Part 27 (2/2)

”I can't get the blood on the . . . rug or Johnny will see it.” The veins on Miss Celia's arm look black under her skin. Her face is getting whiter.

”You getting funny-looking. Drink you a little a this Co-Cola.”

She takes a sip, says, ”Oh Minny.”

”How long you been bleeding?”

”Since this morning,” she says and starts crying into the crook of her arm.

”It's alright, you gone be fine,” I say and I sound real soothing, real confident, but inside my heart is pounding. Sure, Doctor Tate's coming to help Miss Celia, but what about the thing in the toilet? What am I supposed to do, flush it? What if it gets stuck in the pipes? It'll have to be fished up. Oh Lord, how am I going to make myself do that?

”There's so much blood,” she moans, leaning against me. ”Why's there so much blood this time?”

I raise my chin and look, just a little, in the bowl. But I have to look down again quick.

”Don't let Johnny see it. Oh G.o.d, when . . . what time is it?”

”Five to three. We got some time.”

”What should we do about it?” asks Miss Celia.

We. G.o.d forgive me, but I wish there wasn't a ”we” mixed up in this. G.o.d forgive me, but I wish there wasn't a ”we” mixed up in this.

I shut my eyes, say, ”I guess one a us is gone have to pull it out.”

Miss Celia turns to me with her red-rimmed eyes. ”And put it where?”

I can't look at her. ”I guess . . . in the garbage pail.”

”Please, do it now.” Miss Celia buries her head in her knees like she's ashamed.

There's not even a we we now. Now it's will now. Now it's will you you do it. Will do it. Will you you fish my dead baby out of that toilet bowl. fish my dead baby out of that toilet bowl.

And what choice do I have?

I hear a whine come out of me. The tile floor is smas.h.i.+ng against my fat. I s.h.i.+ft, grunt, try to think it through. I mean, I've done worse than this, haven't I? Nothing comes to mind, but there has to be something.

”Please,” Miss Celia says, ”I can't . . . look at it no more.”

”Alright.” I nod, like I know what I'm doing. ”I'm on take care a this thing.”

I stand up, try to get practical. I know where I'll put it--in the white garbage pail next to the toilet. Then throw the whole thing out. But what will I use to get it out with? My hand?

I bite my lip, try to stay calm. Maybe I should just wait. Maybe . . . maybe the doctor will want to take it with him when he comes! Examine it. If I can get Miss Celia off it a few minutes, maybe I won't have to deal with it at all.

”We look after it in a minute,” I say in that rea.s.suring voice. ”How far along you think you was?” I ease closer to the bowl, don't dare stop talking.

”Five months? I don't know.” Miss Celia covers her face with a washrag. ”I was taking a shower and I felt it pulling down, hurting. So I set on the toilet and it slipped out. Like it wanted out of me out of me.” She starts sobbing again, her shoulders jerking forward over her body.

Carefully, I lower the toilet lid down and settle back on the floor.

”Like it'd rather be dead than stand being inside me another second.”

”Now you look a here, that's just G.o.d's way. Something ain't going right in your innards, nature got to do something about it. Second time, you gone catch.” But then I think about those bottles and feel a ripple of anger.

”That was . . . the second time.”

”Oh Lordy.”

”We got married cause I was pregnant,” Miss Celia says, ”but it . . . it slipped out too.”

I can't hold it in another second. ”Then why in the heck are you drinking? You know you can't hold no baby with a pint of whiskey in you.”

”Whiskey?”

Oh please. I can't even look at her with that ”what-whiskey?” look. At least the smell's not as bad with the lid closed. When is that fool doctor coming?

”You thought I was . . .” She shakes her head. ”It's catch tonic.” She closes her eyes. ”From a Choctaw over in Feliciana Parish . . .”

”Choctaw?” I blink. She is stupider than I ever imagined. ”You can't trust them Indians. Don't you know we poisoned their corn? What if she trying to poison you?”

”Doctor Tate said it's just mola.s.ses and water,” she cries down into her towel. ”But I had to try it. I had had to.” to.”

Well. I'm surprised by how loose my body goes, how relieved I am by this. ”There's nothing wrong with taking your time, Miss Celia. Believe me, I got five kids.”

”But Johnny wants kids now. Oh Minny.” She shakes her head. ”What's he going to do with me?”

”He gone get over it, that's what. He gone forget these babies cause mens is real good at that. Get to hoping for the next one.”

”He doesn't know about this one. Or the one before.”

”You said that's why he married you.”

”That first time, he knew.” Miss Celia lets out a big sigh. ”This time's really the . . . fourth.”

She stops crying and I don't have any good things left to say. For a minute, we're just two people wondering why things are the way they are.

”I kept thinking,” she whispers, ”if I was real still, if I brought somebody in to do the house and the cooking, maybe I could hold on to this one.” She cries down into her towel. ”I wanted this baby to look just like Johnny.”

”Mister Johnny a good-looking man. Got good hair . . .”

Miss Celia lowers the towel from her face.

I wave my hand in the air, realize what I've just done. ”I got to get some air. Hot in here.”

”How do you know . . .?”

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