Miracle in Choctaloosa County
Corn Maize, Alabama
Joseph Crispin grew up in the improbable community of Corn Maize, Alabama. An unincorporated collection of buildings, the signs at each border of town read: “Corn Maize (Uninc).”
You probably won’t find Corn Maize on your AAA Road Map, but a great many true things never make it onto the map of life.
As a point of reference, Choctaloosa County is just below where the last foothills of the Appalachian Mountains end and the flood plain of Lower Alabama begins. The Georgia state line provides its eastern border.
Yes, “Corn Maize” is redundant. And the name appears to have nothing to do with the discovery of the mythical Grit Bush, but we must begin somewhere, and that must be on the (more or less) firm foundation of reality: history.
We start with the beginning of recorded history for the Corn Maize community even though that is in no sense “the” beginning. Before history begins, there is the verbal history handed down, aka “myth,” (perhaps “legend” is a kinder word). We will take the high road and start with verifiable history, which in this case is very recent.
“The West” conjures up images of the California Gold Rush, but we must remember that the westward expansion of America began when anything west of the Appalachian Mountains, a range stretching from Canada down into central Alabama, was considered “the West.” The land was wild and held by “Indians.”
Much of New York and Pennsylvania fell into this unsettled realm in the early years. “West” Virginia split from Virginia due to the divisive nature of the Civil War, but the barrier of the mountains had long made the land’s union with eastern Virginia factious. The state of Westsylvania was proposed during the American Revolution, which would have created 14 original states.
Further south, Alabama had itself been part of the Wild West. The region was only just falling into the category of “settled” when the Louisiana Purchase brought to the young country a further western “West.” The land was settled and comparatively sophisticated in the region of New Orleans, but totally wild and unexplored through the plains to the Rockies.
Before interstates, before highways, and before formal roads of any kind passed through the sparsely populated land beyond the Appalachians, the country needed a passage through Alabama from the east coast to newly acquired New Orleans.
The government of the young United States negotiated with the Creek Indians for a right of way through Creek territory. The route selected was known as The Old Wolf Trail, ranked at best as a “good horse path.” And this horse path became the first federal interstate route through Alabama.
Unfortunately for the community that would become Corn Maize, the Old Wolf Trail went through Burnt Corn, a settled area roughly to the west. This gave Burnt Corn a head start over their local settlement rivals. Communities to the east such as Corn Maize were literally off the beaten (horse) path.
In the early to mid-1800’s, before cotton was king, corn dominated the fields of Lower Alabama. It is true in recent times that “the L.A. of the South” has become a popular nickname, but the Grit Bush legend records the name formally. The Free State of Lower Alabama had existed for only a decade or so, but that is another legend for another time and is recorded in Tru’s Grits.
The members of the growing community on the northern edge of L.A. thought they should honor the crop by adopting its name in some form as had their neighbors off to the west in Burnt Corn (whose colorful history is well recorded).
The thought of giving their community a name, a word or words that defined the nature of the people and their land, inspired many suggestions involving the word “corn.” Some of the more popular were Corn Haven (Corn Heaven was offered as an alternative but the association of heaven with the place for dead people ruled this out), Corn Community, and All Corn (also Alcorn).
But there was a large segment of the community that preferred the more accurate term for the plant, “maize.” Some of their more popular suggestions included Maizeland, Maize Miracle, and Maize Mere (“Mere” referring to the shallow lake nearby). Amaizing Graze was never considered seriously despite rumors to the contrary.
There was a public meeting to discuss the issue. We are fortunate in that the diary of Ella B. Mayes recorded the event. But we are unfortunate in that the ink on some of the pages is illegible to the point of being unreadable. We have only a reconstruction of their contents, related as follows.
The gathering of over a dozen extended families in the close knit community included well over one hundred adults and children. The crowd spilled out of the one room church, ending up on the shady unused portion of the cemetery out back.
The meeting was held after Sunday services, a warm summer sun set on Bake providing a stimulus for a quick decision. It is said that the pastor prolonged the meeting to give sinners a taste of their eternal future, and the sizzling event provided sermon material for the next 6 weeks.
The controversy became rather heated between the “Corn” and “Maize” factions early on, each shouting their favorite names. An enterprising teenager took his parents’ wagon to the creek, filled the empty jugs collected from the previous night’s dance, and sold water until he ran out of jugs. There were also jugs of other drink, which may have helped the decision along.
As voices became hoarse and enthusiasm waned, a bored six year old child called out into the silence, “Corn Maize, Corn Maize.” Another child picked up the catchy chant, “Corn Maize! Corn Maize!,” and like a spark lifted by the wind onto dry grass, the chorus spread.
The Maize faction shouted back “Maize Corn! Maize Corn!” Only a moment was required for them to hear that “Corn Maize” flowed more melodiously from the tongue, and they fell silent. The chant of “Corn Maize!” carried the day.
Perhaps this also is a myth, but it is as believable as the improbable name of the community itself.
There are a number of such communities in northern Choctaloosa County. The larger ones include Broom Sedge, Longleaf, Pheasant Hill, and Smithfield. Nature accounts for the first three names (grass, pine tree, and bird), and myth (or oral history) the fourth (the Smith family).
The smaller communities, often not even wide spots on the road, just a handful of buildings, have idyllic names such as Blue Tail (for the blue tail lizards), Treasure (still undiscovered), and New Deal (named for FDR’s promises). The surname “Uninc.” is not necessary, if they even have a sign at all.
This made for interesting road names. These often simply identified the communities at each end. For instance, Longleaf Blue Tail Trail didn’t fit on the sign, so it was Longlf Blue Tail. Smithfield New Deal Pike was shortened to Smith New Deal. My personal favorite is Corn Maize Tresure (the name fit without the ‘a’).
But on to our story….
The Personal Maze
Joseph Crispin had no clue as to what to do with himself after high school. His parents suggested that he go to the two year community college and then decide. The idea of kicking the can down the road for two years and then planning his future was tempting. He rationalized that this was not procrastination, but was meant to lay a foundation for a better decision.
He wrestled with the possibilities for discovery of his profession and future. Nothing seemed to call to him except a desire to discover his identity before casting himself in the mold of a particular job or place. Before channeling his energies into a focused direction, to know what he had to work with and then his options would made more sense.
Joseph sat at the desk in his bedroom, the window providing plenty of light and a view of a very small slice of the world on June 14, 2021.
Closest was the freshly cut lawn, his morning’s labor. Four trees were spaced along the back fence. The two on the corners of the yard were taller, like turrets at the near edge of the castle wall. The middle two were the foreshortened turrets of the far edge of the courtyard.
A small flock of birds was quiet for the most part as the day warmed, occasionally flitting from one tree to the next across the screen formed by his window. Their stay was only for moments before storming the next tree in turn. An unseen temptress lured them from tree to tree until at last they took flight beyond his visual realm.
A dozen cows grazed in the tall grass well beyond the fence that marked the back edge of his lawn care dominion. A solid row of trees formed the far wall of the next dominion, and beyond this lay the whole wide world (the original “www”).
The humidity was almost visible, white washing the majestic blue of the sky to a glaring gray. The thick air diffused the sun’s outline to a fuzzy brightness rather than a distinct sphere.
Such had been his bedroom view for all the years of his life. “And for how many more?” he thought.
A thin brown wrinkled hand moved across the desk to push the window curtain open a little wider. The four trees were still there, silent sentinels along the fence guarding the backyard from the cattle grazing in the field beyond. The trees were much taller and fuller now, none the worse for the passing decades.
The sky, black in the far distance of space and sky blue beyond the hazy gauze of humidity, held only wisps of clouds and the occasional bird darting through the heat for a fresh patch of shade.
In the distance, lines of balloons marked the boundaries of the aerial interstate. There was no exit for Corn Maize. Missed again.
Autodrones, the cars of the air, shuttled back and forth in the lanes formed by the balloons. Although they were literally guided missiles, Joseph wondered if they had any more purpose in their flight than the birds paralleling their path in the foreground.
Little changed in Corn Maize.
Joseph came back to the present. The glimpse into a future so like a copy of today was unsettling. He saw himself patiently kicking the can down the road until he finally arrived back at his starting point. Little was different, but time – and life – had passed into the rearview mirror.
He glanced over at the mirror on the wall to his left and saw a reflection of the door leading out of his room standing open.
Life beckoned although he still knew not where. But now it was time for a snack.
Birth
Joseph went down the short hall and turned into the kitchen. The fridge exterior seemed weighed down with an assortment of magnets – the wisdom of the ages, jokes, postcards from exotic places (one was even from The Biltmore in the mountains of North Carolina!), and mementos from long forgotten events dotting the exterior. These were the icons of the tribe, the badges of accomplishment, the limits of their journey, and the verbal lights guiding their path into the future.
I hope what is inside is more promising.
The opened door revealed last night’s leftovers, milk and juice, sandwich material, and an assortment of containers whose contents he thought better left a mystery.
No cold drinks. Nothing that cried out, “Eat me!” At least, nothing called to him even though he stood staring for a couple of moments. Waiting expectantly, the picture did not change.
“Mom! Do we have any cold drinks?” he called out.
From the distance (pretty short in this house) came the reply, “Look in the fridge.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he replied. “If there aren’t any there, do we have any?”
“Look in the pantry, dear. Maybe nobody thought to put them in the fridge.”
Joseph opened the pantry door. The assorted jars, cans, and boxes were about as exciting as what the fridge held. And there were no warm cold drinks. Warm cold drinks?
“Not any there, either,” he called out.
His mom came into the kitchen. “Well since you’re going out to get cold drinks, would you pick up two onions for me? The one I was going to use to make dinner is already bad.”
“Do they have onions at the Hurry Hut?” The nearest gas station had wanted to have a name implying quick and easy. Why did he not use those words, Quick and Easy? “Hit ‘n’ Run” was denied as a legal business name (fortunately), and all the good ones seemed already taken. Being an Auburn football fan, he chose Hurry Hut, like the quarterback calling out signals at the line of scrimmage. Although few people caught the football reference, the name seemed to work.
“No, you’ll have to go to the Food Cougar.”
“Mo-o-o-m! All the way to Food Cougar?” To compete with Food Lion, another chain had set up smaller stores with just the basics covered to serve remote areas. At least he didn’t have to go half way to Montgomery!
He got the keys and set off in her aging Corolla.
Halfway to Smithfield, Joseph saw a car pulled over on the fairly deserted county road. It was parked mostly on the dirt shoulder, leaning slightly down due to the gentle slope away from the asphalt.
It was a sporty bright red Celica. It looked classy and fun, the squared off back and spoiler projecting the image of a George Jetson car ready for blastoff. The open passenger door spoiled the whole effect, now the image of a bird down with a broken wing.
He remembered seeing that car somewhere before. He slowed as he passed and looked to see if he recognized the driver.
The driver’s seat was empty, and the passenger seat was laid back slightly so that he caught only a glimpse of a woman’s profile. But that profile looked like something out of a cheap horror flick. The woman’s body was leaning back in the passenger seat, but her head was bent forward and her mouth formed a soundless scream.
Joseph swerved to the shoulder and backed up the short distance to the Celica. Jumping out, he ran around to her side and around the open door.
Inside was a woman who was obviously in torment.
She was staring up at the roof just above her as her body was jolted by some unseen force. Sweat stood on her forehead and had rundown into her hair above her ears, a matted wet tangle.
Her back arched upward and her head went as deeply into the headrest as it would go. For maybe fifteen seconds (10 minutes and counting…) she struggled with loud groans and contortions. The bare, raised belly was like a whale about to surface. Joseph’s powers of deduction led him to the obvious conclusion: she’s having a baby!
During this short eternity, Joseph recognized her – Dinah Jacobs. She was a year behind him and would be a rising senior. Except she had not returned to school after Christmas vacation. What was it I had heard about her absence?
Back to the present. No judgment. No judgment. Think positive. What is positive? Acceptance, acceptance….
“You, Dinah Jacobs, are about to have an amazing, beautiful baby!”
She struggled a momentary smile, quickly saying, “I know,” as she relaxed a bit from the last contraction.
She went quiet except for the deep panting. A calm voice came from the direction of the driver’s seat, “Good, Dinah, that was very good. Keep breathing deeply, and keep that beautiful calm that you have.”
“Beautiful calm?” Joseph looked for the source of the voice, finally seeing the phone gripped tightly in Dinah’s left hand.
“Dinah, can I help?” he asked, bending his knees to be at her level, his voice cutting across words from the ethereal voice.
She did not even look at him. “Not if you cannot make the pain go away or the baby come out, NO!”
She tensed as another shudder went through her. With someone present, she seemed to be trying to hold back on the yelling and her choice of words.
The phone voice tried to intervene again. “Who’s there?’
The disembodied voice came again from the hand of the girl giving birth to another stream of moans and cries. Neither voice seemed more present than the other. He felt like a spectator looking in on a science exhibit with prerecorded sound, but now being drawn into the show.
“Uh…Joseph.”
“Are you the father or a relative?” the voice asked.
Joseph shook his head and then added a verbal, “No. I was just driving by.”
“Good, Joseph. I am glad you are there. The EMT’s will be there shortly, but in the meantime I want you to follow my instructions. Can you do that?’
Dinah was a little more relaxed again, now looking down toward her belly. She had undone the rest of her blouse buttons. The bra was slack but still in place, loosely covering her breasts. The skirt was pulled to her waist revealing that there was no barrier to the child coming out.
He remembered seeing Dinah in the school hallway between classes, what, last fall, almost a year ago? She had been standing in front of her locker looking for something.
The moment.came back to him:
No one was on the beach. The woman stood with her focus on the vast expanse of the sea, the near waves rolling toward her, the foam just washing her feet before retreating. The steady breeze held her hair out behind her in the warm salty air, dancing in concert with the waves below. He walked out beside her, two faces staring toward the horizon where blue met blue. A shared intimacy.
And now here they were. Dinah was self-focused, occasional cars roaring past, their exhaust riding on the brief tidal wave of hot and humid summer air that washed through the open window and out through the door where he stood. Sweating. Nervous. Not quite the shared intimacy he had envisioned.
“Yes, just tell me what to do.”
“You’re her coach. Help her to keep calm and to breathe through her contractions.”
Joseph reached out and took Dinah’s hand from where it now loosely held onto the top of the Celica. She had gripped it tightly during the contractions, pulling herself up, but was now less tense. She let him hold her hand loosely, focused more on the breathing, as instructed.
“Keep calm, Dinah. You’re doing great!” That’s what a coach would say, right?
He remembered. “I heard you’d gone to Texas to stay with an aunt and attend a really great high school with an emphasis on the arts, dance, and stuff like that.”
She gave him no response, just the heavy breathing, interspersed with sounds that were not quite words, but more like a feral cry from a wilderness deep within her.
His inner voice, sounding a lot like his grandmother’s voice, reminded him as he had said it where he had heard that phrase before. Yes, my friend had gone to Texas. That’s what we used to say to make it not sound like gossip, but everybody knew what you meant. If she was a married woman, she’d run off with another man. If she was unmarried, she’d gone off to have a baby,
“Joseph,” came the voice from Dinah’s left hand (a palm “speaker?”), “Dinah said she had a travel bag with her. Do you see it?”
Joseph now saw a small bag in the middle of the back seat. “Yes, I see it,” he said excitedly. But then he realized he could not get to the bag and bring it forward with Dinah stretched out on the front seat, almost totally blocking the entrance except a narrow tunnel above her waist. Going to the driver side to open that door would put him and the door in the flow of traffic.
“But I can’t reach it. Hold on.”
At that moment. Dinah’s next contraction took hold of her. She stiffened and her grip tightened like a vise on his hand. He thought he could feel finger bones being ground to powder.
When she began to relax again, he said to Dinah, “Can you lean to your left and let me reach back to get your bag?”
She looked at him and tried to give a smile. “Thanks for being here, Joseph.”
Still in a rhythmic pant, she took her right hand out of his and pushed his hand away. Rotating a bit toward him, she then threw her weight in the opposite direction. Rolling to her left as much as she could toward the center of the car, she stretched her right hand into the back seat, fumbled around for a few seconds, and then grabbed the handles on the canvas bag.
In a swift movement, she jerked the bag between the tops of the front seats and swung it toward Joseph. He raised his chin just in time for the bag to hit him full in the chest as he squatted outside the car. The impact threw him back on his heels and he sat unceremoniously on the unpaved shoulder of the road, clutching the bag to his chest as if it were his dearest possession.
