartholomew added. Steve had the tidy presence of a financial manager, but his voice filled the room. He strode around with his belly out, red in the face, his gray-flecked black hair shorn military tight enough that Conrad could see the shiny sunburn on his scalp. As with many men of his disposition, Steve's wife was his opposite. Bailey Bartholomew was so quiet she seemed to disappear, popping back into the conversation only to temper her husband.

'In the woods, huh?' Conrad said. 'Do we have poison ivy around these parts?'

'Yes, we do!' Gail said, laughing with the others.

Steve drained half his wine and fixed on Conrad. 'A man raises his family in a house, I don't care how well he does in the transaction - and that house was worth a lot less when Leon bought it - it's never easy leaving your home.'

'Of course not,' Conrad said, feigning sympathy. 'I'm sure Leon's a decent guy.'

Gail touched Conrad's arm. 'Greer - that's his wife - was probably just worried about the kids. Four is a lot to carry around, with or without plumbing.'

'Three,' Steve corrected. 'But she's preggo again.'

'Actually, Steve,' Big John put in. 'Wasn't it two plus the pregnancy? '

'Oh, that's right,' Gail said. 'I can't keep track.'

Steve scoffed. 'Don't even try. It's like ten little Indians over there.'

'Okay, everybody,' Big John said, heading to the back porch for a post-meal smoke.

A mutually regrettable silence ensued.

'How old are his kids?' Conrad waited, but suddenly no one wanted to crunch the numbers. All eyes around the table had drifted away or downward.

Steve nudged Conrad in the ribs. 'Our Leon's a regular Johnny Appleseed. Shoots more bullseyes than Robin Hood.'

'Steeeeve!' Bailey wailed. 'You are terrible.'

Steve winked at Conrad - aren't I a piece of work? - and Conrad smiled, realizing he liked Steve and his cruel humor. Suddenly Conrad imagined spending long summer evenings on his porch with Steve, the two of them getting red in the face over the state of the world. He realized he was making a new friend, or could be.

Bailey turned to Conrad. 'They lost their first two. Years ago. So sad. Gail, did Greer ever--'

'No one knows,' Gail said. 'Could have been something rare. Just . . . one of those things.'

'They should have called the doctors sooner,' Steve said. 'There's just no excuse.'

When no one added to that, Conrad decided to let the topic go for now. But two kids 'lost'? Something bad had happened, oh yes.

'I'll kill you, you asshole!' the girl screamed. 'How dare you fucking touch me. No, no! Come back here, Eddie! Eddie, you piece of shit!'

Her voice was an octave shy of a shriek and it was coming from outside. A car door slammed, the engine revved to the moon and tires barked.

Conrad jerked in his chair, certain the car was coming through the walls.

The front door banged open and a teen girl crying her eyes out barged in, colliding with her mother. Everyone turned to witness the drama.

'Liebschen!' Gail grabbed her daughter by the elbow.

'Don't touch me!' The girl clawed back like it was her mother that had been hitting her, if hitting was part of it. Conrad glimpsed tears and blood near her mouth, but not much, and it was hard to be sure with the long hair tangled over her features.

Before Gail could corral all five feet nothing of her daughter's whirling madness, the girl turned on them, aware she was making a scene. Face gone red, blue corduroy jacket flapping, exposing the bulges, her awkwardly large breasts like twin summits over the earth orb that was her belly peeking from under her skin-tight tee. Her entire life on display, daughter Grum glared across the table and locked on Conrad with eyes as large and green as turtles.

'Who the fuck is that?' she said. 'What's he looking at?'

All he thought was, Damn, that girl's pregnant.

And she was the one hiding in my house the day I toured it with Roddy.

'Nadia, out.' Gail pointed like a hunter for her setter.

Conrad felt a snap of embarrassment for her, followed by shame, like he was on some jury deliberating her guilt. All that was missing was the big red P on her chest. He turned away quickly and saw Steve shut his mouth, wisely offering no comment while Gail wrestled her into the adjacent room, applying a mantra. 'Nadia, calm down, Nadia, calm down . . .'

He owed her one, in a way. The girl had taken the attention off of him. He felt relieved and run over. She had that effect on him from the first. Even in her tears, her corded neck mottled with angry red patches, her white hair flying, little Nadia Grum was, to a wounding degree, gorgeous.

His birthing house was a sauna. Hoping to cool down and stave off the inevitable wine hangover, Conrad took a beer from the fridge and returned to the album. The whole notion that his wife was trapped in there now seemed absurd. He plopped down on the couch and flipped the pages idly, skipping the first photo of the women, the ones he had begun to think of as the Heritage Street Gals. He didn't really want to know if Jo was still with them, waiting for him to look again into her dead black eyes.

The next few pages were sketches of the house under construction and he skimmed them without much interest. Then the book seemed to fall open to a gatefold containing another photo. The perspective was from garden level, inside and looking out one of the basement windows. The photo was a close-up and it required some effort for him to make out its true subject. Around the window frame were the nubs of the natural rock foundation. In one small gap in the mortar was a large brown spider - Conrad, who knew something about reptiles, amphibians and arachnids, guessed it was a brown recluse - perched with the weight of its thorax tilted back, one needle-like foreleg extended. A woman testing the temperature in a body of water. Her web had been spun out in every direction, and desiccated insect carcasses remained stuck within the spokes. Her fat body - no, wait. It wasn't her body bulging this way. It was her egg sac the photographer had been after.

She was nearly bursting.

Conrad stared at the spider, imagining her offspring. Hundreds of tiny brown spiders scurrying beneath him, crawling in the foundation, in the walls, in the soil all around, descendants of this old girl.

The spider connected his thoughts to the Heritage Street Gals and, without reflection, to talk of the Laskis' lost children and even the pregnant Nadia Grum. And then his mouth went dry.

The album was all about the house. A history he wanted no part of.

There were fifty or more pages remaining.

Head pounding, Conrad carried the album to the fireplace, rolled three balls of newspaper into the grate, wedged the album in and set the entire works ablaze.