Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Heather E. Goodman
anything over beers and a fire. Even a baby. I want Mom to sing her
song to me, and I want you and Daddy to hear her.” I drop my hands
to my side, kick at the dry dirt and a withering dandelion.
Will reaches across the table and takes my hand stinking with guts.
He puts it on his chest, palm and fingers splayed. “Can you sing it to
me?”
He knows the song. I sing it when it’s quiet, when it’s happy, and
the night we told Daddy we were pregnant. It did make him happy. He
hugged me hard, forgetting his pain, and clapped Will on the back.
They toasted beer cans in celebration. We sat huddled on his bed,
listening to the peepers in the swamp.
Across the table, Will nods to me, a signal. He covers my hand
with his. I feel the thud of his heart. His skin is slick with sweat. It
smells sweet, cut grass. I start the lullaby; he finishes it with me.
The baby kicks. I take my hand from his chest and place his hand,
for the first time, on my belly.
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