“Wow, good handoff!” He tried to sound positive and encouraging as he struggled up and back to the car.
The voice continued to give reassuring, soothing words interspersed with commands about breathing and when to push as Joseph looked through the bag.
The bag was not very large. He called out the contents so the voice could hear: “A smaller bag with toiletries, some snacks, pants, a short sleeve top, socks, a hand towel, a bottle of water, a magazine…. What is it I’m looking for?”
“That’s good, you’re doing great…both of you.”
Dinah’s panting with intermittent groans had continued throughout the interchange. She now gave an anguished “Ahhrrrggghhh!” as she spread her knees as far as she could, pushing her lower torso to the edge of the seat.
“How are we doing, Joseph?” came the voice, abandoning the firm but softly spoken encouragement to Dinah.
We? Yeah, it is ‘we!' OK, man up!”
He brought himself to actually look between her spread thighs. “She is spread wide and pushing as hard as she can….”
“And I see the head! I see the head!” Fear and panic mixed with awe and amazement. He had tuned out Dinah’s increasingly urgent stream of sounds, occasionally coherent but unprintable, most not part of the 26 letter alphabet.
“Breathe, Dinah. Deep breaths between the contractions,” commanded the voice.
Joseph, YOU breathe. He realized that he was holding his breath in anticipation.
“Joseph, Grab the hand towel and the top from the bag. Place the top under her bottom, if you can.”
“OK, getting the top under her….” Joseph pressed the neckline of the pullover top under her as her hips rose and fell with the pushes, the rest of the fabric falling to the car floor.
“Is the head coming out?”
“The top of the head is out!” and with her next effort, “Here come the eyes and nose.”
The voice was telling him to get the towel he had pulled from the bag.
“Hold the material with your hands underneath the head, supporting it. As the head comes out, place this under the head only to support it. DO NOT lift or pull or push, just keep the head level. Can you do that, Joseph?”
“Yes, got it. My hands are under the cloth under the head just holding it in place.”
In spite of all of Dinah’s movements at the waist and above, her hips and their opening were relatively stable. A smooth, oblong ball was slowly emerging onto his waiting hands. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. The asymmetrical orb was a light purple, with blood and small globs of cream cheese crumbs creating a textured look over a shiny smooth surface.
The eyes were closed and damp, and the nose looked like there was a drip that needed to be wiped away.
Unable to reach anything to wipe clean the baby’s mouth and nose, Joseph used his left hand, collecting the sticky film on his fingers and wiping his shirt. Making little progress, he leaned into the car further and effectively used his shirttail.
He heard the siren approach.
“The EMT’s are here!” he announced, as if Dinah and the voice had not heard the fast approaching scream of the ambulance.
‘That’s great, Joseph,” spoke the ethereal voice, “but your job is not done. How are you three doing? Is the head all the way out?”
“Yes. The mouth and jaw, the whole head….”
“Great! Just support the baby’s head. No pulling.
“Dinah, are you breathing and pushing as we talked earlier?”
A panted “Yes” emerged among a soft string of “Oh’s!”
The ambulance came to a stop just behind the car, lights flashing, parked against oncoming traffic so as to block the west bound lane and provide a shield for the driver’s side of the Celica.
Dinah gave a great cry, heralding the product of her most recent push. “A shoulder is out!” Joseph exclaimed.
The voice kept speaking firm instructions to Dinah, alternating with calm reassurances. Ambulance doors opened and slammed shut and the EMT team split to the two sides of the car.
Another pained cry and then, “Here comes the other shoulder!”
A new voice behind him spoke with firm reassurance. “Joseph, I’m Keith and Kate is on the other side of the car. Angie at the 911 center tells me you’re doing a great job. Your hands are full and I cannot get in to help you, so just keep supporting the head like you’re doing with your other hand under the back.”
Kate had reached over awkwardly from the driver’s seat and finished Joseph's job of wiping clean the baby’s mouth and nose area. She gave encouraging remarks on the beautiful baby emerging as Dinah panted, gulping for air.
The female EMT then offered a bottle of water. Dinah responded with a positive sound. Kate placed the bottle at her lips, but most of what came out washed over Dinah’s chin and neck.
The infant had been squirming on the towel in Joseph’s hands, its mouth moving as if trying to find the words to express the disapproval written on his furrowed brow. A shriek finally escaped, followed by more as he found his voice.
The waist with its umbilical cord emerged, and then more.
Scratch that….as “she” found “her” voice.
Time seemed to go slower as pushing and panting created the rhythm that produced more and more of the tiny body. When the feet came out, Joseph joyfully exclaimed, “We’re done!”
Keith gently pulled on Joseph’s shoulders that leaned into the front seat.
“You’re done with your part, Joseph, but we and Dinah have a bit more to do,” The ropey umbilical cord eased out a little further as Kate awkwardly reached over to relieve Joseph of his light burden.
I am not part of the ‘we’ anymore. Joseph backed away from the car and Keith quickly filled the gap.
The hand spoke one last time, “You’re in good hands. Blessings on your child, Dinah.”
Keith said, “We got her,” and the voice said “Farewell,” and was gone.
Joseph tried to see the phone still in Dinah’s left hand, wondering how it had survived the crushing power of her grip. But Dinah and daughter were covered in EMT’s, the front of the Celica looking like a contest to see how many bodies could be crammed into the narrow opening above the front seats.
Joseph felt the hot sun on his sweat soaked shirt. For the first time in what seemed like hours he actually allowed his muscles to relax. The breeze from a passing car allowed him a hint of coolness. He could feel the tension leaving and his whole body relax. Soon I’ll be a puddle on the edge of the grass line.
Keith and Kate worked with a minimum of talk between them but steady encouragement to Dinah. Joseph gleaned that they had cut the umbilical cord after tying off what would become the two ends. They continued to clean the mother and child in preparation for bringing them out to the ambulance.
Kate left the front seat and needed less than two minutes to bring the ambulance cot to where Keith stood at the passenger door holding the baby. He handed her to Kate, and then assisted an exhausted, wet mother onto the mobile bed. Kate placed the baby back onto Dinah’s chest while the new mother wrapped her swaddled daughter in her arms, both covered with a thin blanket.
They rolled the cot to the rear of the ambulance and locked the raised bed into the floor of the vehicle. With mother and child lying peacefully on the thin mattress, Keith pushed a button and the legs and wheels of the cot rose into their retracted position. Keith and Kate supported the extended bed as the legs disappeared, and then pushed the bed inside and locked it down for the ride to the hospital.
Kate climbed in the back with Dinah and Keith came over to Joseph.
“Good job, Joseph. We’ve got ‘em from here. What was your last name?”
“Crispin, Joseph Crispin.”
“Thanks, and take care.” He took off his glove and shook Joseph’s hand and bounded toward the ambulance. With lights still flashing, they made a 3 point turn and headed to the hospital.
It was over.
Joseph stood alone between the Celica and his own car. A sheriff’s car had arrived at some point and the officer had been directing traffic flow. He jogged over to his car and pulled away, freeing the westbound lane for travel.
The traffic that had backed up with the lane blockage began to flow normally, except for the gawkers looking at him and the two cars, wondering what had held them up.
He looked at his blood stained hands and arms. And shirt. And pants. At least his shoes seemed OK.
So I walked into the Food Cougar and somebody alerted the security guard, who called for backup, and within minutes I was surrounded by uniforms with guns drawn asking me to explain the blood.
No, I think I better go home and change.
Joseph got in his car, made a U-turn, and headed back home. The car was so hot and the A/C so cold that he rolled down the windows. The fresh air felt good as the wind quickly dried the perspiration and left a salty film on his cool skin (and shirt). He knew it was salty because he could taste it where it had rolled down onto his lips.
Reviewing what had just happened, he had no idea how much time it had all taken. He didn’t even want to pull out his phone to see what time it was.
The ride home was quick and uneventful. Normal is good!
He pulled into the driveway and jogged up to the front door. His muscles were actually sore from being so tense and then sitting immobile in the car for 15 minutes.
“I’m home, Mom.”
“Thanks,” she called from the back. “Just put the onions on the counter by the sink.”
“Uh, I don’t have the onions.” He glanced at the clock. He had been gone a little over an hour. Only a little over an hour?
“Don’t tell me you forgot them!” came the voice, each word sounding nearer.
His mother entered the living room and saw him standing just inside the front door. Her jaw dropped as she surveyed what might pass for a survivor from the zombie apocalypse.
“What happened to you? Are you OK?”
She was up next to him now, quickly scanning for gunshot wounds, knife cuts, grenade fragments, or any other of the multiple injuries possibly causing the gore on his clothing.
“No, I’m fine. I just delivered a baby.”
He might as well have said he had just flown to New York or that snow was coming.
She stepped back and put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Surely you can come up with a better story than that.”
“No,” he shook his head, “I cannot think of a better story.” And he couldn’t. Looking down at his clothes, he added, “I think I better clean up before I go get the onions.” He went down the hall to the bath, almost laughing out loud.
His mother followed him and commanded through the closed door, “Joseph Crispin, you tell me what’s really going on!”
“Give me a moment, Mom.”
He emerged a shower later, clean and wrapped in a towel, and went to find a fresh set of clothes for the trip to the store. Then he explained.
On the way to the store, Joseph realized that he had forgotten about the snack that he never had gotten and now he was missing lunch. He shrugged. I feel pleasantly full.
He had more to say at dinner that night than he remembered in years.
Bargain (with the Devil?)
The sun rose much earlier than Joseph Crispin the following morning. Although he had not stayed up late, the amazing events of just half an hour the previous day were going to affect the rest of his life. He knew it! But he could not see in what way this would be manifest as he alternately slept and marveled at the day he (and Dinah) had experienced.
His mom was still at home when he rose. She was just preparing to leave for her volunteer work at the Choctaloosa Food Pantry. She was there two days a week from 10 to 4, helping those in need get enough food to see them through the hard times they were experiencing.
Although there was no pay, there were occasional benefits. Corporate donations to the Food Pantry were sometimes too large for their small storage space or refrigeration section. Canned goods kept for a while, boxed goods for less time, and when the freezer was full, the excess had to go somewhere immediately.
An excess in a grocery chain’s inventory of Cheerios had resulted in the Food Pantry’s excess of the boxed cereal, and now the boxes overflowed the cereal shelf in the Crispin pantry. For what seemed like the one thousandth day in a row, Joseph poured Cheerios into his bowl and added sugar and milk.
His mother kissed him goodbye, told him not to deliver any babies today, and rushed out the door.
Sitting at the table munching on crispy Cheerios, Joseph had the momentarily joyful feeling of being care-less. Of course, the flip side was that he had nothing to do that day. He was also carless, which limited his options.
So if I don’t deliver any babies today, what am I going to do?
The unspoken question was still lingering at the edge of his brain, hovering above the empty void of the immediate future, when the doorbell rang.
The Cheerios were getting soggy anyway.
At the door was Barney Franklin - owner, editor, writer, and most everything else for The Corn Maize Bee. This was a weekly paper circulated free of charge “in the Heart of Choctaloosa County and Beyond.”
Barney was a friend of Joseph’s father. Well, “friend” may be too strong a word. They graduated from Choctaloosa High School a year apart. Like most locals, they were not enemies and therefore they were friends, at least, geographically speaking.
And Joseph had written articles for The Bee about high school events during his senior year, from performances on the stage to games on the field. All he had received in return was a byline on the story and some credit in English class, and that seemed good enough as a high school student.
But none of this explained why Barney Franklin stood at his door at ten in the morning.
“Good morning, Joseph!” Mr. Franklin beamed as he reached for Joseph’s hand and shook it vigorously. He took off his faded fishing hat, the cotton brim and top now a soft blue speckled with islands of the original navy, holding it by the brim in both hands. He might as well have asked if he could come in as his mouth said, “How’s your summer going?”
“Great, Mr. Franklin,” he said as he stepped back to allow the older gentleman to enter.
Mr. Franklin entered and allowed Joseph to lead him into the living room. Joseph pointed to a chair and sat down on the matching one.
As they settled down, Joseph asked, “And what brings you here, Mr. Franklin?”
Mr. Franklin chuckled. “Well, I never did tell you how I appreciated your articles on the high school happenings. I’ll miss you this fall.”
“You’re welcome, sir. It was a fun experience.” Except when there were deadlines looming and when I misspelled a word that the spell checker didn’t catch.
“Well, let me get to the point.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, the smile still showing his teeth. “I hear you had quite an experience yesterday.”
Ah, the motive! An application of one of Newton’s Laws: An object at rest remains at rest, and an object in motion remains in motion at constant speed and in a straight line unless acted on by an unbalanced force. Also applies to human interactions….Some force had moved Mr. Franklin from out there to in here, and there was no doubt what that force was.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, don’t be modest, Joseph. Delivering a baby is a momentous event!”
“Do you mean newsworthy?”
Mr. Franklin shrugged. “Every birth gets a listing, just as every death. They’re all newsworthy,” he said diplomatically. “But the details can make them rise above our daily lives and inspire others. I want to get your story into The Bee and share it with the county, and maybe the rest of Lower Alabama.”
Then he leaned even closer and almost in a whisper added, “And maybe beyond. You never know when a major newspaper or TV outlet will pick up a local story and run with it.”
Joseph smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Franklin, but the story is all about Dinah Jacobs. She did all the work. And then the EMT’s were great and finished the job. Get Dinah’s story and you’ll have plenty to print.”
“But you were the crucial middle part, Joseph. You bridged the point from a girl all alone in a car about to have a baby until the time when the baby was already there and the EMT’s took over.”
He held up his hands signifying a headline, “ACCIDENTAL HERO DELIVERS BABY!” Or maybe, raising his hands on the other side, “NEW MOM DELIVERS INTO HANDS OF FRIEND.”
Joseph rose from his seat. “Thanks for coming by, Mr. Franklin, but you really need to talk to Dinah. This is her story.”
“I have talked to her, but it’s your story, too, Joseph.” He had remained seated, but now was perched on the edge, ready to take flight only when forced.
He started peppering questions:
“What was it like when the baby began to emerge?” Joseph began shaking his head as a negative response.
“Did the child cry?” Silence.
“What was Dinah’s reaction?” Silence.
“Did she talk about the father?”
Newton’s law took over and Joseph reacted, breaking his silence. The force was what appeared to be an improper question, a definite step beyond moral boundaries even though within the ethics of reporting.
“I think that is all, Mr. Franklin. You can get your story from Dinah.”
Joseph reached for the newspaperman’s upper arm to help him rise.
As he stood, Mr. Franklin tried one last time. “What if you wrote the article, Joseph? You could interview Dinah and the EMT’s, if you want to, and write the article your way…or her way. If you don’t want to write it, I’ll just have to write it my way.”
Joseph’s body in motion toward the door paused. He felt caught in a snare, unable to move forward but not sure he wanted to move toward the newsman.
Mr. Franklin smelled victory. He stuck out his hand for a handshake. “Deal?”
A thousand snippets of information ricocheted through Joseph’s brain before coalescing around a response in less than a second.
“Deal.” Joseph put his hand into Mr. Franklin’s.
“Good, Thursday, noon. Wednesday would be better.” Mr. Franklin positively glowed. “I look forward to your article.”
He retrieved his hat from the corner of the chair and placed it on his balding head. They walked toward the front door and Joseph opened it. As he passed through, Mr. Franklin said, “She should be home with the baby right about now.” He nodded with a smile and walked out to his car.
Standing in the open doorway, the smells of summer wafting around him in the steam of the late morning sun, Joseph wondered if this was a good deal or a no-win bargain with the devil.
At least the story would be told with honesty and allow Dinah to control the perspective. Perhaps that was a victory worth whatever was to follow.
He closed the door. He now had a purpose, at least for the next 48 hours. He looked at the clock….49 hours.
Be careful what you wish for. How true!
And where are all of those ideas that compelled the “yes” answer?
No car, but he had time, and the internet, and a phone. It’s Senior English with an assignment to write a story about a birth….
The Interview
“Reporter” Joseph Crispin spent the afternoon getting background for his story. He reviewed the website for the emergency services provider that had sent Keith and Kate. He spoke with their supervisor and arranged an interview with them for the following day, provided they were not on an emergency run or performing the necessary follow up for each emergency: cleaning equipment, replacing supplies, filing reports, and otherwise preparing for the next crisis.
But he put off arranging to see Dinah. Awkward! That was easy to postpone since she was just now at home for the first day with the newborn. But then he heard the ticking of the wall clock –down to 44 more hours.
I might as well get it over with.
