Against the Season (30 page)

“They’ve given her another shot,” Harriet explained. “They had to. There’s no choice now but to keep her in a light coma.”

Peter nodded.

“Did you tell Cole?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s probably better. Why should he have seen her like that?”

Peter wanted to say he had tried to break Cole’s jaw instead, but it was not the kind of confession that served any purpose. He knew Cole would not say anything.

“How’s Agate?”

“Getting on with it,” Peter said.

“Should one of us go down?”

“You go,” Peter said. “I’ll wait here.”

They stood together for a moment, a worn-looking, middle-aged couple, inadequate to the birth and death taking place, not even simply related to it or to each other, there by frail choice.

As Cole ran down the long corridors, dodging nurses and hospital equipment, he felt his jaw begin to ache, but it was relieving a pain so much more serious that he was nearly grateful for it. He passed the maternity waiting room and went on down into the labor room. Agate’s bed was empty.

“She’s gone in,” the nurse said.

“So soon?”

“It won’t be long now. She didn’t leave much time.”

“I wanted to see her. I…”

“She’s just fine,” the nurse said. “She isn’t going to have any trouble at all.”

Behind another curtain, Cole heard a nurse say in an impatient voice, “Bear down! Bear down!”

Bear up, surely? Bear with. Cole walked back down to the waiting room to face the brothers.

“She gone in already?” one of them asked.

Cole nodded.

“You’re going to be home free tonight.”

Cole turned away. It was literally true, for, without Agate there, Harriet had no reason to come back. He did not like the idea of that empty house. He had been alone in it only one other night, the night Kathy had had her baby. Where was Harriet? A long time to be with Cousin A. Probably Peter had gone to be with her.

“Mr. Westaway?”

He turned to the nurse in the doorway.

The young lady wanted me to tell you, it’s a boy.”

“Is she all right?”

“Just fine.”

“And the baby? Is he…?”

“Perfect.”

“Can I see her?”

“For a minute.”

Agate was being wheeled down to the elevator on a table, but she was propped up on her elbow, and she waved as she saw him.

“Okay?” he called.

“Nothing to it,” she called back.

He was walking beside her now, holding her hand, looking down into her sun-yellow eyes, amazed by her happiness, proud of her as she was of herself.

“Go wake up Miss A, will you? Tell her. And tell her the baby’s all right.”

Cole nodded and smiled.

“And phone Rosemary, too,” Agate added, some forced sturdiness coming into her voice.

“I will.”

“And come see me once or twice with some beer.”

“Sure.”

She was wheeled into the elevator, and the doors closed. Somewhere nearby Cole heard the small, outraged cry of a new baby. Agate’s? Someone else’s. He turned and saw Harriet standing down the corridor waiting for him.

“A boy,” Cole said. “They’re both fine. You know, we very nearly didn’t get her here on time. She wouldn’t do anything by the book, would she?”

“Better,” Harriet said, smiling.

“She wants me to wake Cousin A, but it’s …” he looked at his watch, “after eleven. She is asleep by now, isn’t she?”

“Cole, she’s worse.”

Cole looked at Harriet, the strain of sorrow clear on her face, and he wanted to say, “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” but his jaw already smarted with that cowardice.

“Peter’s with her now. He’s been with her all evening.”

“How much worse?”

“She isn’t conscious. She’s dying.”

Cole shook his head.

“I’m so sorry,” Harriet said, offering a shy hand to him.

He took it and turned it gracefully into the crook of his arm, to support her and to be reassured that he could take this walk, too, since it was required of him.

Jane Rule (1931–2007) was the author of several novels and essay collections, including the groundbreaking lesbian love story
Desert of the Heart
(1964), which was made into the feature film
Desert Hearts
. She was inducted into the Order of Canada in 2007. Born in New Jersey, Rule moved to Canada in 1956, and lived on Galiano Island, British Columbia, until her death at the age of seventy-six.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1971 by Jane Rule

Cover design by Tracey Dunham

978-1-4804-2962-8

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