Marie went to Times Square, her first day in New York. She wanted the experience of standing in a swirling sea of strange faces and being just as unfamiliar to them as they were to her. She wanted the experience of walking down the street and being a total unknown. She wanted to experience as meaningfully as possible the anonymity that New York could offer a person.

The rude rush of mindless pedestrians was soothing to her shattered soul. The honk and roar and growl of traffic was so different from birdcall and surfsplash that it thrilled her. The thoughtless strangers who jostled her and treated her with no respect were a lullabye for her frayed nerve ends. Marie spent her first day as a New Yorker riding buses up and down the island of Manhattan, surveying the changing scenery from one neighborhood to another and being grateful that nobody treated her with any particular accord.

Several times, people approached her, bent on admiring the baby. The first time, Marie froze stiff as stone. Why was that woman coming over to him?? But all the woman wanted was to tickle his smooth, soft cheek and coo, “What a sweet, beautiful baby!”

In the light of that experience, the approach of the next stranger inspired dread but not terror . . . and in fact, this woman, too, had the most innocent of intentions, stroking Josh’s silky-downed head and marvelling at his rosy cheeks, while not marvelling at any imagined otherworldly attributes. He was just a baby.

But babies are a people-magnet, even in New York. Next to admire him was an older gent. Marie’s heart still pounded wildly at the man’s approach, but this man, like the two women before him, saw only a sweet little baby, nothing more, and his intentions were as benign as the others’.

At day’s end, she headed home by taxi to the hotel room she had temporarily rented. At the corner newsstand, she was a bit shaken up to see her picture and Josh’s peering off the front page of U.S.A. Today. MISSING MIRACLE CHILD, the headline read. She looked in the picture as she had used to look, before she’d cut her hair super-short and dyed it brown-black, plucked her eyebrows to thin lines, and bought a new wardrobe designed to make her look heavier. There was less she could do to Josh’s appearance; but she hoped he had enough of a “generic baby” look not to be too distinctive.

Her new temporary quarters were in a residence hotel, complete with kitchenette, and as she nursed Josh, she debated what to do about her own dinner—eat in or out. She’d bought a few things she could cook in the rudimentary kitchen, but there was no reason not to go out to dinner now.

She relaxed into the chair—less comfortable than her easy chair at home, yet far more comfortable when you factored in the knowledge that here, at last, she had privacy and serenity. Here, no reporters would roust her from the chair demanding the latest tidbits of her life, the last news about Josh. She melted into the chair and into the anonymity that the city afforded her. Here, at last, she could just be “Danielle Walker,” the name on her new driver’s license. Here, at last, she could be free.

When Josh had finished his dinner, she decided it was time for hers. She would eat out. In this city of a million cuisines, she would find a restaurant offering food she had never eaten. If she was going to go into hiding, she would make the best of it. If she’d had to leave Flamingo Cove, at least she would get something good out of it—starting with adventurous dining.

She inquired at the front desk and was told Third Avenue and Columbus Avenue were each a sort of Restaurant Row. “How do I get to them?” she asked, and was rewarded with a look of utter disrespect. How could anyone be so ignorant? the look said. She gloried in it. She revelled in being disrespected—it was so much better than being worshipped.

She made her way to Columbus Avenue and found an Indian restaurant. Marie had never eaten Indian food. The presence of a table full of people who appeared to come from India gave her reason to hope the cuisine might be authentic, too.

Authentic or not, it was delicious. She ate more than she should have, reflecting that if she kept this up, soon the “fat clothes” would be no pose. As she ate, she thought that maybe Elinor and Sheila, at least, would each be able to come up and visit her some time, when all the furor had died down. It might mean waiting a year or more, but surely there would come a time when they could each come to New York and see her without being followed.

She pictured eating out in this very restaurant—Sheila loved spicy foods, and Elinor was an adventurous eater who loved new foods, new restaurants. As Marie pictured joyful reunions with her mother and best friend, she relaxed even more. Yes, she would miss Flamingo Cove. Yes, she knew she would get terribly homesick. But lots of people started over. Lots of people moved to New York or some other big city. Lots of people who knew no one in their new homes still started over and got on fine.

Like all these other people, she would make new friends. She would get a job, or even buy a business—she had the money from the sale of Office Central. She would find a daycare center if she needed to . . . or maybe she’d be a stay-at-home mom, like she’d always wanted, at least for a couple of years. Maybe she’d start a business she could run from home . . . . Her mind took off, soaring with the possibilities. The calm that had begun to edge the fear out of her mind was now replaced, in turn, with excitement.

She was starting a great adventure. Yes, and it was going to be all right. She had done the right thing. She smiled at Josh, then dared to look all around the restaurant instead of shrinking into herself and trying to be invisible. She could start unlearning that reflex now. They were only two of the swarm of faces that populated a great city to get lost in. She was beginning to lose the awful feeling she’d had on arriving—that any minute now, someone was going to recognize her.

Nobody would. Nobody had all day. She was safe.

Finally finishing her dinner, Marie paid the bill and gathered Josh up, walking at an almost exaggeratedly slow pace for the sheer pleasure of knowing she could do it. She even debated walking a little part of the way back to her hotel, as far as she comfortably could while carrying Josh. It would do her good to walk off the hearty meal.

Still indecisive, she stepped outside the restaurant and looked appraisingly at the sky. It was 7:30, which in summertime is still well within daylight hours, but the sky had darkened and lowered. Rain seemed imminent. Marie opted for prudence and hopped on a bus. Fumbling with one hand in her purse while holding Josh, she drew out the fare and dropped it in the farebox. Then she started to make her way down the aisle of riders, many of whom were absorbed in their newspapers.

As she worked her way down the aisle, a fortysomething woman looked up at Marie intently. She peered as if studying her face. For a minute, the old fear returned. But the woman turned her head without showing any recognition and began to peer just as intently at someone else.

Marie rushed toward one of the last seats on the bus, settling Josh in her lap. In a minute, a woman and child were standing alongside Marie. When Marie realized the girl was blind, she almost got up and offered her own seat, but now the exciting day filled with alternating fear and hope and promise was beginning to exact its toll on Marie; she decided that standing and holding Josh was more than she was up for. She stayed seated. The woman standing there—apparently the little blind girl’s mother—noticed Josh and began to fuss over him. “There’s a baby, Jenny,” she explained to her daughter.

Jenny edged carefully closer to Josh, who was placidly waving his arms in Marie’s lap. Standing in front of the baby, the little girl was almost eye-to-eye with him. Suddenly the bus lurched, and Jenny’s face was an inch from Josh’s. The baby’s idly swatting hand made soft contact with the little girl, brushing her cheek like a stroke of silk.

She suddenly lurched in a way that had nothing to do with the bus’s motion. She turned to her mother, an expression of something even beyond amazement twisting her face, her mouth gaping, her eyes alternately scrunching up and going wildly wide, as Jenny tried to make sense of this whole new dimension that had suddenly been added to her world.

“Mama?” she asked, reaching hesitantly toward her mother, touching the face she had never seen before.

Marie just wept.

THE END

The reporters cursed themselves for not being there. Though they were still returning regularly in search of crumbs of information, no one was keeping all-night vigil.  So of course, they all missed being there when the intruder struck. Still, they had a field day with the story. The would-be killer was a member of The Church of Repentance—Connor’s church. Though not acting under Connor’s direct orders, he’d certainly been inspired by Connor’s fiery rhetoric. And Connor said nothing to repudiate Todd’s actions when the press sought him out for comments.

It was clear to Marie that she couldn’t live a normal life in Flamingo Cove. She would have to move. Even if Todd was kept permanently locked up, and even if Connor himself made no move to finish what Todd had started, that wouldn’t be the end of it. Some other religious fanatic would come along, be it a member of The Church of Repentance or a freelance loony, and try to succeed at what Todd had attempted.

