William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Ben realized he was being purposely ignored. He’d been so wrapped up in his own worries that he’d forgotten the defendant might have a few of her own. If this case went bad, she was the one who would be on the receiving end of a lethal syringe.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ben asked.

Christina nodded her head.

“Then do it we will.” He smiled. “Finish putting on your disguise. But don’t wear the fake glasses with the Groucho mustache.”

Ben and Christina walked through the door marked LAMAZE—SEPTEMBER DELIVERIES. The room was decorated like a grade-school classroom: construction paper cutouts and pseudo-inspirational posters (WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, MAKE LEMONADE). There were photographs of babies everywhere, and all of them looked identical to Ben. Like little General Schwarzkopfs.

“She’s over there in the corner,” Ben whispered to Christina. “The blonde. Next to the guy in the tweed jacket.”

Christina nodded. “I can see why she caught your eye. Nursing should come naturally to her.”

They strolled to the other side of the room.

“Mr. Kincaid!” Marjorie said. “What are you doing here?”

“Well…” He cleared his throat. Get the story straight. “Our usual class at St. John’s was canceled. So we decided to sit in here.”

“Oh, I know how you feel,” Marjorie said. “I just hate to miss a session. I feel like I’m cheating the baby, you know?”

“Exactly.”

“Our obligations begin at the moment of conception, right?”

Without even time out for a cigarette? “Right.”

Marjorie gestured toward the gentleman standing behind her. “This is my husband, Rich.”

They shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Ben said. Rich appeared to be about as happy to be here as Ben was.

“Conception is easy,” Marjorie said, expanding upon her theme. “It’s everything that comes afterward that’s difficult. If you can’t do something as simple as driving without a license, why should just anyone be permitted to have a baby? I think people should have to be licensed to have children. You know, a procreation license.”

Rich’s uneasy grin told Ben he dearly wished his wife would stop prattling on about conception and procreation.

“I didn’t realize you were expecting,” Marjorie continued. “I didn’t even know you were married.”

“Well, I’m not,” Ben said.

“Ohhh.” She glanced sideways at Christina’s protuberant tummy. “Well, of course, I didn’t mean to—”

“Ben’s filling in for my husband tonight,” Christina said. “We’re old friends.”

“I see,” Marjorie said. “How thoughtful of you. Well, I see the instructor’s here. We’d better get into position.”

The couples sat in a semicircle on the floor, men seated behind the women. The instructor (Ben could tell because she was wearing a large construction paper name tag: VICKIE—INSTRUCTOR) walked into the center of the circle and squatted in the lotus position. She was a petite, auburn-haired woman wearing a pink sweater and a short skirt. To Ben, she looked more like a cheerleader than an instructor. Vickie, the Childbirth Cheerleader.

“All right, everybody,” Vickie said perkily, “how do we feel today? Are we in love with our lives, our bodies, our babies, and most importantly, ourselves?”

There was a general chorus of assent. One disgruntled soul, however, mumbled that she was “sick of being fat.”

Vickie pointed her finger at the offender. “That’s the wrong feeling, Sarah—exactly the kind of negativism we want to stamp out. Remember, you’re not fat—you’re pregnant.”

“What’s the difference?” Ben whispered. Christina slapped his shoulder.

“I’ve got a special activity planned to break the ice for tonight’s session,” Vickie continued, “and to help us focus our positive energies on the new life that lies ahead.” She passed a stack of purple paper around the circle. “I want each of you to take a piece of construction paper and tear it into some shape that represents your feelings right now about the baby.”

“I am not an origami artist,” Ben whispered.

“Oh, Ben, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud.” Christina handed him several sheets of construction paper. “Let’s see some joie de vivre .”

Marjorie tapped Christina’s leg. “Rich is balking, too,” she said with a giggle. “Aren’t men pathetic?”

“Truly,” Christina agreed. “As if construction paper posed a threat to their virility.” They laughed.

Ben began folding and ripping his paper. Aren’t we having a jolly time?

When they were done, Vickie directed the participants to explain what they had made and what its significance was. There were numerous hearts, some beds (representing the sleep the parents wouldn’t get anymore, or the act that had gotten them into this mess in the first place), and several houses (representing the family unit, or the second mortgage they were going to need to pay for this blessed event). Christina created a calendar because, she said, every single day from now on she would be grateful for this precious gift from God.

Good grief, Ben thought. She’s more sentimental than the real mothers.

“And what did you make, Mr. Kincaid?” Vickie asked.

Ben held up his artwork. “A pillow.”

Christina blanched. She whipped her head around and glared at him.

“Because I expect my kids to cushion me in my old age,” he explained.

“Oh, of course.” Everyone laughed. Except Christina.

“Well, that was fun,” Vickie said when they were through. “I learned a lot from that exercise, and I hope you did, too. I feel a lot of love in this room.”

How could she be so perky? Someone needed to turn a fire hose on the woman.

“Let’s start with our breathing exercises. Assume you’re experiencing a contraction peak. Remember, short, shallow breaths, then blow. You don’t want to hyperventilate in the middle of labor.”

Ben watched as all the women in the circle huffed and puffed in unison. They puffed up their cheeks like chipmunks. Short, short, short, long. Short, short, short, long.

“Pssst!” Christina was pushing her hand toward him. “You’re supposed to hold my hand.”

“Why? Surely you can breathe by yourself.”

“It’s how it’s done, you dweeb. Here!” She thrust her hand into his.

Her hand felt warm and soft; he could feel her pulse as she inhaled and exhaled.

“Mr. Kincaid, where’s your focal point?”

He looked up. Vickie appeared to be displeased with him, in a perky sort of way. “Excuse me?”

“You’re her partner, Mr. Kincaid. You’re in charge of bringing the focal point.”

“The focal point?”

“Yes. Some familiar object your partner responds positively to and can concentrate on, to focus her breathing energies. Don’t they do that at St. John’s? It’s a widely recognized technique.”

“Uh, gee,” Ben said. “I guess I left that at home.”

“Hmmph.” Vickie strode sullenly away. Wonderful, Ben thought, now the Childbirth Cheerleader is mad at me.

She returned carrying a small teddy bear. “You can use this as a substitute, dear. Let’s hope your regular partner will be a bit more conscientious.”

“I don’t mean to complain,” Christina said, “but can I request a different focal point? I’ve had bad luck with stuffed animals lately.”

Vickie’s lips pursed tightly together. For a perky woman she was becoming decidedly grumpy. She returned a few moments later with a framed photo of a lumpish newborn and plunked it in front of Christina without discussion.

Ben waited patiently for about ten minutes as the class ran through their breathing exercises. Personally, he thought he did a commendable job of hand-holding.