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by Jan Hogan
CHAPTER ONE
1875 – Sacramento, California
Here it came, another one. She gritted her teeth. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
“Push. Push,” her housekeeper chanted from the corner.
Felicia Fontinello grabbed the upper arm of the midwife standing beside her. She hoped it hurt because these contractions were going to kill her. She sent a hard look up at her. “Get this damn thing out of me,” she seethed.
“Yes, Ma’am.” The woman winced and pulled her arm free. She moved to the end of the bed, between her legs. “Just a little bit longer. I can see the head.”
You said that earlier, you bitch. Every nerve was on fire. Get this damn kid out of me.
“You’re not pushing,” the midwife said.
Like hell I’m not. Just let her grab that skinny little neck and squeeze and let’s see how she felt. But, no, the midwife, whatever her name was, wasn’t going to let herself get grabbed again.
“Give it one big push,” the midwife urged.
“You can do it,” said the housekeeper, standing by with the towels.
Felicia let out a yowl. The contraction passed.
Her husband was never, ever going to touch her again, not if she had anything to say about it. She slumped back against the bedding. “I can’t handle another contraction.”
“Of course you can. Women have been giving birth all through history,” the midwife said.
“Let me die.”
“Silly, you’re not going to die. Now, gather your strength. The next one should be here in about a minute.”
Another one? In a minute? No, she couldn’t take any more of this. How come her mother had never told her it would hurt this damn much? Not that she’d told her much about anything, just to “do whatever Phillip says.” Yeah, well, she’d done what Phillip wanted and look at where it had gotten her – big as a horse and wearing a tent for a dress. What had ever possessed her to allow Phillip into her bed?
Of course, she’d known it was her duty to give him a child when they’d gotten married. The Fontinello blood line had to be preserved of course. That had been clear. He needed an heir, a son, to take over the business and see it grow even bigger. The man was almost fifty. His former wife had been barren. So, it was up to her.
“Give me a son, Felicia,” he’d whispered as he’d pumped away inside her nine months ago. “Give me a son.”
OK, fine, he needed a son. But no one ever explained exactly what it entailed when it came to delivering on that agreement. This pain was unbearable.
Here it came, another one. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
“You’ve got to push,” the midwife said. “Push.”
Shut up, you bitch. She gasped. This pain, this pain, oh my God. Make it stop!
“Keep pushing.” The midwife shot her a look above the drape and pouted. “You’re not trying.”
Like hell she wasn’t. I’ll show you who’s not trying. Just let me get my hands around that neck of yours… Felicia sat up, arms outstretched.
“There! That’s better. You’re pushing now. A little more, a little more.”
Wait. That’s what it took? Sitting up? She leaned forward and sat up as far as she could.
Get this damn baby out of me right n-
There was a pop in her abdomen.
A squalling erupted from somewhere between her legs. She couldn’t see through the darn drape. “He’s here? He’s here?”
The midwife’s facial expression turned gentle. “There you go, little one. Welcome to the world.”
Felicia collapsed back on the bed, bathed in sweat. He was out. Her son was born, little Phillip Junior was born. Finally.
“Aren’t you a sparkler?” the midwife cooed.
Fine, fine, cut the cord, clean him off and give him to her.
The midwife cut the cord, set the knife aside, then took him to the corner and fussed with him.
Do what you have to do and leave me with my newborn. This was taking too long. “Let me see him.”
“What?” the midwife asked, stiffening.
“My son, let me see him.”
The midwife hesitated.
What was wrong with this woman? She’d been irritating, bossing her around. Well, it was time that she had a taste of her own medicine. “Bring him here,” she commanded, drawing out each word.
The midwife approached, holding little Phillip wrapped tightly in a blanket.
Good, he was all cleaned up so she didn’t have to deal with that blood and smelly goo. Nasty stuff, that. She reached out and took her child. “Now, leave, both of you. I want to be alone with my son.” It felt so good to say that, my son.
The midwife and the housekeeper exchanged a look, took their leave and shut the bedroom door behind them.
Ah, this was better. Look at you, little one. She held him up.
He blinked back at her, eyes unfocussed.
“You’re perfect,” she told him. “Your life is going to be fabulous. You have money. You have status. You have power. And all because you’re the son of ‘the’ Phillip Fontinello.” She cradled him to her and he began moving his mouth, rooting around. Probably hungry. She exposed her left breast and he clamped on. Ouch, easy, easy.
He suckled away.
Now that Little Phillip was settled, she could check him out. She tugged the blanket away. Look at those little feet and those tiny toes. They looked like pearls. Perfect, just perfect.
She took his hands. Tiny fingers, perfectly formed. So sweet. One, two, three, four, five of them on the right one. She took up his other hand. One, two three, four –
What! No, this couldn’t be. Six fingers? What the heck?
She yanked the baby away from her breast and stared as it began squalling in protest as the blanket fell away. Wait. Where was his penis? There was only a slit.
No, no, no.
It was a girl.
Not only that, it was deformed. Six fingers on one hand? This was an abomination.
Her heart beat faster.
All those months – the morning sickness, the weight gain, the constant peeing, the mottled skin, the inability to find a comfortable sleeping position – she’d endured it all to give Phillip a boy. And she’d never complained, not once. No, not her. She’d bit her lip and endured it all.
Now, she had this, this, this deformed curse to give him.
It wasn’t fair. She’d worked so hard. She’d done all the work, day and night. Now, she had to present him with this utterly deficient thing?
No, no, she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
There was a glint on the bed.
The knife. Yes, that was the solution, the only solution.
She could fix this, part of it, at least.
She grabbed the thing’s left hand and held it flat against the night stand.
She could do this. She separated the thing’s five normal fingers from the one that stuck out like a flag pole, telling the whole world the Fontinellos had created an abomination. If anyone saw it, Phillip would be the laughing stock of Sacramento.
There was only one thing to do.
She grabbed the knife tighter, hefted it high above her head and – now! – brought it down with all her might.