He looked up the Jacobs landline in the Choctaloosa phonebook. Fortunately, they had one. This way he could talk to the mother…now also a grandmother, which sounded kind of eerie thinking of his Mom…and not really bother Dinah. He could set up a time to visit tomorrow.
That’s a normal thing considering what happened yesterday, isn’t it?
He punched the numbers on his cell phone. The phone rang and rang, He was about to hang up when a frenzied “Hello” interrupted the ringing.
“Hello, Mrs. Jacobs? This is Joseph Crispin. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
Her voice relaxed noticeably as she replied, “I am not sure what a good time would be at this point.” There was almost a laughter in her voice that implied Joseph would understand.
He did. “I only got to experience maybe ten minutes with a newborn, but I think I understand you. How are Dinah and her daughter?”
“I think the best answer is that they are getting to know one another. I went through it with her older brother and then Dinah, but she was so different that it was like the first time all over again.”
“So every newborn is different?”
“Yes. They each arrive with their own unique personality and demand that we get to know them. I understand from Dinah that you were the first to meet Chloe.”
“Yes, er, well,” What do I say to that? Then he smiled into the phone. “We were not formally introduced, but we were close for a brief time, Mrs. Jacobs.”
“Please, after what you have been through, call me Claire,” she laughed. “Dinah suggested we have you over for dinner to show our appreciation when things are a little more settled.”
Not the timing that works for a deadline. Plan B?
“That would be great,,,, And I understand the delay to a more appropriate time for dinner…. Could I come over tomorrow sometime and, you know, just see how they are doing? I won’t stay long.”
“If you’re sure you want to come. Why don’t you come about noon? I’m not necessarily offering lunch since we don’t have a routine yet, but we can see how things are going. Chloe does sleep quite a lot, just not on schedule.”
“Great! What can I bring you?”
Joseph could hear Chloe crying in the background and Dinah trying to comfort her.
“If you have some peace and quiet, that would be great. Otherwise, just bring you.”
‘Thanks, Mrs. Jacobs, uh, Claire. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
Joseph had no idea what would happen the following day, or if he was even moving forward, but something was going to come from that visit.
Joseph did not have access to a car the next day. A small bump in the road of life. Humid and 90 degrees again. But he had a ten-speed bike. A three speed car would be so-o-o much better!
The alternative was walking. So about 11:20 he put on his best shorts and his only buttoned short sleeve shirt and began the ride to the Jacobs’ house. It was 6 miles to New Deal, and about a mile past that was the subdivision where Dinah lived. He thought if he left a little early he could cool off under a shade tree before he knocked on the door.
Other than a nice park just outside Corn Maize, there was no good place for cycling. Any direction took you on a two lane road or highway, none of which were friendly to cyclists. “Sharing the road” was an automobile concept that did not include cyclists or pedestrians.
He went out of the driveway toward the highway, then turned right through downtown Corn Maize – all one quarter mile of it – and then onto the open highway toward New Deal.
The road was relatively flat, and for a few minutes the breeze created by the bicycle’s progress took the sweat away as quickly as it formed. Feeling underpowered, the sun kicked into higher gears, easily out powering Joseph’s ten-speed. The sun’s new setting felt like Bake Plus.
The asphalt radiated back the heat and the forward movement seemed to encounter more humidity than air movement. Cars passing him did not help to cool him, but only added to the tension and, therefore, the sweat.
Going through New Deal at a blazing 20+ miles per hour, he hardly had time to notice the few buildings.
Moments later he turned into The Oaks subdivision, a collection of a dozen or so homes on a cul-de-sac with three branches. The Jacobs’ house was straight ahead at the dead end. And beside it the haven of a large oak tree’s shade.
He coasted into the driveway and turned away from the house into the welcoming shadow of the gnarled old tree. He leaned his bike against the trunk, and took from his bike pouch the bottle of water that had been mostly ice when he had left home. It was still cold and felt good on his cheeks. Leaning against the coolness of the bark he could feel a light breeze stealing the sweat from his brow.
Now what am I doing here and how should this go?
He had asked himself this question many times since hanging up the phone with Mrs. Jacobs – Claire – the previous afternoon.
Does this mean I am an adult when I can call another adult I don’t really know by their first name? A rite of passage, I guess….A rebirth as an adult!
He looked at his phone: 11:55.
Five minutes later, he was no more prepared for the interview than the previous afternoon. But the phrase, “It’s her story,” kept rolling through his mind.
When he knocked on the door, Claire opened it. The inside of the house was quiet for the moment, a good start.
They exchanged pleasantries and he stepped into the coolness of the house, now conscious of how underdressed he was in his shorts.
“I apologize for not dressing up a bit more, but I don’t have a car when my mother is at work and the bicycle doesn’t have air conditioning other than what the speed of the bike generates.”
Claire smiled with understanding. “Yes, Dinah is in the same boat when I am at work. Oh, but she doesn’t have a bicycle…or a boat,” she laughed.
“Oh, where do you work?”
“With my son gone to college and Dinah getting close to the age of flight, I needed something to occupy my time. I got my real estate license last year and work with the real estate agency over in Smithfield. I handle sales in this side of the county.”
“How interesting. Do you enjoy it?”
“Actually, I do. I enjoy people, and I enjoyed being at home with the kids. But one of them is gone to college for months at a time, even staying the summer to work.
“And Dinah was not here most of the day because of school and cheerleading. That was getting to me.” She gave a strong affirmative nod. “I really do like it, real estate, I mean, bringing people and houses together to make a home.”
Joseph nodded. “What does Mr. Jacobs do?”
Her expression quickly changed. “I really couldn’t tell you. But his job is as a consultant and he travels a lot.” She took a small breath and resumed what seemed her natural smile. “Let me go see how Dinah and Chloe are doing.”
They were still in the small foyer and she started down the hallway. After a few steps she called for him to have a seat in the living room gesturing toward the room behind Joseph.
The living room seemed spacious, a pale yellow adding to the brightness of the windows along two sides of the room. A sofa with a cushioned chair at the far end faced a coffee table. The wall to the left was a bookcase and entertainment center offering a TV and CD player.
The room was not cluttered like so many living rooms seemed to be. A part of the wall was family pictures – the parents and small children at a theme park, at a cabin in the woods, at a backyard barbecue. The pictures of Dimah and her brother as they got older were just the two of them, or a threesome with Claire. It was obvious the father was missing.
Joseph turned as soft footsteps crossed the foyer. Dinah carried Chloe in her arms.
“She’s asleep,” Dinah said in a whisper, gently rocking the cradle of her arms.
She looked so much better than the last time he had seen her, strapped onto the bed being loaded with her baby into the ambulance. But she also looked much different from the last time he had seen her at school the previous fall. She was still young and pretty, but no longer a schoolgirl. She was a woman. He could imagine kids calling her “Miss Jacobs.”
Joseph stepped closer to see Chloe. She had a pink baby blanket and matching knit hat. Her eyes were closed and she was a picture of peace.
But remember what she sounded like in the background of the phone call yesterday. Picture that! But no, he didn’t want to picture that. This is the moment of now, so just stay here.
“I just wanted to see how you both were doing. It was a pretty dramatic scene seeing you rolled into an ambulance and going away with flashing lights.” He was trying to keep his voice in a whisper, but Chloe was beginning to stir.
“Let me go put her down. She has been awake for a while and has just fed. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She turned and walked back down the hall in her socks. The house was completely silent.
What am I doing here? Why did I volunteer to write the article, and what can I possibly say? The Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How of a newspaper story seem terribly inappropriate for what happened, for what is happening.
He turned back toward the pictures on the wall of happier times. He noticed the last photo was of Dinah in her cheerleading outfit looking straight at the camera, caught in mid jump, her mother looking on from the side.
The last picture was down to two. The next one would show three again.
Dinah became a cheerleader as a sophomore, always with the other cheerleaders and the guys who played whatever was the sport of the season. Her circle and mine rarely overlapped. So what am I doing here? How am I to tell HER story?
Then he reminded himself….It is HER story.
In a few moments, Dinah came back to the living room. In her normal voice she said, “I think she’ll sleep a while. Would you like a cold drink? I’m afraid all we have is caffeine free.”
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
She went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of lime soda in each hand, offering one to him.
“Well, you see we survived,” she said with a smile, taking a sip and then sitting on the end of the couch. Joseph took the chair beside her.
“Yes, you are doing very well, indeed. You look like a natural.”
“I don’t know about the ‘natural’ part, but I’m learning. Chloe’s a demanding teacher,” she laughed. And then added more seriously, leaning forward, “And I really do appreciate you staying there until the ambulance arrived. That was a scary time and it was great to have someone there and not just a voice on the phone.”
“You are welcome. I’m actually glad to have been part of the experience although I would have a hard time putting into words just exactly what happened on that shoulder of the road.”
“Yeah, it was kinda like the world stopped, and when it started again, it was different.” She shook her head and then looked at him. “But you were just holding my hand, just watching. Just….” She stopped short of saying that it wasn’t happening to him, and Joseph in his mind completed the thought, a spectator.
Is that all I am in all of this? Just a spectator?
“Just there for me,” she completed her thought. “I’m amazed that you or anyone stopped.”
Joseph shook his head. “I can’t explain it." Then, switching gears too abruptly, “Did Barney Franklin come to see you?”
Her expression turned sour in a flash. “Yes. He came to the hospital and wanted to make this amazing private experience a front page news story. That’s not going to happen!” She crossed her arms with a defiant expression.
Her expression changed again, but not for the better.
“You wrote stories about school events for him. Is that why you’re here, to get the story?” She was standing now, bent toward him in the stance of a fighter making a challenge.”
“No! No,” he protested, looking up at her. “Sit back down. I didn’t answer any questions. I told him it was your story.”
He patted the sofa and she sat down again.
“I didn’t know what you had told him, but I thought I had nothing to add. I was just a spectator, somebody in the right place at the right time to see a miracle. I wouldn’t spoil that!”
“Do you swear you’re not going to write about me?” The brown eyes boring into him were as demanding as the tone of her voice.
“Listen, Dinah. He was going to write a story about this and I wasn’t going to help him. I said it was your story and you were the one to tell it.”
“But I don’t want to tell the whole county my story. It’s not just MY story. It’s Chloe’s, too.” A quiver was making its way into her voice and her eyes went to the front window looking for a way out. She gave a deep sigh. “There’s more to the story than just a woman having a baby on the side of the road.”
Her voice turned defiant again. “And that’s what he wants, the juicy gossip about the woman without a husband and the baby without a father. And he’s not going to get it!”
Trying to keep his voice calm, Joseph said, “I agree.” She was in her emotions and not ready for reason. He let the silence linger until he could feel her anger begin to dissipate.
After a few more seconds he said, “He is going to write a story, or we are. Can we tell your story your way?”
She backed down, relaxing a bit from her defensive posture, thinking about this alternative.
She shook her head. “What is my way? Every way I think of it, I lose. Chloe loses.”
As if this were her cue, a tentative cry came from the back of the house.
Dinah looked in that direction and said firmly, “I have to go. You need to go.”
“Wait! Just a minute. Just a few seconds. Can I bring something by in the morning about 8:00? If you don’t like it, we’ll throw it away and it will be up to Mr. Franklin what he does with neither of us giving any answers.”
She looked defeated, close to tears.
“I know. This isn’t fair. You have your plate full and he…I have dropped this on you. Go. Take care of Chloe. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With a slight nod she turned and padded softly and swiftly toward Chloe. Joseph showed himself back out into the June sunshine.
Like yesterday, the interaction seemed to have lasted hours but was probably only a matter of minutes. He walked over to his bike in the shade of the tree.
What have I promised and how can I possibly make it happen? It’s HER story.
He shook his head and got onto his bike.
The sun was hotter, the breeze non-existent, traffic heavier. The only thing worse would be a thunderstorm. He looked up anxiously but the sky looked clear and hot for as far as he could see.
He peddled as hard as he could, feeling the exercise relax his mind. Even his tense muscles relaxed with the effort. Seems like a contradiction! Don’t knock it. It works.
“Her story, her story” ricocheted off the empty canyon walls of his mind.
When he got home, he realized he had not even had a sip of the lime soda, much less lunch. He fixed a sandwich and went to the desk in his room.
The phrase “her story” kept repeating itself. Suddenly, at the end came, “but not her story.” Wheels began to turn. The gears began to mesh. Now it just needed to become a living thing, something infused with life and not mechanics.
He sat at his desk, keyboard ready…. Slowly, the tap-tap-tap started.
He began tentatively, the backspaces and deletes fairly frequent. The faster he typed, the less he had to go backward.
By time for his mid-afternoon snack, he felt like he had her story, but not Dinah’s story…just what they both wanted. He felt like this was what Barney Franklin really wanted, also, even though he might not know this is what he wanted.
His mom arrived home a little after that. This was Dinah’s “not Dinah’s” story. He would show it to Dinah in the morning and it would be a “yes” or a “no.”
It wasn’t his mother’s story, but maybe she would find some misspellings the computer missed or where something was needed to make it clearer. He didn’t want to give Dinah a copy that wouldn’t receive a passing grade in English class.
Having learned that indeed, timing is everything, Joseph chose that narrow window between being relaxed now that she was home from the Food Pantry and the time for starting dinner.
“Mom, would you read a short article and tell me what you think?”
She was sitting on the front porch with an iced tea. Yes, it was still hot as blazes, but the Food Pantry felt as cold as a refrigerator and it took her a while to thaw.
“Sure.” She reached out and he handed her the article. He went inside, put some ice in a glass, poured some of the sweet tea over it, and went back to the porch.
She had finished it because he saw her turn back over to the front page as he came out. He sat in the swing, his feet on the floor patiently moving the swing back and forth as his insides roiled in anticipation of the verdict.
His mother continued reading on the back of the page again.
She turned it back to the front. “What’s it for? Who did you write it for?”
He didn’t understand the suspicious tone beneath the words.
He told her about Barney Franklin coming to interview him. Rather than an interview, the editor had walked away with a commitment from Joseph for a written article.
Linda looked up and nodded – No!, Not yet!, Never will she be ‘Linda’ – ‘Mom’ looked up and nodded, her eyes moist. “My son has grown up.”
She leaned tforward in the swing toward Joseph, and he took the paper back from her.
“That’s good, then?” he asked.
“What I said is a two-edged sword. You have grown up is both my loss and my gain. ‘Your gain is my gain,’ I have to tell myself.”
Joseph felt his eyes begin to tear up a little. You’re an 18 year old man, Joseph! And that rebuke was enough to dry up the tear ducts for the moment.
“What do you think Dinah will think about it? This is the only way I could think of to tell her story without it revealing that it is HER story.”
“You’ll have to ask her, but I would be surprised if she didn’t love it.”
The Story
Morning dawned again, as it will do.
Joseph was awake before sunrise but waited until the room had grown bright. He brushed his teeth, dressed, and started on his 1001st bowl of Cheerios, his Dad finishing a cup of coffee before heading to work.
Dad looked at his watch and then, more as a statement than a question said, “So you’ll see Dinah first and then Barney.”
Mouth full, Joseph gave an assent.
“What if she says, ‘No?’”
Joseph shrugged. “That’s it. I can’t tell her story if she won’t agree to a story. Mr. Franklin has already interviewed her and can write the article with the information he has. He doesn’t have any less information than when I wouldn’t answer his questions.”
He looked at the clock and it wasn’t even 7:00 yet. “What would you do, Dad?”
“I’m not in your shoes,” he said drinking the last of his cup. “As long as you feel you’re honoring her wishes and have been honest with him, you can be comfortable whichever answer she gives.”
He placed the cup on the counter. And walked past Joseph as he headed toward the door. He put a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, gave a squeeze, and said, “See you later.”
Joseph finished his Cheerios and looked at the clock. 7:03.
His mother came into the kitchen a few minutes later. She was dressed for working in the yard. That was his responsibility, but she enjoyed weeding the flower bed and puttering around before the day got too hot. He suspected she was aware that more than once he had pulled up a flowering plant as a weed.
She gave a cheery, “Good morning!” which he returned. She poured a glass of water from the purifier on the counter and started toward the back door when she finished.
She paused at the door and turned to Joseph.
“Joseph, you had a really fascinating experience in delivering that baby with Dinah. Just don’t get too close. At your age you don’t want to suddenly find yourself in a readymade family.”
She paused again, obviously as uncomfortable with the conversation as Joseph had become. She came back and patted his shoulder.
“I know she’s a beautiful girl from a nice family. Something unplanned happened, but it’s not up to you to make it right.”
