Carrie Richerson - A Birth.pdf

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A Birth
by Carrie Richerson
Carrie Richerson lives in Austin, Texas, that fermentation vat of SF writerly
talent. She likes to set her stories under the big sky of her adopted republic
where anything, even change, seems possible. She’s been laboring in the short
fiction field for a number of years now; this is her first story for Asimov’s.
* * * *
He is so very pink, this new father-to-be.
So pink and scrubbed-looking, young and nervous.
I don’t know if he is more nervous because he is waiting for news of his wife
and child, or if it is because I am sitting here, waiting with him, the tension of my
dislike thick in the air.
He sits rigidly upright in the worn plastic chair. His hands rest on his knees, he
faces the far wall as though he were determined to be taken for a piece of furniture
himself, a part of the landscape. Occasionally he will dare a look at me slideways,
out of one of those large, liquid brown eyes of his, the ones that are set too far apart
in his long, narrow face. He doesn’t move his head at all, but I know that his
attention never wavers from me. Whenever I shift, making my chair creak, or when I
uncross my legs and cross them again the other way, the tips of his too-large ears,
the ones set too high on his head, twitch. The comparison is unavoidable.
My daughter married a jackass.
I glance at the clock, knowing it will hardly have changed since the last time I
looked. 3:48 A.M. It was a long labor, and the doctors shooed us out of Diana’s
room and into this bleak waiting area when it looked as if she was finally ready for
delivery. Most fathers these days get to be right there for the birth, hold their wives’
hands and listen to them grunt and yell, but the docs are taking no chances with this
birth. Suits me just fine. There’s something indecent about a man wanting to watch
such women’s work.
I look down from the clock to see that my hand has clenched on the brim of
my hat again, crushing the straw and mangling the rolled edge. It’ll have to be
re-blocked after this night, if it can be saved at all. Maybe I should just get a new
one, to celebrate the birth. Get a tiny little hat for the tyke, too. Start him out right as
a cowboy. Or a cowgirl.
I watch my fingers twist and crease the brim. My hand is as brown and
leathery as the rawhide band that circles the crown on my Stetson. My knuckles are
lumpy with arthritis; the skin is webbed with tiny cracks grimed with dirt that no soap
can remove. The south Texas sun burns all the moisture out of a man. Maybe all the
softness, too. Years under that sun, in the saddle day in and out, working the ranch
and trying to make it pay, struggling through droughts and market busts and high
 
taxes to preserve something real to pass on to my children. My one child. My
daughter.
Who married this jackass.
He rolls that eye at me again and I give him a hard predator’s glare right back.
The hot pink shade of his hide looks like the sun has done a job on him already, but
otherwise he seems too soft, too wet , to be a rancher. What was my daughter
thinking?
The ears twitch. Jackass.
There’s no one better with the cows, though. No one faster at spotting jimson
weed in a pasture, or determining the exact moment to take the herd off a pasture
where rain after a long drought has made the johnson-grass form toxic levels of
prussic acid. And that long nose of his is good for something besides looking
ridiculous: I swear he’s diagnosed a cow with haemophilus infection just by smelling
its breath, and more than once he’s sniffed out a bad shipment of fescue hay and
saved my cows from nitrate poisoning.
I watch him sometimes, in the dew-wet dawns and the gathering dusk, as he
wanders among the cows, greeting each one by name. (I run two thousand head of
Santa Gertrudis and eight hundred head of improved Charolais, and he’s named
every one.) His bright pink hands are a shocking contrast to the dark red Santa
Gertrudis and the creamy Charolais as he runs them over the cows’ hides, checking
for bots and ticks. He squats to check their manure for worms without the slightest
flicker of disgust. He sings to them in his soft little whispery voice. When I sent the
yearlings north to the feedlots this spring, he cried.
The cows don’t roll the whites of their eyes at him and shuffle away, as they
do when I or the other cowhands walk among them. No, they lean in to him, rubbing
against his shoulder in solidarity, nosing at those narrow pink hands to scratch
behind their ears. I’ve seen my 2,200-pound Charolais bull follow him around the
paddock like a puppy.
I think it’s because he smells like them. Like a herbivore.
Like prey.
The air-conditioning sighs a cold, disinfected breeze. The clock ticks. My
chair creaks. My son-in-law’s ears twitch.
We wait.
* * * *
A few nights ago, before Diana’s labor began, I took my coffee and my
prenatal anxieties out to the porch after dinner. I like to sit on the steps with the lights
off and watch the stars in their grave dance across the sky as I plan the next day’s
work. That evening’s weather report had noted a tropical depression forming in the
 
