Thulani was 4 and, coming down stairs he screamed siren-like, a prolonged yell and fell, his whole body convulsively sobbing. When I reached him and picked him up and held him close, my hold necessitated a shift from hug to restraint until the boy convulsed less and relaxed enough to reveal the carpet nail lodged flush in his underfoot.
I had spent the afternoon, while Thulani and his infant brother were napping, ripping, tearing, hauling an old carpet off a stairwell.
Dr. Yancey made me do it.
He said something was bothering infant-Nate’s breathing, perhaps an old carpet and ordered it out.
I examined the exposed hardwood time and again, running my open hands carefully over each newly exposed stair for a missed carpet nail and found none.
Now the nail I did miss plugged Thulani’s foot.
With a boy hanging around my neck I headed for the living room sofa and, using my full body weight, held him down to lock kicking legs.
He froze seeing I was about to remove the nail.
Silent, transfixed – he watched me pull it out and puked as I held him tight against my chest.
The warm flow spewed from his anxious tummy, gluing us together as it snaked down my shirt.
The sludge, a sloppy mucus curtain, dangled between us and, to trap the flow, I held him even closer and waddled to the basement and stripped him. Maneuvering his frame from arm to arm I removed my soiled and dumped our soggy clothes into the washer.
Upstairs, I eased him into a warm soapy bathtub and sat on the rim.
“Daddy, that’s why I need a mommy!” he said.
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