“I know, Mom. I imagine that after the article is printed – or is not printed – there won’t be much reason for us to see each other. It’s OK, I understand.”
“Alright, but don’t let your mind and your heart get jumbled up.” She smiled. “I’ll be in the daisies.” And she went outside.
7:09….
He had a piece of toast and jelly and an iced tea. Then he got 2 copies of the article and the car keys and headed to New Deal.
He parked in front of the Jacobs’ house and went up to the door. Just as he was about to knock, it opened.
“Come in, Joseph.” Claire pulled the door open wide for him. The house was mercifully quiet. She led him into the living room and sat on the end of the sofa next to the chair she indicated for him. He sat where he had yesterday.
“Dinah told me about the article you are going to put in The Bee. May I see it?”
Her voice was hard, nothing like yesterday. He handed her the single page.
“It won’t be in the paper if she or you say ‘no,’ Claire.” He had trouble calling her by her first name out of 18 years of habit toward older adults, but he felt a need to put himself on an equal footing with her at this moment.
She took it, perched on the edge of the sofa, clearly tense and defensive. Her hand was tight, just crinkling the edge of the paper.
‘ Her shields are up, Captain, and I dunno know if we can penetrate them,’ came Scottie’s thickly accented voice over the Starship Enterprise intercom.
Joseph realized that he was on the edge of the chair and eased back into a more comfortable position.
She turned the page over to the back. She seemed less tense.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, clamored the clock on one of the bookshelves in the silent room. 8:07
She slid back more comfortably on the sofa and turned back over to read the first page again.
She turned the page over to the back again, now loosely holding the paper.
Finally, she looked up, turning the front page toward her. “You wrote this?”
He couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or an accusation.
“Yes, Ma’am.” The Ma’am was a reflex he couldn’t control.
“It’s not what I expected at all.” She got up quickly with the paper and practically sprinted across the foyer and down the hallway.
Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock…rattled on into the silence, finally accompanied by the soft hum of the distant refrigerator compressor.
Smiling faces beamed at him from the wall across the room.
The compressor finally clicked off and it was just the lonely tick-tock again. He had not even seen what time it was. Only 8:25.
Why did time alternately slow down and speed up? Had this something to do with the theory of relativity? Look that up later.
He heard padded footsteps coming down the hallway. 8:35.
Dinah came into the living room wearing a robe over her night gown. Her face told of little sleep and the weariness of new motherhood, an imbalance in the battle between self and selflessness. He had seen all along the small victories of motherhood, the rebirthing of self, molding it into this new role.
She was not looking at him until she spoke.
“Would you read it to me, Joseph?”
Surprised, shocked at the request, Joseph accepted the page from her. And he read aloud….
The Choctaloosa Bee; Friday, June 20; Page 1 – “A Choctaloosa Miracle.” By A Bee
A miracle happened on the shoulder of a rural road in Choctaloosa County on Monday, June 14.
A 6 lb. 2 oz. baby girl came into the world on a hot summer morning in the passenger seat of a car parked on the side of a highway. A cry of dismay, unhappy with being moved from her secure and comfortable slumber into the brilliance of the morning sun, transformed into a gentle coo upon her mother’s breast.
Months of apprehension as to what it would be like to become a mother, to be a mother, nights awake wondering if she could do it, melted away with that first tiny cry.
Dozens of cars sped past the miracle as it was in progress, but one stopped. Beside the cramped front seat of a two door coupe, a young man’s life also was forever changed as he witnessed the birth of a new human being in all its messy glory.
The 911 operator who coached the young woman through her first childbirth attended like a voice from heaven. She guided the mother and her accidental attendant in the division of a physical unity into a physical duality while helping mother and child to maintain their spiritual unity.
Another man and a woman, trained in the art of emergency medical care, attended to the miracle of one person becoming two. They worked as a team to physically separate mother and child into separate people, but they also acted with the instinctual compassion and love that transcends the physical world of medicine. With the first cry of life, they welcomed to their larger family the infant they had cut free.
Born that day was not just a beautiful baby girl, but another living strand in the web of humanity. Each strand is linked to every other strand by the energetic bond of love.
And all of these strands intertwine with the intricate webs that include every other living thing. There is a separate heart in each strand, but all of these hearts beat as one.
You may be wondering, “Who are the mother and child?” They are the mother and child that were your mother and you.
You may wonder, “Who was the passer-by?” That was you when you helped someone in need.
You may wonder, “Who were the medical attendants who aided the emergence of new life?” They were you when you gave someone a second chance, an opportunity to live a new and better life.
You may wonder, “Who was the 911 operator who gave comfort from afar?” This was you when you performed your daily acts of service, in your job, in your role as friend and neighbor, in your role as family member, in your daily walk in life.
This bond that holds us, that empowers us, is made stronger by each act of love. You make it grow stronger, and it makes you grow stronger, even joyful.
On this summer day, the bond of love that is Choctaloosa County expanded just a little bit further, its net cast a little wider. And it still encompasses all.
“That’s it.” He handed the page back to her.
“This is an amazing work of art, Joseph.”
She looked back down at the black print on a white background. “It’s like you poured your ideals into words painting a beautiful picture. It’s a picture of every one of us as we were meant to be, isn’t it? The ideal envisioned from the beginning.,,,”
She paused, but he knew a rhetorical question when he heard it.
“Thank you. Maybe this is the greatest gift you could give to Chloe….” She paused again, her eyes shifting to Joseph and then away again before continuing. “And a great parting gift for me, telling my story without revealing who I am. Who I am really,” she added.
She looked back into his eyes. “It’s like a love poem to life,” she added still holding the page.
Talking to the love poem in her hands, she spoke barely above a whisper. “You really can’t know what it was like. I got a few texts from friends, but within a week a text came from Mary Ann: ‘Julie Summers is just a sophomore but she is doing great in your spot. Hope you enjoy your new school. Keep in touch.’”
Looking back up at him, she added, “That’s the last I heard from anybody.” She extended the piece of paper to him.
He had thought it encapsulated the whole experience, wrapped everything into a beautiful sentiment, and provided a foundation for the future.
But there was a vast emptiness not filled by words on a page. No matter how bright and uplifting, they did not connect the small web of her new world with that of the world at large.
“No, you keep it,” he insisted. What more had he to offer? “If it is OK with you, I will submit it. I don’t know what Mr. Franklin will print, if anything, but I want you to know what I gave him.”
“Thanks, again, then,” Dinah said, bringing the paper in her hand back down to her side. “And if you’re ever in the neighborhood, feel free to drop by. But I will be very busy with Chloe, probably for a long time. That’s where my heart is at the moment.”
Even as he heard the words from her mouth, the gentle dismissal of him, that was not what her eyes spoke.
I don’t know the first thing about women or body language or emotions, but I know when the mouth and heart are not in synch.
Yes, this is more of her story, how she needs to tell it now, for her sake and for Chloe’s sake. And for your sake, too. Do your own internal rewrite, Joseph.
He was more at a loss than he had been in that moment he had stood by the car and realized that a new life was about to come into the world. He felt that something was withering and dying in front of him.
His mind was empty and his heart was full. The void reached his mouth first. “Sure. Uh, well, I’ve got to get this to Mr. Franklin and we’ll see what happens.”
As if that was the issue now!
The tick-tock sounded in the silence. 8:39. Tick-
A vision his mind could scarcely put into words later when he thought about it - Before you stands a very lonely young woman, still a teenager but thrust into a new world of responsibility. Children become adults, passing unevenly through those in-between years, lurching forward in awkward spurts, then regressing back in a microsecond to the comfortable security of a child’s world.
Had it not been for those 20 minutes on the side of the road on a hot June day, he and Dinah would never have spoken more than a passing “Hello,” given a passing nod, and walked away oblivious of the events shaping the life of the other.
And here they were, again in a shared moment of vulnerability, now exposing the naked emotions of the formation of two new planets. In the rare atmosphere of their new alien world, there were the same sun, moon, and stars, but old and familiar, holding fewer secrets of mystery and wonder. What had happened that their eyes now looked out and saw doubt and uncertainty?
The Enterprise intercom came to life. “Captain! Captain! The crew is on stand-by for your orders. We must move or we will become trapped in the gravity of the Black Hole.”
Breaking from his momentary absence, the captain returned with a new perspective. Again, life had advanced, and yet everything around him remained exactly the same.
Light yellow walls framed a sunlit background to the Jacobs’ family history, drawing the eye into the past. The electronic entertainment center waited to provide distraction from the present. The picture window provided a view of the present, but blocked it with a pane of glass. Only the empty sofa and chair provided access to the stillness of the present moment.
“Time for action,” came the captain’s command on the Enterprise. "Mr. Sulu, set a course that moves us forward. Lieutenant Uhura, close the viewing portals facing the Black Hole so that no one is sucked into its darkness. Mr. Scott, divert all energy from the shields to give the engines sufficient power to move forward.”
“But what direction is forward, sir?”
“Move to the light, always to the light, Mr. Sulu.”
-Tock.
All of this between a tick and a tock.
“Take care,” he added and went to the front door.
“You, too, Joseph,” she called after him.
He let himself out and closed the door behind him.
Dinah has had the mother-daughter talk, also. Move forward.
He stepped out into the sun and felt its freedom.
Does Dinah ever get out into the sun like this except to have a baby?
He took a step and looked around.
On stage, the props were in disarray, the time not right - The sun and the moon sat on the floor in opposite corners, leaned loosely against the wall; a picket fence hung in the sky above his head; the eyes of the fake windows were blank and lifeless; the curtain of time fallen from the wall of pictures over the living room set…
His mind escaped the discomfort and switched gears to the warm summer day as he headed toward his car.
The old Corolla lounged in the shade of the mighty oak, an aging charger ready to go into the next fray, patiently awaiting his knight to mount. The warrior looked back at the closed door to the fair maiden’s hut – no way to move but onward and upward. 'To The Bee!’ he cried to his steed.
Joseph turned the key in the ignition, switching to a new metaphor (‘Warp engines on!’), pulled out of the driveway (‘Set a course for The Bee, Mr. Sulu’), turned out onto the highway (Warp Engines set at Warp 1, Captain) toward Corn Maize to deliver the paper to Mr. Franklin.
Perhaps moving at the speed of light from where he was had a metaphorical meaning. English class did pay off!
But he found he was not in a hurry, and dropped out of warp drive as quickly as he had gotten into it.
The short distance to New Deal was corn country, no doubt. Walls of green stalks lined the roadway. There was only one rise in the roadway relative to the fields. From its peak, he looked out over the green stalks standing like a silent army awaiting orders. But something stood out.
In the checkerboard of green squares cut by dirt borders, fences, and roads, a lone scarecrow rose out of the green, facing toward the highway. Now that’s a lonely job – outmanned (outbirded?) as a single silent sentry at the mercy of the elements night and day.
He returned to the moment, the view now a ranch house, next a trailer, and them a small cottage, maybe two rooms. New Deal appeared before the windshield and quickly passed into the rearview mirror.
Leaving the southern outskirts of New Deal (actually a very short single skirt!), Joseph saw the familiar “New Used Cars!” sign. Beneath was a dilapidated building sprouting aerial runners with flags (and lights at night) stretching out to the road and back again several times.
Beneath this canopy was a mixed multitude of models, all shiny on the outside but holding untold mysteries beneath the colorful veneer. Somehow, it looked exactly the same every time with the same old cars just moved into new positions.
Yes, it looked pretty much the same as it had every time he had passed. Except today there was a small prefab building at the edge of the lot, almost hidden by a maroon Dodge van with shiny grillwork and luggage racks.
Joseph quickly slowed (We ARE full of oxymorons, aren’t we!).
“Being” read the sign on the door, but beneath that, tethered by two chains, was a similar sign saying “Whole.”
That seems kind of weird. What’s he selling?
He’d check it out…later…sometime…maybe, and he resumed a sub-warp speed toward Mr. Franklin.
The Job
Offices for The Bee were, shall we say, understated.
A nice suburban ranch style home on the north end of Corn Maize shared its driveway with a converted garage. The overhead doors had been replaced by white siding with regular windows and a door. An unimposing sign with a modestly jacketed but busy bee in flight hovered above the bold block letters of The Choctaloosa Bee.
Joseph pulled in and parked between the last two white lines, the third and final parking space. He got out and entered the office, a place he had been several times before as a student reporter.
Mr. Franklin sat between a desk covered with a stack of paper in front of him and wall shelves holding past copies of The Bee behind.
The editor smiled at him as he entered. He indicated a seat across his desk for Joseph.
“Before me is the next issue of The Bee in print,” he said, indicating the center pile of paper. “Have you got something to add?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is, Dinah’s story.”
Mr. Franklin smiled as he accepted the single page. He adjusted his glasses as he eased back in his chair to read.
His lips moved as he read. Barely audible sounds, perhaps representing words, slipped out unnoticed. His expression grew increasingly concerned as he read down the page, then turned it over.
When he had finished, he remained leaned back in his chair as he looked across at Joseph, his expression now inscrutable.
“You probably know that if I were your Journalism teacher – even Journalism 101 – I’d give you a D, at best. It’s just the creativity that would keep it from being a flat out F.”
At this point he leaned forward and broke out into a laugh.
“But you did it. Clobbered my expectations about how to tell her story! You told Dinah’s story without saying a word identifiable as Dinah or anybody else. Readers are going to love it. They’ll wonder who all the characters are, and they’ll find like with most important questions that the answers are inside them. It’ll look great on page 1 of The Bee.”
Joseph relaxed, unaware of how tense he had gotten as he waited for his paper to be graded. The grade was unimportant. He had passed!
“What have you got lined up for the summer, Joseph?”
He shrugged after a moment’s thought. “Well, now that I can check off ‘Deliver baby’ and ‘Write article,’ I am not sure what’s next on the list.”
“Excellent! How about working for The Bee?”
Joseph’s expression brightened. “You mean as a reporter?”
“Heavens, no!” exclaimed the editor, writer, reporter, owner, sole proprietor, and everything else except paper delivery person.
“Every article in the paper was written either by myself or an unpaid contributor. Every club, organization, committee or sports team is only too happy to send in articles about themselves. I edit them, add an article about happenings in county government, and put in an editorial.
“Advertising pays for printing and distribution, and I have a reasonable income from what is left over.” He felt the need to add with some emphasis, “ONLY a reasonable income.
“You could help make this paper bigger, better. And you would do that by getting more advertisers. You’d be in sales.”
A new thought hit him. “And, yes, you CAN be a reporter, too. With their first ad, every new account gets a free news story about their business. And you, Joseph, would be that writer. And with your own by-line,” he added.
They talked briefly beyond that. Joseph’s mind was racing and had no memory later of exactly what was said. Mr. Franklin’s final words were somewhat encouraging and Joseph did remember this last bit and stuck it in his memory bank.
“Son, everyone listens to one radio station more than any other: WII-FM, What’s In It For Me? Come back when you are ready to tune in and we’ll get the details done and start work.
“Oh, and e-mail that article to me so I can send all this mess (indicating the papers before him) in a neat Publisher file to the printer.”
Joseph nodded, “Sure thing, Mr. Franklin. I’ll get back to you about the job.”
Mr. Franklin reached across and shook his hand. “Good job on the article, Joseph. I’m liking it more and more.”
CONTINUED
Diversity Statement Attempts have been made to remove the racial identity as much as possible so that the inhabitants of Choctaloosa County are perceived as unique individuals without racial stereotypes being placed upon them.
The cornrows on Keith, the EMT, the Hispanic accent of Dell’s waitress (and Dell, also), and whether Chloe is biracial, have all been omitted. (Did your perception of the character change with these revelations?)
Any representation of the characters of this story in pictures or films must accurately represent the racial demographics of Choctaloosa County. You will have to go to Choctaloosa County to see what actual racial percentages exist because such records are not kept.
COVID Statement Choctaloosa County Mayor Andrew Rodriguez proclaimed a shut-down of non-essential businesses in Alabama from March 28 until April 17, 2020, in accordance with the governor’s statewide orders.
The Choctaloosa County mayor clarified the order. “Any business that remains open and has customers is deemed essential. Any business without customers attending for an entire 24-hour period is deemed non-essential and must observe the lockdown requirements. Wearing masks and social distancing are to be observed at all times. If any business does not require masks and/or social distancing, it is the customers’ right to exercise their own discretion as to whether they should enter the business.”
After a few days of uncertainty, life in Choctaloosa County returned to normal. There was never any evidence that the people suffered for this interpretation of the mandates.
