Free Stranger Will by Caleb J. Ross Page B

The pigeons explode inside the cage, coughing stirred dust, growing vocal enough to drown the shared sobs. Mrs. Rose acknowledges the arrival with a small grin. “Maybe it’s time for some good news,” she says and releases Shelia from their embrace.
    William sips his coffee. Mrs. Rose’s walls, covered in portraits, her ceiling painted the same blue as accents: toaster, microwave, refrigerator, even William’s own clothes blend at every sip to a single muddy hue as steam clouds his eyes. He wants to ask Mrs. Rose if she has any ideas, any final suggestions to convert Julie, to show her the odds against a healthy child caught between two conflicting parents, but anything she might suggest has likely already been said.
    The pigeons throw themselves against the cage bars. Mrs. Rose suddenly curses, which usually means a cut deep enough to be wrapped. She jumps back into the house, shuffles to the sink with a firm grip on her thumb. Blood has pooled her palms and dots a trail from the door. “Bastards,” she says and smiles because somewhere, William knows, she is proud of their strength.
    “Everything alright?” William asks.
    She has her thumb in her mouth for a moment, bathing the cut with spit, then pulls it out, examines the wound, pride still floating in her grin. She glances to Shelia, who walks the walls slowly, taking in the portraits, then turns back to William and whispers: “has Julie come around yet?”
    “No,” William returns and begins to elaborate, but Mrs. Rose is already sliding back toward Shelia. She gives her hand a final shake over the sink, and William watches pooled water cloud from clear to pink and the dirty dishes marbleize with the old woman’s blood.
    “Keep at it,” she says.
    William joins the two women at the wall of photos. He says to Mrs. Rose, all of their eyes to the portraits, “So can you help her? Shelia?”
    Without an ounce of ceremony Mrs. Rose nods, says, “You go home. We will be fine. You have a fiancée to get to and a child to take care of.”
    A child to take care of . William rolls the words around his tongue, speaking them softly as the two women walk away, shoulder to shoulder. Upon their exit, the screen door slams, reviving the birds’ screams. A child to take care of . The clouds release pellets of rain. The metallic flavor of the water coats his tongue, and moisture fattens the gauze around his bitten hand. He remembers the message in his pocket, the one that spawned last night’s dream, and briefly considers running inside to ask Mrs. Rose about it. He feels the sentiment of thanks is one she would certainly appreciate, but he does not move. Instead, he climbs into his van, forgetting about the silent, dead version of Shelia he has come to know. The message he will save for another day.

Chapter Nine
    The floor creaks to Julie’s step. She and William have known since conception that Julie’s size could contribute to a premature birth, speeding labor by days, possibly reducing the birth itself to little more than a lunch hour endeavor. Books told her this. Cashiers at supermarkets told her this. Strangers on sidewalks told her this. But even when it happens, sweat and nerves still dominate. Amid the hysteria, William steals a moment to note the change in the room; when Julie’s water breaks, the smell turns the air to vinegar and salt.
    She limps into the kitchen from the nursery, the floorboards straining, holding a white sheet with a small spot of red in the center. She shoves the fabric in William’s face bracing her weight with legs spread just wider than her shoulders. William asks if bleeding is normal.
    “It’s not mine,” she says. Her posture warns of the impending labor, knees buckled, her forehead wringing sweat. The suffocating air adopts the heat.
    “Then I wouldn’t touch it,” he says.
    “This is where that girl slept,” Julie says. “She’s done something, William.” Julie’s pants are dark in the crotch and growing