Beyond the Pale: A Novel by Elana Dykewomon

through.
    “This is the hardest part,” she said. “Yell, go ahead,” and the woman gave such an oy-vey I almost dropped her foot. Milcah put her hands on the baby’s head and the head turned sideways.
    “This is the way it’s curled up in the womb. You put your hand right away to hold the head, but don’t squeeze or pull by it, you hear?” she said without looking at me. “Even if it seems like it’s taking too long, which, thank God, this is not. You just support and guide it.” One shoulder was out and the baby opened its mouth, gulping, starting to cry.
    Then the rest of the tiny body glided out like music, if you didn’t mind the screaming. Fantastic music coming out of a woman’s thighs! The baby was crying, the mother panting and oy-veying, the sister sobbing. If Milcah hadn’t kept talking, I would have started weeping myself.
    “Now is when you work fast. Hand me a clean rag.” Milcah wiped the baby’s head, around its eyes and mouth, cleaning away all the mucus. “See? Oy. Well, she’ll have to wait until next time for a little yeshive bokher. Three girls is not so bad, she has plenty of time to make boys, we’ll try tansy next maybe. All right, you see this? Like watery cheese on the baby? Spread it all over, nice and even. It keeps the skin from getting a rash, a present from the mother.” Milcah massaged the tiny body all over. I was thrilled with its littleness, like baby snails I sometimes found, faithful miniatures that gave me a sensation I can only call awe. But then there was no time for awe. The cord was hanging, throbbing, and I had to remember every word Milcah said.
    “You make sure the cord hangs free, not wrapped anywhere around the baby. God forbid, the cord should come first, it can be a real problem. Sometimes you can still save the child, but it’s not easy. Now you wait for the cord to lie still before you cut it.”
    Milcah handed the infant to me, and I was holding someone entirely new, red, wrinkled, covered with yellowy wax, her face bunched up from pressing against the window of life, the big red and purple cord twined at her belly. I felt dizzy, not because of the intimacy but something else, like a voice coming over my eyes. I saw a room full of animal hides. On one hide, in a circle, nine Shabbes candlesticks, all lit except one, in which the candle had gone out.
    “Gutke? Gutke! Here, give me the baby! What are you staring at?”
    “I told you that girl is not right,” the sister said in a kind of hiss.
    “Of course she is. She’s never seen a birth before, that’s all. Are you all right, child?”
    “Oh yes, please forgive me, I—”
    “You did nothing wrong. You held the girl fine, as if you were born to hold babies. Now just breathe and watch what I do.”
    The cord had stopped pulsing. She made two clamps and cut between them, just so, near the baby’s belly, not too close. The baby was lying on the mother’s rounded stomach, the mother crying and laughing, running her hands over the baby’s fingers and toes.
    “Every mother does that,” Milcah whispered to me, “even the ones
    who’ve never heard of a baby with missing toes.”
    “Oh, Chaim will be so disappointed.”
    “And you?”
    “My sweet baby, my precious flower. Flora, that’s a nice name for a girl, isn’t it? I had a great-grandmother Flora. Maybe it’s too nice, kayn ayen-hore?”
    “Flora is a fine name. Don’t worry. It’s a mitsve to honor the dead.” Milcah smiled; everything was good. But not finished. “She has one more birth to give.” The woman moaned a little, tired, holding her baby against her breast. Then there was another wet sound and the cord wiggled and slid down the mother’s leg. Milcah showed me everything that comes out, the sack the baby was in, the different liquids. She made me smell them, even though I gagged because it was so strong, like putting my whole head into a rotting carcass.
    Milcah patted my back. “You’ll get used to it, don’t