Corn Maize, Alabama
Joseph Crispin grew up in the improbable community of Corn Maize, Alabama. An unincorporated collection of buildings, the signs at each border of town read: “Corn Maize (Uninc).”
You probably won’t find Corn Maize on your AAA Road Map, but a great many true things never make it onto the map of life.
As a point of reference, Choctaloosa County is just below where the last foothills of the Appalachian Mountains end and the flood plain of Lower Alabama begins. The Georgia state line provides its eastern border.
Yes, “Corn Maize” is redundant. And the name appears to have nothing to do with the discovery of the mythical Grit Bush, but we must begin somewhere, and that must be on the (more or less) firm foundation of reality: history.
We start with the beginning of recorded history for the Corn Maize community even though that is in no sense “the” beginning. Before history begins, there is the verbal history handed down, aka “myth,” (perhaps “legend” is a kinder word). We will take the high road and start with verifiable history, which in this case is very recent.
“The West” conjures up images of the California Gold Rush, but we must remember that the westward expansion of America began when anything west of the Appalachian Mountains, a range stretching from Canada down into central Alabama, was considered “the West.” The land was wild and held by “Indians.”
Much of New York and Pennsylvania fell into this unsettled realm in the early years. “West” Virginia split from Virginia due to the divisive nature of the Civil War, but the barrier of the mountains had long made the land’s union with eastern Virginia factious. The state of Westsylvania was proposed during the American Revolution, which would have created 14 original states.
Further south, Alabama had itself been part of the Wild West. The region was only just falling into the category of “settled” when the Louisiana Purchase brought to the young country a further western “West.” The land was settled and comparatively sophisticated in the region of New Orleans, but totally wild and unexplored through the plains to the Rockies.
Before interstates, before highways, and before formal roads of any kind passed through the sparsely populated land beyond the Appalachians, the country needed a passage through Alabama from the east coast to newly acquired New Orleans.
The government of the young United States negotiated with the Creek Indians for a right of way through Creek territory. The route selected was known as The Old Wolf Trail, ranked at best as a “good horse path.” And this horse path became the first federal interstate route through Alabama.
Unfortunately for the community that would become Corn Maize, the Old Wolf Trail went through Burnt Corn, a settled area roughly to the west. This gave Burnt Corn a head start over their local settlement rivals. Communities to the east such as Corn Maize were literally off the beaten (horse) path.
In the early to mid-1800’s, before cotton was king, corn dominated the fields of Lower Alabama. It is true in recent times that “the L.A. of the South” has become a popular nickname, but the Grit Bush legend records the name formally. The Free State of Lower Alabama had existed for only a decade or so, but that is another legend for another time and is recorded in Tru’s Grits.
The members of the growing community on the northern edge of L.A. thought they should honor the crop by adopting its name in some form as had their neighbors off to the west in Burnt Corn (whose colorful history is well recorded).
The thought of giving their community a name, a word or words that defined the nature of the people and their land, inspired many suggestions involving the word “corn.” Some of the more popular were Corn Haven (Corn Heaven was offered as an alternative but the association of heaven with the place for dead people ruled this out), Corn Community, and All Corn (also Alcorn).
But there was a large segment of the community that preferred the more accurate term for the plant, “maize.” Some of their more popular suggestions included Maizeland, Maize Miracle, and Maize Mere (“Mere” referring to the shallow lake nearby). Amaizing Graze was never considered seriously despite rumors to the contrary.
There was a public meeting to discuss the issue. We are fortunate in that the diary of Ella B. Mayes recorded the event. But we are unfortunate in that the ink on some of the pages is illegible to the point of being unreadable. We have only a reconstruction of their contents, related as follows.
The gathering of over a dozen extended families in the close knit community included well over one hundred adults and children. The crowd spilled out of the one room church, ending up on the shady unused portion of the cemetery out back.
The meeting was held after Sunday services, a warm summer sun set on Bake providing a stimulus for a quick decision. It is said that the pastor prolonged the meeting to give sinners a taste of their eternal future, and the sizzling event provided sermon material for the next 6 weeks.
The controversy became rather heated between the “Corn” and “Maize” factions early on, each shouting their favorite names. An enterprising teenager took his parents’ wagon to the creek, filled the empty jugs collected from the previous night’s dance, and sold water until he ran out of jugs. There were also jugs of other drink, which may have helped the decision along.
As voices became hoarse and enthusiasm waned, a bored six year old child called out into the silence, “Corn Maize, Corn Maize.” Another child picked up the catchy chant, “Corn Maize! Corn Maize!,” and like a spark lifted by the wind onto dry grass, the chorus spread.
The Maize faction shouted back “Maize Corn! Maize Corn!” Only a moment was required for them to hear that “Corn Maize” flowed more melodiously from the tongue, and they fell silent. The chant of “Corn Maize!” carried the day.
Perhaps this also is a myth, but it is as believable as the improbable name of the community itself.
There are a number of such communities in northern Choctaloosa County. The larger ones include Broom Sedge, Longleaf, Pheasant Hill, and Smithfield. Nature accounts for the first three names (grass, pine tree, and bird), and myth (or oral history) the fourth (the Smith family).
The smaller communities, often not even wide spots on the road, just a handful of buildings, have idyllic names such as Blue Tail (for the blue tail lizards), Treasure (still undiscovered), and New Deal (named for FDR’s promises). The surname “Uninc.” is not necessary, if they even have a sign at all.
This made for interesting road names. These often simply identified the communities at each end. For instance, Longleaf Blue Tail Trail didn’t fit on the sign, so it was Longlf Blue Tail. Smithfield New Deal Pike was shortened to Smith New Deal. My personal favorite is Corn Maize Tresure (the name fit without the ‘a’).
But on to our story….
The Personal Maze
Joseph Crispin had no clue as to what to do with himself after high school. His parents suggested that he go to the two year community college and then decide. The idea of kicking the can down the road for two years and then planning his future was tempting. He rationalized that this was not procrastination, but was meant to lay a foundation for a better decision.
He wrestled with the possibilities for discovery of his profession and future. Nothing seemed to call to him except a desire to discover his identity before casting himself in the mold of a particular job or place. Before channeling his energies into a focused direction, to know what he had to work with and then his options would made more sense.
Joseph sat at the desk in his bedroom, the window providing plenty of light and a view of a very small slice of the world on June 14, 2021.
Closest was the freshly cut lawn, his morning’s labor. Four trees were spaced along the back fence. The two on the corners of the yard were taller, like turrets at the near edge of the castle wall. The middle two were the foreshortened turrets of the far edge of the courtyard.
A small flock of birds was quiet for the most part as the day warmed, occasionally flitting from one tree to the next across the screen formed by his window. Their stay was only for moments before storming the next tree in turn. An unseen temptress lured them from tree to tree until at last they took flight beyond his visual realm.
A dozen cows grazed in the tall grass well beyond the fence that marked the back edge of his lawn care dominion. A solid row of trees formed the far wall of the next dominion, and beyond this lay the whole wide world (the original “www”).
The humidity was almost visible, white washing the majestic blue of the sky to a glaring gray. The thick air diffused the sun’s outline to a fuzzy brightness rather than a distinct sphere.
Such had been his bedroom view for all the years of his life. “And for how many more?” he thought.
A thin brown wrinkled hand moved across the desk to push the window curtain open a little wider. The four trees were still there, silent sentinels along the fence guarding the backyard from the cattle grazing in the field beyond. The trees were much taller and fuller now, none the worse for the passing decades.
The sky, black in the far distance of space and sky blue beyond the hazy gauze of humidity, held only wisps of clouds and the occasional bird darting through the heat for a fresh patch of shade.
In the distance, lines of balloons marked the boundaries of the aerial interstate. There was no exit for Corn Maize. Missed again.
Autodrones, the cars of the air, shuttled back and forth in the lanes formed by the balloons. Although they were literally guided missiles, Joseph wondered if they had any more purpose in their flight than the birds paralleling their path in the foreground.
Little changed in Corn Maize.
Joseph came back to the present. The glimpse into a future so like a copy of today was unsettling. He saw himself patiently kicking the can down the road until he finally arrived back at his starting point. Little was different, but time – and life – had passed into the rearview mirror.
He glanced over at the mirror on the wall to his left and saw a reflection of the door leading out of his room standing open.
Life beckoned although he still knew not where. But now it was time for a snack.
Birth
Joseph went down the short hall and turned into the kitchen. The fridge exterior seemed weighed down with an assortment of magnets – the wisdom of the ages, jokes, postcards from exotic places (one was even from The Biltmore in the mountains of North Carolina!), and mementos from long forgotten events dotting the exterior. These were the icons of the tribe, the badges of accomplishment, the limits of their journey, and the verbal lights guiding their path into the future.
I hope what is inside is more promising.
The opened door revealed last night’s leftovers, milk and juice, sandwich material, and an assortment of containers whose contents he thought better left a mystery.
No cold drinks. Nothing that cried out, “Eat me!” At least, nothing called to him even though he stood staring for a couple of moments. Waiting expectantly, the picture did not change.
“Mom! Do we have any cold drinks?” he called out.
From the distance (pretty short in this house) came the reply, “Look in the fridge.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he replied. “If there aren’t any there, do we have any?”
“Look in the pantry, dear. Maybe nobody thought to put them in the fridge.”
Joseph opened the pantry door. The assorted jars, cans, and boxes were about as exciting as what the fridge held. And there were no warm cold drinks. Warm cold drinks?
“Not any there, either,” he called out.
His mom came into the kitchen. “Well since you’re going out to get cold drinks, would you pick up two onions for me? The one I was going to use to make dinner is already bad.”
“Do they have onions at the Hurry Hut?” The nearest gas station had wanted to have a name implying quick and easy. Why did he not use those words, Quick and Easy? “Hit ‘n’ Run” was denied as a legal business name (fortunately), and all the good ones seemed already taken. Being an Auburn football fan, he chose Hurry Hut, like the quarterback calling out signals at the line of scrimmage. Although few people caught the football reference, the name seemed to work.
“No, you’ll have to go to the Food Cougar.”
“Mo-o-o-m! All the way to Food Cougar?” To compete with Food Lion, another chain had set up smaller stores with just the basics covered to serve remote areas. At least he didn’t have to go half way to Montgomery!
He got the keys and set off in her aging Corolla.
Halfway to Smithfield, Joseph saw a car pulled over on the fairly deserted county road. It was parked mostly on the dirt shoulder, leaning slightly down due to the gentle slope away from the asphalt.
It was a sporty bright red Celica. It looked classy and fun, the squared off back and spoiler projecting the image of a George Jetson car ready for blastoff. The open passenger door spoiled the whole effect, now the image of a bird down with a broken wing.
He remembered seeing that car somewhere before. He slowed as he passed and looked to see if he recognized the driver.
The driver’s seat was empty, and the passenger seat was laid back slightly so that he caught only a glimpse of a woman’s profile. But that profile looked like something out of a cheap horror flick. The woman’s body was leaning back in the passenger seat, but her head was bent forward and her mouth formed a soundless scream.
Joseph swerved to the shoulder and backed up the short distance to the Celica. Jumping out, he ran around to her side and around the open door.
Inside was a woman who was obviously in torment.
She was staring up at the roof just above her as her body was jolted by some unseen force. Sweat stood on her forehead and had rundown into her hair above her ears, a matted wet tangle.
Her back arched upward and her head went as deeply into the headrest as it would go. For maybe fifteen seconds (10 minutes and counting…) she struggled with loud groans and contortions. The bare, raised belly was like a whale about to surface. Joseph’s powers of deduction led him to the obvious conclusion: she’s having a baby!
During this short eternity, Joseph recognized her – Dinah Jacobs. She was a year behind him and would be a rising senior. Except she had not returned to school after Christmas vacation. What was it I had heard about her absence?
Back to the present. No judgment. No judgment. Think positive. What is positive? Acceptance, acceptance….
“You, Dinah Jacobs, are about to have an amazing, beautiful baby!”
She struggled a momentary smile, quickly saying, “I know,” as she relaxed a bit from the last contraction.
She went quiet except for the deep panting. A calm voice came from the direction of the driver’s seat, “Good, Dinah, that was very good. Keep breathing deeply, and keep that beautiful calm that you have.”
“Beautiful calm?” Joseph looked for the source of the voice, finally seeing the phone gripped tightly in Dinah’s left hand.
“Dinah, can I help?” he asked, bending his knees to be at her level, his voice cutting across words from the ethereal voice.
She did not even look at him. “Not if you cannot make the pain go away or the baby come out, NO!”
She tensed as another shudder went through her. With someone present, she seemed to be trying to hold back on the yelling and her choice of words.
The phone voice tried to intervene again. “Who’s there?’
The disembodied voice came again from the hand of the girl giving birth to another stream of moans and cries. Neither voice seemed more present than the other. He felt like a spectator looking in on a science exhibit with prerecorded sound, but now being drawn into the show.
“Uh…Joseph.”
“Are you the father or a relative?” the voice asked.
Joseph shook his head and then added a verbal, “No. I was just driving by.”
“Good, Joseph. I am glad you are there. The EMT’s will be there shortly, but in the meantime I want you to follow my instructions. Can you do that?’
Dinah was a little more relaxed again, now looking down toward her belly. She had undone the rest of her blouse buttons. The bra was slack but still in place, loosely covering her breasts. The skirt was pulled to her waist revealing that there was no barrier to the child coming out.
He remembered seeing Dinah in the school hallway between classes, what, last fall, almost a year ago? She had been standing in front of her locker looking for something.
The moment.came back to him:
No one was on the beach. The woman stood with her focus on the vast expanse of the sea, the near waves rolling toward her, the foam just washing her feet before retreating. The steady breeze held her hair out behind her in the warm salty air, dancing in concert with the waves below. He walked out beside her, two faces staring toward the horizon where blue met blue. A shared intimacy.
And now here they were. Dinah was self-focused, occasional cars roaring past, their exhaust riding on the brief tidal wave of hot and humid summer air that washed through the open window and out through the door where he stood. Sweating. Nervous. Not quite the shared intimacy he had envisioned.
“Yes, just tell me what to do.”
“You’re her coach. Help her to keep calm and to breathe through her contractions.”
Joseph reached out and took Dinah’s hand from where it now loosely held onto the top of the Celica. She had gripped it tightly during the contractions, pulling herself up, but was now less tense. She let him hold her hand loosely, focused more on the breathing, as instructed.
“Keep calm, Dinah. You’re doing great!” That’s what a coach would say, right?
He remembered. “I heard you’d gone to Texas to stay with an aunt and attend a really great high school with an emphasis on the arts, dance, and stuff like that.”
She gave him no response, just the heavy breathing, interspersed with sounds that were not quite words, but more like a feral cry from a wilderness deep within her.
His inner voice, sounding a lot like his grandmother’s voice, reminded him as he had said it where he had heard that phrase before. Yes, my friend had gone to Texas. That’s what we used to say to make it not sound like gossip, but everybody knew what you meant. If she was a married woman, she’d run off with another man. If she was unmarried, she’d gone off to have a baby,
“Joseph,” came the voice from Dinah’s left hand (a palm “speaker?”), “Dinah said she had a travel bag with her. Do you see it?”
Joseph now saw a small bag in the middle of the back seat. “Yes, I see it,” he said excitedly. But then he realized he could not get to the bag and bring it forward with Dinah stretched out on the front seat, almost totally blocking the entrance except a narrow tunnel above her waist. Going to the driver side to open that door would put him and the door in the flow of traffic.
“But I can’t reach it. Hold on.”
At that moment. Dinah’s next contraction took hold of her. She stiffened and her grip tightened like a vise on his hand. He thought he could feel finger bones being ground to powder.
When she began to relax again, he said to Dinah, “Can you lean to your left and let me reach back to get your bag?”
She looked at him and tried to give a smile. “Thanks for being here, Joseph.”
Still in a rhythmic pant, she took her right hand out of his and pushed his hand away. Rotating a bit toward him, she then threw her weight in the opposite direction. Rolling to her left as much as she could toward the center of the car, she stretched her right hand into the back seat, fumbled around for a few seconds, and then grabbed the handles on the canvas bag.
In a swift movement, she jerked the bag between the tops of the front seats and swung it toward Joseph. He raised his chin just in time for the bag to hit him full in the chest as he squatted outside the car. The impact threw him back on his heels and he sat unceremoniously on the unpaved shoulder of the road, clutching the bag to his chest as if it were his dearest possession.
“Wow, good handoff!” He tried to sound positive and encouraging as he struggled up and back to the car.
