Homefires (36 page)

He solemnly nodded his head. How he missed his little mother-hen sister. But he still believed God knew best. My faith had been tossed about like a rag doll in a pit bull’s jaws, at times barely coming out intact. Yet – Toby’s held firm. I tenderly laced my fingers with his.

I sat there beside him, holding his limp hand, until his lids drooped in slumber.

“Let’s have another baby, Janeece.” Kirk moved to stand behind me at the sink and slid his strong arms around me as I drained the water out and wiped the surface dry.

This wasn’t a new topic. Had been batted around for days, in fact. Initially, I’d not thought Kirk would persevere, that his urge to procreate, as other phases of grief, would pass. But when Heather and Toby joined him in his persuasion efforts, I began to slowly relent. First, I had to neutralize the obstacle between conception and me: apprehension.

Complications during and following Toby’s birth still haunted me. A possible recurrence of allergic drug reactions, muscle problems and resultant post-partum depression spooked me. But I’d been thinking more and more about Lamaze, the new natural childbirth procedure I’d used eruditely during my three previous labors. The process would eliminate scary threats.

I turned into Kirk’s arms and gazed up at him, allowing the image of procreation to stir anticipation within me. “If you’ll locate a Lamaze clinic within traveling distance, I’ll do it.”

Kirk’s gratitude glimmered from green depths for a long moment before he reverently took my face in his hands and kissed me “Thank you, honey.”

Two days later, Sunday, Tillie Dawson ambushed to me as I entered the church sanctuary. “I’ve found a Lamaze clinic, Neecy,” she bubbled, gripping my hands so tightly my fingers tingled. “Doctor Jennings does Lamaze at Summerville Medical Center.” I didn’t mind that Kirk had incorporated others to
search out a solution. Was, in fact, glad. Because now, I felt a surge of something closer to joy than I’d felt in weeks.

Another sentiment regenerated:
anticipation.
Sometime in the wee hours, I’d lain awake thinking about Krissie’s maternal leanings, so obvious in her love of babies and her ability to calm unruly children with softly spoken words and a smile. Few little ones could resist her charm.

“You’re a natural born mother, Krissie.”
How many times I’d told her that and seen her beaming response. How I’d looked forward to sharing her joy of motherhood.
So much left undone....

In those twilight hours, a higher wisdom came to me: a new life would fill our family’s need to love and be loved
.
And while Krissie could not be replaced, the small life brought forth could, in a sense, replace the child she was not privileged to bear.

This would not only be our child: It would also be Krissie’s baby.

Insemination posed no problem. Within six weeks, I bore symptoms of pregnancy. On one level, I exulted in bearing this new life, my focus trance-like in purpose, moving through the initial nausea that racked me round the clock, never complaining, glorying in it because the chemical change would, eventually, deliver a babe into my arms to hold and croon to. The craving to love and be loved leaped into being and was as instinctive as my next breath. It burned in my bosom.

On another level entirely, I remained as gaunt and numb as the day Krissie left us. The zombie-me neutralized all anxieties in tandem with childbearing. A strange coupling it was, the Zombie and the Zealot, one at which, in retrospect, I’ve marveled. This mystical coalition, in the end, carted me to fruition.

While the Zombie remained the
in control
part of my psyche, the Zealot posed a whole new set of quandaries
.
During fecundation, my hormones soared and raged and demanded
touch and feel.
My skin screamed for Kirk’s slightest brush of flesh, a desire that, previously, would have delighted him. Only now, breeding complete, his libido took a nosedive.

“It’s not you, Neecy. I desire you more than ever,” he whispered to me time after time, tears glimmering in the silver glow of night. “Grief has affected me, too. Only thing is – I can’t perform and you can.” He would hold me then, not realizing that just the touch of his skin sent me into spirals of clawing
want.

When I’d groan and pull myself from his grasp, his tortured, “I’m so
sorry,
honey,” cut straight into my heart.

I understood. But perception did not assuage the piercing, gnawing sexual hunger inside me for the next nine months, and there were times, in the wee hours, when war raged over
which
was the more responsible for my silent tears: sorrow or desire.

Our friends Callie and Moose joined the church choir and I was delighted to discover that Cal was a marvelous contralto soprano. Her strong voice supported the soprano section so well the females fairly preened over their new sound. And while Moose’s baritone wasn’t as forceful as Callie’s, it helped drown out Nick Clemmon’s off-key caterwauling.

