Moontrap - Don Berry Page 16

  "Nothing's going to go wrong," Beth said. "Here." She pushed the cup over toward him again.

  Monday drank, and looked around. The room was more distinct now, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness. He stood up and walked to the front door, then back again. "Why ain't you in there helping?" he demanded.

  Beth looked at the table. After a moment she said, "They won't let me in either."

  "Why the hell not?" Without waiting for an answer he went to the closed door and put his ear against it. There was only a low rustle of Virginia's voice, and he could not understand what she was saying. He went back to the table. "When did it start?"

  "This morning," Beth said.

  "Why the hell didn't somebody call me?"

  "Now sit down. There's nothing you can do except get excited, and that's no help to Mary."

  There was the sound of a key in the closed door. Virginia opened it just enough to squeeze through. Blocking it with her body, she turned and locked it again.

  "Is she all right? There's nothing wrong?"

  "She is fine," Virginia said. "It takes time. Many hours sometimes."

  From the closed room there was another moan, louder this time.

  "There's something wrong," Monday said. He started for the door, but Virginia stood blocking it.

  "No," she said.

  "I heard her holler," Monday said. "I want to see Mary."

  "She is not hurt," Virginia said. "You understand, she is working. She works very hard now."

  "Listen, Virginia, let me see her. Why can't I see her?"

  "You give her one more thing to think of," Virginia said. "What she has is enough. She must work now. You understand, when you hunt, you don't want a woman around. This is a woman's work, she does not want a man around."

  "God damn it, Virginia! I'm her husband! She wants me in there, I know it."

  Wrginia shook her head. "No. For now, you are just a man. This is between her and the baby now."

  Monday stared at her, hurt and not understanding.

  Beth stood and took his elbow. "She's right, friend. You're a stranger here. You best sit down and have another drink." She led him back to the table and the cup.

  "Listen, that's my baby too," Monday said. He was beginning to feel a little dizzy, and he sat down.

  "What you had to do you done nine months ago, and enjoyed it, too. You leave Mary work in peace."

  Virginia nodded and turned back to the door, began to unlock it. There was a sudden, surprised grunt of effort from inside, and Monday started up again. Beth pushed the cup toward him and he sat down.

  Without turning, Beth said, "It's like I said, isn't it?"

  After a moment Yirginia said quietly "Yes." She slipped back into the dark room and locked the door again.

  "What's like you said? What'd y' say?" Monday asked.

  "Drink up, Monday. There's different ways a baby can come, is all. I said I thought it was coming one particular way."

  "How?"

  "Head up," Beth said casually.

  "What's that mean?"

  Beth shrugged. "Means he didn't turn around, is all. Sometimes——" She hesitated. "Sometimes it takes a little longer that way"

  Monday reached for the bottle and found to his amazement it was half empty. He decided it must have been partly empty to begin with. "Head up," he muttered. "Don't know what the hell that means, head up."

  "It's what we call breech birth." Beth looked down at the table, locking her fingers together tightly and squeezing until she could feel pain, and the knuckles turned white. "Means he'll be a great warrior," she said.

  After a while Monday was vaguely surprised to see the stocky figure of Beth silhouetted against the fire, and the light of candles all around. It was a good idea, he thought, the house was so damned dark. The bottle in front of him was still full, and he could not understand having thought it had been half emptied. He reached for it.

  The door to the back room opened and Virginia came out again. Her fists were clenched, and her face was wet with perspiration. Her hair, usually pulled tightly back, had fallen down and was hanging disheveled around her shoulders, strands plastered to her cheeks and forehead from the sweat.

  She looked silently at Doctor Beth.

  "Listen—" Monday started, but his tongue was thick and he couldn't get it all out right away. He had been thinking it out for a long time.

  "You come now," Virginia said to Beth.

  The stocky white woman stood at the table, resting the palms of her hands flat on the planks. She looked back at Wrginia, her face set in an expression of fierce triumph. Finally she nodded.

  She turned to the fireplace, where a kettle of hot water still steamed, and began to roll up her sleeves.

