Helen removed the blade, its rounded edges thudding hollowly against the child's slender ribcage, barely audible amid the waves.

She handed the blade to Geraldine and unswaddled the dead child. Its limbs fell to its sides and a gush of blood spurted from the wound. Helen pressed her thumb against it, stemming the flow.

"For the Mother," she said, holding the baby aloft.

"For the Mother," the others intoned in respectful reverence, moving in around Helen in a tight circle.

Helen removed her thumb and a geyser of blood sprayed their hungry faces.

They lapped it up until its hot, wet flow waned, and then they carved the small body into bite-sized pieces, gnashing their teeth on the chewy meat, gooey fat and stringy sinew. Gnawing the flesh off her fat little toes and fingers. Chewing the gristle off her bones.

The lion's share they saved for Mother.

Ever thoughtful, Helen brought along a Tupperware.

14

Women's Intuition

THE MIDWIVES ARRIVED at the Gingerbread House just before nine, a plump woman with a beehive hairdo and a delicate-looking woman wearing white silk gloves, holding a Tupperware container. Martin recognized them from the photographs in the box in his room. They were members of his mother's bowling league. What was it called? The Baby Splitters? The picture had looked pretty old but the women didn't appear to have aged a day.

Martin felt a vague sense of unease moments before he opened the door—Norma would have said someone must have walked over his grave—but he passed it off as an effect of the hangover. He hadn't gotten much sleep and his head still throbbed from too much drink at the Legion.

He held the door open but the women remained on the porch, the morning chill fogging their breath.

"Come in," Martin said, wondering if they needed an engraved invitation.

They stepped across the threshold together.

"Can I take your coats?"

"No, thanks," the woman with the beehive said gruffly. She looked around the foyer. "Place sure has changed."

"I'm Martin, by the way." He stuck out a hand.

She nodded brusquely, ignoring the hand as she kicked off her boots. "We know who you are. We delivered you."

Slipping off her coat, the woman with the gloves nodded and smiled. Her teeth were very small and close together. The smile itself seemed to contain all of the secrets a woman her age might carry with her to the grave.

Martin took her coat and hung it on the rack. He turned to watch as they headed for the stairs.

Norma stood in the kitchen doorway, eyeing their uninvited guests suspiciously as she worked a hand towel in a wet mug.

"Norma," the beehive woman said. "How are you, dear?"

"Been better."

The bitterness between them was unmistakable. The woman with the white gloves ignored them, already softly ascending the steps with the Tupperware.

"Can I get either of you something to drink?" Martin asked, since it didn't seem like Norma was about to offer any hospitality.