Nick – my inheritance – was of the family clan who believed fully in blood being thicker’n water. Asking him to leave was tantamount to treason. I wasn’t about to challenge them on it.

So before my choir did special selections, I asked God to sorta adjust the electronic and human sound systems so only harmony was heard. A tall request, even for the Almighty. But I persisted, clutching the hem of his garment, at times certain I was dragged along behind Him wailing and pleading while He moved ahead to see to more critical issues. He took pity on me and, apparently, blocked out
some
of the dissonance because invitations to perform at numerous civic and church functions continued to pour in.

Then, before Sunday afternoon Homecoming festivities at nearby Pleasant Brook Baptist Church, God answered my SOS in another way. “What is it, Nick?” I asked, concerned about his pale, distressful face.

“I’m sorry – but I can’t help you today. His golden eyes were as mournful as a cocker spaniel’s. “I got laryngitis,” he announced in a squeaky croak. “I can’t sing a
lick!
”

“I’m sorry, too, Nick,” I said, surprised that I meant it. “Tell you what,” I leaned close and whispered, “Come on with us and just move your lips while we sing.”

His face brightened. “Think we’ll fool ‘em?”

“I’m sure we will.”

We did.

Sarah Beauregard planted herself before me in the vestibule as parishioners swept past to speak to the robed pastor outside on the white sun-washed portico. I had not been swift or smart enough to dodge the encounter and so, resigned myself with lips stretched into my pastor’s wife smile.

Sarah’s rheumatic, scarlet-tipped talons seized my wrist as she inclined herself forward until her nose almost met mine and my torso instinctively curved away. Beady eyes glittered, belying her softly spoken words, “You know, Miz Crenshaw, this baby you’re carrying won’t take the place of Krissie.”

My smile instantly dissolved and my gaze narrowed. “I never entertained the thought that Krissie could be replaced.”

Her black gaze slanted, as in skeptical and as in disparage. “And it might not be a girl – I know you’re hoping for one. I’d just
hate
to see you disappointed.”

Anger, pure and blazing white, shot through me. Why, she’d be
delighted
to see me disappointed, over
anything.
I wrenched my wrist free, stepped back and spoke so fervently the words came out on a
hiss
. “Of all people,
I know
my Krissie could never be replaced.” I took a deep breath, opened my mouth to say
“How dare you!”
then clamped it shut. No use causing a scene, especially when several folk, seeing my stricken features, had slowed to eavesdrop.

I considered my Christian position and the scriptural
woe
unto those who caused a little one to stumble. I’d long ago suspected that most converts freeze into that
little one
phase for an interminable length of time. Few advanced to maturity until donkey-kicked by the devil so many times they figured –
duh! –
it’s wise to climb on up. I stepped back, composed my features into a sickly mime of patience and managed a passable exit line. “Thank you for your –
concern
. Please, excuse me,” I said,
then abruptly turned and hightailed a distance between myself and the bearer of angst.

I was halfway across the church lawn, aimed for the parsonage, when Kaye Tessner caught my sleeve. “Neecy – wait up,” she huffed breathlessly from her sprint.

I stopped and turned to face her, barely controlling my tears of indignation and hurt.

“I heard everything,” Kaye said and took me in her arms. “That ol’
biddy
,” she growled. “I just knew she was up to something, waylaying you like that.”

I clamped my teeth together to stem threatening tears. I would
not
allow that woman to reduce me to blubbering. “I’m okay,” I gave her a wobbly smile, “But thanks, Kaye.”

“Hey,” she narrowed her silvery-gray eyes, “if she says anything else like that to you, just let me know. I’ll straighten her out.” All the while, her slender nurse’s fingers gently rubbed my arms and her porcelain features, framed by loose mahogany curls, looked absolutely angelic to me in that moment.

“Hey, Neecy!” Callie swaggered comically up to us. “How about our choir special, huh! Did we pin that number or
what?
” She first gave me a big
five,
then Kaye.

“
You
nailed it, Callie,” Kaye captured her hand and held onto it knowing by now that Cal slipped away as gustily as she came on. “You should make a tape. You’re
good,
girl.”

“Aww, go on
.”
Callie pulled her hand loose, shuffled her feet and looked away.

“I can’t believe you’re blushing.” I laughed and hugged her. “You should, you know.”