  "Listen," Monday said again. "I wanna tell y' somethin'."

  Beth washed her arms and hands carefully, scrubbing with the harsh soap and brush. She held them up in front of her, smiling to herself at how white they were. She turned to look at the Indian woman still standing tensely in the doorway.

  "It is good you stayed," Virginia said quietly.

  Beth got up and went to Virginia. "Didn't have any notion t' go," she said.

  "Listen.'" Monday said as loud as he could. When both women were watching him he said very carefully, "I ain't no stranger to my wife."

  Beth sighed. "No, friend, you're the center of the universe."

  She turned toward the bedroom and stopped again, turning back toward Monday. "If you're going to vomit go outside," she said. Then the two women closed the door behind them.

  It was a pretty damn stupid thing to say, in Monday's opinion. He snorted. But it was true he could use a little fresh air. The cabin was stuffy, and it made him a little uncomfortable. Carefully he refilled the tin cup, concentrating on it to make himself forget the stuffiness of the cabin.

  He hoisted himself up from the table, amazed at what a terrible distance there was to cover before he was standing erect. He leaned on his hands and precisely focused his eyes on the cup. He was quite pleased. He could tell just exactly where it was, by the reflected light from the candles.

  Hooraw, he thought. Powerful drunk out, t'night. And such a pretty day, too. He could never remember seeing the sun so big. Experimentally he took one hand off the table, and it upset his balance only a little. He picked up the cup and started for the door. He remembered Mary and began to tiptoe very quietly, so as not to disturb her. It was not long at all before he had reached the doorframe, and he rested his forehead against it for a minute to think things over. Then he heard the plod of horse's hoofs in the distance. Somebody coming. Good. He'd give them a little drink, if he knew them. lf he didn't know them, he wouldn't give them a goddamn drop. That was just how uneasy he was, he wouldn't give them a damn thing.

  Carefully he pulled up the door latch. You're a son of a bitch, he thought morosely. Man's got a turrible dry an' you won't even give 'im a little drink.

  He walked out the door, and a long shaft of yellow light darted out ahead of him. God damn! he thought. It sure got night quick.

  "Hey!" he hollered at the approaching horses. "Who blew out the sun?"

  There was no answer, but after a second the horses came into the range of the light from the door.

  "Hooraw, coons!" Monday hollered. It was Meek and Webb. He grabbed the porch post with one arm and lifted the cup in salute. "Damn y'r eyes," he said.

  He started off the porch to meet them as they came up, but somehow or other one foot got entangled with the other, and he started to tip forward very, very slowly.

  Meek darted forward as Monday pitched headlong off the porch. As the toppling figure lunged toward him Bleek grabbed the extended cup with both hands. Monday plowed face down in the dirt, his hand still outstretched. Meek looked into the cup.

  "Spill much?" Webb asked.

  " 'Bout half, I expect," Meek said with disappointment.

  "Y're a damn fast nigger anyways," Webb said admiringly. "Give us a drop."


  On the ground between them Monday began to vomit, his body undulating limply with the spasms.

  "I b'lieve that nigger's sick," Webb said. "Jaybird, you sick?" He nudged Monday with the toe of his moccasin and, getting no response, squatted down beside him. He hollered in his ear, "Jaybird, you sick?"

  Monday continued to retch violently.

  Webb stood up. "I b'lieve he's sick," he said.

  "Might could be," Meek said, lowering the cup from his lips.

  "Give us a drop of that," Webb said.

  "Spilt more'n I thought," Meek said regretfully. " 'S all gone."

  Webb stared at him, beginning to enrage himself with the thought of it. "Meek—" he started, and automatically his hand went toward the back of his belt.

  "Expect there's more where that come from," Meek said placatingly. They walked up the porch, and as they entered the door there came the wail of a baby in the night.

  The two of them stopped, and Webb looked back at the limp body of Monday sprawled helplessly in the rectangle of light from the door.

  "Hell of a pack o' doin's round here, seems like," Webb said.

  The night was clear as thought, and the stars like bright eyes shining.

