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Neither Mama nor I said anything. Our

attention was mainly focused now on my efforts to

bring a newborn child into the world.

Hours passed, the contractions continuing to

grow in intensity and the intervals continuing to

shorten, but Mama didn't look pleased with my

progress. She examined me periodically and shook

her head with concern. The pain grew more and more

intense. I was breathing faster and heavier, gasping at

times. When I looked at Gladys, I saw her face was crimson, her eyes glassy. She had run her fingers through her hair so much, the strands were like broken piano wires, curling up in every direction. She writhed on her bed, groaning. Mama was concentrating firmly

on me now and barely paid her notice.

Mama referred to the watch, felt my

contractions, checked me and bit down on her lip. I

saw the alarm building in her eyes, the muscles in her

face tense.

"What's wrong, Mama?" I gasped between deep

breaths.

"It's breech," she said sorrowfully. "I was afraid

of this. It's not uncommon with premature births." "Breech?" Gladys Tate cried, pausing in her

imitation of my agony. "What does that mean?" "It means the baby is in the wrong position. Its

buttocks is pointing out instead of its head," she

explained.

"It's more painful, isn't it? Oh no. Oh no," she

cried, wringing her hands. "What will I do?" "I have no time for this sort of stupidity,"

Mama said. She hurried to the door. Octavious was

nearby, pacing. "Bring me some whiskey," she

shouted at him.

"Whiskey?"

"Hurry."

"What are you going to do, Mama?" I asked. "I've got to try to turn the baby, honey. Just