Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (28 page)

She pulled a face. “It was hunting season. Jenx would have said it was a hunter.”

“When it happened twice? No way,” I said.

“I knew it wasn’t a hunter,” Anouk said smugly, “but Jenx is—how do you say?—a bit of a rube.”

I stared at Anouk. Had I just been touched by the mental clarity that comes with impending agony? I was struck by something I should have noticed long before.

“From a distance you look a little like Lisa Mullen, and Napoleon looks a little like Diggs.”

Anouk sniffed, offended. “Diggs is a doodle. Napoleon is a poodle—with champion bloodlines.”

True, and if I were a cattier woman, I might have pointed out that Lisa was younger and better looking.

“Somebody shot at you when you were with Diggs. Twice. Since then somebody has shot at you when you were with Napoleon three times—on my front porch, at Vanderzee Park, and in that blasted field.”

“What’s your point?” Anouk said.

I wished I had one. If I could just find a comfortable position, maybe my brain would compute all the facts.

“Somebody might have thought she was Lisa out with Diggs when Lisa was still alive,” MacArthur offered. “Now everybody knows Lisa is dead, yet somebody is still shooting at Anouk. But it’s only when she’s out with a dog that looks, from a distance—apologies, Anouk—rather like Diggs.”

Out of the blue, Sandra sauntered into the living room, strutting her squarish stuff in a red sequined evening gown and rhinestone tiara totally inappropriate for daytime wear. Napoleon emitted an involuntary moan.

“Oh no,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes.

Anouk assumed I was despairing, as usual, in the face of a canine crisis.

“Be the human and take control,” she commanded.

“I’d love to,” I moaned, “but I’m busy having a contraction.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Helen leap to her feet as if prepared to catch my baby. Her response startled Sandra, who flung herself at Napoleon so hard that her crown flew off her head. The poodle dropped to the floor, rolled over and extended his long legs straight into the air. Sandra fitted herself between them, and he squeezed.

In my many misadventures with Abra, I’d never seen that particular doggie maneuver, but I’d always tried not to watch. The two dogs yowled ecstatically, and Anouk shouted something in French. I can’t explain how it all happened so fast, and yet it did. Something else happened, too. I felt a warm wetness spreading between my legs.

“I think my water broke,” I announced with surprising calm to nobody in particular.

Given the rising noise level in the room, I wasn’t sure anybody heard me. Suddenly, my lower back ached as if a large man were standing on it. The worst part? I knew my pain wasn’t likely to improve for a while.

Napoleon and Sandra rolled across the floor like an obscene canine coil, grunting and panting as they wheeled past. Anouk followed, waving her hands and swearing. I could recall just enough high school French to understand what she was saying, so I translated the curse into English and shouted it. Several times.

The chaos would only get worse. That much I knew. If I couldn’t have my husband by my side holding my hand, I wanted my mother, and I wanted her now.

I
think I actually yelled
“I want my mother!”

It didn’t matter, though, because everybody was watching Anouk and the dogs. Helen was shouting, and MacArthur, like any man, was trying to fix the situation, in this case by issuing Scottish doggie commands.

In the midst of all that, my landline rang. It had the effect of a gong during a boxing match. Sandra and Napoleon sprang apart, returning to their respective corners. Anouk promptly seized her champion and led him firmly out the front door.

Sandra looked for all the world like the winner. True, she had lost her tiara early in the match, and her blingy gown had shed most of its sequins as well as one sleeve, but the tousled Frenchie radiated triumph. Holding her square head high, she wagged her tail like a stumpy banner. Those gleaming dark eyes declared, “I did him, and it was grrrreat.” She yawned and headed upstairs to her room for a restorative post-coital nap.

Helen and MacArthur shifted their attention to me. Amidst the canine chaos, they had missed the larger drama in the room.

“Did you say something, dear?” Helen asked mildly.

When her gaze dropped to my wet spot, she gasped. Shifting instantly into Cleaner mode, MacArthur whipped out his cell phone and placed a call.

“I have your doctor on speed dial,” he assured me. “Chester programmed my phone.”

Like a grasping baby, I reached my arms straight out to grab his phone. Evading me, he made the call and explained my situation.

“I have your physician assistant on the line.”

My P.A. had probably handled hundreds of calls like this one, so she knew exactly what to say.