The voice continued to give reassuring, soothing words interspersed with commands about breathing and when to push as Joseph looked through the bag.
The bag was not very large. He called out the contents so the voice could hear: “A smaller bag with toiletries, some snacks, pants, a short sleeve top, socks, a hand towel, a bottle of water, a magazine…. What is it I’m looking for?”
“That’s good, you’re doing great…both of you.”
Dinah’s panting with intermittent groans had continued throughout the interchange. She now gave an anguished “Ahhrrrggghhh!” as she spread her knees as far as she could, pushing her lower torso to the edge of the seat.
“How are we doing, Joseph?” came the voice, abandoning the firm but softly spoken encouragement to Dinah.
We? Yeah, it is ‘we!' OK, man up!”
He brought himself to actually look between her spread thighs. “She is spread wide and pushing as hard as she can….”
“And I see the head! I see the head!” Fear and panic mixed with awe and amazement. He had tuned out Dinah’s increasingly urgent stream of sounds, occasionally coherent but unprintable, most not part of the 26 letter alphabet.
“Breathe, Dinah. Deep breaths between the contractions,” commanded the voice.
Joseph, YOU breathe. He realized that he was holding his breath in anticipation.
“Joseph, Grab the hand towel and the top from the bag. Place the top under her bottom, if you can.”
“OK, getting the top under her….” Joseph pressed the neckline of the pullover top under her as her hips rose and fell with the pushes, the rest of the fabric falling to the car floor.
“Is the head coming out?”
“The top of the head is out!” and with her next effort, “Here come the eyes and nose.”
The voice was telling him to get the towel he had pulled from the bag.
“Hold the material with your hands underneath the head, supporting it. As the head comes out, place this under the head only to support it. DO NOT lift or pull or push, just keep the head level. Can you do that, Joseph?”
“Yes, got it. My hands are under the cloth under the head just holding it in place.”
In spite of all of Dinah’s movements at the waist and above, her hips and their opening were relatively stable. A smooth, oblong ball was slowly emerging onto his waiting hands. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. The asymmetrical orb was a light purple, with blood and small globs of cream cheese crumbs creating a textured look over a shiny smooth surface.
The eyes were closed and damp, and the nose looked like there was a drip that needed to be wiped away.
Unable to reach anything to wipe clean the baby’s mouth and nose, Joseph used his left hand, collecting the sticky film on his fingers and wiping his shirt. Making little progress, he leaned into the car further and effectively used his shirttail.
He heard the siren approach.
“The EMT’s are here!” he announced, as if Dinah and the voice had not heard the fast approaching scream of the ambulance.
‘That’s great, Joseph,” spoke the ethereal voice, “but your job is not done. How are you three doing? Is the head all the way out?”
“Yes. The mouth and jaw, the whole head….”
“Great! Just support the baby’s head. No pulling.
“Dinah, are you breathing and pushing as we talked earlier?”
A panted “Yes” emerged among a soft string of “Oh’s!”
The ambulance came to a stop just behind the car, lights flashing, parked against oncoming traffic so as to block the west bound lane and provide a shield for the driver’s side of the Celica.
Dinah gave a great cry, heralding the product of her most recent push. “A shoulder is out!” Joseph exclaimed.
The voice kept speaking firm instructions to Dinah, alternating with calm reassurances. Ambulance doors opened and slammed shut and the EMT team split to the two sides of the car.
Another pained cry and then, “Here comes the other shoulder!”
A new voice behind him spoke with firm reassurance. “Joseph, I’m Keith and Kate is on the other side of the car. Angie at the 911 center tells me you’re doing a great job. Your hands are full and I cannot get in to help you, so just keep supporting the head like you’re doing with your other hand under the back.”
Kate had reached over awkwardly from the driver’s seat and finished Joseph's job of wiping clean the baby’s mouth and nose area. She gave encouraging remarks on the beautiful baby emerging as Dinah panted, gulping for air.
The female EMT then offered a bottle of water. Dinah responded with a positive sound. Kate placed the bottle at her lips, but most of what came out washed over Dinah’s chin and neck.
The infant had been squirming on the towel in Joseph’s hands, its mouth moving as if trying to find the words to express the disapproval written on his furrowed brow. A shriek finally escaped, followed by more as he found his voice.
The waist with its umbilical cord emerged, and then more.
Scratch that….as “she” found “her” voice.
Time seemed to go slower as pushing and panting created the rhythm that produced more and more of the tiny body. When the feet came out, Joseph joyfully exclaimed, “We’re done!”
Keith gently pulled on Joseph’s shoulders that leaned into the front seat.
“You’re done with your part, Joseph, but we and Dinah have a bit more to do,” The ropey umbilical cord eased out a little further as Kate awkwardly reached over to relieve Joseph of his light burden.
I am not part of the ‘we’ anymore. Joseph backed away from the car and Keith quickly filled the gap.
The hand spoke one last time, “You’re in good hands. Blessings on your child, Dinah.”
Keith said, “We got her,” and the voice said “Farewell,” and was gone.
Joseph tried to see the phone still in Dinah’s left hand, wondering how it had survived the crushing power of her grip. But Dinah and daughter were covered in EMT’s, the front of the Celica looking like a contest to see how many bodies could be crammed into the narrow opening above the front seats.
Joseph felt the hot sun on his sweat soaked shirt. For the first time in what seemed like hours he actually allowed his muscles to relax. The breeze from a passing car allowed him a hint of coolness. He could feel the tension leaving and his whole body relax. Soon I’ll be a puddle on the edge of the grass line.
Keith and Kate worked with a minimum of talk between them but steady encouragement to Dinah. Joseph gleaned that they had cut the umbilical cord after tying off what would become the two ends. They continued to clean the mother and child in preparation for bringing them out to the ambulance.
Kate left the front seat and needed less than two minutes to bring the ambulance cot to where Keith stood at the passenger door holding the baby. He handed her to Kate, and then assisted an exhausted, wet mother onto the mobile bed. Kate placed the baby back onto Dinah’s chest while the new mother wrapped her swaddled daughter in her arms, both covered with a thin blanket.
They rolled the cot to the rear of the ambulance and locked the raised bed into the floor of the vehicle. With mother and child lying peacefully on the thin mattress, Keith pushed a button and the legs and wheels of the cot rose into their retracted position. Keith and Kate supported the extended bed as the legs disappeared, and then pushed the bed inside and locked it down for the ride to the hospital.
Kate climbed in the back with Dinah and Keith came over to Joseph.
“Good job, Joseph. We’ve got ‘em from here. What was your last name?”
“Crispin, Joseph Crispin.”
“Thanks, and take care.” He took off his glove and shook Joseph’s hand and bounded toward the ambulance. With lights still flashing, they made a 3 point turn and headed to the hospital.
It was over.
Joseph stood alone between the Celica and his own car. A sheriff’s car had arrived at some point and the officer had been directing traffic flow. He jogged over to his car and pulled away, freeing the westbound lane for travel.
The traffic that had backed up with the lane blockage began to flow normally, except for the gawkers looking at him and the two cars, wondering what had held them up.
He looked at his blood stained hands and arms. And shirt. And pants. At least his shoes seemed OK.
So I walked into the Food Cougar and somebody alerted the security guard, who called for backup, and within minutes I was surrounded by uniforms with guns drawn asking me to explain the blood.
No, I think I better go home and change.
Joseph got in his car, made a U-turn, and headed back home. The car was so hot and the A/C so cold that he rolled down the windows. The fresh air felt good as the wind quickly dried the perspiration and left a salty film on his cool skin (and shirt). He knew it was salty because he could taste it where it had rolled down onto his lips.
Reviewing what had just happened, he had no idea how much time it had all taken. He didn’t even want to pull out his phone to see what time it was.
The ride home was quick and uneventful. Normal is good!
He pulled into the driveway and jogged up to the front door. His muscles were actually sore from being so tense and then sitting immobile in the car for 15 minutes.
“I’m home, Mom.”
“Thanks,” she called from the back. “Just put the onions on the counter by the sink.”
“Uh, I don’t have the onions.” He glanced at the clock. He had been gone a little over an hour. Only a little over an hour?
“Don’t tell me you forgot them!” came the voice, each word sounding nearer.
His mother entered the living room and saw him standing just inside the front door. Her jaw dropped as she surveyed what might pass for a survivor from the zombie apocalypse.
“What happened to you? Are you OK?”
She was up next to him now, quickly scanning for gunshot wounds, knife cuts, grenade fragments, or any other of the multiple injuries possibly causing the gore on his clothing.
“No, I’m fine. I just delivered a baby.”
He might as well have said he had just flown to New York or that snow was coming.
She stepped back and put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Surely you can come up with a better story than that.”
“No,” he shook his head, “I cannot think of a better story.” And he couldn’t. Looking down at his clothes, he added, “I think I better clean up before I go get the onions.” He went down the hall to the bath, almost laughing out loud.
His mother followed him and commanded through the closed door, “Joseph Crispin, you tell me what’s really going on!”
“Give me a moment, Mom.”
He emerged a shower later, clean and wrapped in a towel, and went to find a fresh set of clothes for the trip to the store. Then he explained.
On the way to the store, Joseph realized that he had forgotten about the snack that he never had gotten and now he was missing lunch. He shrugged. I feel pleasantly full.
He had more to say at dinner that night than he remembered in years.
Bargain (with the Devil?)
The sun rose much earlier than Joseph Crispin the following morning. Although he had not stayed up late, the amazing events of just half an hour the previous day were going to affect the rest of his life. He knew it! But he could not see in what way this would be manifest as he alternately slept and marveled at the day he (and Dinah) had experienced.
His mom was still at home when he rose. She was just preparing to leave for her volunteer work at the Choctaloosa Food Pantry. She was there two days a week from 10 to 4, helping those in need get enough food to see them through the hard times they were experiencing.
Although there was no pay, there were occasional benefits. Corporate donations to the Food Pantry were sometimes too large for their small storage space or refrigeration section. Canned goods kept for a while, boxed goods for less time, and when the freezer was full, the excess had to go somewhere immediately.
An excess in a grocery chain’s inventory of Cheerios had resulted in the Food Pantry’s excess of the boxed cereal, and now the boxes overflowed the cereal shelf in the Crispin pantry. For what seemed like the one thousandth day in a row, Joseph poured Cheerios into his bowl and added sugar and milk.
His mother kissed him goodbye, told him not to deliver any babies today, and rushed out the door.
Sitting at the table munching on crispy Cheerios, Joseph had the momentarily joyful feeling of being care-less. Of course, the flip side was that he had nothing to do that day. He was also carless, which limited his options.
So if I don’t deliver any babies today, what am I going to do?
The unspoken question was still lingering at the edge of his brain, hovering above the empty void of the immediate future, when the doorbell rang.
The Cheerios were getting soggy anyway.
At the door was Barney Franklin - owner, editor, writer, and most everything else for The Corn Maize Bee. This was a weekly paper circulated free of charge “in the Heart of Choctaloosa County and Beyond.”
Barney was a friend of Joseph’s father. Well, “friend” may be too strong a word. They graduated from Choctaloosa High School a year apart. Like most locals, they were not enemies and therefore they were friends, at least, geographically speaking.
And Joseph had written articles for The Bee about high school events during his senior year, from performances on the stage to games on the field. All he had received in return was a byline on the story and some credit in English class, and that seemed good enough as a high school student.
But none of this explained why Barney Franklin stood at his door at ten in the morning.
“Good morning, Joseph!” Mr. Franklin beamed as he reached for Joseph’s hand and shook it vigorously. He took off his faded fishing hat, the cotton brim and top now a soft blue speckled with islands of the original navy, holding it by the brim in both hands. He might as well have asked if he could come in as his mouth said, “How’s your summer going?”
“Great, Mr. Franklin,” he said as he stepped back to allow the older gentleman to enter.
Mr. Franklin entered and allowed Joseph to lead him into the living room. Joseph pointed to a chair and sat down on the matching one.
As they settled down, Joseph asked, “And what brings you here, Mr. Franklin?”
Mr. Franklin chuckled. “Well, I never did tell you how I appreciated your articles on the high school happenings. I’ll miss you this fall.”
“You’re welcome, sir. It was a fun experience.” Except when there were deadlines looming and when I misspelled a word that the spell checker didn’t catch.
“Well, let me get to the point.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, the smile still showing his teeth. “I hear you had quite an experience yesterday.”
Ah, the motive! An application of one of Newton’s Laws: An object at rest remains at rest, and an object in motion remains in motion at constant speed and in a straight line unless acted on by an unbalanced force. Also applies to human interactions….Some force had moved Mr. Franklin from out there to in here, and there was no doubt what that force was.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, don’t be modest, Joseph. Delivering a baby is a momentous event!”
“Do you mean newsworthy?”
Mr. Franklin shrugged. “Every birth gets a listing, just as every death. They’re all newsworthy,” he said diplomatically. “But the details can make them rise above our daily lives and inspire others. I want to get your story into The Bee and share it with the county, and maybe the rest of Lower Alabama.”
Then he leaned even closer and almost in a whisper added, “And maybe beyond. You never know when a major newspaper or TV outlet will pick up a local story and run with it.”
Joseph smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Franklin, but the story is all about Dinah Jacobs. She did all the work. And then the EMT’s were great and finished the job. Get Dinah’s story and you’ll have plenty to print.”
“But you were the crucial middle part, Joseph. You bridged the point from a girl all alone in a car about to have a baby until the time when the baby was already there and the EMT’s took over.”
He held up his hands signifying a headline, “ACCIDENTAL HERO DELIVERS BABY!” Or maybe, raising his hands on the other side, “NEW MOM DELIVERS INTO HANDS OF FRIEND.”
Joseph rose from his seat. “Thanks for coming by, Mr. Franklin, but you really need to talk to Dinah. This is her story.”
“I have talked to her, but it’s your story, too, Joseph.” He had remained seated, but now was perched on the edge, ready to take flight only when forced.
He started peppering questions:
“What was it like when the baby began to emerge?” Joseph began shaking his head as a negative response.
“Did the child cry?” Silence.
“What was Dinah’s reaction?” Silence.
“Did she talk about the father?”
Newton’s law took over and Joseph reacted, breaking his silence. The force was what appeared to be an improper question, a definite step beyond moral boundaries even though within the ethics of reporting.
“I think that is all, Mr. Franklin. You can get your story from Dinah.”
Joseph reached for the newspaperman’s upper arm to help him rise.
As he stood, Mr. Franklin tried one last time. “What if you wrote the article, Joseph? You could interview Dinah and the EMT’s, if you want to, and write the article your way…or her way. If you don’t want to write it, I’ll just have to write it my way.”
Joseph’s body in motion toward the door paused. He felt caught in a snare, unable to move forward but not sure he wanted to move toward the newsman.
Mr. Franklin smelled victory. He stuck out his hand for a handshake. “Deal?”
A thousand snippets of information ricocheted through Joseph’s brain before coalescing around a response in less than a second.
“Deal.” Joseph put his hand into Mr. Franklin’s.
“Good, Thursday, noon. Wednesday would be better.” Mr. Franklin positively glowed. “I look forward to your article.”
He retrieved his hat from the corner of the chair and placed it on his balding head. They walked toward the front door and Joseph opened it. As he passed through, Mr. Franklin said, “She should be home with the baby right about now.” He nodded with a smile and walked out to his car.
Standing in the open doorway, the smells of summer wafting around him in the steam of the late morning sun, Joseph wondered if this was a good deal or a no-win bargain with the devil.
At least the story would be told with honesty and allow Dinah to control the perspective. Perhaps that was a victory worth whatever was to follow.
He closed the door. He now had a purpose, at least for the next 48 hours. He looked at the clock….49 hours.
Be careful what you wish for. How true!
And where are all of those ideas that compelled the “yes” answer?
No car, but he had time, and the internet, and a phone. It’s Senior English with an assignment to write a story about a birth….
The Interview
“Reporter” Joseph Crispin spent the afternoon getting background for his story. He reviewed the website for the emergency services provider that had sent Keith and Kate. He spoke with their supervisor and arranged an interview with them for the following day, provided they were not on an emergency run or performing the necessary follow up for each emergency: cleaning equipment, replacing supplies, filing reports, and otherwise preparing for the next crisis.
But he put off arranging to see Dinah. Awkward! That was easy to postpone since she was just now at home for the first day with the newborn. But then he heard the ticking of the wall clock –down to 44 more hours.
I might as well get it over with.
