Straight No Chaser

_ _ _

ever since the contest, i've been self-conscious about this capitalization thing. my mind won't let me change it, though, until the next time; even then, it'll be hard. i came up with an idea to lessen the shock, somewhat. to make it okay. it's exhausting, to work this way.

*****

And now he isn't speaking to her.

*

Well, to be fair, he was. They woke simultaneously the next morning, the two of them, to the insistent whimpers of a daughter wanting breakfast, and it was his turn to make breakfast, and he did, conversing lightly with both women throughout. "Going to do some laundry today," he remarked, bending over to drop a handful of mashed berries into a coconut half for Kailani. To Shannon: "Have anything you need washed?"

She sighed. "Some skirts."

"Okay," he said, handing her her own fruit salad bowl. Then he straightened up and started on the eggs, and then Kai dropped her berries and burst into tears, and her wails drowned out the noisy silence.

*

And now he isn't speaking to her. He merely shrugs when she suggests reopening the workshop, their makeshift Babies 'R' Us, and so she decides to do it herself.

She leaves Kai with Aaron each morning now, ducks off to Walmart for fabric and sewing supplies. She is developing, if slowly, a homespun layette in gender-neutral colors. The tiny onesies are even harder to make than Kai's little outfits; in the absence of a living model, Shannon has to guess on the measurements, fashion little mannequins out of sticks and coconuts, sew everything loosely in case the stitches need adjusting later.

It sucks and she cries, all day, daily. Sits hunched over on a fallen log, wetting up her creations with her stupid tears as the little one(s) kick(s) and kick(s) and kick(s).

*

She almost expects this to be like last time, expects Aaron's funk to lift first, expects to come home some afternoon to his concern and apologies and kisses. She runs through it in her head as she works, the ideal scenario, in which, in her absence, he's furnished the shelter with two sets of baby furniture, taught Kailani to say twins, chosen the perfect name for this son he wants so badly.

She comforts herself with these thoughts on what she thinks is a Friday, one of the sadder mornings. It has occurred to her that, on top of everything else, she can't feel him--this son Aaron wants so badly--that as fully as she feels the presence of this hypothetical daughter, she still feels nothing when she thinks the words baby boy. She wanted a son very badly, once; had chosen his name by high school, planned for his arrival throughout college. She can't understand what's happened between then and now, why it's so painfully difficult to prepare for a boy, to use the swatches of powder blue in the construction of an infant wardrobe.

"If you're a boy and I'm wrong, then I'm sorry," she says, sniffling, to whomever might be listening. Thunder rumbles lightly in the distance; cavewoman that she is, she recognizes the sound as indicative of a light drizzle to come, maybe by dusk. No big deal, but it's enough of an incentive to cut her shift short for the day. She gathers up the tiny bits and pieces, folds and drapes them over her forearm, and trudges back toward the shelter.

Maybe, just maybe, he'll make her feel better. Maybe he'll have made lunch already. Maybe Kailani will giggle and make her coconut joke again. Shannon's mouth twitches at the prospects. Almost, but not quite, a smile.

*

Two out of three. Lunch is birds sauteed in coconut oil with those weird roots he likes. Kailani is giggling incessantly. Aaron doesn't speak.

"What's funny, sugar?" asks Shannon, forcing a smile as she scoops up her daughter. "Are you my little girl or a hyena pup?"

"Shouldn't keep picking her up like that," mutters Aaron. He sits crosslegged and stares at his plate, pushing his food around with the pointed end of a kebab. Little rivulets of oil drip over the edges, pooling in the sand.

"Well," begins Shannon. She can't think of an argument, so she ends the thought there, and sets Kai back on the ground.

Aaron spears a strip of meat and sticks it in his mouth.

Kai dives for her own plate and grabs a pair of berries, one in each hand. "One, two!" she chants triumphantly, showing her distracted parents.

Tears threaten. Shannon spins on her heel and marches toward the shelter.

Behind her, Kai babbles on. "Fee, four, five..."

*

She was right, about the rain. It starts at sundown and carries on throughout the night, a light, barely audible pitter-patter on the tarp over their heads.

She, being awake, hears every last drop.

She's staring at the ceiling when the unborn begins its nightly performance, executing a slow roll and push. Shannon reaches instinctively for Aaron's hand; usually, he doesn't mind waking for this.

Eyes closed, he allows her to center his palm atop her belly. Doesn't speak, doesn't smile. And, a second later, pulls his hand back and turns away.