Artesia

A Blues Brothers Fan Fiction

By Amy Smith (as Ella Roberta Reamy)

© 2002

Artesia Papageorge lay back on her bed in a daze. She felt so sick, but she wasn't sure why, but she did know that whatever it was, she would die from it.

Her head ached and her vision was blurry. She wanted to roll over and sleep on her stomach, but, being nine months pregnant, that was a virtual impossibility.

She loathed the fact that she was pregnant. It wasn't that she didn't want a baby, but she hated the fact that it was that particular no-good bastard's child. Either way, it would soon be no longer of her concern. She was dying, and she knew it.

Butt-Fuck Asshole. Artesia chuckled weakly. That was her favorite derogatory nickname for Greg Covington, that bastard who'd got her knocked up. She had planned to leave him just before the baby was born. He had kept her under his rule for too long, and she wasn't going to bring that baby home to his house.

She had been afraid for so long to leave him. Sure, he had been as sweet as anything when she met him. Back when she was on the school yearbook staff and her gal-pals called her Georgie, short for her last name, and everyone said she was sweet and pretty, and Clark Gable was the only man in her life. Until Greg, that is.

But after graduation, her parents had died. First Mama died from the cancer, then a few months later Papa's broken heart finally got the best of him, and Artesia moved away from Wheaton and into Chicago with Greg and his aging mother, who insisted that Artesia call her Mother Covington and was the nicest person she had ever met, aside from her own parents.

But then the fights started. Greg got involved with the mob at the persuasions of his brother Jesse. Artesia begged him to stop, but Greg said that once he was involved he would never get out.

Then came the drinking. Greg would stay out to four a.m. with his buddies, then come home and kick Artesia around.

And then he started killing people. That's was Greg's daily routine. Kill a few offenders by day, in the bars by seven p.m., then home in the early morning to beat Artesia, or force himself on her if he was in a good mood. He became more ruthless by the day.

And then there had been the incident with the fire poker. Even Artesia hadn't seen that one coming. Greg had come home drunk, but earlier than usual, about six o'clock. He just walked up, and drove it through the top of his mother's head while she was sitting there, minding her own business, listening to the radio and eating a chicken potpie. It was a shame, really; old Mother Covington had always been nice to her, and to Greg too.

That's when Artesia had decided that enough was enough. After Greg had passed out on the couch, Artesia climbed the stairs and headed straight for Greg's top dresser drawer, where he kept his extra guns. She picked the smallest one, since it wasn't too cumbersome in her grasp. She had no idea what model it was; she had never known those kinds of things, but she knew how to load one. She watched Greg load them each morning when he thought she was asleep.

She made sure it was loaded, then went calmly down the stairs, watching her footing so as not to trip and fall. If she fell, she would lose the baby. Being pregnant was uncomfortable, but she was so close to the finish that she didn't want it to be all for nothing. In fact, she had come to love the little guy growing inside her. She instinctively knew it was a boy, even though nobody had told her. She had even picked out a few names for it, debating among John, Gabriel, Jake, Robert, or Daniel. She was certainly not going to call it Gregory Humphrey Covington, Jr., as Greg had loved to call it.

Artesia, upon reaching the bottom of the stairwell, rounded the corner and went up behind Greg. He was snoring softly, passed out in the armchair. And poor Mother Covington still bleeding on the couch. Artesia put the gun to Greg's head and pulled the trigger. Greg's body stiffened suddenly, then went limp just as fast. Artesia laid the gun on the table beside the chair, then stepped over Greg's feet, kicking them lightly as she went by, and over to Mother Covington. The old woman's lifeless eyes stared out at her, as if she were still listening to the radio, which was playing an ad about the 1949 Fords that were coming out soon. Artesia had never understood why they came out with the year's new cars six months before the old year was even over. Artesia shrugged, then leaned over and closed the woman's eyes.

"Just listen, darling," Artesia crooned to her unborn child, resting her hand on her belly. "Can't you just see those new Fords in your mind? Maybe I'll get us one for Christmas. Greg won't be here to say otherwise."

Artesia had climbed the stairs again, singing to the baby growing inside of her, and lay back down to sleep on Mother Covington's bed. It was the softest, and she liked it better.

The police came about half an hour later. A neighbor had heard the gunshots and called them. They woke her up, showed her the bodies, and asked her what had happened. She told them she didn't remember anything, or even what day it was. She didn't know these people.

They fingerprinted the gun, and matched the prints to hers. They put her in cuffs and led her away. Off the to the women's prison in Dwight. Artesia knew full well what she had done, but figured maybe she could get off with the insanity plea. It didn't work. They sentenced her to life for both murders, even though she hadn't killed Mother Covington.

"Who's the baby's father? Were you married to Greg Covington? Is he the child's father?" the had asked her over again.

"I don't know a Greg Covington. And my baby has no father."

And those horrid doctors and nurses. They thought she couldn't hear her, but they were always talking right in front of her, as if she weren't there. Saying that she and the baby wouldn't live through it. Well, Artesia knew that she wouldn't, but she knew for sure that her baby would. She could feel the child's willpower, kicking her firmly at times, demanding to be let out of there. She would smile; she knew that baby boy would be so much stronger than her.

And so a few days later, having laid silent and reclusive, not speaking to anyone, she let out a scream of anguish. The baby was coming.

The labor was long and hard. Artesia nearly blacked out a few times during her fuzzy consciousness, various events of her past flashing before her eyes.

And oh, but it was painful for her. They had to bind her to the small bed, she screamed and thrashed about so vehemently. She didn't think it should have been so painful, but she chuckled in her mind. This child was gonna be a stubborn one. Too bad she wouldn't live to see it.

"It's showtime!" the nurse screeched through Artesia's haze. The mean nurse whose name wasn't worth remembering. And Cissy, sweet Cissy, her favorite nurse, by her side as always.

"Jake," Artesia heard herself say, "Cissy, please. You call him Jake."

"Push, honey…" she heard Cissy say. Artesia summoned her last bits of strength and followed Cissy's commands.

And as the baby broke free from the restraints of her body, he gave a loud, strong cry that filled her ears. A strong wail.

Artesia smiled; she knew he would live. But too bad she wouldn't.

"Jake…"

THE END

BETA-READ BY JENNIFER HUBBARD AND REVISED BY THE AUTHOR, DECEMBER 2003.