A Good American by Alex George

grunt. Then a whole series of them, short, harsh, utterly terrifying.
    “Wake Kliever,” she gasped. “Tell him to fetch—”
    She got no further, silenced by another wave of pain. A minute later, Frederick was back by her side. Down the corridor, Kliever was pulling on his trousers. Jette’s chest rose and fell violently, breath rasping in and out of her. The noise filled the room. Frederick suddenly understood that there would be no time to wait for the doctor. He went to the end of the bed and peered nervously between Jette’s open legs.
    “Frederick,” moaned Jette. “Stop staring and come here.”
    Abashed, Frederick scuttled around to her side. It occurred to him that he had never seen her so determined, so afraid, or so beautiful.
    “What is it?” she hissed through clenched teeth. “What’s wrong?”
    He bent down toward her. “I was just thinking how beautiful you looked.”
    The punch was impressive, both accurate and strong. Jette’s fist caught her husband squarely on the jaw. It was an absolute peach of a shot, and it propelled him backward into the chest of drawers. The impact sent the terra-cotta angel crashing to the ground. Frederick lay sprawled across the floor, his jaw stinging. Before he had the chance to wonder what he had done to deserve such a mighty wallop, Jette let out a last cry, filled with a world of agony and hope, and her body went limp. Then the room filled with a high-pitched mewl.
    It was the first note of millions that my father would sing.
    D r. Becker arrived a few minutes after the birth. He had gently taken the child out of Frederick’s trembling hands and cut his umbilical cord. After a brief inspection he declared him healthy, if a little on the small side. After the sun had risen and the first day of my father’s life had begun in earnest, Jette lay propped up in her bed, the new baby in her arms. Kliever and his wife gathered around to inspect the child. Frederick stood next to Jette, gazing in awe at the tiny sleeping bundle of creased flesh. One hand rested on his wife’s shoulder. The other gingerly rubbed his chin. The terra-cotta angel was lying forgotten on the bedroom floor. One of its wings had broken off when it hit the ground. It lay a few inches away from the rest of the body, alone and dislocated, a misshapen heart.
    “A beautiful baby boy,” Anna Kliever said, smiling.
    Kliever nodded approvingly. “What will you call him?”
    Jette thought about Joseph and Reina Wall, and wondered what would have happened without their kind and timely intervention. She reached up and felt for Frederick’s hand. Her fingers closed around his. “We’ll call him Joseph,” she said.
    Just then there was a knock on the bedroom door. Dr. Becker and Childs stood side by side in the corridor. Becker beckoned Frederick out of the bedroom.
    “Herr Meisenheimer,” began the doctor. “How is your new family?”
    Frederick blinked through his exhaustion. “Tired,” he said.
    “Splendid,” said Becker. He looked at his shoes for a moment. “Mr. Childs here has been asking when you will be able to continue your journey. He tells me that he is required to return to St. Louis in two days.”
    “I see.”
    “Your son is very small and weak, Herr Meisenheimer. He must be properly looked after.” The doctor paused. “If I could insist upon it, I would have you all stay here, for several days at least. Your wife needs to recover from her labor, and your son is too young for the rigors of a long journey.”
    Frederick nodded. “Yes. I understand.”
    “If you do as I suggest, Mr. Childs can return to St. Louis today.”
    The driver’s small, bloodshot eyes shifted between the men as he listened to them speak in German, a sullen scowl of incomprehension on his thin lips. Frederick sighed. “Well, then, I suppose we should wish him a safe journey home.”
    Dr. Becker nodded, and turned and spoke to Childs in English. The driver listened in silence, and then walked away