"Just a watch to tell me how long her contractions last and how much time between them. That's how I know how close we are to the birth."

"Oh," Gladys said, and placed her palms over her fake stomach. "It tightens, doesn't it? It gets as tight and as hard as a rock."

Mama just looked at her, nonplussed, which caused something in Gladys Tate's eyes to snap. A crimson tint came into the crests of her cheeks.

"I've got to know every detail, don't I? People ask questions. I want to be able to describe the birth as if I really did have the baby."

"Yes, it gets hard," Mama said. "In the beginning for a very short time and then longer and longer as you get closer to delivering the baby."

"Yes," Gladys said, and grimaced as if she really did suffer a contraction.

Mama sighed and turned back to me with a small smile on her lips. She rolled her eyes. I wanted to smile back, but the pain grew longer and more severe.

"Take deep breaths," Mama advised.

"Is it coming? Is it coming?" Gladys asked, excitedly.

"Not yet, no," Mama said. "I told you. I'm not sure this is real labor yet, and besides, babies don't come busting into this world that fast, especially when a woman's giving birth for the first time."

"Yes," Gladys said, more to herself than to us. "My first time."

She waddled over to her own bed and sat down, her hands on her padded stomach. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip. Mama wiped my face with a cold washcloth. I forced a smile and gazed at Gladys, who looked like she was breaking into a sweat herself. Watching her actions, her silent moans, her deep breaths, distracted me from my own. pain for the moment. Mama just shrugged and shook her head.

Mama said the contractions were a good five minutes apart and didn't last long enough to be that significant yet, but it went on for hours. All the while Gladys Tate lay in her bed beside mine. She ate nothing, drank a little ice tea, but for the most part, just watched me and mimicked my every action, my every groan.

As the sun began to go down and the room darkened, my labor pains grew longer and with shorter and shorter intervals. I saw from Mama's face that she thought something significant was happening now.

"I'm going to give birth soon, aren't 1, Mama?"

She nodded. "I believe so, honey."

"But it's too soon, isn't it, Mama? I'm barely eight months."

She nodded, but made no comment. Worry and concern were etched in the ripples along her forehead and the darkness that entered her eyes. My heart pounded. In fact, it had been beating so hard and so fast for so long, I was worried it would just give out. These thoughts brought more cold sweats. I squeezed Mama's hand harder and she tried to keep me calm. She gave me tablespoons of one of her herbal medicines that kept me from getting nauseous. Gladys Tate insisted on knowing what it was, and when Mama explained it, Gladys insisted she be given some.

"I want to be sure it's not some Cajun poison that works on babies," she said.

Mama checked her anger and let her have a tablespoon. Gladys swallowed it quickly and chased it down with some ice tea. Then she waited to see what sort of reaction she would have. When she said nothing, Mama smirked.

"I guess it ain't poison," Mama said, but Gladys looked unconvinced.

Suddenly it began to rain, the drops drumming on the window, the wind coming up to blow sheet after sheet of the downpour against the house. There was a flash of lightning and then a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation of the great house and rock my bed as well. We could hear the rain pounding the roof. It seemed to pound right through and into my heart.

Mama asked Gladys to turn on the lamps. As if it took all her effort to rise from the bed and cross the room, she groaned and stood up with an exaggerated slowness. As soon as she had the lights on, she returned to her bed and watched me enduring my labor, closing her eyes, mumbling to herself and sighing.

"How long can this last?" she finally inquired with impatience.

"Ten, fifteen, twenty hours," Mama told her. "If you have something else to do . . ."

"What else would I have to do? Are you mad or are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Forget I said anything," Mama muttered, and turned her attention back to me.

Suddenly, at the end of one contraction, I felt a gush of warm liquid down my legs.

"Mama!"

"It's your bag of waters," Mama exclaimed. "The baby's going to come tonight," she declared with certainty. Gladys Tate uttered a cry of excitement, and when we looked over at her, we saw she had wet her own bed.

Neither Mama nor I said anything. Our attention was mainly focused now on my efforts to bring a newborn child into the world.