Too, the others weren’t leaving her alone, either—the ones who wished only good for her and Josh, but who insisted on venerating him as the Second Coming. The prayer groups still gathered near her house, exercising their right to free speech by praying loudly for the health and well-being of Josh, or praying to him to help them from their troubles and travails.

Even trips to the supermarket were problematic. Just the day before, while Marie was standing in the checkout line, a woman had pushed through, not to cut in with her groceries but to drop to her knees and make the sign of the cross before Josh while she kissed her rosary, then held it out to touch Josh with it as if that would make it truly holy. And it wasn’t just an isolated case. No amount of entreaties for privacy, no amount of pleas that Josh was an ordinary baby seemed to carry any weight.

Just the day before, when Marie was at the library, Josh had sneezed a tiny sneeze; one of the librarians had said, “Bless yourself.” It didn’t bode well for his chances of growing up like a normal child. And that was what Marie desperately wanted—a normal childhood for her son and a normal motherhood for herself.

In Flamingo Cove, clearly, they couldn’t have that. In fact, she doubted they could have it anywhere, as well known as they were. But she began to craft a plan, a plan that related to her earlier comment about the witness protection program. Although she couldn’t really get into the program, maybe she could still change her name, alter her appearance, take the money from the sale of the business, and move to another town. Maybe even a big city, where it would be easier to get lost in the dense humanity. Move, change her name, and start over.

Gary was paying her well for the business—far beyond what it was worth. He’d always wanted it passionately, beyond what was reasonable for a marginal business. She was sure it was a grudge matter because she’d won the business in the divorce settlement, after he’d poured so much of himself into establishing it. It had been a point of sore contention in court. Well, if he wanted it that badly, fine! Let him pay for it—through the nose.

They shook hands on the deal and signed the papers in her office. She was still shaky as she gripped the pen. A week had passed since the attack, but her nerves were nearly as raw as the night it happened. Every footstep behind her made her whirl around in fear. Every knock at the door made her cringe. Every unfamiliar voice made her quake.

She didn’t feel safe at home, and she didn’t feel safe at work. Not for the first time, she seriously considered hiring an armed guard, but she couldn’t live that way for the rest of her life. Elinor offered for Marie and Josh to move in with her “till things die down.” Marie didn’t fancy moving back in with her mother at age thirty-four; though, and besides, they couldn’t be together every minute; an assassin would just wait till some time when Elinor was off doing her own thing. Last, though it was far from the least consideration, Elinor’s invitation was “till things die down,” but Marie wasn’t sure things ever would.

Clearly, her only choice was to move—move and change her identity.

She felt guilty over spiriting Cole’s son away from him, but she didn’t see any alternative.

It was Pastor Hemmings who helped her put her plan into action. He had a friend who was ex-F.B.I., who was knowledgeable about false identities. He couldn’t issue her fake documents or give her any official help—he wasn’t even with the Bureau any longer—but he had a lot of good information about the nuts and bolts of starting a new life. He laid out a plan for her and helped her put it into action. Now that the sale of the business was going through, she would have the money to effect the plan.

Marie had a momentary pang of guilt as she accepted the check from Gary, knowing what she was going to do with the money. Leaving her mother and her best friend behind—would she ever see either of them again, or would her future relationship with each of the women be reduced to a series of furtive phone calls? She envisioned herself talking to Elinor and Sheila weekly from a different payphone, always worrying that, even so, someone would trace the source of the calls and find out at least the city in which she’d relocated.

And all because an assortment of zanies, publicity-hounds, religious nuts, zealots, and others with their own agendas were bent on proving that her sweet little son was something special. Well, he was something special, all right—to her, as his mother. Period. End of sentence.

Why couldn’t everyone else accept that?

As she trudged toward the car with Josh on her left shoulder, the diaper bag slung over her right shoulder, and the check securely in her pocket, she wondered how she was going to convert that much money to traveller’s checks without arousing suspicion. Well, tomorrow she’d be gone anyhow.

But wasn’t there still some hope she could stay in this town she was so comfortable in, near her mom and not far from her dad, close by her best friend and able to avail herself of the rest of her support network? A part of Marie hesitated. She really didn’t want to leave. Wasn’t there any other solution? Was she being a coward by fleeing?

She paused uncertainly at the mailbox. In her hand were the letters she was sending out, letters telling her mom, Sheila, Cole, Joanna, and a few other people that she was dropping out of sight. It wasn’t too late to abort the plan. Marie froze, uncertain and afraid.

Then a dumpling-shaped woman in her fifties approached at a quick trot from the north, headed for the mailbox. But she had no letters in her hand. “Oh, the Savior,” she cooed, sinking to her knees on the rough sidewalk and crossing herself. “Bless me, son of God, and help me.”

Just then Reverend Argyle rounded the corner. “Marie!” he effused, beaming at her. “Have you given more thought to joining our church yet? You want to get your son into the church as early as possible. We’d be pleased to have you as a member. A committee is going to call on you tomorrow. Please hear them out and listen to what they have to say.”

“If I could have just a shred of his blanket . . . anything,” the dumpling-shaped woman interrupted. “A relic to take home.” Then she unexpectedly slipped one of Josh’s socks off—of course, he had no shoes on—and clutched it to her like a treasure. Quickly rising to her feet, she scurryied off down the sidewalk.

“Forgive me, Reverend Argyle, but I have a lot to do,” Marie said, rapidly thrusting the letters into the mailbox and turning quickly away.

If Cole was, for once, restrained, the attitude wasn’t universal. In the days to come, it seemed everyone had something to say and was determined to find someone to say it to. Finding an interested reporter was easy; it seemed the population of Flamingo Cove had suddenly doubled with the influx of TV crews, radio newspeople, newspaper and magazine reporters, and freelance writers.

Marie remained in seclusion in the house for five days—recovered from the birth but avoiding the media circus—but there was a steady parade of people in and out, and nobody went up or down those steps without a phalanx of writers and reporters charging at them. They pounced on Elinor and Sheila, on Cole, on Claudia, who had come to see her new nephew, on Ben, who had come to see his new grandson, and on the steady parade of friends, neighbors, deliverypeople, and curiosity-seekers. They arrived in such numbers that Marie was all but ready to install a bakery-style number machine to keep things orderly. At one point she seriously considered hiring a security guard!

The clergy all came to call. Pastor Hemmings was the first, and he was welcome. “It’s not going to be an easy time,” he warned Marie, “but if there’s anything at all I can do—I or my congregation—you let me know. Whether it’s praying with you or for you, or whether it’s help of a more concrete nature. I know your mom and best friend both live nearby, but sometimes it’s nice to know you have a larger support system. Feel free to call on us. Call me at any hour. Here’s my home number, too.”

Reverend Argyle was next, and Marie did her best to welcome him graciously, though her feelings about him weren’t the same as for Pastor Hemmings. Later, as he strutted out of the house to the waiting reporters, he had a statement. “Our congregation is pleased to welcome this baby to the world,” he declaimed in his most oratorical tones.

“Is Marie a member of your church?” Sally asked.

“Not yet,” Reverend Argyle hedged.

Adam and Aaron called on her too. Once again they invited her to join their congregation, and once again she declined. “Then will you allow us to baptize the baby?” Aaron asked hopefully.

“Technically, he’s Jewish,” Marie pointed out. “Granted I don’t observe my religion, but I haven’t renounced it, either. And the child of a Jewish mother is Jewish.”

“But it’s so important—”Adam started.

Aaron laid a restraining hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Think about it,” Aaron offered. “No pressure. But if you ever want us, you know where to find us. We’ll be back to pray for your baby. Meanwhile the congregation is saying daily prayers for him.”

Marie finally went out of the house on the fifth day. Tired of being a prisoner in her own home, she decided the best thing to do was confront the press. Maybe if she gave them a statement, they’d go away. After all, the baby had been born. What more were they waiting for? What more did they think was going to happen? Maybe if she faced them and gave them their story, they’d all go away and her life could get back to normal.

