and had kissed her on the tip of her nose.
But she’d begun to shiver uncontrollably then, in spite of the warm shirt and all the quilts and blankets he’d been able to pile on her. So he’d stretched out on the bed and wrapped his arms around her and held her until the shivering quieted.
“Rest,” he’d crooned to her, as if she were a baby. “Rest now.”
Exhausted as she was, she’d been too full of fear and wonder to rest, afraid to take her eyes from her tiny daughter even for a moment. “I can’t believe it,” she’d said, and was still saying. “I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah,” said Jimmy Joe in a groggy drawl, “I don’t think Eric is gonna suit ’er. Guess you’re gonna have to call her Erica.”
Mirabella glanced at him, but he was still gazing down at his finger, watching it brush back and forth across the baby’s downy head. She could see his wavy, dark-blond hair and matching eyebrows, his thoughtfully furrowed brow and dark cresents of eyelashes, the strong, straight bridge of his nose. Lips that were curved in an utterly besotted smile. And suddenly her chest seemed to swell, and for the first time in her life she understood what the phrase, “a full heart” meant. Her heart was so full she felt as if it would burst. So full it had to overflow-with the tears she’d been saving all her life and now seemed to have in endless supply.
“No.” She paused and drew a quivering breath. “Her name is Amy.” There was a moment of utter stillness, and then through a rainbow shimmer she watched his lips tighten and his lashes quickly drop in a vain attempt to hide the shine of moisture that had caught him unawares. Shaking with emotion, she leaned across the tiny bundle in her arms to kiss his temple, and then with her lips against his hair, to finish in a choked whisper, “Amy…Jo.”
It was, finally, too much for Jimmy Joe. Unlike most Southern-raised boys, he’d never been indoctrinated with the taboos against men’s tears; his uppity mama’s opinions had been every bit as radical on the subject of rights and privileges for the male of the species as they were for her own sex. But he’d grown up in the real word, after all, and while he wasn’t ashamed to shed a tear in private if the occasion warranted, breaking down and crying like a baby wasn’t something he enjoyed, or felt comfortable doing in front of other people. The events of the night had already stretched the limits of his self-control just about to the breaking point; dazed and raw, he’d been sagging on the ropes trying to catch his second wind. And now this. He felt as if he’d suddenly been stripped naked. Enough! he wanted to cry.
For a few moments he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, just sat rigid and vibrating with his arms locked in a protective circle around Mirabella and her baby, with Mirabella’s cheek pressed tight against his forehead. But no male animal tolerates such vulnerability for long. Self-preservation messages sang along his nerves and shouted in his brain:
Heart hammering, muscles surging, he “fled” to the limits of available space, which in his case was only as far as the front of the cab-to his own realm, his domain, where he’d always been in supreme control-to his driver’s seat. But it was enough. In that familiar space he felt his heartbeat slow and his panicked breathing ease, and a sense of humility and calm settled warm and soft around his shoulders. He looked over at Mirabella, propped upon the pillows, eyes shining in her pale face like silver stars as she gazed back at him, then down at the baby cradled against her breast. He thought he’d never seen such a beautiful sight in all his life. The Madonna herself couldn’t have looked so lovely.
He huffed out air, smiled sheepishly and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Wow,” he said. “Amy, huh?” And then again, “Wow.”
“Would you like to hold her?” she asked softly.
His heart stumbled; his chest quaked. He nodded.
She leaned forward, holding the baby toward him in her outstretched arms, swaddled in his own favorite, his very softest blue plaid flannel shirt. He took her like the precious gift she was, with suspended breath, with gratitude and awe, and held her up so he could see her face-to-face…eye-to-eye. “Hello, Amy Jo,” he whispered.
