“Neat-o,” Howie said when Ernest finished explaining to him about the difference between an incubator and an intubator. “Hey! Does Mommy abhor naps? Or adore them?”
“Adores them,” Ernest assured him. “All grown-ups do.”
“All grown-ups do what?”
Ernest’s mother, Millie, shuffled into the kitchen. Millie was a classically constructed old Kentucky woman, wide-hipped, solid- shouldered, and serious-eyed. She used to be roughly attractive, but that was a long time ago.
Other than her helmet of hair, nothing about her was well maintained. Her daily garb consisted of battered pink slippers and an ankle-length flowered housecoat. Ernest was not sure exactly when his mother had decided that getting dressed for the day was overrated.
“All grown-ups love naps,” Ernest said.
“Adore them,” added Howie.
“Nothing wrong with naps,” Millie agreed. “How’s Lila?”
“Doing well. Doctors say she can come home, but she wants to stay until the baby can come home, too.”
“And how’s the baby?”
“Better.”
“Five pounds yet?” Millie asked.
Millie had no medical training and very little formal education, but plenty of self-declared areas of expertise. She proclaimed earlier in the week that once the baby weighed five pounds, that would mean the Lord had seen fit to let him live. Five, for reasons unknown, was the magic number, ordained by God according to the Gospel of Millie. Five pounds meant life.
“Not yet. But he’ll get there,” Ernest said firmly. “Where’s the Reverend?”
“Your father went out for a walk. Should be back soon.”
“All right. Come on, buddy,” Ernest lifted Howie from his lap, then set him down on the floor. Ernest rose unsteadily on his spidery-long legs, leaning against the countertop to balance himself. He stretched and yawned wide enough to split his face. “You want to come nap with Daddy?”
“No, thank you,” Howie said politely.
“Right. Because you abhor naps. Guess you’re not a grown-up just yet, Howie-boy.”
“Soon enough,” Millie sniffed.
“You got him if I grab some quick shut-eye?” Ernest asked.
“Sure. What we’re here for,” Millie nodded.
“Thanks, Ma,” Ernest said, kissing her cheek. She aw-shucksed him away, but seemed girlishly pleased at the gesture. She picked Howie up, grunting at his weight. The boy was growing, while at the other end of the spectrum, Millie had begun her slow but steady shrink.
“You want Grandma to make you some cookies?”
“Cookies!” Howie clapped his hands.
With a grateful look to his mother, the yawning Ernest headed for the bedroom at the back of the one-story ranch home. He hadn’t slept in close to thirty-six hours, and remaining awake was a losing battle. He was ready to surrender. Pulling open the door, he fell face-first onto his bed and was instantly asleep.
A knock at the door. Groaning, unsure how long he’d slumbered and aching for more rest, Ernest got up and opened the door. His father stood framed there, unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, steel-gray eyes fixed sternly on Ernest.
“’Bout time you got up, isn’t it?” The Reverend asked.
The Reverend Richard Fell was known to everyone, including his own children—as the Reverend. A God-fearing man who feared little else, the Reverend was not a man to suffer fools. He was also not a man to change his mind, advocate for anything that altered the status quo, or trust anyone not found in a church pew come Sunday morning. He slept the sleep of the supremely self-righteous, and looked down on anyone whose beliefs did not align with his own.
All of which meant he and his son Ernest didn’t see eye to eye on much.
“I just lay down,” Ernest protested.
“You been down three hours,” the Reverend corrected.
“Sonofa—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, boy.”
Ernest bit his tongue, reminding himself he didn’t have the energy to fight with his father. The bouts were never brief. The long list of things for which the Reverend would never forgive his son—for going to college instead of seminary or the military, for marrying a Jewish war orphan, for woeful church attendance—rendered combat futile, anyway. Battle became meaningless when the larger war was already so long lost.
“Where’s Howie?” Ernest rubbed his eyes, patted his pockets to make sure his wallet was there, started going through the mental checklist of what to grab before heading back to the hospital. He had only meant to nap for one hour, not three. Lila was expecting him—
“Howie’s in the living room. Your mother’s reading him Bible stories.”
“I’m going to take him with me. To the hospital.”
“You think that’s a good idea, taking Howie to the hospital?”
The Reverend’s tone clearly indicated it was not a good idea to take Howie to the hospital.
“Yes. He hasn’t seen his mother in five days. And we can at least let him look at Baby Nathan through the glass. He wants to see his baby brother.”
The Reverend clamped down harder on his pipe. Ernest walked past him, stopping briefly in the bathroom to splash his face with cold water before heading into the living room. Grabbing his keys off a bookshelf, he rattled them at his two-year-old.
Howie’s head snapped up from the Bible Stories for Young Readers volume he was reading with his grandmother. His serious little face was even more innocent than the pale baby-faced prophets wearing striped robes and petting lambs on the cover of the bible book. Ernest made a mental note to hide that tiny tome before his hormonal wife came home from the hospital.
“I can come with you, Daddy?”
“If you’re ready, buddy.”
“Ready ready ready!” Howie crowed.
“Kiss your grandma,” Ernest instructed.
Howie obediently kissed Millie, then without being told to do so, ran over to the Reverend. He wrapped his little arms around the Reverend’s leg. The Reverend did not react.
For the entire seven-minute drive to the hospital, Howie peppered his father with questions. Questions about his mother, his baby brother, the doctors and nurses, what other patients were in the hospital for, how long people stayed in hospitals, would he ever need to stay in a hospital, had Mommy ever stayed in a hospital before. It was truly remarkable, how much conversational ground a talkative toddler could cover in a short amount of time.
Reaching the hospital, Ernest parked the old Chevy, then looked at his expectant boy.
“All right, Howie. Are you ready to meet Baby Nathan?”