Hours passed, the contractions continuing to grow in intensity and the intervals continuing to shorten, but Mama didn't look pleased with my progress. She examined me periodically and shook her head with concern. The pain grew more and more intense. I was breathing faster and heavier, gasping at times. When I looked at Gladys, I saw her face was crimson, her eyes glassy. She had run her fingers through her hair so much, the strands were like broken piano wires, curling up in every direction. She writhed on her bed, groaning. Mama was concentrating firmly on me now and barely paid her notice.

Mama referred to the watch, felt my contractions, checked me and bit down on her lip. I saw the alarm building in her eyes, the muscles in her face tense.

"What's wrong, Mama?" I gasped between deep breaths.

"It's breech," she said sorrowfully. "I was afraid of this. It's not uncommon with premature births."

"Breech?" Gladys Tate cried, pausing in her imitation of my agony. "What does that mean?"

"It means the baby is in the wrong position. Its buttocks is pointing out instead of its head," she explained.

"It's more painful, isn't it? Oh no. Oh no," she cried, wringing her hands. "What will I do?"

"I have no time for this sort of stupidity," Mama said. She hurried to the door. Octavious was nearby, pacing. "Bring me some whiskey," she shouted at him.

"Whiskey?"

"Hurry."

"What are you going to do, Mama?" I asked.

"I've got to try to turn the baby, honey. Just relax. Put your mind on something else. Think about your swamp, your animals, flowers, anything," she said.

A few moments later, Octavious appeared with a bottle of bourbon. He stood there in shock. Gladys was writhing on her bed, her eyes closed, moaning and occasionally screaming.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked Mama.

"I wouldn't even try to answer that," she told him, and took the whiskey. She poured it over her hands and scrubbed them with the alcohol, while Octavious went to Gladys's side and tried to rouse her out of her strange state, but she didn't acknowledge him. Whenever he touched her, she screamed louder. He stood back, shuddering, confused, pleading with her to get control of herself.

Mama returned to my bedside and began her effort to turn the baby. I thought I must have gone in and out of consciousness because I couldn't remember what happened or how long I was crying and moaning. Once, I looked over and saw the expression of utter horror on Octavious's face. I knew Mama was happy he was in the room, witnessing all the pain and turmoil, hoping he would see it for years in nightmares.

Fortunately for me and the baby, Mama had miraculous hands. Later she would tell me if she had failed, the only alternative was a cesarean section. But Mama was truly the Cajun healer. I saw from the happy expression on her face that she had managed to turn the baby. Then, guiding me, coaxing and coaching me along, she continued the birthing process.

"Push when you have the contractions, honey. This way two forces, the contraction and your pushing, combine to move the baby and saves you some energy," she advised. I did as she said and soon I began to feel the baby's movement.

My own grunts and cries filled my ears, so I didn't hear the grunts and cries coming from Gladys Tate, but I caught a glimpse of Octavious holding her hand and continually trying to calm her. She had her legs up and was actually pushing down on her padding so that it slipped off her stomach and toward her legs.

"He's coming!" Mama announced, and we all knew it was a boy. The room was a cacophony of bedlam: Gladys's mad cries (louder than mine), Octavious trying to get her to stop, my own screams, Mama mumbling prayers and orders, and then that great sense of completion, that sweet feeling of emptiness followed by my baby's first cry.

His tiny voice stopped my screams and Gladys's as well. Mama held him up, the placenta still attached and dangling.

"He's big," Mama exclaimed. "Big enough to do well even though he's early."

I tried to catch my breath, my eyes fixed on the wonder that had emerged from my body, the living thing that had dwelled inside my stomach.

Mama cut and tied the cord and then began to wash the baby, doing everything quickly and with an expertise born of years and years of experience, while I lay back trying to get my heart to slow, my breathing regular. When I gazed at Gladys Tate, I saw she was mesmerized by the sight of the baby. She didn't move. Octavious watched with interest and awe. Mama wrapped the baby in a blanket and held him for a moment.

"Perfect features," she said.

"Give me my baby," Gladys demanded. "Give him to me now!" she screamed.

Mama gazed at her for a moment and then at me. I closed my eyes and put my hand over my face. I had wanted to hold him, at least for a few moments, but I was afraid to say anything. Mama brought the baby to Gladys, who cradled him quickly.