He looked up the Jacobs landline in the Choctaloosa phonebook. Fortunately, they had one. This way he could talk to the mother…now also a grandmother, which sounded kind of eerie thinking of his Mom…and not really bother Dinah. He could set up a time to visit tomorrow.
That’s a normal thing considering what happened yesterday, isn’t it?
He punched the numbers on his cell phone. The phone rang and rang, He was about to hang up when a frenzied “Hello” interrupted the ringing.
“Hello, Mrs. Jacobs? This is Joseph Crispin. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
Her voice relaxed noticeably as she replied, “I am not sure what a good time would be at this point.” There was almost a laughter in her voice that implied Joseph would understand.
He did. “I only got to experience maybe ten minutes with a newborn, but I think I understand you. How are Dinah and her daughter?”
“I think the best answer is that they are getting to know one another. I went through it with her older brother and then Dinah, but she was so different that it was like the first time all over again.”
“So every newborn is different?”
“Yes. They each arrive with their own unique personality and demand that we get to know them. I understand from Dinah that you were the first to meet Chloe.”
“Yes, er, well,” What do I say to that? Then he smiled into the phone. “We were not formally introduced, but we were close for a brief time, Mrs. Jacobs.”
“Please, after what you have been through, call me Claire,” she laughed. “Dinah suggested we have you over for dinner to show our appreciation when things are a little more settled.”
Not the timing that works for a deadline. Plan B?
“That would be great,,,, And I understand the delay to a more appropriate time for dinner…. Could I come over tomorrow sometime and, you know, just see how they are doing? I won’t stay long.”
“If you’re sure you want to come. Why don’t you come about noon? I’m not necessarily offering lunch since we don’t have a routine yet, but we can see how things are going. Chloe does sleep quite a lot, just not on schedule.”
“Great! What can I bring you?”
Joseph could hear Chloe crying in the background and Dinah trying to comfort her.
“If you have some peace and quiet, that would be great. Otherwise, just bring you.”
‘Thanks, Mrs. Jacobs, uh, Claire. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
Joseph had no idea what would happen the following day, or if he was even moving forward, but something was going to come from that visit.
Joseph did not have access to a car the next day. A small bump in the road of life. Humid and 90 degrees again. But he had a ten-speed bike. A three speed car would be so-o-o much better!
The alternative was walking. So about 11:20 he put on his best shorts and his only buttoned short sleeve shirt and began the ride to the Jacobs’ house. It was 6 miles to New Deal, and about a mile past that was the subdivision where Dinah lived. He thought if he left a little early he could cool off under a shade tree before he knocked on the door.
Other than a nice park just outside Corn Maize, there was no good place for cycling. Any direction took you on a two lane road or highway, none of which were friendly to cyclists. “Sharing the road” was an automobile concept that did not include cyclists or pedestrians.
He went out of the driveway toward the highway, then turned right through downtown Corn Maize – all one quarter mile of it – and then onto the open highway toward New Deal.
The road was relatively flat, and for a few minutes the breeze created by the bicycle’s progress took the sweat away as quickly as it formed. Feeling underpowered, the sun kicked into higher gears, easily out powering Joseph’s ten-speed. The sun’s new setting felt like Bake Plus.
The asphalt radiated back the heat and the forward movement seemed to encounter more humidity than air movement. Cars passing him did not help to cool him, but only added to the tension and, therefore, the sweat.
Going through New Deal at a blazing 20+ miles per hour, he hardly had time to notice the few buildings.
Moments later he turned into The Oaks subdivision, a collection of a dozen or so homes on a cul-de-sac with three branches. The Jacobs’ house was straight ahead at the dead end. And beside it the haven of a large oak tree’s shade.
He coasted into the driveway and turned away from the house into the welcoming shadow of the gnarled old tree. He leaned his bike against the trunk, and took from his bike pouch the bottle of water that had been mostly ice when he had left home. It was still cold and felt good on his cheeks. Leaning against the coolness of the bark he could feel a light breeze stealing the sweat from his brow.
Now what am I doing here and how should this go?
He had asked himself this question many times since hanging up the phone with Mrs. Jacobs – Claire – the previous afternoon.
Does this mean I am an adult when I can call another adult I don’t really know by their first name? A rite of passage, I guess….A rebirth as an adult!
He looked at his phone: 11:55.
Five minutes later, he was no more prepared for the interview than the previous afternoon. But the phrase, “It’s her story,” kept rolling through his mind.
When he knocked on the door, Claire opened it. The inside of the house was quiet for the moment, a good start.
They exchanged pleasantries and he stepped into the coolness of the house, now conscious of how underdressed he was in his shorts.
“I apologize for not dressing up a bit more, but I don’t have a car when my mother is at work and the bicycle doesn’t have air conditioning other than what the speed of the bike generates.”
Claire smiled with understanding. “Yes, Dinah is in the same boat when I am at work. Oh, but she doesn’t have a bicycle…or a boat,” she laughed.
“Oh, where do you work?”
“With my son gone to college and Dinah getting close to the age of flight, I needed something to occupy my time. I got my real estate license last year and work with the real estate agency over in Smithfield. I handle sales in this side of the county.”
“How interesting. Do you enjoy it?”
“Actually, I do. I enjoy people, and I enjoyed being at home with the kids. But one of them is gone to college for months at a time, even staying the summer to work.
“And Dinah was not here most of the day because of school and cheerleading. That was getting to me.” She gave a strong affirmative nod. “I really do like it, real estate, I mean, bringing people and houses together to make a home.”
Joseph nodded. “What does Mr. Jacobs do?”
Her expression quickly changed. “I really couldn’t tell you. But his job is as a consultant and he travels a lot.” She took a small breath and resumed what seemed her natural smile. “Let me go see how Dinah and Chloe are doing.”
They were still in the small foyer and she started down the hallway. After a few steps she called for him to have a seat in the living room gesturing toward the room behind Joseph.
The living room seemed spacious, a pale yellow adding to the brightness of the windows along two sides of the room. A sofa with a cushioned chair at the far end faced a coffee table. The wall to the left was a bookcase and entertainment center offering a TV and CD player.
The room was not cluttered like so many living rooms seemed to be. A part of the wall was family pictures – the parents and small children at a theme park, at a cabin in the woods, at a backyard barbecue. The pictures of Dimah and her brother as they got older were just the two of them, or a threesome with Claire. It was obvious the father was missing.
Joseph turned as soft footsteps crossed the foyer. Dinah carried Chloe in her arms.
“She’s asleep,” Dinah said in a whisper, gently rocking the cradle of her arms.
She looked so much better than the last time he had seen her, strapped onto the bed being loaded with her baby into the ambulance. But she also looked much different from the last time he had seen her at school the previous fall. She was still young and pretty, but no longer a schoolgirl. She was a woman. He could imagine kids calling her “Miss Jacobs.”
Joseph stepped closer to see Chloe. She had a pink baby blanket and matching knit hat. Her eyes were closed and she was a picture of peace.
But remember what she sounded like in the background of the phone call yesterday. Picture that! But no, he didn’t want to picture that. This is the moment of now, so just stay here.
“I just wanted to see how you both were doing. It was a pretty dramatic scene seeing you rolled into an ambulance and going away with flashing lights.” He was trying to keep his voice in a whisper, but Chloe was beginning to stir.
“Let me go put her down. She has been awake for a while and has just fed. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She turned and walked back down the hall in her socks. The house was completely silent.
What am I doing here? Why did I volunteer to write the article, and what can I possibly say? The Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How of a newspaper story seem terribly inappropriate for what happened, for what is happening.
He turned back toward the pictures on the wall of happier times. He noticed the last photo was of Dinah in her cheerleading outfit looking straight at the camera, caught in mid jump, her mother looking on from the side.
The last picture was down to two. The next one would show three again.
Dinah became a cheerleader as a sophomore, always with the other cheerleaders and the guys who played whatever was the sport of the season. Her circle and mine rarely overlapped. So what am I doing here? How am I to tell HER story?
Then he reminded himself….It is HER story.
In a few moments, Dinah came back to the living room. In her normal voice she said, “I think she’ll sleep a while. Would you like a cold drink? I’m afraid all we have is caffeine free.”
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
She went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of lime soda in each hand, offering one to him.
“Well, you see we survived,” she said with a smile, taking a sip and then sitting on the end of the couch. Joseph took the chair beside her.
“Yes, you are doing very well, indeed. You look like a natural.”
“I don’t know about the ‘natural’ part, but I’m learning. Chloe’s a demanding teacher,” she laughed. And then added more seriously, leaning forward, “And I really do appreciate you staying there until the ambulance arrived. That was a scary time and it was great to have someone there and not just a voice on the phone.”
“You are welcome. I’m actually glad to have been part of the experience although I would have a hard time putting into words just exactly what happened on that shoulder of the road.”
“Yeah, it was kinda like the world stopped, and when it started again, it was different.” She shook her head and then looked at him. “But you were just holding my hand, just watching. Just….” She stopped short of saying that it wasn’t happening to him, and Joseph in his mind completed the thought, a spectator.
Is that all I am in all of this? Just a spectator?
“Just there for me,” she completed her thought. “I’m amazed that you or anyone stopped.”
Joseph shook his head. “I can’t explain it." Then, switching gears too abruptly, “Did Barney Franklin come to see you?”
Her expression turned sour in a flash. “Yes. He came to the hospital and wanted to make this amazing private experience a front page news story. That’s not going to happen!” She crossed her arms with a defiant expression.
Her expression changed again, but not for the better.
“You wrote stories about school events for him. Is that why you’re here, to get the story?” She was standing now, bent toward him in the stance of a fighter making a challenge.”
“No! No,” he protested, looking up at her. “Sit back down. I didn’t answer any questions. I told him it was your story.”
He patted the sofa and she sat down again.
“I didn’t know what you had told him, but I thought I had nothing to add. I was just a spectator, somebody in the right place at the right time to see a miracle. I wouldn’t spoil that!”
“Do you swear you’re not going to write about me?” The brown eyes boring into him were as demanding as the tone of her voice.
“Listen, Dinah. He was going to write a story about this and I wasn’t going to help him. I said it was your story and you were the one to tell it.”
“But I don’t want to tell the whole county my story. It’s not just MY story. It’s Chloe’s, too.” A quiver was making its way into her voice and her eyes went to the front window looking for a way out. She gave a deep sigh. “There’s more to the story than just a woman having a baby on the side of the road.”
Her voice turned defiant again. “And that’s what he wants, the juicy gossip about the woman without a husband and the baby without a father. And he’s not going to get it!”
Trying to keep his voice calm, Joseph said, “I agree.” She was in her emotions and not ready for reason. He let the silence linger until he could feel her anger begin to dissipate.
After a few more seconds he said, “He is going to write a story, or we are. Can we tell your story your way?”
She backed down, relaxing a bit from her defensive posture, thinking about this alternative.
She shook her head. “What is my way? Every way I think of it, I lose. Chloe loses.”
As if this were her cue, a tentative cry came from the back of the house.
Dinah looked in that direction and said firmly, “I have to go. You need to go.”
“Wait! Just a minute. Just a few seconds. Can I bring something by in the morning about 8:00? If you don’t like it, we’ll throw it away and it will be up to Mr. Franklin what he does with neither of us giving any answers.”
She looked defeated, close to tears.
“I know. This isn’t fair. You have your plate full and he…I have dropped this on you. Go. Take care of Chloe. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With a slight nod she turned and padded softly and swiftly toward Chloe. Joseph showed himself back out into the June sunshine.
Like yesterday, the interaction seemed to have lasted hours but was probably only a matter of minutes. He walked over to his bike in the shade of the tree.
What have I promised and how can I possibly make it happen? It’s HER story.
He shook his head and got onto his bike.
The sun was hotter, the breeze non-existent, traffic heavier. The only thing worse would be a thunderstorm. He looked up anxiously but the sky looked clear and hot for as far as he could see.
He peddled as hard as he could, feeling the exercise relax his mind. Even his tense muscles relaxed with the effort. Seems like a contradiction! Don’t knock it. It works.
“Her story, her story” ricocheted off the empty canyon walls of his mind.
When he got home, he realized he had not even had a sip of the lime soda, much less lunch. He fixed a sandwich and went to the desk in his room.
The phrase “her story” kept repeating itself. Suddenly, at the end came, “but not her story.” Wheels began to turn. The gears began to mesh. Now it just needed to become a living thing, something infused with life and not mechanics.
He sat at his desk, keyboard ready…. Slowly, the tap-tap-tap started.
He began tentatively, the backspaces and deletes fairly frequent. The faster he typed, the less he had to go backward.
By time for his mid-afternoon snack, he felt like he had her story, but not Dinah’s story…just what they both wanted. He felt like this was what Barney Franklin really wanted, also, even though he might not know this is what he wanted.
His mom arrived home a little after that. This was Dinah’s “not Dinah’s” story. He would show it to Dinah in the morning and it would be a “yes” or a “no.”
It wasn’t his mother’s story, but maybe she would find some misspellings the computer missed or where something was needed to make it clearer. He didn’t want to give Dinah a copy that wouldn’t receive a passing grade in English class.
Having learned that indeed, timing is everything, Joseph chose that narrow window between being relaxed now that she was home from the Food Pantry and the time for starting dinner.
“Mom, would you read a short article and tell me what you think?”
She was sitting on the front porch with an iced tea. Yes, it was still hot as blazes, but the Food Pantry felt as cold as a refrigerator and it took her a while to thaw.
“Sure.” She reached out and he handed her the article. He went inside, put some ice in a glass, poured some of the sweet tea over it, and went back to the porch.
She had finished it because he saw her turn back over to the front page as he came out. He sat in the swing, his feet on the floor patiently moving the swing back and forth as his insides roiled in anticipation of the verdict.
His mother continued reading on the back of the page again.
She turned it back to the front. “What’s it for? Who did you write it for?”
He didn’t understand the suspicious tone beneath the words.
He told her about Barney Franklin coming to interview him. Rather than an interview, the editor had walked away with a commitment from Joseph for a written article.
Linda looked up and nodded – No!, Not yet!, Never will she be ‘Linda’ – ‘Mom’ looked up and nodded, her eyes moist. “My son has grown up.”
She leaned tforward in the swing toward Joseph, and he took the paper back from her.
“That’s good, then?” he asked.
“What I said is a two-edged sword. You have grown up is both my loss and my gain. ‘Your gain is my gain,’ I have to tell myself.”
Joseph felt his eyes begin to tear up a little. You’re an 18 year old man, Joseph! And that rebuke was enough to dry up the tear ducts for the moment.
“What do you think Dinah will think about it? This is the only way I could think of to tell her story without it revealing that it is HER story.”
“You’ll have to ask her, but I would be surprised if she didn’t love it.”
The Story
Morning dawned again, as it will do.
Joseph was awake before sunrise but waited until the room had grown bright. He brushed his teeth, dressed, and started on his 1001st bowl of Cheerios, his Dad finishing a cup of coffee before heading to work.
Dad looked at his watch and then, more as a statement than a question said, “So you’ll see Dinah first and then Barney.”
Mouth full, Joseph gave an assent.
“What if she says, ‘No?’”
Joseph shrugged. “That’s it. I can’t tell her story if she won’t agree to a story. Mr. Franklin has already interviewed her and can write the article with the information he has. He doesn’t have any less information than when I wouldn’t answer his questions.”
He looked at the clock and it wasn’t even 7:00 yet. “What would you do, Dad?”
“I’m not in your shoes,” he said drinking the last of his cup. “As long as you feel you’re honoring her wishes and have been honest with him, you can be comfortable whichever answer she gives.”
He placed the cup on the counter. And walked past Joseph as he headed toward the door. He put a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, gave a squeeze, and said, “See you later.”
Joseph finished his Cheerios and looked at the clock. 7:03.
His mother came into the kitchen a few minutes later. She was dressed for working in the yard. That was his responsibility, but she enjoyed weeding the flower bed and puttering around before the day got too hot. He suspected she was aware that more than once he had pulled up a flowering plant as a weed.
She gave a cheery, “Good morning!” which he returned. She poured a glass of water from the purifier on the counter and started toward the back door when she finished.
She paused at the door and turned to Joseph.
“Joseph, you had a really fascinating experience in delivering that baby with Dinah. Just don’t get too close. At your age you don’t want to suddenly find yourself in a readymade family.”
She paused again, obviously as uncomfortable with the conversation as Joseph had become. She came back and patted his shoulder.
“I know she’s a beautiful girl from a nice family. Something unplanned happened, but it’s not up to you to make it right.”
