“Go on,” she urged, when it looked like I was about to refuse. “Remember, I’m in labor and I’ve no fella.”
Grudgingly, I said, “He always gave a dollar to bums.”
“Tell me a more interesting one.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Yes, you can.”
Well, yes, I could, but this was harder to talk about. My throat felt tight and achy. “You know how I get cold sores? Well, there was one night and we were in bed and the light was off and we were just going to sleep when the tingling started. If I didn’t put my special ointment on it immediately I’d look like a leper by the morning, and I had a lunch with the Marie Claire girls the following day. But I hadn’t filled my prescription. So he got up and got dressed and went out to find a twenty-four-hour drugstore. And it was December and snowing and so cold and he was so kind and he wouldn’t let me come with him because he didn’t want me getting cold, too…” All of a sudden I was in convulsions, crying. So bad I had to lean over some railings, just like Jacqui had in the throes of a contraction. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed as I remembered him going out in the cold. I sobbed so much I started to choke.
Jacqui rubbed my back, and when the storm of crying passed, she patted my hand and murmured, “Good girl, three more.”
Feck. I’d thought because I’d got so upset, she’d let me off the hook. “He used to come shopping for clothes with me, even though he was mortified in girls’ shops.”
“Yes. True.”
“He did excellent Humphrey Bogart impersonations.”
“That’s right, he did! It wasn’t just the voice; he was able to do something brilliant with his upper lip so he actually looked like him.”
“Yes, he sort of made it stick to his upper teeth! It was great.”
“Okay, I’ve got one,” Jacqui said. “Do you remember when you moved in with him, and as consolation, he helped me to move to my new place? He hired a van and drove it and lifted all my boxes and stuff. He even helped me clean the new place and you got me by the throat and said, ‘If you say he’s a Feathery Stroker for this, I’ll hate you.” And I was so confused because even though it looked like Feathery Strokery behavior, it just made him seem more macho and sexy, and I said to you, ‘That guy hasn’t a Feathery Strokery bone in his body. He must really love you.’”
“I remember.”
She sighed and we walked in silence, then she said, “You were so lucky.”
“Yes,” I said, “I was.” It didn’t kill me to say it. I didn’t feel any rush of bitterness; I just thought, Yes, I was so lucky.
“Incoming contraction!” Jacqui crouched down on the front steps of a brownstone as the spasm gripped her. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“Breathe,” I instructed. “Visualize. Oh Christ, come back!” Jacqui had toppled off the step and rolled onto the sidewalk. She mewled with pain and I crouched over her, letting her squeeze the bejayzus out of my ankle. From the corner of my eye I noticed that we’d attracted the attention of a cruising black-and-white. It pulled in—shite—and two cops, walkie-talkies crackling, got out and walked over. One looked like he lived on Krispy Kreme doughnuts but the other one was tall and handsome.
“What’s going on?” Doughnut Boy demanded.
“She’s in labor.”
Both men watched Jacqui as she writhed about on the sidewalk.
“Shouldn’t she be in the hospital?” the handsome one asked, looking deeply distressed and even more handsome.
“Not until her contractions are five minutes apart,” I said. “Can you believe it? It’s barbaric.”
“Does it hurt?” Doughnut Boy asked anxiously.
“She’s in freaking labor!” Handsome said. “Sure it hurts!”
“How would you know?” Jacqui shouted up. “You…you…man.”
“Jacqui?” Handsome said in surprise. “Is that you?”
“Karl?” Jacqui rolled onto her back and smiled graciously up at him. “Good to see you again. How’ve you been?”
“Good. Good. And you?”
“Five minutes!” I said, staring at my stopwatch. “They’re five minutes apart. Come on.”
102
Jacqui changed into an elegant Von Furstenberg–style wrap dress. With her LV wheelie, she looked like she was going on vacation to St. Bart’s.
“Gimme that.” I grabbed the case. “Come on.”
Down on the street we hailed a taxi. “Don’t panic,” I told the driver. “But she’s in labor. Drive carefully.”
I turned to Jacqui. “How do you know your man? Officer Karl?”
“We worked together on one of Bill Clinton’s visits.” She huffed and puffed as another contraction got under way. “He was doing security.”
“Good-looking, isn’t he?”
“Feathery Stroker.”
“In what way?”
“Too nice.”
By the time we got to the labor and delivery suite at the hospital, the contractions were four minutes apart. I helped Jacqui out of her lovely dress and into a horrible gown, then a nurse appeared.
“Oh, thank God,” Jacqui said. “Quick, quick, the epidural!”
The nurse inspected Jacqui’s down-theres and shook her head. “Too soon. You’re not dilated enough.”
“But I must be! I’ve been in labor for hours. I’m in agony.”
The nurse gave a patronizing smile that said, Millions of woman do this every day, then she left the suite.
“If she was a man, I bet you’d give it to her,” I called after her.
“Here we go again,” Jacqui whimpered. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. I want an epi-DUR-al. I want an epi-DUR-al. It’s my RIGHT!”
This brought the nurse hurrying back. “You’re distressing the women in the birthing pools. It’s too soon for an epidural. It will slow down the labor.”
“When can I have it? When?”
“Soon. The midwife is on her way.”
“Don’t fob me off, she can’t give me an epidural, only the man can.”
The nurse left and the contraction faded away.
“Is anything happening down there?” Jacqui asked.