Mona Dale lived on a small street in a platted area of Norwood. Most of the houses were the already-cut-and-fitted types that were popping up all over America. Mona’s was no different—a story-and-a-half bungalow designed with bevel siding and painted yellow. The main roof sloped down over a large front porch that boasted two potted mums on stone columns. The architecture of the house had as many graceful curves as its occupant.
The lawn was littered with fallen leaves in decaying shades of red and orange. Moe shuffled through them searching for the sidewalk that led to the front door. Danja’s slack body seemed even heavier with the blood saturated blanket around it, and managing the few steps up to the porch wasn’t as easy as it should have been. The night’s autumn breeze blew across Moe’s wet leg and left him cold.
Carrying a half-dead girl had a way of disintegrating a man’s patience. He kicked at the door. “Mona, open up.” When she didn’t answer immediately, he kicked it again. The portico lamp switched on just in time to keep him from booting a third time.
A seasoned nurse like Mona was probably used to seeing a lot of blood, but not at midnight on her front porch. She swung open the door and said exactly what Moe was feeling. “Holy Mother of God!”
“Hurry, Mona. I need your help.”
Mona unlatched the screen door and stepped aside to let Moe and his bundle pass through. “She needs a doctor, Moe.”
“You’re the next best thing, baby, and there’s no time for debate.”
Mona motioned for Moe to follow her off to the right of the front door. “This way,” she said and led them up a short flight of stairs. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know why she’s bleeding.”
Mona shot a look down at Moe’s pant leg. “Why are you bleeding?”
“I’m not.”
Mona’s eyes popped wide, but she held her tongue. She led them to a back room on the second floor and pointed to a twin bed in the corner. “Get that blanket off her while I get some supplies.” Mona yanked back the bedspread and then hurried out of the room.
Moe eased Danja’s body down on the crisp, white linens of the bed and worked at uncoiling the blanket from around her. Her pale blue lips and matted yellow hair stood out against her ashen skin. Moe had forgotten she was nude until he saw her under-ripened nipples flat against her chest. He’d nearly finished unwrapping the blanket when Mona rushed back in with rags and her medical bag. She stopped on a dime. “Where are her clothes?” The words scraped through teeth clenched so tight paper wouldn’t slide between them.
“There wasn’t time to find them …”
Moe started to explain, but he’d just freed Danja’s lower body, and the only thing he could hear was the whoosh of his pulse rumbling through his ears. Once, in a slaughterhouse, Moe had seen something that might compare to the crimson, jelly-like lump that lay between Danja’s legs. Tiny unformed limbs protruded from the mass. Moe swallowed hard, gulping for air and forgetting to breathe out. “Is that what I think it is?” He tried not to revisit his dinner.
Mona cast a look of pure disgust Moe’s way. “Go downstairs to the kitchen and clean yourself up. I have enough to do without trying to step over you.”
Finally, remembering to exhale, Moe heaved a sigh. “I figure I can help. I’ll do anything you want.”
“I think you’ve done enough already, don’t you?” There wasn’t an ounce of compassion in any syllable she spoke.
“Mona …”
She met Moe’s eye for the first time, and all he could see was a world of hurt. “Moe, it’ll be easier
for me
if you wait downstairs.”
There was nothing he could say to that. At least nothing more important than Mona fixing up Danja. So he turned to leave. “Holler if you need me.”
* * *
Moe spent the next two hours doing nothing but squeaking shoe leather. It didn’t take long before he could find his way through the first floor of Mona’s house with his eyes closed: living room, dining room, kitchen—living room, dining room, kitchen. He could have walked to Kentucky and back by now, if he hadn’t been afraid of leaving the house. On the umpteenth trip through the kitchen, he decided to step out on the back porch. It was two o’clock in the morning, the moon was high. The neighborhood was sleeping, but someone forgot to tell the damn crickets. Their trilling song nagged worse than a mother-in-law. The shadow of two large crosses—clothesline props—stood silently in the backyard. Against the house was a good-sized pile of split maple. He grabbed a couple of logs from the woodpile and headed back inside. The fireplace in the living room was as good a project as any to occupy his hands, if not his mind.
Moe might have been able to ignore how the flames reminded him of Mona’s hair if the red-headed nurse hadn’t come down the steps just as the kindling flared up in a perfect flame. She looked tired—eyes heavy, hair mussed, clothes disheveled. In her arms she carried a bundle, supporting it like it was bone china.
“I don’t know what to do with this.” She pulled the bundle tighter to her chest, and tears welled in her eyes.
“Is it …?”
“It’s a fetus.” Mona sniffled, “Maybe three or four months along.”
“Four months? She didn’t even look pregnant.”
“Some women take awhile to show, especially if it’s their first pregnancy. Add that to poor health. It’s possible.”
This was out of Moe’s league. Cheating wives, one-eyed chumps, and sleazy politicians Moe knew how to deal with. But a baby born before it was ready was a different matter. “We’ll have to bury it, Mona.” His heart sank at the look of grief spilling all over Mona’s face. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
“It’s a girl.”
“You can tell that?”
She nodded and hugged the bundle.
“And Danja?”
