What is today, he frantically searched his jumbled mind, not bothering to ask the guards, who were watching the firefight at the airport below. Tuesday. Yesterday I washed my hair. Mondays and Thursdays. Today could be Friday, no no, Tuesday. I’ve decided it’s Tuesday so then it will be Tuesday. There must be something I can control.
Tuesday. Jalak will make Al Kabsa tonight.
• • • •
SHE’D NEVER BE able to hear the word push again. Even five hours later, Zelda still tasted her own sweat dripping down her forehead and over her lips like a waterfall, filling her mouth. Sweat and the pain and the push push push. She should’ve been a better student at Parents Class. Too busy. Doing what? Everyone’s busy today. Zelda pushed the mesh away in her groggy mind and lifted onto her elbows in the empty hallway.
“Hey.” Zelda heard her fuzzy voice. “Who stole my room?”
The nurse hurried past, uniform stained with blood. If they hadn’t stolen her room, she could look out the window toward the screams.
Grandma’s tits, my body aches. Zelda realized her stomach was flat. Flatter. Still fat, but no baby. Where’d he go? She threw up onto the floor. One of the passing nurses shouted for her to be more careful; a resentful orderly mopped up.
She sniffed at the awful smells, recoiling at the moans coming from somewhere. This is a hospital. Moan and puke and scream. Zelda tried sliding off the gurney, but a nurse pressed her back down, tut-tutting and giving her the most wonderful liquid in the history of the world.
“Where’s my baby?” Zelda asked hoarsely between sips through a straw. The nurse wiped her face and hurried off. “Where is he?”
They stole my baby, she decided. Along with my room. And my clothes. Zelda stripped off the white nightgown and stumbled forward, holding onto the wall. She made it a few feet before a nurse and orderly firmly laid her back on the gurney.
“We have more important things to deal with, dear,” the nurse scolded.
“My baby’s missing.”
The nurse gave the orderly a meaningful look and they shoved Zelda back into the gown. Off she went on a ride down the hallway. The screams grew louder.
“What’s going on?”
“Casualties,” the orderly said in a way that suggested that was all the information she was getting. He slid Zelda into a wheelchair, rolling her into a small closet lit by a weak overhead bulb.
“What’s this mean?” Her nipples hurt. “I need a pain pill.”
“We ain’t got any left. Lucky we got bandages after the shit outside,” he said harshly, then sighed apologetically. “Be quiet. You know how?”
“No.” Zelda shook her head.
The orderly laughed and locked the door. She was trapped. She was going to scream, but her throat hurt, too. She sat there for quite a while, most of the time sleeping. The door opened and the orderly laid a bundle on her lap.
“Know what to do?”
Zelda had no idea what he was talking about.
The orderly pointed to her breast.
Oh.
He rolled his eyes and locked the door.
The bundle shifted slightly; she froze. She thought it was a baby but, to make sure, pulled the blanket from its face. Yes. A baby. It must be her baby. The orderly must’ve killed the kidnappers and rescued him.
“Diego?” Zelda whispered. The baby, not understanding English just yet, ignored her.
Was it hers? Zelda lifted the infant to the light. Fuck yeah. Looks just like Pablo. The baby scrunched up its face and cried. Panicking, Zelda tore open the gown and shoved her left breast into the baby’s face. He greedily sucked on the nipple.
You have any idea how much that hurts? Zelda rocked the baby, breaking the contact of mouth to nipple and quickly restoring the feeding before he began wailing again. This isn’t so hard, she kissed Diego’s head. Glad one of us knows what he’s doing.
Someone yanked on the door. Zelda wrapped the baby, face and all, in the blanket. A shot blew off the lock. A Black Top pointed a rifle in her face.
“Close the door,” she screamed. Diego joined her.
“What’re you doing in the hospital, ma’am?”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?”
The Black Top stared sheepishly as Diego regained her nipple. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy. Diego. Junior.”
The BT lifted her visor. She was no more than twenty, “Stay out of sight.”
The BT closed the broken door, which wobbled slightly open. Zelda gently hugged Diego. Little man, you are the bam diggity. But we gotta get our asses the hell out of here.
• • • •
AN OLD MAN with wisps of gray hair hugging his dark skull was the last to leave, shuffling sadly down the path with an empty pot. Puppy’d counted forty-seven mourners carrying flowers and trays of food and bottles of wine, but he’d only been there over an hour. Maybe he should ask the two BTs in the shadows down the block how many people had showed up to pay respects.
Who you expecting to catch, you pricks? No one’s left.
Puppy crossed the street, clenching his groin at the BTs and, after a last deep breath, knocked softly and entered the squat house.
Candles surrounded Frecklie’s body lying on the rug. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt; a crucifix rested in the dimple of a perfectly knotted blue tie. Black shoes gleamed with several coats of polish. Purplish bruises covered the right side of his face. He didn’t look peaceful, just agitated. Puppy wanted to spread his lips in a Frecklie half-smile.
“What do you think?” Beth came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.
“I can’t imagine what the question is.”
“His tie.” Beth gave him a sharp look and adjusted the tie; Puppy expected Frecklie to sit up, gagging.
“Looks fine.”
Beth fussed with the crucifix before tucking it back inside the dimple, abruptly lifting up Frecklie’s pants leg. “Gray socks are right?”
“Sure.”
“Black
