the night he came

They called at 6:15. Right when my rice was done. Right when my hand was on the just-washed lettuce to gather it to put it in my bowl. I stopped. To listen. The baby is here. The baby is here, he said. Time stopped. My stove didn't. I burned my rice. I offered. I am forever offering. Can I get you some food? Do you need anything? Do you need any food? 

I didn't know where I was going in the rain. Lost between the mist and the puddles and the unfamiliar intersections. Friday night city traffic. On the phone though I shouldn't have been. Friends kept interrupting friends. When it rains it pours. Can you hold on a second? I'll be right back. Yeah, a baby. Good news. Thank you. Can I call you back? Hello? Right. Where were we? Where am I?

I parked and I remember thinking about the walk. It seemed a long way to the restaurant from my car. Could I have gotten closer? I asked myself as I hurried through the rain, squinting at water-dappled cars, wishing they were empty spots. My rain boots are two sizes too small.

The barbecue joint was filled with aroma and steamy, homey heat. I picked for them, ribs and burnt ends. Sauce for lickin' off your fingers. The man came up to me while I was adjusting myself in that pre-weather ritual -- buttons in order, gloves on, something to cover the head. He had graying disordered teeth, a wide square head and rhuemy eyes. Rheumy eyes. I thought it then too, like he had walked off the page of a book.

I wasn't pretty enough for anyone to talk to that night. Bug-eye glasses, hair a nest, and keys still in my car. Panic makes me ashen, fragile and taut like the last string left on an abandoned guitar. Of course maybe it wasn' t about pretty. He loaned me his phone when mine wouldn't dial out (worth the price of small talk). I'm sorry I'm going to be late, I told my brother. I locked my keys in the car. Nothing could dampen his spirits. The baby is here.