Now that she had she had gotten Cole out, resolving one set of problems, the thing she wanted most was the peace and quiet she could have only when the media left her alone. The clergy were still posturing. Connor was ranting about devil spawn and the need to repent now, Adam about the need to serve God, and Reverend Argyle about the mysterious ways in which God moved. Other local clergy were having their say too, if less loudly.

But how long could they feed off nothing? Surely once there was nothing more happening, the media would drift away. And surely once the media stopped feeding the clergy’s frenzy, they’d quit their posturing and find other matters to occupy their time.

Marie couldn’t wait.

So she tried to kick off the separation process by facing the media and talking to them. One fine morning, when Josh was five days old, Marie put on a nice-looking, loose-fitting dress and stepped out on her front stoop. The sharks began circling. “I’ll make a deal with you,” Marie said. “I’ll give you a statement, and then I’ll answer your questions. I’ll stay and answer them all. But then that’s the end of it. I don’t want you here anymore. There’s no story.

“Look, this is my son, Joshua.” She held the baby up for the press to see. He was wearing a diaper, a pair of shorts, and a light shirt—ample clothing in the eighty-two-degree weather. “See how ordinary he looks? He’s a special baby to me, yes, because he’s my son, my firstborn, and because I had reached the age of thirty-four—yes, that’s my age, and you may quote me—without having had a child. Most of you know I had a miscarriage during my first marriage. Most of you also know that my second marriage is now over. We haven’t drawn up the papers yet, but Colton Erlig no longer lives here. There will be no further statement or comment on that, so please don’t ask.

“Josh is a normal baby, as you can see. He has no horns and no halo. He also didn’t come from outer space, and he isn’t Elvis reincarnate either. At least, I haven’t heard him singing ‘Hound Dog’ yet.”

There were appreciative chuckles in the assembled group.

“He weighed eight pounds, three ounces when he was born five days ago, during a normal, uncomplicated, although somewhat lengthy birth. He was born here, in my house, with a local midwife, Anna Shelton, in attendance. He does all the normal things a baby does—cry, eat, sleep, pee, poop, and coo. He does nothing unusual. He gives no indication of being any different from any other five-day-old infant, and he’s only special because he’s mine.

“That’s my statement. I’ll now take questions—not about the breakup of my marriage—and then that’s it. No more. And I mean it. No more! I want to get back to leading my life. So ask anything you want now, but then that’s it. No more. Please!”

But of course, there were reporters who’d missed the press conference, reporters from out of town or from neighboring communities, or those who merely had the misfortune to be following other stories, or who, for whatever other reason, weren’t there when Marie made her statement.

The question-and-answer period took another forty minutes after her speech, and when she’d done with it, she devoutly hoped she had seen the last of the reporters. But with the stragglers who’d missed out wanting to get their turns. Marie found, in the days ahead, that although there were fewer reporters around than before, she was certainly not free of them. Even some of the ones who’d been present for her informal press conference came back to interview her again, thinking something newsworthy might happen.

And it did.

Josh was ten days old now, and Marie was happily settled into living alone . . . alone but for Josh, that is. With her son in the next room, Marie didn’t feel alone at all, despite Cole’s absence from her home and her bed. It was only his absence from her heart that she might have felt, and she realized with some pain that he’d been missing from her heart long before she asked him to leave.

At 8:00, with Josh tucked in his crib, which was now back in his room, Marie herself got into bed. Her nights were interrupted by feedings—the baby woke up around 9:30 and again around 1:30 or 2:00 to nurse—and Marie was understandably deficient in sleep. She didn’t see much sense in going to sleep at 8:00—not when the phone was likely to ring and the baby was sure to awaken around 9:30—but there was no reason not to get in bed with a good book and relax.

Marie alternately read and dozed till 9:20 when, sure enough, Josh started stirring. Marie heard a tentative noise or two as he came awake and rustled in his crib, then a full-throated wail as he loudly proclaimed his hunger. Dragging herself out of bed, she went to his crib. After changing his diaper, she took him back to her bed to nurse him. He fell asleep at her breast, and she kissed his dewy head, sweaty and sweet-smelling, before lovingly replacing him in his crib. Then she scrambled back to bed to try to sleep quickly before he awakened again. As worn out as she was, it was no effort to fall instantly into a sound sleep.

She awoke some time later. Feeling drugged with tiredness, she listened for Josh’s cry but heard nothing. Then what had awakened her? It wasn’t light out—she hadn’t slept through the night and awakened to morning. She wasn’t thirsty, didn’t need to go to the bathroom. At length she decided there was no reason, and she rolled over to seek sleep again.

Then she heard it—the faintest of noises, but not one she recognized. She didn’t have a cat or dog. Tropical fish don’t make noises, and this surely wasn’t the sound of the tank filter motor. Staying perfectly still, she listened keenly. There it was again.

Marie rolled toward the edge of the bed and sat up, intending to investigate. Then she thought better of it and stayed perched where she was, her muscles straining with tension. What if it were a burglar? Indecisive now, she hesitated at the edge of the bed, her ears thirstily drinking in the occasional sounds, which seemed to emanate from the living room.

Her brain, her nerves, her muscles were all at war with themselves. Part of her naturally wanted to get up and investigate the noise. Part of her held back. The fight-or-flight dilemma kicked in—should she seek a suitable weapon and meet the intruder head on? Or should she dash down the hall, grab up Josh, and flee out the back door?

Now the noise was nearer. A cautious footfall outside her doorway made her shudder in horrified apprehension. Instinct kicked in, telling her the best course was to play possum. She quickly lay down again. A figure lurked in the doorway. Marie closed her eyes, lest the intruder see their glint and know she was awake. Let him steal my rings, my money, everything—just don’t let him hurt me, rape me, kill me. Don’t let him tie me up—I need to get to my baby when he cries for me.

The baby! The intruder had stepped back from Marie’s doorway and was heading down the hall toward the baby’s room! Marie heard more soft footsteps, confirming that the person, whoever it was, was stealthily inching nearer Josh’s room. Then he didn’t want to rob her. But then . . .what?

She cast about in her mind for a weapon. She didn’t own a gun or even pepper spray. If she went to the kitchen for a knife, or a frying pan to conk him with, he might hear her. Or he might hurt the baby before she could get back to crash the pan down on his head. But what did she have at hand in the bedroom that could possibly double as a weapon? In the darkness, her mind’s eye scanned the room swiftly, opening drawers and searching the closet. What did she have that would be useful against the intruder?

At last she thought of her nighttable lamp. Though small—which at least made it easier to wield—it was relatively heavy. What’s more, it had a square base with sharp corners, which made it a good weapon. Groping in the dark, she quietly unplugged it, lifted it, then realized she had no clothes on! Putting the lamp down, she hastily fumbled her way into the robe she had left at the foot of the bed. Once decent, she grabbed the lamp again and tiptoed down the hall to Josh’s room.

The man was standing partway into the room, trying to see through the darkness. Just enough light from outside filtered in through the blinds to let Marie make out the intruder’s form, though she couldn’t see his face or what he was doing. He didn’t actually seem to be doing anything at the moment. She presumed he was trying to get his bearings without turning on the light. But what was he up to? What was his purpose? Well, she wasn’t going to wait around to find out, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask him!

He was appreciably taller than she, but she figured she’d aim for the back of his skull. As she raised the lamp to smash him with it, he heard or sensed her and turned sharply around. Forced to act faster than she’d wanted to, she rapidly arced her arm toward his head. The sharp corner of the lamp’s base hit him in his left temple, causing him to reel backward and then fall to the floor. As he did, something dropped with a muffled thud onto the carpet. Something that glinted ever so slightly in the hint of light that found its way through the blinds.

The man was on the floor, groaning. Marie bent low and managed to recognize the barely glinting object as the sharp blade of a wickedly large knife. Did he mean to use that huge knife on her little baby? But why? Why was he after Josh? Still, this was not the time to ask questions. Raising her hand, Marie swiftly struck the intruder with the lamp twice more, till he was no further threat for the moment, lying unconscious and bleeding on the floor of Josh’s room.

