The Cave Beside the Road

by Charles C. Cole

Carston Brenner, on a college gap year funded by his generous doctor-parents, was “surfing” surface roads, using quiet two-lane state highways to see the unexplored countryside. Sometimes this meant larger stretches between bathroom- and food-breaks than he was used to. More often than not, it meant slower speeds, caught behind smiling fellas in smoking tractors and even an occasional horse and buggy.

Mostly, he laughed and marveled. He just wanted to keep going, to see more. So, at the tail end of this winding tree-lined transit that crossed back and forth over a small river, he was not shocked by traffic coming to a crawl. But to a complete stop?

From the center of the lane, a serious man with 19th-century sideburns waved the vehicle to a stop. The “roadcrew” wore black overalls and an orange reflective vest with a homemade “FUTURE UNCLE” sign in two wide strips of silver duct tape.

Carston pulled onto the narrow shoulder of the rural byway. Cars and pickups were parked on both sides as far as the eye could see, like when people start congregating for the 4th of July fireworks on the South Casco Causeway.

A firetruck, dome light churning but no siren, was half in the road a quarter-mile ahead. Road temporarily closed due to a car accident or maybe a summer fun-run?

People were sitting on their hoods and drinking and laughing, bags of snacks at their elbows, like this was a regional tailgate party: all the time in the world. A young man approached, in an untucked red-plaid shirt with a barely-there moustache, a can of liquid refreshment in each hand.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “You just made it. Doc says not much longer. Beer? We’re starting the celebration early. Do I know you?”

“Just passing through. Friendly town. Don’t mind if I do,” said Carston. The beer was open, so he took a polite sip and smiled. “Thanks.”

“The new taxpayer’s almost here,” joked the stranger. Carston showed his confusion plainly on his face. “I mean: the new baby. My first. Crazy life.”

“Glad it’s not a car accident. I was so confused. Everyone seems so happy.”

“Only two big events a year in our small village: Founders’ Day and the day babies are born, especially to immediate family, which I am. Yep, only happens a dozen times a year, usually nine months to the day after some historical heatwave or blizzard.”

Carston managed another sip. “Is the baby being delivered in your car? The firetruck...”

“Doc had a flat. I’m a volunteer, so we borrowed it.” Just noticing. “You’re not from these parts. I’m Henry Fielding.”

More confusion for the late-arriving interloper. “But shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”

“What for? Nobody’s hurt. Nobody’s dying.”

“In the city, it’s what’s done, out of an abundance of caution,” Carston explained.

“With all those sick people?”

“I was thinking of the staff. And the technology.” Beat. “My parents are both doctors.”

“Two doctors in one family, you say? Sounds like overkill,” said Henry. “We’ve got one in the whole town. Maybe we’re made of tougher stock in the country.” Henry shook his head and finished the beer in his hand.

“Henry,” asked Carston, “I appreciate you welcoming me to your community, but shouldn’t you be with your wife?”

“I can’t deliver a baby. I’d just muck it up.”

“Is your house nearby?”

“No, why?” asked Henry.

“Why are we — and all these people — in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Doc’s in the Cave of Life. With Viv. It’s around the corner. You wouldn’t know that part. This is where all babies start, from the time the first settlers came to these parts. Maybe because it was sacred to the indigenous people, now all gone. Or maybe it was the safest place we knew of when we had to worry about raiding parties and war and disease. You have traditions where you come from, ones that might seem odd to an outsider?”

“Like my grandfather wrapping turkey wishbones in tinfoil and putting them on the Christmas Tree?”

Henry snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

There was some sudden business in the road: a woman whispered to the Future Uncle. The other men noticed. She had streaks from tears all over her face, but they could see they were happy tears.

“Henry!” Future Uncle called. “Doc’s asking for you. He says he did his part. Time for you to do yours.”

“Damn,” said Henry. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Viv wanted a girl. She was sure of it. Her uncle hung a needle over her left hand, and it started circling. He’s never been wrong. We only talked girl names.”

“Congratulations!” said Carston.

Henry started to stumble away, stunned, beer still in hand.

“Let me,” said Carston, grabbing at the can. “You might want both hands free for holding the baby.”

“What if I’m a terrible father?” asked Henry, suddenly serious.

“You’ll be fine.”

“We still need a name. What’s your name?”

“Me? I’m nobody,” stammered Carston.

“What’s the name your parents gave you? Maybe it’s meant to be.”

“Carston.”

“I like it. Sort of like Kit Carson. Cool. Maybe for the middle name.”

Future Uncle put his hand around the new father’s shoulder in steadying fellowship and escorted him away for several steps. The two confided and then Future Uncle came back to Carston.

“You’re definitely not from here, not with that name.”

“Nope. Never been till today.”

“And you probably want to get on your way.”

“Eventually,” said Carston. “No hurry.”

“Go right up the center of the road. Go slow. Nobody’ll stop you. Watch out for kids playing.”

“Have a great life,” said Carston, getting into his driver’s seat.

“You, too, man,” said Future Uncle. “Carston, right? Could have been worse. Glad you weren’t Punxsutawney Periwinkle.” Carston smiled.

“How close to the next gas station?”

“About an hour.”

“Working bathroom?”

“Not for customers. But tell them the new uncle in Canaan says it’s okay.”