Another contraction seized Agnes as she heard the rear wheels spin behind them. She looked at the old, white house – shingles falling apart, the sunken front porch, steps torn apart, the rickety fence broken down in a waving pattern from left to right – and groaned. The best midwife in fifty miles lived in this house?
“Norman, faster, let’s get out of here. This house gives me the creeps.”
A black woman holding a broom peered out of the red barn on the side of the house. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, and old as the hills – must weigh less than ninety pounds, Agnes guessed. Actually eighty-seven. Agnes liked to play a game and guess people’s weight, though most people didn’t like it very much. She was always far too accurate.
Chickens flocked behind the woman and she dropped the broom on the dirt floor. Dust flew up in her face but the woman ignored it. She stomped out toward them, waving her elbows up and down.
“Don’t you be kicking up mud in my driveway, young man. You be getting that car off my property!”
Norman stopped at once and got out, walking right toward her. “I’m Balmoral, woman, and my wife’s in labor.”
A black woman, a midwife. Agnes didn’t care what color she was – she just wanted someone to help her. Someone who’d make this pain go away – Norman, who’d done nothing but irritate her these last three hours, ever since their game had gone astray and he’d killed that cat with the car. And the baby! She wanted her baby out.
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