  2

  In time the eastern sky turned coppery green and pale, silently diminishing the depth of night. Near the horizon long strings of clouds were outlined in shadow, their edges growing bright with the approaching sun. The predawn silence settled over the Willamette Valley like a mist.

  The windows of Meek's house turned light, and sleepers stirred. In the main room three shapeless, blanket-wrapped bundles radiated like spokes from the fireplace, though the fire had long since gone to coals. Webb lifted his head and looked around. He untangled his arms from the blanket cocoon and straightened his limp hat. He put his head back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. Next to him Monday's shaggy yellow head shifted, finding an imaginary soft spot on the floor.

  The door to the back room opened and Virginia Meek came out, closing the door gently behind her. She went to the fireplace, stepping over the inert form of her husband, and began to poke up the fire.

  Webb watched her silently as she built a tiny framework of twigs over the red glow in the center. Finally satisfied she was doing it right, he hunched himself up to his elbows, blinking, and extricated himself from the blanket twisted around him. He stretched his shoulders and reached down to get the moccasins he had stacked on the floor as a pillow. He pulled them on and started for the door. As he passed Monday he nudged the back of the blond head with his toe.

  Monday jerked, startled, and lifted his head in time to see Webb open the door and step out into the early morning light. He looked around him and said, "Where's Mary?"

  "She is still sleeping," Virginia said. "You not wake her up yet."

  Monday cleared his throat and struggled up to a sitting position.

  "That damn Doctor Beth an' her relaxin'," he said, rubbing his forehead.

  "You were very relaxed," Virginia said.

  "Ain't been so relaxed since I left the mountains," Monday said.

  "Sometimes in the mountains," Virginia said, "there were men relaxing as far as the eye could see."

  "Wagh! There were now."

  Meek sat up and blinked. He stared accusingly at Monday. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

  "Damned if I rightly know, coon," Monday admitted.

  "Poor doin's when a man has to sleep on the floor in his own house," Meek grumbled. "An' with strangers, t'boot. Hows that coffee comin'? "

  "It comes as it comes," Virginia said patiently.

  "Glad t' hear it," Meek muttered.

  There was a rustling of bedclothes from the other room. Monday glanced quickly at the door, then at Virginia, half apprehensively. The Indian woman nodded. He scrambled to his feet and across the room. Behind him Meek grinned widely at his wife.

  The back room was somber, shades drawn across the single window. Mary's dark head turned slowly on the pillow as he came in. He came over to lower himself carefully on the edge of the bed. The baby's tiny head was on the pillow next to Mary, his wrinkled face turned away from her and one small fist clenched tightly by his forehead.

  "Well—" Monday said. "Mary?"

  The woman brought one hand out from beneath the blanket and Monday took it in his own. For a long time they were still, looking at each other in the half-darkness. Finally Monday shifted his eyes to the baby, the strangely foreign little object that was suddenly a part of his life. It was impossible to understand, somehow. From this day on, his life would be shared by the shriveled, gnomelike little creature so silently sleeping.

  "Well, Mary," he said at last. "What—what are you feelin' like?"

  "Very tired," Mary said, her voice sounding from far away. Monday leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  "He's sort of—funny-lookin', ain't he?" he said, smiling.

  "All babies are that way."

  "I never, somehow I never thought of him this little, you know. I thought of him around two, three years old or something, I guess."

  "Yes," Mary said.

  Monday felt a little guilty, because he had no affection for the baby. The only thing he could think of was Mary—just as it had always been. As yet the absurd little face belonged to a stranger, and Monday was very faintly suspicious. He could not picture having someone else around all the time, even a baby, and it made him a little uncomfortable.

  "Look how flat," Mary said, nodding her head down at the blanket that covered her.

  Monday grinned and bent down to kiss her again. "Just like Sioux country," he said. "Does it—feel funny?"

  "Yes." Mary's voice was so low Monday had to lean forward to hear what she said. It disturbed him, and her weakness disturbed him. Her voice was toneless, and there was little life in her eyes.

  "Listen, Mary," he said. "This—this is the beginning of something new. Things are goin' to be different from now on."