“You could still have many hours of labor ahead,” she told me, “but you should go to the E.R. Doc will meet you there later.”

“How much later?”

Assuring me that my baby-catcher would arrive in plenty of time, she recommended using a deep-breathing technique to stay focused and calm.

“Calm?” I echoed. “How the hell can I be calm? I’m having my first baby, and I’ve lost my husband and my mother.”

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, and I realized she thought they were dead.

“No, I mean, I can’t find them,” I said. “Both my birthing coaches are missing, just like my damned dog. The difference is the dog is usually lost and comes back, but I have no precedent for my birthing coaches.”

My P.A. placidly reminded me to inhale. Before I could scream at her, MacArthur pried his phone from my grip and assured the woman that I was in good hands. I busied myself breathing.

Meanwhile, Helen sat next to me on the sofa, making soothing sounds that I was not in the mood to hear. Between breaths, I told her to go find my mother. She got up and left.

MacArthur dropped to his haunches in front of me, his eyes level with mine.

“Good job with the breathing,” he said. “You are going to be fine, and so is Baby.”

“I need a birthing coach,” I reminded him. “Both my first- and second-string coaches are gone.”

Before he could reply, Helen popped back into the room.

“I just texted your mother that she should meet you at the hospital,” she said. “The landline call was from Chester. He’s been texting you, but you don’t answer. He’s on his way here with Brady and Roscoe.”

“I’m a little too busy to have company right now.”

“You’re missing the point, Miss Whiskey,” Helen said sweetly. “Your back-up team is en route. Chester took a childbirth class online from Johns Hopkins, Brady has two babies at home, and Roscoe can be very reassuring. They’ll fill in for Jeb and Irene until we find them.”

I couldn’t imagine Coastal Medical Center accepting a nine-and-a-half-year-old birthing coach who looked six-and-a-half, even if he supplied his own latex gloves, which he would.

And, as much as I liked Brady, I liked him better out looking for my family than filling in for them at the hospital.

As for Roscoe, let me just say this. The last thing any woman in hard labor needs is a dog panting next to her. I don’t care if he’s Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin.

MacArthur, who was still squatting before me, gave me that great Scottish grin.

“Listen closely, girl. Nobody is going to let you down.”

Just then his cell phone rang, or rather sang. I recognized Avery’s ringtone. It was the theme from the movie “Body Heat.” He sprang up and stepped away to take her call.

I told Helen I wanted to clean up and get changed before heading to the hospital. Apparently, Mom had prepared for just such an event. On my behalf, she had stashed a crisp
Curvy Mommy
shift and fresh undergarments in the hall closet. Helen would fetch them while I shuffled to the downstairs bathroom.

First, she needed to lever me off the sofa. Despite our mutually loud grunts as she did so, I overheard MacArthur pleading with Avery to let him explain himself. That was intriguing enough to be truly distracting, until I got vertical and surveyed my leakage. Yup, Baby was en route. I needed to move.

In the bathroom, I managed to clean myself up and dress for the trip to the hospital. Grimly eyeing my reflection, I realized this was as good as I was going to look for God-knew-how-long. Once at CMC I would exchange my clean outfit for a flimsy hospital gown, and the real fun would begin. I had become a sweaty, bloated, miserable hippo in a shapeless dress. At least I wasn’t screaming. Yet. Bring on the drugs.

Avery was screaming when I emerged from the bathroom. I could hear her strident tones coming through MacArthur’s cell phone. The repeated phrase “that damn bitch Dani” definitely caught my attention. MacArthur mumbled something I couldn’t understand and spun around to face me, sliding his phone into his hip pocket.

“Whiskey, so sorry, but I’ve a bit of an emergency,” he began. I noticed an unusually high degree of color in the Cleaner’s face.

“Avery is by definition an emergency,” I agreed, “but Baby trumps everything. You are not going anywhere except to CMC with me.”

I said the last sentence through my teeth, not because I was angry, which I was, but because I was experiencing another surge of pain. One hand supported my stomach while the other flailed for support. Helen appeared at my side to steady me.

“UberSpringer posted that I had a dalliance with Dani Glancy,” MacArthur explained. “If I don’t go straight home to Avery and fix this thing, she’s taking the twins and leaving me.”