Only then did Marie start to tremble in delayed response fear. Groping wildly for the light switch, she finally made contact and clicked the light on. At the now-fully visible sight of the nastily sharpened knife on the carpet, a sudden wave of nausea overtook her. She raced to the phone to call the cops but had to detour to the bathroom, retching violently. Finally she was able to dial 911.

The cops arrived before the man came to. Somehow Marie had had the presence of mind to remove the knife just in case he came around before help arrived. Somehow she’d also had the presence of mind to use a tissue to pick it up. She’d seen enough cop shows on TV to know not to disturb his fingerprints.

Later, in custody, the suspect admitted he was a member of Connor’s church. Todd—that was his name—had been bent on stabbing “the devil’s seed, the Antichrist” to death. His only remorse was for failing in his mission.

Josh woke up for his feeding, and Marie moved the crib back into her room. When she had finished nursing Josh and had put him back down in her room, she turned out the light but left the bathroom light on.  She felt safer with some light illuminating the place. She padded out to the living room to turn a lamp on out there, too. Then she detoured into the kitchen on her way back, in search of a weapon.

Her hand started shaking all over again as she selected her longest, biggest, sharpest kitchen knife to take back to bed with her. Carefully she positioned it within easy reach on the nighttable. Just to be safe, she had brought in her heaviest frying pan as well, and she left it on the floor, where she could readily grab it.

But even with the light on and the arsenal at hand, sleep eluded Marie for the rest of that night.

In the morning, she went back to look at Josh’s room. The bloodstain had dried on the carpet, a sordid image of hate painted in rust brown. She got club soda and worked at it, but every time she looked at it, she was overcome with a fresh wave of nausea, and finally she had to give up. She called her carpet cleaner and told him it was an emergency. He kindly pushed aside another client to come and take care of the stain. Till he got there, she diapered Josh in a towel. She couldn’t bear to go back in his room for a fresh diaper. She couldn’t bear to look at that terrible mark.

She didn’t dare go to the hospital. She could just imagine! So she called her doctor’s office, then called the nurse-midwife with whom she had also consulted. “I’ll be right over,” Anna said. It was 10 PM by now. Why do babies love to get themselves born at night? Marie mused between contractions.

But in fact, Josh had no intention of getting himself born that night. He took his sweet time, while Marie gripped the mattress every time a contraction seized her. She broke a nail in the process. Her sweat soaked the sheet.  She forgot all the breathing techniques she’d learned in Lamaze, and for a time she even forgot about the plague of clergy, writers, and faithful-at-large that had been visited on her.

The doctor checked by phone several times, consulting with Anna on the progress of Marie’s dilation . But Anna assured the doctor that it seemed like it was going to be a routine, uncomplicated birth, albeit a slow one. It seemed as if Josh was in no hurry to face the throngs. He had it cozy in his built-in seclusion. Why rush to leave? It might be the last privacy he’d have for a long time.

By sunrise, the pains were coming one on top of another. “Are you sure you don’t want to call your mother? A friend?” Anna suggested for the tenth time, but Marie resisted. She did not want Elinor there—that would offer her no comfort. And while Sheila might be a comfort, Marie didn’t want to drag her away from her own family. Marie would get through this on her own; she’d better get used to doing just that as she marched through life, and here was as good a place as any to start. If she could get through this by herself, she could manage anything.

By nine AM, Josh had gotten himself born. “Starting your first day at nine like you’re on a time clock,” Marie cooed to the baby as she cradled him in her arms. He wasn’t much to look at, all mottled red and scrunchfaced, though he did have plenty of hair on him.

No halo, no horns, Marie thought wryly. He certainly gave every appearance of being a normal baby boy. Maybe now they’d believe her? Maybe once they had reported the birth, they’d leave her alone?

An enterprising writer from the Courier, stopping by to see if there was any news, recognized the midwife’s car and knew this might be Big News brewing. She staked out the front stoop, waiting for a scoop. When the sound of a newborn’s cry filtered out the open windows, the Courier had its lead story for the next day’s edition.

Sally from Channel 11 got word of the event and came rushing over, brazenly ringing the doorbell. Anna answered. “No comment,” she said. She knew why she was here delivering the baby instead of Marie having gone to the hospital. It was to avoid a media circus. Well, all three rings were about to fill up, but at least she had been able to deliver the baby in relative calm.

That calm was broken by the advent of a thunderstorm. Typical of south Florida weather, it blew up without warning and passed just as quickly. Twenty minutes later, the sun was again shining. But Connor, who had arrived at the house on getting word that the baby was coming, proclaimed it a sign: The Devil has arrived on Earth. The Antichrist has been born.

Marie called everyone after the fact. Even Cole. He had the right to know his son had been born. “Are you sure it’s my son? Not God’s or the Devil’s?” he asked. He’d been awfully snide the last couple of days.

“Would you like to come over and see him?” Marie offered.

“Yeh—sure,” Cole answered.

Elinor chided Marie, “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come over and held your hand or mopped your forehead or coached your breathing . . . whatever.” But inwardly she was glad to have escaped that ordeal.

Sheila was congratulatory and wanted to know when she could come over and see the baby.

“Anytime!” Marie answered. What a silly question—since when did her best friend need an invitation?!

Cole got there first. He’d had a client sitting with him when Marie called, but as soon as the client left, he rushed right over. Josh looked at him and started crying. “You’ve been talking to him. You’ve prejudiced him against me,” Cole teased. Then Josh grabbed hold of Cole’s finger, and Cole was entranced. “May I hold him?”

“You’re still his father.”

Father picked up son and held him. This tiny thing was a little person—incredible! A special little person—not by reason of any association with extra-worldly beings, but by virtue of being the fruit of his seed, a new life formed from his own life offering, the next generation of Erligs to carry on the family name . . . even if Cole himself was no longer a part of Marie’s family.

Josh fell asleep in Cole’s arms, and Cole was reluctant to put him down. “I guess I’d better let you rest—both of you,” he sighed, softly putting the baby down in his crib, which had been temporarily moved to Marie’s bedroom. “Well, if there’s anything I can do for you . . . ?” he asked hopefully.

“I’ll let you know,” Marie said.

Anna showed Cole to the door. There were seven reporters and three camerapeople out there now. They clamored for news, pressed forward, thrust microphones at him. Cole looked at the assembled throng of newsgatherers and knew that he, Cole Erlig, had the information they all were waiting for. Then Cole flashed on a picture of the baby boy—his newborn son—sweet-smelling and tender, pink and fragile, gentle and trusting, lying in the crib inside. “No comment,” he said.

They noticed Marie was missing. Her car wasn’t there. She hadn’t been seen at home, or at Office Central, or anywhere else around. “Where’s your wife?” one of the vigil-keepers asked. The two reporters who were looking for an interview perked up and paid attention.

“Out of town for a little while,” Cole answered.

“Where’d she go?”

“When will she be back?”

“Why did she leave?”

“Is she okay?”

“Is she in the hospital?”

“Why aren’t you with her if she’s having the baby?”

The questions came as fast and hard as water from a pressure cleaner. Cole was in his element. He answered them one at a time, relishing the fact that he had all the answers they wanted.

“She went out of town—I’m not at liberty to say where. She’ll be back in a day or two or three. She’s fine, but this has all been difficult for her. She needed a little peace and quiet and privacy. She’s perfectly fine. She’s not in the hospital. She hasn’t had the baby. She’s not having the baby yet.”

“We want to talk to her.”

“We want to see her.”

“Tell us where she is.”