  Mary smiled faintly. "Yes," she said.

  "No," Monday said. "It isn't just—just the baby I mean it is the baby, but not—ah, hell."

  Mary waited patiently for him to formulate it all in his mind. Monday squeezed her hand and leaned forward. "Mary, it's all goin' to be different. Our life. I been thinkin' about it a lot. Livin' here in the valley, an' all. I never—exactly fit in, just right. You know."

  Mary nodded.

  "But it's different now. The trouble before was, I didn't have any roots here. I wasn't—part of it, somehow. "

  He straightened up a little and let his eyes go to the baby again.

  "But now I got roots. My boy's born here. Mary, c'n you see what I mean?"

  "Yes, I think," Mary said quietly, listening more to the sound of her man's voice than the words.

  "We're part of it now, Mary. We'll fit in, and it's going to be something different. All that other stuff°'—he waved his free hand—"it's all gone. We got a baby now, born right here in the colony, an' it gives us—roots, is all I can say. A tie. We belong here now."

  He was silent for a long time, looking at the child. "He'll grow with this country, Mary. An' so will we. He'll see it become a state, an' he'll see cities where there's just forest now. Maybe he'll see the twentieth century come, Mary. Wouldn't that be somethin'? T' live in two centuries? The first day of a new century, that's somethin' I'd like t' see. Fifty years ain't old, he'll see it come." He stopped, a little embarrassed. "I'm talkin' too much, I guess."

  "No," Mary said. "You talk."

  "It's just the beginning, Mary. It's the beginning of a new life for us. This country's going to be rich, and we're here right at the beginning. All it took was the baby to make me feel it, how new it all is. Now we belong, Mary, that's all I can say. "

  "You want it very much."

  Monday looked down at her hand, dark against his own. "Yes. Because—because that's the way it's got to be. And that's the way it will be. Hell, Mary, in a hundred years we'll be—I don't know—ancestors
or something. People'll be talkin' about us like we talk about the Revolution. Hell, the Oregon Territory's bigger'n all of England, for all their kings. It's just starting, and we'll help to make it."

  "Yes," Mary said softly, and closed her eyes.

  "We belong now, is all I want to say really. And eve1ything's going to be different."

  The door opened and Virginia came in quietly. "You come now," she said to Monday.

  "Just a minute," Monday said, leaning over. "Mary, listen. I'd like to name him, if it's all right with you, I'd like t' name him Webster. Is that all right?"

  Mary opened her eyes and looked at him for a long moment.

  "Webster," she said quietly. "Yes. Yes, is a good name."

  "Webster Monday," he said. "Sounds like a governor or something."

  He laughed self-consciously. "Wel1, hell. Why not?"

  "You come now," Virginia said again. "Let her rest."

  Monday kissed his wife again, softly, and stood. She almost seemed to be asleep already. He went quietly to the door, grinning at Virginia as he passed. She went to the bed and straightened the covers, then came out into the main room with the others.

  Webb and Meek were sitting out front with their coffee. Monday came up between them and slammed them both on the back. "Hooraw, coons!" he said happily. "Beautiful day!"

  Webb choked on his coffee. "Jaybird," he said, turning, "one o' these days—"

  "I know, I know. One o' these days y'r going t' have my ass for breakfast. C'mon, cheer up, y' cranky ol' goat. Ain't no good t' be mean on a day like this 'un."

  3

  The three rode down toward the center of the town and the courthouse, basking in the second supernaturally sunny day in a row. Webb hadn't wanted to come, saying he'd gotten a bellyful of Oregon City at the hanging. "Too bad, coon," Monday said. "I had a surprise for y'."

  "What kind o' surprise?" Webb said suspiciously.

  Monday shrugged. "If'n y' don't want to know bad enough t' come . . ."

  And in the end Webb's insatiable curiosity had gotten the best of him and he had reluctantly agreed to come along, though he wanted it well understood it was just a favor to Monday. Far as the old man was concerned, he didn't give a damn about surprises. Hell was full o' surprises.