Baby, it's Cold Outside
I watched the rebroadcast of the 10pm News on channel 11 while Bill showered. The KARE-Weather-Bear was all bundled up in his dingy 'backyard', the outdoor weather set. He was predicting gloom and doom. I snapped off the set, disturbed, before the sports booger could annoy me.
After my own shower I watched the tape of the channel 4 news. It was no better. There was much clucking from the anchor desk as the dire predictions were voiced. Things were not going to be pleasant. A glance at the window confirmed this. Bill and I had driven through steady but moderate snow. Now, not much more than an hour later, the snowfall had increased noticeably and it was starting to blow.
Deb: Ah, fuck you, Weather Boy!
Bill turned, opened one sharp black eye.
Bill: You always say that, girl.
I was moving downward, stretching out, adjusting blankets over myself. I didn't answer right away.
Deb: Say what?
Bill: Fuck you, Weather Boy. Doesn't matter--rain, snow, hot, cold, it's all the same. Fuck you, Weather Boy.
Deb: What can I say? The Goof on the Roof. He used to be a KAREbear, then he was the Tard in the Yard.
Bill patted me kindly, a tolerant elder relative calming a fractious child.
Bill: Yeah, yeah, I know, he's an assfuck, too. Never mind, girl. Get some rest.
I gave him a sidelong sneer, which he ignored, then I turned out the light and settled for sleep.
That lasted an hour, an hour and a half before I was awakened by an urgent, brief cramping sensation. It didn't last long, and it was almost a half an hour before it repeated itself. But I knew what it was, because Two had sent me the same kinds of warning shots before he'd come raging down the pike.
Deb: Oh, shit on a stick.
I tried to pitch my voice low.
Bill: Now what?
Deb: Do you always wake up?
Bill: Lately, I do. We're going to have a visitor, after all.
Deb: Sooner, not later, as it turns out. It's starting.
Bill sat up, smoothly powerful. He grabbed the remote with one hand and Hopper the cat in the other. He chucked the cat as he pointed the remote at the television. I always watched this maneuver with interest, hoping he would throw the remote and try to turn on the TV set with the cat, but he never did.
Bill found the weather channel. Before I could think of anything to try and say, he stopped me with a quick "Shut up." The goons on this channel were gleefully discussing the long-overdue pounding we were taking, and Bill's expression soured as they went on about it.
WeatherGirl: State Emergency Preparedness Director for Minnesota, Mike Roark, has closed all major highways throughout his state. Travel is strictly prohibited in the Twin Cities metropolitan area while crews attempt to clear the roads. Out-state you'll find the same directive enforced because crews will be attempting to keep main arteries passable and to assist with emergency transport.
Bill hit the mute and turned to me.
Bill: Cute. Who in the hell is Mike Roark? Thought I was introduced to some character by that name two, three nights ago.
Deb: You were. He's been in town a month or so. He knew Sammy in 'Nam.
Bill: What the hell? Did he know everyone in 'Nam?
Deb: Hear him tell it.
Bill: Boy prob'ly spent his tour on his ass in a guard shack. Anybody here besides Jade?
Jade had been the designated sitter, a job falling to me oftener than I liked.
Deb: If you mean have I been up and done a nose count, the answer is no, I haven't a clue. Somebody might've come in while I was asleep.
Bill rose, did a quick walk-through. He said nothing on his return. He was too busy dialing the phone.
Bill: What in hell, boy? You were closed... two hours ago.
I could hear Elmore clearly. Thank God the phone lines were underground.
Elmore: Can't leave, Bill. People still here an' there's nowhere for 'em to go. Roads've closed, ain't a hotel room in town... we're doin' coffee an' sandwiches 'till we run out, then we're screwed.
Bill: Where the hell's the Dawg?
Elmore: Got a police escort over t'St. Paul. He's helpin' his buddy Roark, I guess.
Bill: Fuckin' boyscouts... well... hell...
Elmore: Gotta go, Bill. Cori's the only one in the kitchen.
Another contraction, short and with that vague ferocity, claimed Bill's attention.
Bill: Girl?
Deb: Nothing... nothing...
This was my area of experience, after all. It would drive Bill nuts to have to admit to some ignorance.
Bill: I didn't see Jade or the midgets.
Deb: Oh, God... that's right! I forgot that!
Bill: Forgot what? Talk to me, girl.
Deb: She took them to the Mall for their birthday... maybe they couldn't get home.
Bill was punching buttons.
Bill: Gaerity?! Where's Jade?
Ryan: Hello yourself, William. Jade is in the Doubletree Grand hotel with the wee ones. She's perfectly safe.
Bill: Perfectly safe, hell, course she is. I'd put more money on her any time, which is more'n I can say I'd do for her old man...