Gulf two hundred miles southeast of Brownsville. If we were going to have a tropical
storm or hurricane in the next week, the herds would have to be moved away from
the creeks, and all the hay would have to be covered with tarps. I wanted to make
sure I had thought of everything that would need to be done by the time I talked over
the day’s schedule with my foreman over breakfast.
The summer night’s air was thick with the buzz of cicadas and the scents of
sun-heated grass and cow manure. I could hear a few cows lowing restlessly, and,
far off, the 9:05 freight out of Alice, bound for Benavides, Laredo, and Monterrey,
Mexico. From around the corner on the south porch came the sounds of
good-natured taunts and laughter that signaled the nightly poker game run by my
ranch foreman, Juan Solis, with Matt, Sonny, and Pablo. Luis had brought out his
twelve-string and was serenading them softly with sad Spanish love songs. The new
hire, Juan Bautista, lounged dejectedly on the porch rail at the corner and sipped at a
bottle of beer. No doubt he had just been told he was too junior to sit in the game.
Juan Solis had asked me to hire Juan Bautista because he was the son of a
cousin who had passed away recently and the boy had dropped out of school to
support his mother, but I knew Juan Solis wouldn’t have asked if the boy weren’t
capable. He had worked hard that day, working the cows with the ease of one who
had been minding cattle since he was old enough to sit on a horse. Which was
probably the case. In this part of Texas, unless you want to hoof it down to the Rio
Grande valley and spend your days stooped over hoeing onions, or ship out for
three-week stints as a roustabout on an oil rig in the Gulf, there isn’t much else but
ranch work. And though I may keep vaccination records and breeding histories on a
computer now, and we use pickup trucks in addition to the horses, the essential
relationship between man and cow hasn’t changed since humans first learned to be
herders.
The boy had behaved well over dinner, too. He knew enough to scrape off his
boots and wash his hands before sitting at table; he listened much and said little,
which indicated a bit of sense; and though he was obviously both fascinated by and
wary of my son-in-law, he held his tongue and didn’t stare overmuch.
Through it all, Diana’s husband sat placidly chewing his roasted grains and
vegetables with those big, square, white teeth of his. He is inordinately fond of
spinach, and now cook serves it at every dinner. I can’t abide the stuff myself, it’s
too much like eating the cows’ hay, but some of the cowhands have developed a
liking for it. And Diana, of course, always offers me the serving bowl, with an
innocent tone in her voice and a spark in her eye.
After dinner, my son-in-law had helped Diana up from the table and off to
bed. She moved ponderously, cradling her great belly with both hands. I
remembered how Maria’s temper, at this point in her pregnancy, had become as
fiery as her favorite chiles rojas . Diana, in contrast, seemed subdued, past patience
and well into resignation, filled with a weary disgust for her condition.
 