“She can’t leave,” I panted. “She works for me now.”

“Sadly, that is irrelevant,” MacArthur said. “Cassina pays her a small fortune to do almost nothing, and there’s no way you can compete with that.”

“But I need you to drive me to the hospital—”

He raised a hand to stop me. “Helen can take you.”

“Of course I can, Miss Whiskey,” the elderly driver agreed. “Let’s roll.”

Ignoring Helen, I pleaded, “MacArthur, I don’t just need a driver, I need a stand-in birthing coach. If there were ever a job for the Cleaner, this is it.”

I heard the front door open and close. Assuming it was Anouk, I prayed she had secured Napoleon in her SUV. I would not tolerate a second round of rolling, groping, sex-crazed canines.

“No worries, Whiskey,” a familiar voice cried out. Not Anouk’s voice but rather that of local law enforcement. Volunteer law enforcement. Deputy Chester.

“Is Jeb with you?” I called.

“No.”

“Is my mother with you?”

“No.”

“Then don’t say ‘no worries,’ Chester, because I have every reason to be very, very worried.”

“No, you don’t. Brady just dropped me off. He and Roscoe are meeting up with Jenx and the State Boys. They’ll find Irene and Jeb.”

At least Brady hadn’t unleashed his siren. I supposed I should give thanks for that. My young neighbor hurried into the dining room, where I leaned heavily against Helen. He peered up at me with the most determined expression I had ever seen on his young face.

“Everything is going to be fine,” he declared. “In the meantime, you have me, and I’m almost always the smartest person in the room.”

The sweetest, too, I thought. I didn’t say it, though, because I didn’t want to cry. Tears were gathering in my eyes anyhow. MacArthur offered me another gigantic monogrammed Cassina Enterprises handkerchief, and I grabbed it gratefully.

“Better get me more of those,” I muttered. “This birthing business is messy.”

MacArthur nodded. “I’ll load you, your bag, and an extra case of Cassina Enterprises hankies in the Town Car. Helen will drive you and Chester to the hospital. As soon as I finish my business with Avery, I’ll join you there.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The manly way he rolled that R, I could almost forgive him for putting his marriage ahead of my ride to the hospital. Within moments, I was in the Town Car’s backseat surrounded by so many giant hankies I knew I was a perceived risk to leather upholstery. In the front seat next to Helen, Chester held up an oversized metal hand mirror to ensure a view of me from his seat-belted position.

“Where’d you get the mirror?” I asked Chester.

“They’re all over our house,” he said. “Cassina is self-aware.”

I thought “narcissistic” was the word he wanted, but I kept it to myself.

“Your contractions have been about ten minutes apart, and the last one was five minutes ago,” MacArthur informed me, adding, “Chester is timing them now.”

My neighbor tapped a sleek wristwatch on the arm that was holding up the mirror.

“This is a Tag-Heuer Mikrogirder,” he explained. “The most accurate mechanical chronograph ever. With this, I could time an Olympic event.”

MacArthur winked at me before softly closing the car door and stepping back so that Helen could speed away. As we zipped down my curving driveway, I noticed that Anouk’s vehicle was gone.

“I heard about Napoleon and Sandra,” Chester volunteered, “and you’re not going to like it.”

“I already know about it,” I said, “and of course I don’t like it. Their behavior was disgusting.”

“I mean you’re not going to like how I heard about it.”

“Not UberSpringer?”

Chester was so short I had to lean forward to see his nodding head.

“It’s all over Twitter and Facebook.”

Instead of reading me the gory details, he simply handed me his smart phone. What I read amounted to a play-by-play account in one hundred, forty-character installments.

“I hope that’s all of it,” I said when I came, cringing, to the last tweet.

“Not quite,” Chester sighed. “On Facebook, UberSpringer says you’re negligent and your dogs are nymphomaniacs.”

Helen chimed in, “I don’t think I learned that last word until I was married.”

I closed my eyes. “The next sound you hear is not a labor pain. It’s an UberSpringer pain, and it hurts like hell.”

I moaned deeply.

“Well, UberSpringer likes Sandra’s wardrobe,” Chester offered. “If that’s any consolation.”

“It’s not.”

Then I reconsidered.

“What exactly did UberSpringer say about Sandra’s wardrobe?”