Ryan: Piss off, then.
Bill: Gaerity! Girl's havin' this baby!
Was he panicking?
Ryan: So help her.
I was watching the Weather Channel's 'continuing coverage.' Right. A lot of clowns in parkas standing around essentially saying 'see the snow, so do I, back to you, Bob.'
Bill: I'm tryin' to, smartass. Elmore said the Dawg's over in St. Paul... what for?
Ryan: If ye'd get your nose out of that box of yours, ye'd know. Samuel is the... what d'ye call it... Bully! What's that job title of Samuel's... Law Enforcement Liaison.
Bill looked ready to hurl. On the television, the Weather Channel dweeb in Duluth was nearly blown into Lake Superior. According to the radar map, the storm system extended from Fargo, angled west to somewhere in the middle of South Dakota and down into Nebraska. Points east included were Duluth/Superior over to Milwaukee and down as far as Des Moines and Chicago. The thing was a monster, and it wasn't moving, and it looked like the center was right over our heads.
Bill: Shit!
He had hung the phone up.
Deb: What now?
Bill: We're on our own 'till I figure something out.
Deb: We'll be fine.
Bill gave me a longer, more penetrating look than usual.
Bill: You trust me too much.
I drew a breath, waited while the next cramp flowed through. It was fast, but a whisper of added strength had been there. Maybe this wouldn't take seventeen hours.
Deb: These things tend to take care of themselves. And you've always done what was necessary.
Bill sat back, the phone loose in his big hands. Hopper jumped up and set to gnawing on the antenna.
Bill: Not for one of my own... usually too late,
He said in a quiet tone.
Bill: Tollhouse said you weren't supposed to have this one normally.
I shook my head.
Deb: No, he said that two caesarians versus one vaginal delivery equaled a higher risk and I should keep it in mind. I was the one who opted for the surgery.
I got in a good half-hour or so before another one woke me up. Bill was eyeing a doppler radar broadcast and sneering, lip curled back like a dog. In spite of my best intentions, I gasped once. His eyes were instantly on me, his face smooth.
Bill: Okay?
Deb: I'm fine. If you were anyone else, I'd tell you not to get rattled.
Bill: I never get rattled.
Deb: I know. Trust me, here. If I need help... well... I imagine I'll be yelling anyway, so I'll let you know.
Bill: That's a comfort.
Guy on TV: Governor Jesse Ventura has issued a travel restriction for the State of Minnesota, as has Governor Tommy Thompson of Wisconsin...
Bill: Shut the hell up.
The two sitting at the Weather Channel anchor desk did look pretty pleased with themselves.
Much more gentle, he ordered,
Bill: Back to sleep, girl.
I was well on my way, and spent the next hour or so in and out like that. At one point I glanced at the television expecting to see the talking heads. Instead I was Mike Roark with a Weather Channel microphone in his face.
Deb: What's going on?
I struggled to sit up so I could see better.
Bill: They're jawin' with that Roark. He's on 'bout every hour or so... 'we've made arrangements' for this and 'we're responsible for that. Blah-blah-fuckin'-blah.'"
Deb: There's Sam!
I was pointing. He was near the back of the room, phone to his ear, liason-ing away. I was pleased to see him on television.
Bill: Assfuck.
Deb: What's your problem?
Bill: He's fuckin' around on the tube and I've got someone here who needs to go to the hospital.
Deb: So I gather you'd accept help from... the Dawg?
This was no time to poke him, but I never let a little thing like good sense interfere with hassling Bill.
He gave me a black look in response. He was having a worse reaction than normal to having his chain yanked. His fingers gripped that bedding, the knuckles white.
Deb: I'm sorry, Bill. Just... well... calm down.
Bill: I'm calm, girl.
I reached for his near hand and managed to loosen his hold on the bedlinens.
Deb: It's okay.
His jaw worked briefly.
Bill: I don't know what I'm doin' here.
This was as close as he could bring himself to an admission of either ignorance or fear. Wisely, I believe, I passed on an opportunity to give him hell. I kept my voice quiet.
Deb: Billy, you wouldn't be the first man to deliver his own child and you're one hell of a lot more capable than some of the assmonkeys I've seen. If I trust you too much, it's only because you've never failed me. We'll get through this, and if we need help... we'll yell.
It wasn't often that I was able to steady Bill. Usually it was the other way around--I would start torquing up and Bill would step in and with a word and a firm touch and I would get hold of myself. On the odd occasion that mine was the cooler head I had to remember not to draw attention tot he matter and concentrate on reminding him of his own enormous confidence.
Bill: Are you sure?
Deb: Yes, I'm sure.
Bill: How're you gonna know for sure if you need help? You had most of yours the easy way.
I looked up at him. I was still holding the big hand in both of mine.
