Melody Parker entered the living room from the kitchen, felt the baby kick so hard she had to grab hold of the door frame. Her mother witnessed this, saw Melody’s hand pressed palm to stomach, saw Melody’s face pale, and became concerned.
“Want to sit down, Precious?” Jane smoothed a pillow lying next to her on the couch. “Here, right here, come on, sit next to me.”
Melody wobbled over and fell with relief into the soft cushions. Jane put out her cigarette.
“That’s better, Precious. You have to take care now. He could come out at any time.”
At that exact moment a flood of clear liquid gushed from between Melody’s legs and she cried, “Ohmigod! I think he’s coming now.”
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Jane leaped to her feet and grabbed the telephone from the low table in front of her. She frantically dialed 911 saying to her daughter, “Just sit there Precious. I’m calling an ambulance.” Into the mouthpiece she gave her name and address, asked, then demanded paramedics get there immediately. But before they could arrive, the baby was born.
The widow mumbled incantations, practiced her peculiar brand of Catholic voodoo over what the paramedics who finally arrived said resembled a Santeria ritual birth as Milo Parker came kicking and screaming into the world. It was a messy beginning which left a stain on the living room carpet. As a toddler, Milo would point this out to any
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