“Now, just let it be. It was all your questions and your everlasting following her around that drove her away in the first place. It seems there’s always at least one of you people on her tail. If it’s not a local reporter, it’s from somewhere up the coast or down, or across the state, or goddam California. It’s the nightly news or the tabloids, the TV newsmagazines or a personality magazine, or it’s some freelance writer wanting to make a name for himself by interviewing Marie, or it’s a religion writer who sees something spiritual here, or it’s a whole bunch of you all at once, worshipping not God but publicity. Good Lord Almighty, you haven’t given us a rest in eight months. I could count on my hands the number of days there hasn’t been at least one writer or one TV reporter around. I wouldn’t need my toes. I’d even have leftover fingers.”

He stopped, then, and turned to go about his business. Suzanne Stock called out, “Do you plan to join your wife in hiding?” Cole waved her away and ignored her, giving no verbal answer.

Feeling that there was no story here, the reporters began easing away. Seeing them go, Cole felt a sharp pang. “Wait!” he called out. But when they turned around as a pack, ready to pounce on his next pronouncement, he found he had nothing else to give them. Short of giving away Marie’s hiding place, he had nothing more to tell. “Anyone want some iced tea?” he offered lamely.

They all left without tea, all except Van Jordan. He didn’t want tea either, but he wanted the location of Marie’s hiding place. “Have we really made it that difficult for you?” he asked sympathetically, putting a comradely arm around Cole’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s not for myself that I mind,” Cole admitted. “But it’s really been tough on my wife.”

“I imagine a leading businessman in the community, like yourself, can handle publicity without it being a problem,” Van wheedled.

“Yes. I don’t have a problem with it personally.” Cole puffed out his chest, not just figuratively but literally.

“It’s too bad that Marie isn’t as strong and brave as you are.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And it’s too bad she won’t be home with you tonight. Sleeping alone is tough when you’re used to sharing your bed. Of course you could always sneak away and join her.” It would be easy enough for Van to follow Cole and find Marie, if he could just persuade Cole to follow after his wife. That was Plan B—just in case Plan A didn’t work. He continued with Plan A in the meanwhile. “If she’s going to be in the spotlight for quite some time to come, she’d really better get used to it. Running away never solved anything.”

“Oh, I agree with you,” Cole said, solemn and earnest, nodding his head in agreement.

“You going up to join her, then?” He listened for agreement with or contradiction to “up”—had Marie gone north, south, or west?

But Cole sidestepped the question. “No, I’ll stay put.”

“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet. We reporters might just leave you alone as long as Marie isn’t here.”

Cole looked something less than pleased with that prospect.

“It might be nice and peaceful around here till she comes back.”

The frown lengthened. But he didn’t crack.

“Of course, wherever she is, we’re bound to find out eventually. Whether she’s staying in a hotel, with a friend, with a relative,” he watched Cole’s face closely for some reaction, but there was none, “someone’s going to see her. Someone’s going to call and let us know where she is. Whether it’s a desk clerk or maid at a motel, a neighbor of a friend or relative she’s staying with—she’s too well known to hide out. Eventually she’ll be spotted. And someone will call a reporter.

“Sources. Nothing is more important to a writer than his sources. Someone will decide to do us that favor, someone important, someone who understands the importance of the press, as well as the importance of himself in telling us. Someone will tell one of us where Marie is. And they’ll be doing her a favor, too. She certainly knows she’s going to be found. She certainly knows the other shoe is going to drop. She’s probably waiting right now, waiting for that knock at the door, wondering how long it will take them to find her, wishing they’d hurry up and get there, so the suspense is over already. And someone, someone knowledgeable and intelligent, someone we’re all going to be awfully grateful to, is going to tell us where she is.

“Of course, I’m not saying it has to be you. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. Someone else will tell us. Your conscience can be clear. It’s time someone else got a little of the credit anyhow.”

“She’s at the SurfSide Sea Lodge in Vero Beach. I supposed you’d have found her soon enough anyhow.”

When the knock at the door roused Marie from her reverie, she’d been dreaming of a place where she and Josh were insulated from the world. A hiding place for the rest of her life. A vague and nebulous place to be sure—it might have been a ranch in Montana, a busy block in the heart of L.A., a cabin in the Maine woods . . . but wherever it was, they had privacy there, and anonymity. No prayer vigils. No press. She was free to raise her son in peace.

But it was obviously nothing more than a daydream. The knock at the door told her that. It wasn’t the maid coming to clean the room. She’d been found.

She contemplated ignoring the knock. Maybe they would go away. But she knew better. And, on the off chance it wasn’t a reporter, maybe she should see who it was. Suppose it was just a visitor looking for another guest and knocking at the wrong door. Why cower behind the door all night, thinking the press was lurking out there, if whoever was knocking was someone innocent?

Fat chance! she thought as she heaved herself up from the bed with difficulty and padded barefoot to the door.

“Good afternoon,” Van said when she opened.

She knew it was Cole who’d cracked, Cole who’d given away her hiding place. She knew that without even asking Van. Sheila and Elinor would never have given up her location. Not to Van and not to anyone else. Sheila wouldn’t even have told her own husband. It was Cole, and no question about it. She marched over to the phone, in full earshot of Van, and called her home.

Van would have a field day with this, but she had no privacy anyhow. Whatever she did, it made the papers and the TV newscasts. She couldn’t sneeze without it being reported on the six o’clock news. The press would get this story like it had gotten everything else. What was the difference if it was sooner or later? So when Cole answered, she spoke to him just as if Van weren’t in the room: “Get out. I’ll be home as quickly as I can get there. I don’t want to find you when I get home.”

“But—what did I do?”

“I think you know the answer to that one. I have a visitor. Somebody told him where to find me.”

“But . . . .”

“No buts. No wiggling. No begging. It’s the last in a long series. And I do mean the last. You’re outta there. Now. I’ll be home soon. Get your stuff out. Take what you need now. You can come back for the rest some other time when I’m not there. I mean it!”

Facing the prospect of losing Marie—and his access to all the reporters—Cole immediately called a press conference. If he was going out, he was going out in a blaze of glory. Van missed the conference, being up in Vero with Marie, but quite a few others attended.

The headlines the next day read, MIRACLE COUPLE TO DIVORCE.

It was awkward at work, that next day. She kept crossing paths with Cole. But the deal with Gary was due to close in a week. I can put up with it for one more week, Marie told herself. If it gets too bad, I’ll just absent myself for this final week. But Marie was not usually the sort to run away from problems—despite her abortive flight from the reporters that had led her to Vero Beach. So she stuck it out, unpleasantness and all.

She compromised. She went home early. Home to the house that Cole no longer inhabited. Home to the usual throng of vigil-keepers and reporters—but no Cole. She found that, oddly, without him there the others didn’t bother her quite so much. Not that there weren’t enough of them—as her due date grew ever nearer, what had once been a mini-throng was growing. The Flamingo Cove police department now kept an officer permanently posted at her house, with another at her office by day.

Cole went back to the motel he’d checked into the night before. The reporters, who had interviewed him at work about the split, didn’t follow him home. He had the peace and quiet that Marie so desperately wanted, but he found he didn’t enjoy it.

As for Marie, she wanted it but didn’t have it. “Can’t you guys find a nice earthquake somewhere to report on?” she pleaded as she went up her front steps, shutting the door firmly in their faces. Two left. Three remained. So did the ever-present vigil-keepers.

Sally, a new reporter, was particularly aggressive. She was the new face at Channel 11—Van had gotten his wish and taken a step up the ladder. As of today, he was reporting the news in Chicago. But Sally, new and eager, was dogging Marie worse than Van ever had. “Can I have an exclusive when you go into labor?” she asked Marie. Marie slammed the door in her face. Literally. The outraged howl from the other side of the door told her she had scored a slam on Sally’s nose, a move she hadn’t intended yet found she felt no remorse about whatsoever.

As she turned toward the kitchen to see about making dinner, she felt a dull twinge. It was something like a period cramp. She paused, but it didn’t repeat itself. Suddenly, though, she didn’t feel very hungry. Nerves, she supposed. But she’d wait to eat . . . just in case.

