Ann Bruce | The Noose

The Noose

Jonathan Sheffield smiled blandly at the receptionist who seemed to have forgotten that only moments earlier she had been talking to the wife of one of the senior vice-presidents of Trent Corporations. Within seconds, a shrill voice screeching from the receiver jerked the defenceless receptionist back into reality.

Jonathan bit back a grin. It was nice to know that even at the age of forty-two women still found his arresting combination of sable hair, lightly threaded with grey at the temples, pale blue eyes, and aristocratic features, which he had inherited from his Creole ancestors, attractive. His meek little wife, who has never raised her voice to him, was the loving, devoted type who worshipped the sacred ground he walked upon, but her opinion was biased. Thus, he did not mind the attention he constantly received from other women. It stroked his already over-sized ego.

Jonathan slid behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes-Benz with a feeling of satisfied elation. He adjusted his Ray Bans on the bridge of his nose. He glanced quickly at his reflection in the rear-view mirror before he started the ignition.

Jonathan was driving confidently, and with not a little bit of preening indulgence, on his way to his apartment penthouse on Lake Shore Drive when he got the call.

"Mr. Sheffield," the urgent, yet business-like, voice began, "your wife is at the Roosevelt Memorial Hospital. She went into labour at about five-fifteen this afternoon. Dr. Hayward is on his way."

The cellular phone slipped from Jonathan's fingers. His palms were suddenly very sweaty…as was his neck, back, and entire body. His stomach felt curiously empty and hollow, as if the bottom had just fallen out. He could feel the skin on his stomach sort of settle into a concave shape.

"Mr. Sheffield? Mr. Sheffield? Are you still there?"

Jonathan blinked rapidly. He looked down at the cellular phone on the passenger seat, a blank look on his face. It took him a moment before he was able to gather enough wits to tell the owner of the shrill voice that he was on his way. Somewhere, in the farthest reaches of his mind, Jonathan knew that he should really step on the gas pedal for the light had just turned green. But it took several minutes of irritated honking of cars and obscene words and gestures from the other drivers for his brain to force his body to execute the series of motions to shift gears. It seemed to take forever for his palms were like swimming pools. It was, after all, his first child.

Jonathan was in such a daze that he almost forgot to turn onto Sedgwick Street when he reached the intersection. It did not seem to register on him that he was in third gear the entire time. The blessed numbness of shock cushioned him from everything.

When he reached the hospital, he was quickly met by his wife's obstetrician. Dr. Hayward was a dapper little man who first struck one as an effete dandy before one saw the intelligent gleam in his dark eyes. He was a man in his late fifties who never seemed to be ruffled by anything. This abetted him immensely in his profession for the fathers were usually nervous enough as it were. The moment he saw the too-handsome Jonathan Sheffield, he smugly concluded that the revered Adonis was human after all.

Jonathan quickly shed his Brooks Brothers jacket for the green scrubs given to him by Dr. Hayward. He forgot to secure the ties behind him, he was so ruffled.

He heard his wife's screams before he was even within five feet of the doors. His heart lodged in his throat and fingers of icy coldness skimmed over his gut. He froze for a moment before hurrying to catch up with Dr. Hayward. His face was ashen by the time he saw his red-faced wife panting on the drab hospital bed.

Whatever blood he had left drained visibly from his face, leaving him feeling light-headed and rigid with fear at the same time. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jonathan registered that it was a weird, almost unnerving, sensation.

He did not remember striding over to his wife. He did not remember his inconsequential attempts to soothe his wife. He did not remember his wife shouting obscenities at him, blaming him for the tearing pain she was now suffering and that he would never touch her again. He did not remember his wife virtually rubbing the metacarpals of his left hand together. He did not remember his tie falling from his loose scrubs.

Jonathan, however, did remember his wife abandoning the curses she heaped upon his head for hoarse, yet piercing, screams. Nonetheless, he did not recall the exact moment when his wife, who used to be so sweet and adoring not very long ago this morning, released his bruised and throbbing hand to clutch onto his hapless tie in a death grip.

The next few moments were pandemonium.

The nurses were shouting, the doctor was ordering his wife to push and she was cursing him, telling him that he should try it. And all while this was happening, Jonathan was slowly choking, gasping more desperately for breath than his wife. As he was beginning to see tiny, black dots before his eyes, a nurse took pity on him and cut his silk Armani tie with a surgical scalpel.

Just as he was falling down to the cold floor—fainting rather gracefully for such a tall man—his son was falling into the waiting hands of Dr. Hayward, making his entrance known with an even shriller cry than his mother's.

At the last moment before he reached blissful unconsciousness, Jonathan cursed the ill fate of men.