Free Make Me Work by Ralph Lombreglia Page B

phone and open the Journal to its deep middle sections. “The lady on 911 told me this,” I tell Rebecca. “We’re supposed to spread these out over the seat. Anita, an ambulance is on the way. Hang in there, O.K.?”
    â€œThe women in my family have pretty easy births,” she says between gasps of air and pain, as though her job is to comfort us. “My doctor says I have a pelvis like the Holland Tunnel.” She thinks about this for a second and laughs. “Too bad we can’t take it to the hospital.”
    â€œAnita, I think you’re starting to rave a little bit. Try to be calm.”
    She snorts fiercely like a riled-up horse. I get the number of the cabinetry shop from Information, and ask for Dwight. He’s still there. They bring him to the phone.
    â€œI was just leaving,” he says. “What’s going on?”
    I tell him.
    â€œThis wasn’t the plan, Walter,” he says.
    â€œI know it wasn’t, Dwight. What can I say? We’re stuck in traffic.”
    â€œWhat are you doing on 93 in the first place?”
    â€œI made a mistake and got on it. Here, I’m putting you on with Anita.”
    â€œYou were supposed to be here to tell me to push,” she says to Dwight.
    â€œDon’t tell her that!” I say at the phone. I look outside. The woman from the Lincoln has spread the word, and now about thirty people from other cars are staring in through our steamed-up windows like a gathering of spirits.
    â€œWalter thinks you’re mad at him,” Anita says. “Tell him you’re not.” She passes the phone back to me.
    â€œIs that you there, where all the people are?” Dwight says. “I think I can see you from here.”
    â€œYeah, we’ve got a crowd here.”
    â€œThe Bonneville’s overheating, isn’t it?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œIt does that when you run the air conditioner without driving.”
    â€œI figured that out.”
    â€œI’m not mad, Walter. You’re doing your best.”
    â€œThanks, Dwight. I called for an ambulance.”
    â€œI see it coming on the shoulder right now. Should be there in a couple of minutes.”
    â€œOh, yeah. I hear the sirens.”
    â€œYou’re fine now. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Oh, hey! Guess who won the race.”
    â€œUs?”
    â€œYou bet. Veritas Grit. Benny’s going wild. He wants to see a proposal for a big promotion. And, Walter? He says this is your niche. You’re gonna be the Veritas Grit spokesperson. You could be looking at national TV with this.”
    â€œGee, that’s great, Dwight. Thanks.”
    The radio starts playing “I Second That Emotion,” and then all at once the crowd around the car breaks into cheers and applause. When I look in the back seat I see that the baby has left the mother ship and is now half in Rebecca’s hands, half space-walking in its birth fluids across the tiny print of the New York Stock Exchange. It’s made of rubber—that’s my first thought, seeing it jiggle from behind. But I’m not in my right mind. Rebecca gets a grip and lifts, and the baby’s slimy body flips over suddenly in her arms. It’s a boy. His two-second-old face meets my thirty-five-year-old one, the eyes puddling darkly beneath the matted hair, looking into mine and saying, I’m here again? Who am I this time? And then, unmistakably, he winks at me. For an instant I think I get it, the whole thing, life in all its dimension. Then Rebecca puts him back on his belly, slides him up the front of Anita, and he enters earthly bliss.
    â€œDwight!” I say. “You’re a father! It’s a boy!”
    â€œA boy? The baby’s born? I have a son?”
    â€œLook at the size of this kid!” I say.
    â€œWhere’s Anita?” he cries.
    â€œWhat do you mean, where is she?”
    â€œI mean how is she!”
    â€œShe seems fine.