She lay down. If by chance this was the onset of labor, she was likely not to get much sleep for the next . . . well, realistically for the next few years, but more immediately, for the next night or two. Better nap while she could. In her sleep, she was aware of another cramp, but she didn’t wake up till an hour and a half had passed, when another, stronger pain pierced her sleepiness.

Josh was about to greet the world that so clamorously waited for him.

The tension had blown over by the next day.  Marie got up feeling mildly queasy but decided it was merely a nervous reaction to the previous day’s unpleasantness, not morning sickness. And in fact, she easily wolfed down a cup of coffee, four crisp strips of bacon, two fried eggs, and an English muffin laden with marmalade glowing like jellied sunshine. She consumed it all with no repercussions.

She made pancakes, too, especially for Cole. She didn’t care for them herself, but he loved them, and she thought a treat might spark an improved mood in him.

As they divided up the weighty Sunday paper between them, an item on the front page of the local news section flashed past Marie’s eyes. It was about Share the Harvest, which reminded her that she’d wanted to check her garden to see what she could share. Keeping aside the business, local, arts, comics, and features sections for herself, Marie let Cole have first crack at everything else.

He doggedly plowed through the main news section, saving the sports to savor at his leisure later. Marie curled up in her easy chair, reflecting on the fact that this position would be increasingly less feasible through the oncoming months. As she laughed her way through the comics, she paid particular attention to the ones revolving around families, feeling a special kinship with those parents that she’d never felt before.

The knowledge of her pregnancy colored everything she read that morning. She found herself reacting to everything differently. There were two items having to do with the local schools, and she read those with particular interest—in more or less six years, she’d have a child entering the school system. That thought sent chills of delight and excitement racing through her.

“I think I’ll start fixing up the guest room for the baby today—or would you rather I clear out the junk room?” she said. And then as soon as she said it, she regretted it. Would her mentioning the baby set off another round of negative comments?

But Cole seemed to be trying hard to curb his reactions and present a positive face. “I’ll get into the junk room and see what I can get rid of,” he offered. “I’ll do it early. I suppose you want to make that your afternoon’s project, so I’ll finish as quickly as I can. What I can’t get rid of, I’ll try to store elsewhere. Maybe I can get some plywood to put across the attic rafters, so we can store some stuff up there. Give me a couple of hours. Then you can spend all afternoon getting your stuff out of there and starting to fix the place up, okay?”

“Actually I’d planned to go to that Share the Harvest thing over at Flamingo Cove Lutheran. It might just be a matter of picking vegetables, dropping them off at the church, and coming right home again. Or something might be going on over there. I don’t know if they’re providing refreshments or entertainment, or if everyone’s stopping to socialize, or if there’s nothing happening. But I can’t see it taking the whole afternoon, in any event.”

Cole was trying very hard. “Why don’t I make a run to the store for the plywood now? I can clean my stuff out of the junk room as soon as I get back. I’ll throw out everything I don’t really need and stow the rest away. Whatever won’t fit anywhere else goes up in the attic. That way we still have the guest room for visitors. Sound okay to you?”

“More than,” Marie answered with a grateful smile.

“You read awhile longer, then go pick your veggies for this harvest thing.”

“Are you going to it with me?”

“I’ll stay and read my paper. You won’t be gone that long, I’m sure. You’ll be eager to get into the junk room—I mean, the baby’s room. And if I spend most of the morning in the junk room, I’ll still have the paper to read, so I’d better stay home this afternoon and get through it.” Cole put the paper down and grunted up from the chair to go clear out a room for the baby. Marie stayed put, reading. She was restless, wanting to get up and get busy, but the thing she most wanted to get busy with was the room, and Cole hadn’t cleared it out yet.

But she found she couldn’t concentrate on the paper; every muscle in her body wanted to get out of that chair and start fixing up that room. So she finally put down the paper. There was no reason she and Cole couldn’t clear their junk out simultaneously.

Cole had already made a noticeable dent in the clutter, having trashed an old chair and a pile of papers. He’d consigned two stacks of magazines to the recycle bin, as well, and was looking through the contents of a box of clothes. “I don’t think these will ever fit me again,” he concluded ruefully.

“Some of them will be out of style even if they do,” Marie agreed.

For nearly an hour, they dug through the piles and boxes and stacks together. “We can refinish this desk and this dresser and leave them in here,” Marie said. “And why didn’t we ever hang this picture? It would go nicely in the hallway.” Finally Cole said he needed to go get the plywood; he had trashed everything he could, not to mention the huge carton of clothes he’d accumulated for the local charity bin. What was left would have to be relegated to the attic.

Marie was sorry to see him leave. She’d relished the peace and harmony in which they’d been working. What a turnaround from the night before! But the change was short-lived. When Cole returned, he seemed in a less positive frame of mind, and when, at length, he came back down from the attic, and Marie commented on the noise he’d made hammering plywood, he said, “You’d better get used to noise if we’re going to have a little rugrat running around the place.” Those same words could have been said in a light, funny, teasing tone. But they hadn’t been. They’d been said with an edge. And the edge cut Marie.

She tried not to let Cole’s changed mood alter her own. She was cleaning out a room for the baby. The baby—their baby—her baby. The baby she had wanted for so long. This time she wouldn’t miscarry. This baby would be born, would be healthy, would be fine.

By the time Marie had done all she could in the nursery-to-be, Cole was comfortably ensconced in his chair, done with the main news and settled in for a long read with the sports. Marie consulted her watch, decided she had time to read a little, and picked up the main news section. She suddenly realized she hadn’t even checked the lottery numbers—she might be a millionaire and not even know it yet! Eagerly, she turned to the lottery numbers and checked them against her ticket. Not even close. Well, never mind—she felt like a winner this week, even if not a one of her numbers matched.

It was getting late. She still had to pick the veggies she needed to take with her to Share the Harvest. She got up, stopped in the laundry room to grab a couple of shopping bags, and drifted out to the garden dreamily. There, with her mind on baby clothes and baby names, she picked vegetables without much thought, taking more to share than she should have. She picked the garden half bare, harvesting carrots, cucumbers, eggplants, and green peppers. Only when she had both bags filled to the point that she feared they would break under the weight did she stop her mindless picking and filling.

She was kissing Cole goodbye when the phone rang. She hesitated, wondering if she should let Cole get it and just head out the door. Then, deciding it might be important, she reached past him to the phone and answered. It was Sheila. “You going to that Harvest thing?” Sheila asked.

“Mm-hmm. I was just on my way out.”

“Want to stop and get me? I’ll go with you.”

“Sure. I don’t know how long I’m staying, though. Is there anything, you know, happening there, or is it just dump-the-food-and-leave?”

“I don’t know, but I’m flexible. We can play it by ear.”

“’K. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

As they drove to the event, Sheila asked, “So—did you tell him?”

“Yeh.”

“And—?”

“Well, he wasn’t what I’d call thrilled, but I guess it could’ve been worse. He sorta came around today. He was a little testy later on, but . . . I think it’ll be okay.”

They pulled up in front of Flamingo Cove Lutheran. The parking lot had a goodly number of cars in it, but Marie turned in, navigated the lot, and found an empty space not too far from the entrance. Sheila helped her, carrying one of Marie’s two shopping bags as well as her own single, not-too-full bag. Marie protested at this. “Hey, if I’m eating for two now, I should have the strength of two, too,” she teased.

“The strength of too-too—you’re telling me you’re a twain?” Sheila teased back.

Marie laughed. “Man, that babytalk’s going to come naturally to me soon enough; I’d better stop laughing at it,” she grinned. And then she insisted on carrying both of her own bags.

They got inside and were met at the door by a greeter, who said, “Thank you for sharing,” as he took the bags from the two women. He passed the bags to another volunteer, who immediately began breaking down the contents, sorting carrots from cukes from eggplants from peppers. Suddenly he stopped short.