Her husband came out onto the porch and settled into a rocking chair in the
deep shadows, next to the house wall. He explained once that it’s not that he minds
the night so much, he just doesn’t like to be out under that star-filled sky. Just as
well. I didn’t have to pretend to carry on a conversation with him.
I saw Juan Bautista turn to look when the screen door closed. He slid off the
porch rail and disappeared in the direction of the game. I could hear a murmur of
voices, but not what was being discussed. Then I heard the screen door on the
south side of the house slam.
A few minutes passed. The stars twinkled in silence, the rocking chair
squeaked in slow rhythm, cicadas shrilled, a train’s diesel engine chugged almost too
low to hear, and Luis picked out a melody that Maria used to sing to Diana when she
was small.
Then the south porch screen door slammed again, and Juan Bautista came
around the corner. His boot heels rapped smartly against the mesquite porch planks
as he strode toward me. In the light that leaked around the corner from the south
porch, I could see that two beer bottles dangled from his left hand; he cradled
something lumpy in his right.
I was afraid he was going to try to be sociable, but he nodded respectfully to
me on the steps and kept going until he reached the figure in the rocker. The
squeaking stopped.
Juan Bautista said, “ Buenas noches, amigo . My cousin, Juan Solis—” he
shrugged in the direction of the game, “he says you like plantains.”
A voice from the shadows said, “I do.”
“He said you like to eat them raw?” Juan Bautista sounded skeptical.
“Yes. I do like them like that.”
Juan Bautista offered a small bunch of the fruit and didn’t flinch as the
eight-fingered hand reached out of the dimness to take it. The boy hooked a chair
closer with the toe of his boot and straddled it. “ Cerveza ?”
“Thank you.”
I heard two soft pops, then the tink , tink of bottle caps hitting the porch
boards.
Juan took a long swig of his beer. “My cousin says you don’t mind talking
about the place you came from. I’d like to hear about your home, por favor .”
fLaar finished one plantain and began to peel another. “All right.”
* * * *
“If you point one of your most powerful telescopes at the group of stars you
 
call La Virgen and look to the left of the bright star you call Spica—but much
farther away—you will just be able to see a small, yellow star: a star very similar to
this one you call El Sol . The telescope would not be able to show you, but that star
had planets, eight of them. On one of those planets, the fourth from its sun, life
evolved.
“From space that planet looked more gray and brown than your blue and
green Earth; it was a little less dense than your Earth and therefore its gravity a little
less than here; the atmosphere had a slightly different mix of gases, and the oceans a
different mix of salts, but you would have been able to breathe the air and drink the
fresh water safely. I think you would have found it pleasant. I think you would have
found it beautiful.
“That star’s spectrum of light was a little different than your sun’s, and the
gases in the planet’s atmosphere scattered and absorbed that light differently, so the
chemicals that evolved in plants to turn that light into food were different also. On
my planet, the vegetation was mostly red rather than this Earth’s green. All the
shades of red, from pink to scarlet, and from bronze to almost purple.
“That planet had mountains, with tall peaks covered in snow year-round.
There were deep crimson jungles and great rivers and deserts and lakes. But the
most beautiful areas were the vast plains of pink and rust grasses, dotted with rocky
hills and small forests of trees with leaves the color of blood.
“Here in Texas you have a mythical beast, the jackalope—yes?” Juan Bautista
snorted and slapped his knee. fLaar continued, “Without a smile you tell newcomers
it is a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope. Well, imagine a real animal that
looks like a cross between your jackrabbit and a baboon—you have seen pictures of
a baboon?”
Juan Bautista nodded.
“Like the jackrabbit, this animal had large ears and a large nose, to hear and
smell predators that might sneak up through the tall grass. Like the jackrabbit and the
baboon, this animal could sit up on its haunches, even stand on its hind legs for
short periods, to look over those tall grasses. Like the baboon, it lived in troops of
twenty to two hundred individuals. These were well-organized social groups, with
leaders, scouts, nursemaids, defenders, and food gatherers. This animal even had a
rudimentary language, several octets of vocalizations and signs that could be used to
express surprisingly complex concepts. And like the baboon, it was intelligent
enough to learn to use simple tools to acquire food or defend itself.
“Our studies indicated this was a peaceful and cooperative animal. When
different troops encountered one another in their wanderings across the plains, they
did not fight—they traded. They mingled together for days or weeks, sharing
knowledge, like where the best nut trees or the tastiest grasses or the sweetest
springs were to be found, and skills, like how to use a pair of stones to crack the
 

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