The wind and the maelstrom outside shook the house and it reverberated with each thunderclap. Lightning bathed the dank bedroom with white light that pitched the room back into blackness as soon as it dissipated. The crucifix of Jesus hanging on the wall opposite the bed hung off-kilter, blown off course by the elm crashing against the side of the house. Agnes emitted a deep moan that seemed to regurgitate from the depths of her bowels.
Norman could do nothing but watch and hold Agnes’s hand. She squeezed so hard with each contraction, he felt certain the bones would break with the next contraction. Perspiration soaked his white shirt through and he’d long ago shorn himself of his tie. Where it was, he had no idea. Agnes called out to him – sometimes his name, sometimes Martin. Her father, dead so long, she confused him with her father.
Finally the storm came to an end and light peeked through the windows. Prodded by Gracie Honeywalker, “Push, Miz Agnes, you got to push!” Agnes took what seemed her final breath – all the air in the room, Norman thought – and squeezed until the head came out. One more squeeze and the shoulders emerged. Gracie’s tender black hands prodded the arms, abdomen, and legs out – a baby girl who cried her first when Gracie picked her up, washed her off, and gave her to Agnes and Norman. They'd finally done it.
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