“Holy—” he started to swear, then lamely finished, “Holy cow!” His voice was loud, commanding attention despite the mildness of the epithet.

“Did I give you a wormy pepper?” Sheila apologized.

“Was it me?” Marie worried.

“Whose bag was this?” the volunteer asked, holding up a large brown paper shopping bag with a colorful green design.

“Mine,” Marie answered meekly, expecting a reprimand. She felt all the worse because a few people had gathered around and were watching and listening intently. “What’s wrong? Is it moldy? Wormy? Dirty? I wasn’t paying attention when I was picking them. I was distracted.”

“Yes—she was thinking about her baby. You can all congratulate her. She’s pregnant.”

“Bigmouth!” Marie hissed at her friend.

“Go on! It’s something to crow about. Tell the world! You know you want to.”

“Yes,” Marie admitted with a guilty grin. Then she remembered the man with the veggies, and a worried frown eclipsed the grin. “But what’s the problem?” she asked him. “I’m terribly sorry, whatever it is.”

“It’s not a problem . . . .” The man’s brow was furrowed, and his eyes glinted with a strangely excited light. Then he held up an eggplant. As he did, he asked carefully, “You said you’re pregnant?” Marie nodded her head. “This is your eggplant?” Marie nodded again, wide-eyed, wondering what on earth was going on. “Look. Everyone—look!” He held the eggplant up, letting the growing group that was gathering around them see for themselves.

Marie and Sheila saw it too. It was hard to miss. The eggplant had brown scarring running across the surface. Marie had seen that before. Nothing unusual there. But she had never before seen scarring that formed an almost perfect picture of the Virgin Mary!

“It’s a sign,” one woman in the crowd proclaimed.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” another woman exclaimed, crossing herself repeatedly. “Wait till I tell Father O’Rourke!”

“You’re pregnant—and this is your eggplant?” another woman asked. “It’s a miracle baby. It’s a sign. This baby is destined for great things.”

The one remaining woman stepped closer and touched Marie’s stomach as if touching a holy relic. With the exception of that woman, the rest of the crowd, which was still increasing, took one step backward as if to accord Marie respect.

“What’s your name, hon?” a motherly woman asked.

“Marie. Marie Erlig,” Marie answered.

“Marie. That’s a variant of Mary. It’s a sign for sure.”

“Do you think—do you suppose—do you think she’s carrying a holy baby?”

“You mean—the Second Coming?”

“Oh, my God!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“But it has to be! Her name—the eggplant—and she’s pregnant. It has to be.”

“I’m calling the newspaper. And the TV stations.”

“No, please don’t!” Marie begged. She might as well have been trying to stop a tidal wave with her bare hands.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sheila said. Taking charge, she clasped her hand around Marie’s and pulled the pregnant woman behind her. The crowd blocked them, forming a human obstacle. “She doesn’t feel well,” Sheila called out in clarion tones. “Let us through.” And, obedient to the time-honored dictate, the crowd broke apart to make way for the pregnant woman.

They drove home, hoping they’d heard the last of it, yet knowing they hadn’t. And sure enough, not half an hour after Marie had dropped Sheila off and gone on home, the doorbell rang.

Marie hadn’t said anything to Cole about the eggplant. His reaction to the pregnancy had been problematic enough. She feared what his reaction would be now if she told him a group of churchfolk were aghast at an eggplant she’d brought to share with the needy, an eggplant that bore (she could hardly deny it herself) the image of the Virgin Mary. Not to mention that more than a few seemed convinced it was a Sign—perhaps a Sign that she was bearing a holy child in her womb.

So, still in the dark about the eggplant, Cole was totally baffled when the reporter from the Flamingo Cove Courier showed up at the door. “Is this the home of Marie Erlig? I’m with the Courier. We want to do a story on this eggplant and the possible tie-in with her pregnancy.”

“Huh? I mean, sorry, yes, this is Marie’s home, but—what eggplant? What are you talking about?”

“Are you Mr. Erlig?”

“Yes. Colton Erlig. Call me Cole.”

“Yes, well . . . did you see the eggplant, Cole?”

Cole was getting very annoyed. “What eggplant?” he asked.

“Your wife grew an eggplant with brown scarring that gives the appearance of—well, it resembles the image of the Virgin Mary. I’ve just come from Flamingo Cove Lutheran.  I saw it myself. It doesn’t look like . . . well, like she altered it in any way.  I’d really like to talk to your wife. Is she in?”

Cole scowled. He viewed the caller as an intrusion and his news as foreboding—it held the promise of future intrusions. Lots of them. Surely if one newsperson was here, others wouldn’t be far behind.

But before he could ask him to leave—which was certainly Cole’s intention—Marie came to the door, wondering who had rung the bell. “Are you Marie Erlig?” the reporter asked her, explaining again who he was and why he was there.

Oh, hell . . . I wish there’d been no one there who knew who I was. They would go and tell him my name and address!

The rest of the afternoon and evening seemed to be a parade of reporters. There were two local TV stations, Channel 3 and Channel 11, and both of them sent reporters. Two stations from cities within reasonable driving distance sent reporters as well. Even one of the local radio stations sent a newswoman. And a nearby town’s newspaper sent a reporter as well.

Van Jordan got word of the furor over the eggplant and hopped right into the Channel 11 newsvan, calling his wife on his cell phone on the way over. “This story has all the scent of the Big Time,” he eagerly told her. “I bet this is the story that puts me into a big city. We’re on our way to the network, babe.. My name will be known after this. And to think I was bitching about having to work on the weekend! This is our big break.”

Marie had been much more willing than Cole to be nice to the reporters—at first. While Cole was all for slamming the door in their faces, Marie recognized that they were just trying to do their jobs. But after the sixth reporter interrupted their attempts to assemble something resembling a meal—their intended dinner having long been abandoned in favor of something they could throw together quickly and gulp down informally—Marie, too, ran out of patience.

Unfortunately for her, it was then that Van Jordan showed up. He was suavely pushy and took command right away.

Marie had just eased the most recent reporter, from a small local weekly, out the door. “I’m sorry, but we really want our privacy at this point. There’s no story here. I’m not carrying anything but a normal baby. My name is Marie, not Mary. I certainly couldn’t be carrying the Second Coming of the Messiah—I’m not even Christian; I’m Jewish.”

“So was Mary,” Van said, coming up behind the weekly’s reporter on the front stoop. As the other reporter, under Marie’s insistence, reluctantly returned down the walk, Van brashly pushed his way inside the house, a cameraman in tow. “Marie Erlig, would you call yourself a religious woman?”

“In my own way, yes, but I’m not a practitioner of any organized religion.”

“You were born Jewish— is that right?”

“Apparently you’ve done some research on me. You tell me!” Marie snapped. Then, immediately, she was contrite. “I’m sorry! It’s just—everyone’s been here, everyone’s been asking questions. I’m not even used to the idea of being pregnant yet, and all of a sudden everyone’s trying to make this pregnancy out to be something it’s not. Some miracle birth.  Some Big Event. And all because of a silly little eggplant. I didn’t do anything to that eggplant. I had nothing to do with the way it looks. And I certainly don’t believe a vegetable can predict a supposedly miraculous event.

“It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—well, how would you and your wife like it if it was your life being turned upside-down like this? My husband’s angry, we’re both tired, we’re feeling very imposed on, and although I’ve been trying to keep my patience, I’ve really about run out.”

The camera kept rolling. Van Jordan kept the microphone near Marie’s mouth. Viewers of the eleven o’clock news were going to get an earful.

“We had to grab a makeshift dinner ’cause nobody even gave me a chance to cook, and then nobody gave us a chance to eat. Yeesh—what are you going to do for the next nine months?”

And then a shudder went through Marie as she thought about it. What were they going to do for the next nine months?!

Sheila sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Marie, in the bathroom, called out anxiously, “I can’t pee. I’m too nervous.”

“Wait another hour. Try again,” Sheila sensibly suggested.

