Norman felt as if each of his bones and joints and muscles were weakened to breaking. As if he’d been holding himself upright against a descending sky. Almost as if back with the long marching. His eyes ached and brimmed red. If not careful, his hands would shake as he reached for one thing or another. The cider helped only in that he no longer felt as if he’d fall down. It had been a long night with the doctor and at some point during it he’d failed to anticipate the day. Believing she’d hold out the short weeks left. Now he felt a sickness through him, not of his own making but as if he’d failed her some way. Some way he could never call back. Never do over. Her cries overhead had gone off now, had faded to deep grunts and body-drawn groaning. He had decided she would not live through this. He had decided he could forgive no one. Least himself. His revulsion was complete, near to panic. He stood eating doughnuts.

Then the house was quiet. He walked the kitchen. Connie came down and using thick rags lifted the copper boiler to carry up. He offered to take it and she looked at him and said no and went out. He listened to her footsteps up the stairs. Then quiet again. Then the single cry: high, torn, slicing keen as a razor, new. Raging into life. As if thrust from the womb and also torn from the breast of a greater, kinder mother. As if knowing no kindness had been done it. Furious rage. One raw gulped-out cry. As if knowing all the souls within the house straining to hear that cry knew this loss and so welcomed her joining them. Or had forgotten they knew it and so welcomed her as surrogate to themselves. That cry then: new, and very old.