Deb: Point taken. Let me think about this. Why don't you go on into the basement and final all those evil old sheets and army blankets you used to have on your bed, bring them up here.
Bill rolled out of bed and yanked on a t-shirt. He seemed relieved to have something definite to do. I was pretty proud of myself--I knew the old linens were downstairs but not exactly where. He would need to hunt for them, and it would keep him occupied for a while. I waited until I couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, then grabbed the phone.
I had Toland's home number on the speed dial. He'd given me his pager number originally, but Bill hadn't considered that immediate enough. I'd told him Toland deserved his privacy, but Bill had totally blown me off. So I hit the speed dial and waited, listening to two or three rings. The voice that answered was female and drowsy. It sounded like one of the clinic nurses, but I couldn't be sure.
Woman: Hello, Dr. Toland's residence.
It sure as hell wasn't the housekeeper.
Deb: Could I speak to him, please?
This was pissing me off.
Woman: Mark, it's for you.
Distantly...
Toland: Can it wait?
Damnit.
Deb: Ask him if he'd rather talk to Bill Strannix.
The question was relayed.
Toland: Toland. Is this Deb?
Deb: Works every time.
Toland: Oh, be quiet. What's going on? Have you started?
Deb: Yes, about three hours ago, or so.
Toland: How far apart are the contractions?
Deb: Every twenty minutes, like that. Not a big deal.
Toland: So you don't need to try to move for a while. My understanding is the ambulance is snowed-in in Apple Valley, and I wouldn't bother with a squad-car, you'd get further in your Excursion.
Deb: That was my question, Dr. Toland... do I absolutely have to go to the hospital?
Toland: At some point...
Deb: Of course, but just now? Would it be a bad idea to attempt a home delivery? At least this way we're in out of the weather. I'd hate...
Toland: ... to be stuck in a snowbank, I see your point. Hmm...
The line was silent for a moment.
Woman: Mark, come to bed.
Toland: Just a minute, Corinne.
Damn! It was the clinic nurse.
Toland: Tell you what... stay in touch, have Bill call me when it's time to deliver and we'll walk him through it. If you think there's bigger trouble than that, call the police and I'll meet you over at Trinity.
I could hear footsteps returning.
Deb: Sounds good. We'll talk to you later.
I hung up quickly. After all, the good doctor had something to resuscitate.
Bill: Think ya could've hidden these a little better? What do ya want with 'em, anyway? They're all musty.
Deb: Put them in the bathroom. I'll go in there when it's time.
He eyed me.
Bill: Don't know if I want my boy born alongside the head.
Deb: It's the only place I can think of that I'll be able to clean up.
Bill finally crawled back into bed and resumed glaring at the Weather Channel. I went back to sleep.
The phone ringing, not a contraction, woke me next. Hopper was sleeping on Bill's hand and objected to it being withdrawn to hold the phone. He sunk his claws in. The cat landed on the pile of linen in the bathroom.
Bill: Strannix.
Voice: What?
Bill: 'Bout time you called me back, Dawg.
Sam: So, what do you want? I'm busy.
Bill: Get somebody out here, man. She needs to get to the hospital.
Sam: Can't do it.
Bill: What in hell d'you mean, can't do it? She's havin' this baby...
Sam: Tell me about it, boy. I was watching her blow up like a zeppelin while you were out earning your woodcraft badge or whatever the hell it was you were doing!
Zeppelin?!
Bill: Just what in hell are you gettin' at, goddamn it!
Sam: I'm busy, you stone-brained sonofabitch, so I'm only gonna say this once. Roark's pulled the plows off everything but the main arteries--Highway 3 is designated as a secondary artery and you're off a farm road. Figure it out, young man. I can call the Farmington police but they don't have anything heavier than a Crown Vic--the plows are having trouble.
Bill said nothing, only breathed heavily. Hopper returned, shot him a bad look then settled on his pillow.
Bill: I've never...
Sam: Looks like you're gonna, my fine young scientist.
Sam hung up the phone. On the television I watched him turn from the camera. He was in a state of disarray such as I'd never seen--his fingers had churned through his hair so much the strands had surrendered to the inevitable. His jacket and tie were gone, his collar undone and his sleeves untidily rolled up. He seemed to be in his element.
Deb: Bill.
Bill: What?
Deb: It'll be okay.
Bill: Sure it will, girl.
Deb: It's gonna happen no mater what. Panicking won't stop it. And... well... you were in it at the beginning...
He laughed.
Bill: Might as well be in it at the end? I've been in at a lot of ends, girl, but nothing like this.
Deb: You'll do fine.
I tensed for the contraction, which was right on schedule. I was going to have to stop that.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK, SAME BAT TIME, SAME BAT CHANNEL…