“I’ve waited three days already. I bought the damn test kit Wednesday. But I couldn’t do it when Cole was around, and then I was in a hurry, and then Cole was around again, and then I was too nervous to do it—I just wasn’t ready to know—and then Cole was around again, and then I had to pee too badly to stop and take the test kit out of my pocketbook, and now . . . well, I’m so nervous I can’t relax and let go.”

“So wait,” Sheila repeated sensibly. “Try again in a little while.”

“But I want to knooooooow!” Marie wailed. I want to know nooooow! Besides, Cole will be home soon.”

Sheila wisely refrained from further suggestions. For an eternity of moments, there was silence from the bathroom. Then a groan of despair. Then more silence. Then a hesitant trickle, a splash, silence again, and then a squeak, a gasp, and an unfettered whoop of elation. “I am! I am!” Marie screamed at the top of her lungs. “I’m pregnant!”

There was the sound of flushing, of water running in the sink, and then Marie reappeared, raced over to Sheila, and threw her arms around her best friend, hugging her ecstatically as she rejoiced at her good fortune. “I’m so glad for you, honey,” Sheila said warmly, hugging Marie tightly and stroking her shoulder. “How are you going to tell Cole . . . and when?”

Marie’s gulp was audible. “I—I haven’t decided yet,” she answered, sagging palpably in Sheila’s arms as the thought of telling her husband brought her joy down a few notches. She was aware, by now, that Cole talked a better game than he played. Whenever she’d spoken to him about their having a baby, he’d been all for it, agreeing with her that it would complete their family circle. But whenever she’d spoken of having a baby now, he always had some reason why the timing wasn’t right. She was busy at work; he was too busy; their finances weren’t solid enough. And if it wasn’t one of those, he had some other reason.

“He just doesn’t want to share you with anyone—even his own child,” Sheila interpreted it. Marie couldn’t find a better explanation herself.

So it was with great trepidation that she debated how best to break the news to her husband. “You don’t have to tell him tonight,” Sheila pointed out.

“Then I’m only postponing the inevitable. I’m going to have to tell him eventually. Should I wait till I look like I swallowed a watermelon? Try to hide it and then tell him, ‘Oh, honey, guess what—I’m pregnant. And by the way, I’m in labor’?”

“Wait till a right moment presents itself. Till he’s in a good mood. Till something comes up in your conversation that offers a good opportunity. Wait till he’s talking about his business and then say, ‘Now you’ll have an heir to pass it on to.’”

Rattled at the prospect of telling Cole—who was due home soon from yet another fishing outing with a client—Marie got up and began to pace the bedroom.  On her eighth round-trip, she stopped abruptly at the TV, clicking it on in the hope it would distract her. It was 5:15; the news would be on. She turned to Channel 11.

Once again, religion was in the news, in a manner of speaking, though this time it was merely an item on the weekend calendar of events. Community Affairs reporter Melanie Karten noted that Flamingo Cove Lutheran Church—Pastor Hemmings’ church—was sponsoring a Share the Harvest event on Sunday afternoon. Local residents were encouraged to bring either canned goods or produce from their gardens or farms to share with the community’s less fortunate.

Marie made a mental note to see what she could spare from her garden. Especially in this time of joy and promise, when her dreams were about to be fulfilled, she felt an obligation to help others with less to be thankful for.

When Cole got home, he noticed that Marie seemed nervous. Sheila had left by then, so Marie had no one to talk to but Cole, which made it harder not to tell him. She vacillated between talking volubly in her ever-increasing nervousness and giving one-word answers in fear of blurting out the news before “the right time.”

“What on earth is with you tonight?” Cole asked for the second time. “What’s got you all a-twitter like this?”

“Well, I stopped in the drugstore the other day . . . .” Marie started.

“And that damned clerk started flirting with you again,” Cole continued for her. “And now you’re nervous about it. Don’t worry. I understand completely. I’ll talk to him for you.”

“It’s not that at all!” Marie yelped. “The clerk has not flirted with me again, I wouldn’t be nervous if he had, and I could take care of it myself—would prefer to—if such a thing happened. Which it has not.”

“Well then . . . what?” Cole asked. “What’s the problem?”

“Well . . . it’s not a problem. Unless you make it one. I’m very happy, actually.” Had been very happy, she realized. Now she was more nervous and concerned than anything else. How was Cole going to react?  His wrong turn in the conversation, jumping to conclusions about the drugstore clerk, had derailed her train of thought and momentarily muddled her.

Now she stopped to rethink her plan. He’d always said he wanted a baby. If she could believe him, this should be so easy, so joyous. But actions speak louder than words. His evasions of sex on the nights he knew she was fertile had spoken volumes. That fact was making it harder, now, to break the news to him. How to put a positive spin on the news? Finally she decided to use his own words against him.

“What would make you and me both very happy?” she asked.

“Your cutting back your open hours at the office so we could spend more time alone together.”

This wasn’t going well at all.

“What did you say you were looking forward to?”

“You’ve got tickets for next year’s SuperBowl?”

Not at all well.

“Think less globally, more personally.”

“You’re making meat loaf for dinner?”

“On a grander scale . . . oh, I give up. Remember all the times you’ve said how wonderful it would be to have a baby? For there to be three of us to love each other? You’d have an heir to your business, a junior partner, eventually.” Unless he or she prefers to help run my business, she thought. “Can you see yourself going to Career Day in school, Parents’ Night, the class play—and, someday, graduation? Can you see yourself showing off your little girl—or your boy—to the other dads at the beach, at the zoo, at the playground? Can you see —”

“I can see it all someday. I certainly don’t want to try yet, though. My business is good but not great. You’re working long hours—you certainly can’t take time off for a baby. And it would take so much away from our time together. Let’s not try yet.”

“We don’t have to try.” She paused a minute, plunged onward. “I already am pregnant. The drugstore—I was trying to tell you—I bought a pregnancy test kit. It’s positive. I’m pregnant!”

As she said the words, elation flooded her, surging through her veins. It pumped through her heart, awakening every ion of excitement lying dormant in her body, and caused them all to go on full alert. A hot tide of pleasure rolled through her, curling her toes as she pictured herself rocking her own baby, holding her own son or daughter, mothering her own little one.

“Are you sure?” Cole asked inanely.

“I’m sure . . . and I’m thrilled. Aren’t you?”

“Well . . . no. Don’t you think we should have discussed this together? This isn’t a decision to make on your own.”

“And this isn’t a proper reaction. You’re taking all the joy out of it. And we did discuss it. Many times. You always said—”

“I know. I know.” Cole sighed the sigh of the put-upon. “But we weren’t talking about having a baby right now. We were talking about having a baby sometime. A theoretical baby. Not a baby here and now.”

“Oh, so you only want me to have a theoretical baby. Not a real one!” Her voice was shrill, loud. She heard herself and was appalled. She didn’t like fighting under any circumstances. She certainly didn’t want to be fighting now. This wasn’t going at all the way she’d planned.

“I didn’t say Never. Just not now.” Cole’s tone of voice suggested that Marie wasn’t being very reasonable.

“Well, you never specified a time when you said you wanted a baby.” That was only partly true—he’d never verbalized a time, yet his reactions had made it quite plain he wasn’t ready now . . . if he ever would be. And that was the problem—would he ever be ready?

They’d been married five years already. Five years of no baby—despite using no precautions. Five years of not actually trying, but not trying not to . . . with no results. This on top of her earlier miscarriage, during her marriage to Gary. Time had been nipping at her heels. “You never said, ‘Not now.’”

“I didn’t think you’d make a unilateral decision!”

“I didn’t!” She was absolutely screeching. Horrified, she listened to herself as if she were hearing another person, someone who clearly was out of control, someone Marie had no way of reining in. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take my baby and live elsewhere. Or you can move out! I’m not letting you ruin this for me. I’m going to have a happy pregnancy!” she sobbed, dashing out of the room.