“I know, Mom. I imagine that after the article is printed – or is not printed – there won’t be much reason for us to see each other. It’s OK, I understand.”
“Alright, but don’t let your mind and your heart get jumbled up.” She smiled. “I’ll be in the daisies.” And she went outside.
7:09….
He had a piece of toast and jelly and an iced tea. Then he got 2 copies of the article and the car keys and headed to New Deal.
He parked in front of the Jacobs’ house and went up to the door. Just as he was about to knock, it opened.
“Come in, Joseph.” Claire pulled the door open wide for him. The house was mercifully quiet. She led him into the living room and sat on the end of the sofa next to the chair she indicated for him. He sat where he had yesterday.
“Dinah told me about the article you are going to put in The Bee. May I see it?”
Her voice was hard, nothing like yesterday. He handed her the single page.
“It won’t be in the paper if she or you say ‘no,’ Claire.” He had trouble calling her by her first name out of 18 years of habit toward older adults, but he felt a need to put himself on an equal footing with her at this moment.
She took it, perched on the edge of the sofa, clearly tense and defensive. Her hand was tight, just crinkling the edge of the paper.
‘ Her shields are up, Captain, and I dunno know if we can penetrate them,’ came Scottie’s thickly accented voice over the Starship Enterprise intercom.
Joseph realized that he was on the edge of the chair and eased back into a more comfortable position.
She turned the page over to the back. She seemed less tense.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, clamored the clock on one of the bookshelves in the silent room. 8:07
She slid back more comfortably on the sofa and turned back over to read the first page again.
She turned the page over to the back again, now loosely holding the paper.
Finally, she looked up, turning the front page toward her. “You wrote this?”
He couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or an accusation.
“Yes, Ma’am.” The Ma’am was a reflex he couldn’t control.
“It’s not what I expected at all.” She got up quickly with the paper and practically sprinted across the foyer and down the hallway.
Tick-tock, Tick-tock, Tick-tock…rattled on into the silence, finally accompanied by the soft hum of the distant refrigerator compressor.
Smiling faces beamed at him from the wall across the room.
The compressor finally clicked off and it was just the lonely tick-tock again. He had not even seen what time it was. Only 8:25.
Why did time alternately slow down and speed up? Had this something to do with the theory of relativity? Look that up later.
He heard padded footsteps coming down the hallway. 8:35.
Dinah came into the living room wearing a robe over her night gown. Her face told of little sleep and the weariness of new motherhood, an imbalance in the battle between self and selflessness. He had seen all along the small victories of motherhood, the rebirthing of self, molding it into this new role.
She was not looking at him until she spoke.
“Would you read it to me, Joseph?”
Surprised, shocked at the request, Joseph accepted the page from her. And he read aloud….
The Choctaloosa Bee; Friday, June 20; Page 1 – “A Choctaloosa Miracle.” By A Bee
A miracle happened on the shoulder of a rural road in Choctaloosa County on Monday, June 14.
A 6 lb. 2 oz. baby girl came into the world on a hot summer morning in the passenger seat of a car parked on the side of a highway. A cry of dismay, unhappy with being moved from her secure and comfortable slumber into the brilliance of the morning sun, transformed into a gentle coo upon her mother’s breast.
Months of apprehension as to what it would be like to become a mother, to be a mother, nights awake wondering if she could do it, melted away with that first tiny cry.
Dozens of cars sped past the miracle as it was in progress, but one stopped. Beside the cramped front seat of a two door coupe, a young man’s life also was forever changed as he witnessed the birth of a new human being in all its messy glory.
The 911 operator who coached the young woman through her first childbirth attended like a voice from heaven. She guided the mother and her accidental attendant in the division of a physical unity into a physical duality while helping mother and child to maintain their spiritual unity.
Another man and a woman, trained in the art of emergency medical care, attended to the miracle of one person becoming two. They worked as a team to physically separate mother and child into separate people, but they also acted with the instinctual compassion and love that transcends the physical world of medicine. With the first cry of life, they welcomed to their larger family the infant they had cut free.
Born that day was not just a beautiful baby girl, but another living strand in the web of humanity. Each strand is linked to every other strand by the energetic bond of love.
And all of these strands intertwine with the intricate webs that include every other living thing. There is a separate heart in each strand, but all of these hearts beat as one.
You may be wondering, “Who are the mother and child?” They are the mother and child that were your mother and you.
You may wonder, “Who was the passer-by?” That was you when you helped someone in need.
You may wonder, “Who were the medical attendants who aided the emergence of new life?” They were you when you gave someone a second chance, an opportunity to live a new and better life.
You may wonder, “Who was the 911 operator who gave comfort from afar?” This was you when you performed your daily acts of service, in your job, in your role as friend and neighbor, in your role as family member, in your daily walk in life.
This bond that holds us, that empowers us, is made stronger by each act of love. You make it grow stronger, and it makes you grow stronger, even joyful.
On this summer day, the bond of love that is Choctaloosa County expanded just a little bit further, its net cast a little wider. And it still encompasses all.
“That’s it.” He handed the page back to her.
“This is an amazing work of art, Joseph.”
She looked back down at the black print on a white background. “It’s like you poured your ideals into words painting a beautiful picture. It’s a picture of every one of us as we were meant to be, isn’t it? The ideal envisioned from the beginning.,,,”
She paused, but he knew a rhetorical question when he heard it.
“Thank you. Maybe this is the greatest gift you could give to Chloe….” She paused again, her eyes shifting to Joseph and then away again before continuing. “And a great parting gift for me, telling my story without revealing who I am. Who I am really,” she added.
She looked back into his eyes. “It’s like a love poem to life,” she added still holding the page.
Talking to the love poem in her hands, she spoke barely above a whisper. “You really can’t know what it was like. I got a few texts from friends, but within a week a text came from Mary Ann: ‘Julie Summers is just a sophomore but she is doing great in your spot. Hope you enjoy your new school. Keep in touch.’”
Looking back up at him, she added, “That’s the last I heard from anybody.” She extended the piece of paper to him.
He had thought it encapsulated the whole experience, wrapped everything into a beautiful sentiment, and provided a foundation for the future.
But there was a vast emptiness not filled by words on a page. No matter how bright and uplifting, they did not connect the small web of her new world with that of the world at large.
“No, you keep it,” he insisted. What more had he to offer? “If it is OK with you, I will submit it. I don’t know what Mr. Franklin will print, if anything, but I want you to know what I gave him.”
“Thanks, again, then,” Dinah said, bringing the paper in her hand back down to her side. “And if you’re ever in the neighborhood, feel free to drop by. But I will be very busy with Chloe, probably for a long time. That’s where my heart is at the moment.”
Even as he heard the words from her mouth, the gentle dismissal of him, that was not what her eyes spoke.
I don’t know the first thing about women or body language or emotions, but I know when the mouth and heart are not in synch.
Yes, this is more of her story, how she needs to tell it now, for her sake and for Chloe’s sake. And for your sake, too. Do your own internal rewrite, Joseph.
He was more at a loss than he had been in that moment he had stood by the car and realized that a new life was about to come into the world. He felt that something was withering and dying in front of him.
His mind was empty and his heart was full. The void reached his mouth first. “Sure. Uh, well, I’ve got to get this to Mr. Franklin and we’ll see what happens.”
As if that was the issue now!
The tick-tock sounded in the silence. 8:39. Tick-
A vision his mind could scarcely put into words later when he thought about it - Before you stands a very lonely young woman, still a teenager but thrust into a new world of responsibility. Children become adults, passing unevenly through those in-between years, lurching forward in awkward spurts, then regressing back in a microsecond to the comfortable security of a child’s world.
Had it not been for those 20 minutes on the side of the road on a hot June day, he and Dinah would never have spoken more than a passing “Hello,” given a passing nod, and walked away oblivious of the events shaping the life of the other.
And here they were, again in a shared moment of vulnerability, now exposing the naked emotions of the formation of two new planets. In the rare atmosphere of their new alien world, there were the same sun, moon, and stars, but old and familiar, holding fewer secrets of mystery and wonder. What had happened that their eyes now looked out and saw doubt and uncertainty?
The Enterprise intercom came to life. “Captain! Captain! The crew is on stand-by for your orders. We must move or we will become trapped in the gravity of the Black Hole.”
Breaking from his momentary absence, the captain returned with a new perspective. Again, life had advanced, and yet everything around him remained exactly the same.
Light yellow walls framed a sunlit background to the Jacobs’ family history, drawing the eye into the past. The electronic entertainment center waited to provide distraction from the present. The picture window provided a view of the present, but blocked it with a pane of glass. Only the empty sofa and chair provided access to the stillness of the present moment.
“Time for action,” came the captain’s command on the Enterprise. "Mr. Sulu, set a course that moves us forward. Lieutenant Uhura, close the viewing portals facing the Black Hole so that no one is sucked into its darkness. Mr. Scott, divert all energy from the shields to give the engines sufficient power to move forward.”
“But what direction is forward, sir?”
“Move to the light, always to the light, Mr. Sulu.”
-Tock.
All of this between a tick and a tock.
“Take care,” he added and went to the front door.
“You, too, Joseph,” she called after him.
He let himself out and closed the door behind him.
Dinah has had the mother-daughter talk, also. Move forward.
He stepped out into the sun and felt its freedom.
Does Dinah ever get out into the sun like this except to have a baby?
He took a step and looked around.
On stage, the props were in disarray, the time not right - The sun and the moon sat on the floor in opposite corners, leaned loosely against the wall; a picket fence hung in the sky above his head; the eyes of the fake windows were blank and lifeless; the curtain of time fallen from the wall of pictures over the living room set…
His mind escaped the discomfort and switched gears to the warm summer day as he headed toward his car.
The old Corolla lounged in the shade of the mighty oak, an aging charger ready to go into the next fray, patiently awaiting his knight to mount. The warrior looked back at the closed door to the fair maiden’s hut – no way to move but onward and upward. 'To The Bee!’ he cried to his steed.
Joseph turned the key in the ignition, switching to a new metaphor (‘Warp engines on!’), pulled out of the driveway (‘Set a course for The Bee, Mr. Sulu’), turned out onto the highway (Warp Engines set at Warp 1, Captain) toward Corn Maize to deliver the paper to Mr. Franklin.
Perhaps moving at the speed of light from where he was had a metaphorical meaning. English class did pay off!
But he found he was not in a hurry, and dropped out of warp drive as quickly as he had gotten into it.
The short distance to New Deal was corn country, no doubt. Walls of green stalks lined the roadway. There was only one rise in the roadway relative to the fields. From its peak, he looked out over the green stalks standing like a silent army awaiting orders. But something stood out.
In the checkerboard of green squares cut by dirt borders, fences, and roads, a lone scarecrow rose out of the green, facing toward the highway. Now that’s a lonely job – outmanned (outbirded?) as a single silent sentry at the mercy of the elements night and day.
He returned to the moment, the view now a ranch house, next a trailer, and them a small cottage, maybe two rooms. New Deal appeared before the windshield and quickly passed into the rearview mirror.
Leaving the southern outskirts of New Deal (actually a very short single skirt!), Joseph saw the familiar “New Used Cars!” sign. Beneath was a dilapidated building sprouting aerial runners with flags (and lights at night) stretching out to the road and back again several times.
Beneath this canopy was a mixed multitude of models, all shiny on the outside but holding untold mysteries beneath the colorful veneer. Somehow, it looked exactly the same every time with the same old cars just moved into new positions.
Yes, it looked pretty much the same as it had every time he had passed. Except today there was a small prefab building at the edge of the lot, almost hidden by a maroon Dodge van with shiny grillwork and luggage racks.
Joseph quickly slowed (We ARE full of oxymorons, aren’t we!).
“Being” read the sign on the door, but beneath that, tethered by two chains, was a similar sign saying “Whole.”
That seems kind of weird. What’s he selling?
He’d check it out…later…sometime…maybe, and he resumed a sub-warp speed toward Mr. Franklin.
The Job
Offices for The Bee were, shall we say, understated.
A nice suburban ranch style home on the north end of Corn Maize shared its driveway with a converted garage. The overhead doors had been replaced by white siding with regular windows and a door. An unimposing sign with a modestly jacketed but busy bee in flight hovered above the bold block letters of The Choctaloosa Bee.
Joseph pulled in and parked between the last two white lines, the third and final parking space. He got out and entered the office, a place he had been several times before as a student reporter.
Mr. Franklin sat between a desk covered with a stack of paper in front of him and wall shelves holding past copies of The Bee behind.
The editor smiled at him as he entered. He indicated a seat across his desk for Joseph.
“Before me is the next issue of The Bee in print,” he said, indicating the center pile of paper. “Have you got something to add?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is, Dinah’s story.”
Mr. Franklin smiled as he accepted the single page. He adjusted his glasses as he eased back in his chair to read.
His lips moved as he read. Barely audible sounds, perhaps representing words, slipped out unnoticed. His expression grew increasingly concerned as he read down the page, then turned it over.
When he had finished, he remained leaned back in his chair as he looked across at Joseph, his expression now inscrutable.
“You probably know that if I were your Journalism teacher – even Journalism 101 – I’d give you a D, at best. It’s just the creativity that would keep it from being a flat out F.”
At this point he leaned forward and broke out into a laugh.
“But you did it. Clobbered my expectations about how to tell her story! You told Dinah’s story without saying a word identifiable as Dinah or anybody else. Readers are going to love it. They’ll wonder who all the characters are, and they’ll find like with most important questions that the answers are inside them. It’ll look great on page 1 of The Bee.”
Joseph relaxed, unaware of how tense he had gotten as he waited for his paper to be graded. The grade was unimportant. He had passed!
“What have you got lined up for the summer, Joseph?”
He shrugged after a moment’s thought. “Well, now that I can check off ‘Deliver baby’ and ‘Write article,’ I am not sure what’s next on the list.”
“Excellent! How about working for The Bee?”
Joseph’s expression brightened. “You mean as a reporter?”
“Heavens, no!” exclaimed the editor, writer, reporter, owner, sole proprietor, and everything else except paper delivery person.
“Every article in the paper was written either by myself or an unpaid contributor. Every club, organization, committee or sports team is only too happy to send in articles about themselves. I edit them, add an article about happenings in county government, and put in an editorial.
“Advertising pays for printing and distribution, and I have a reasonable income from what is left over.” He felt the need to add with some emphasis, “ONLY a reasonable income.
“You could help make this paper bigger, better. And you would do that by getting more advertisers. You’d be in sales.”
A new thought hit him. “And, yes, you CAN be a reporter, too. With their first ad, every new account gets a free news story about their business. And you, Joseph, would be that writer. And with your own by-line,” he added.
They talked briefly beyond that. Joseph’s mind was racing and had no memory later of exactly what was said. Mr. Franklin’s final words were somewhat encouraging and Joseph did remember this last bit and stuck it in his memory bank.
“Son, everyone listens to one radio station more than any other: WII-FM, What’s In It For Me? Come back when you are ready to tune in and we’ll get the details done and start work.
“Oh, and e-mail that article to me so I can send all this mess (indicating the papers before him) in a neat Publisher file to the printer.”
Joseph nodded, “Sure thing, Mr. Franklin. I’ll get back to you about the job.”
Mr. Franklin reached across and shook his hand. “Good job on the article, Joseph. I’m liking it more and more.”
CONTINUED
Diversity Statement Attempts have been made to remove the racial identity as much as possible so that the inhabitants of Choctaloosa County are perceived as unique individuals without racial stereotypes being placed upon them.
The cornrows on Keith, the EMT, the Hispanic accent of Dell’s waitress (and Dell, also), and whether Chloe is biracial, have all been omitted. (Did your perception of the character change with these revelations?)
Any representation of the characters of this story in pictures or films must accurately represent the racial demographics of Choctaloosa County. You will have to go to Choctaloosa County to see what actual racial percentages exist because such records are not kept.
COVID Statement Choctaloosa County Mayor Andrew Rodriguez proclaimed a shut-down of non-essential businesses in Alabama from March 28 until April 17, 2020, in accordance with the governor’s statewide orders.
The Choctaloosa County mayor clarified the order. “Any business that remains open and has customers is deemed essential. Any business without customers attending for an entire 24-hour period is deemed non-essential and must observe the lockdown requirements. Wearing masks and social distancing are to be observed at all times. If any business does not require masks and/or social distancing, it is the customers’ right to exercise their own discretion as to whether they should enter the business.”
After a few days of uncertainty, life in Choctaloosa County returned to normal. There was never any evidence that the people suffered for this interpretation of the mandates.