The looks of cheer vanished, making it obvious the kind of woman they all thought she was—or had been. Like a shout of "fuck the Irish" at the St. Patrick's Day parade, the mood suddenly swung from cheerful to borderline hostile.

"Come on, Singe," Mike or Mark said, the plaid fedora currently in his lap.

"No, this has to be said. She may not have wanted to be one of us, and heck, maybe some of that's on us. But she was born here, just like the rest of us. And her passing deserves to be mourned in our way."

Martin sensed the importance of those words: Our Way. As if "their way" was somehow different from the people who mourned elsewhere, outside of this small island.

"Hon?" Laura said, concern in her voice.

Everyone turned to her. The problem was immediately apparent. The crotch of her dress was soaked through.

Sinjin put his glass hurriedly on the mantle above the fireplace and pushed through the crowd to get to her side. He knelt in front of her, taking her hands. "Is it now? Should we call them?"

Laura nodded cautiously, as if to prevent further slippage. Sinjin looked up at the gathered crowd.

"Somebody call the Midwives," he said, his big hands on Laura's belly as she breathed through the pain. "I'm gonna be a dad!"

Before anyone could congratulate him, cheer or react in any fashion, the glass slipped off the mantle and shattered on the floor.

"What did I miss?" Sheila said, standing halfway down the steps.

13

The Circle

WHEN LAURA ASKED her to stay, Sheila was so astonished all she could manage was a feeble nod. By then it was too late to say no. She cleared her throat, summoning sobriety, and said, "I'd be honored."

She had no idea why Laura St. John would want her around for what was possibly the most intimate moment of her life. Particularly when the other guests were asked politely to leave, and all the men specifically sent away, leaving Sheila alone with a handful of mothers, young and old.

It reminded her of black-and-white TV shows where the men all stood outside the hospital room smoking cigars. All the gender-roleplay seemed peculiar and archaic.

The midwives arrived one by one. First came a fragile-looking elderly woman with white silk gloves and a powdered face. She wore a thick sweater with the face of an owl on it and spoke so softly Sheila couldn't hear a word as she greeted Laura and instructed the others to fill the blow-up wading pool Sinjin had dragged in from the shed before he left with the men.

"Warm water, please," she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper, as if she couldn't speak any louder. While the remaining women went to the kitchen, she comforted Laura, asked about her contractions, told her to remember her breathing.

"That's Geraldine," the woman at Sheila's side said as they entered the kitchen. Her husband had introduced her as Pauline. She wore too much makeup and smelled like violets. "She's the one who delivered me. My three boys, too."