A Gift for Three Mothers
Posted: Friday, April 25, 2008
by Larry Winebrenner
L M Winebrenner
Mother's Day was on May 16 that year. Margie was pregnant, but wasn't expected to deliver until the first week in June.
But you know how impatient some fetuses can be. They don't appreciate the warm comfort of the mother's womb. Eager to get out, they are. To make their mark in the world.
Jack was no different. Come May 26, he was "outta there!"
So, Dutchie made the calls. Two of them. One over a thousand miles to a neighbor's house where his mother "Just happened to be sitting." His mother had no phone. In fact, no one in town, except this neighbor, had a phone.
"Hello, Mother?" Dutchie queried when his mother was put on the phone. "Happy Mother's Day. It's a boy."
No weight. No length. No nothing until his mother asked how mother and child were.
"Fine," he said, and both were eager to hang up so the cost of the call wouldn't be so much.
Dutchie repeated the process to his mother-in-law, though not with much enthusiasm. After all, she was only in the next town. Margie and baby Jack would be at her house where she was tending to Junior during the hospital stay.
Junior was another matter.
"I don't want no baby brother or sister," the five-year-old stated adamantly. Even when Grandmother tried to tell him how wonderful it would be to be the "Big brother." And when she told him it was a baby brother, he said, "I don't want no baby brother."
Junior had been saying this for three months. When he asked, "Mother, why are you getting so fat?" they began to explain. "This is a baby growing in Mother's stomach."
When they tried to get him to lay his head on her tummy to see if he could "hear the baby," he struck out and hit her stomach.
It wasn't a hit hard enough to injure the baby, but such action could not be condoned.
Dutchie grabbed Junior by the arm. He gave the boy's rear several hard swats. "Don't you ever try to hurt your baby brother or sister again!" he commanded.
Grandmother tried to prepare Junior for the baby's arrival.
"His name is Jack," she said. "I want you to act like a Martin when he arrives. Martins have always protected their own. You are a Martin. Never forget that. You will live like a Martin, and when the time comes, you will die like a Martin."
"Am I going to die?"
There was a tremble in his voice.
"Not now, boy. But we all die some day. When you do, you will die like a Martin. Until then, you will live like a Martin. And we Martins stick together."
The thought of death clung to little Junior. When he heard the older folks talk that night while waiting for Margie and little Jack to get there, he heard them say it was a wonder the doctor was letting the "preemie" come home. "Why, what happened if the baby died from exposure to all the germs in this old house."
"Shut up, Edna," said Grandmother. "The child wasn't born that early. And I'll have you to know, I keep a clean house."
Junior pulled on his grandmother's apron.
"Is Jack going to die?" he asked.
She was startled at the question. She ignored Junior and turned on Edna.
"Now see what you've done? You have the boy worrying about the baby dying,."
When she turned back around, Junior was gone.
"They're here!" cried a neighbor.
Everyone rushed out the front door. Everyone wanted to carry the baby, but Margie maintained firm possession. The child was asleep. Margie carefully placed him in the basinet and wrapped the covers tightly around him.
"Everyone out," commanded Dutchie, pulling the door closed behind him. Margie opened it a crack, "So I can hear him if he cries," she explained.
Everyone retired to the large kitchen table. Coffee and iced tea were served. Family gossip commenced.
After a while Murray asked, "Where's Junior?"
Everyone looked around, but he didn't seem to be in the kitchen.
"He likes to lie on that bear rug," said Grandmother. "He probably laid down and went to sleep out there."
"No he didn't," said Edna.
"What?" said Dutchie and his mother-in-law at once.
Edna cringed.
"I just seed im walkin' down th' hall wi' a baseball bat," she whimpered.
"My God!" exclaimed Dutchie. Grandmother shot him a withering glance. She didn't permit any profanity in her house. But she said nothing. They both jumped to their feet at once.
"He keeps swearing he doesn't want a baby brother," Dutchie snarled as he fled down the hall, trailed by his wife and her mother.
The door to the baby's room was wide open. Junior was leaning over the basinet, bat gone, mumbling something at Jack.
Dutchie rushed over to where the baby lay. The bat was lying across the child. Dutchie reached for Junior, to yank him away, to wail him for hurting the baby.
Margie tugged at his arm.
"Listen," she said quietly. "Listen to what he's saying."
Dutchie stopped. He listened. Junior spoke. It was a mantra, repeated again and again.
"You and me is Martins. We's got to take care of each other."
Grandmother placed her lips on Dutchie's cheek and kissed it.
She said, "Happy Mother's Day."
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