She gazed back at him with her unfocused newborn’s stare, one tiny fist curling and uncurling against one perfect, petallike cheek. And suddenly it seemed to Jimmy Joe that he heard tiny, silvery tinklings and loud, rumbling crashes, the sounds of things falling and breaking all around him. Soft and miraculous as the sound of raindrops falling on flower petals-the sound of a heart falling in love. Mighty and powerful as an avalanche-the sound of the earth shifting beneath his feet, of his life changing forever.
My God, he thought.
He thought how different this was from the way he’d felt when he’d first set eyes on his son, J.J. He’d been so proud, of course. Sorry he hadn’t been there to see him born. And relieved the baby was healthy and strong, glad his own long vigil was finally over, hopeful Patti would stay off the dope this time, and sad because deep in his heart he’d known she wouldn’t. It was only later that he’d come to love that little boy more than his own life.
But this-he’d never felt anything like this before. He felt awed and humbled, yes, but also strong and powerful, invincible and mighty. For this little girl he would slay dragons, move mountains, swim oceans. He would guard and protect her, lay down his life for her, and love her without condition until the day he died.
Behind him, the CB radio gave a little belch of static. He’d forgotten-he’d left the channel open in case the doctor in Amarillo or the state troopers needed to get ahold of him. Now, though, it reminded him of something.
“Somethin’ I need to do,” he muttered. And it pleased him, as he tucked the bundled baby neatly into the crook of one arm, that it felt so natural and easy, and how quickly it all came back to him.
He reached to unhook the mike he’d left dangling across the passenger seat and looked over at Mirabella. She smiled sleepily back at him and nodded. He glanced down once more at the baby nestled against his heart and then, using the hand with the mike in it, he tuned in channel 19.
Only the rush of the open channel filled the cab; in the lonely hours of Christmas morning, it seemed, even the tired truckers had run out of something to say.
Elation filled him. He was grinning from ear to ear as he mashed the button and calmly intoned, “Breaker, one- nine… Merry Christmas, all you drivers out there on 1-40… This is the Big Blue maternity ward. Thought you’d like to know…we got us a little Christmas present here. Mama and new baby daughter are both doin’ just fine. Folks…say hello to Amy Jo…”
Well, the minute he said that, he knew it was a mistake. The radio just about exploded with whoopin’ and hollerin’ and everybody trying to talk at once. He got the volume turned down as quick as he could, but it didn’t help much. From the sound of things, every driver within hearing distance of his broadcast was cutting loose with his airhorn. At the unaccustomed noise, Amy Jo’s eyes, instead of staring with searching intensity at his face, squinched up tight, and her fists started waving and she began to make unhappy squeaking noises.
“Uh…sure do ‘preciate all your good wishes,” he said as soon as he could reclaim the channel again. “Let me tell you, it’s been a long night, and I think mama and baby could both do with a little peace and quiet, so, uh, we’d ’preciate it if you’d use your lights instead of your horns to say hello while you’re passin’ us by… Thank ya kindly, an’…y’all have a Merry Christmas, now. Ten-four.”
After that things got quiet, except for an exuberant toot busting loose now and then. Jimmy Joe put away the mike and gave his full attention to the baby, who by this time was getting warmed up pretty good. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mirabella, riled and worried as a mama bear hearing her cub squall, but instead of handing the baby over to her, he cuddled her closer and gently joggled her while he crooned, “Shh…it’s okay, sweetheart. Hush, now… hush.” And he began to sing to her the way he always used to sing to J.J., and just once in her too- short life, to another precious little girl.
“Bye baby bunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting,
Gone to get a rabbit skin
To wrap the baby bunting in.
From the nest he’d made for her in his sleeper bed, Mirabella watched him rock and sing to her newborn baby and didn’t once think about how politically incorrect the lullaby was. Strange shivers and tingles ran about beneath her skin like pulses of electricity; a lump she couldn’t identify sat in her chest-was it panic? was it fear?-and no matter how many cleansing breaths she took, she couldn’t ease it. She wanted to cry-what else was new? She wanted to laugh.
