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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
