Red Hudson Jr. always resented his father, just a smidge, for the Junior title he was given. There was a weight to it, like a millstone. It was his to carry though, and in his typical fashion he did so quietly, nobly.
Still, when Lorraine suggested “Red Hudson III” for their soon-to-arrive baby boy, it was a firm “no.” Red had suggested, “Arnold,” as in, “Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Lorraine preferred, “Joseph.” Like Mary's husband.
The debate made the in-laws grin. That was them, all the way down to the letter, wasn't it? Red had worshipped at the altar of physical greatness his entire life. Bodybuilders, football players, boxers, wrestlers. Lorraine could care less about matters of the body. She was a theist in the traditional sense, and read her Bible almost every night.
They were perfect together, in a way.
At the family barbecue, which was held after Church every other Sunday, the birds chirped noisily while the sun melted slowly into the horizon, far beyond the wooden fence that boxed in the backyard which was just big enough for a grill and a family, the lively conversation of names raged on.
Red Sr. wondered why the newborn wouldn't just carry on the name, as Junior had done.
“You could call him Trey. Like three.”
“We could,” Junior replied.
We'd never.
Many names were brought forth as suggestions, most of which either Red liked, and Lorraine didn't — or vice versa. Mrs. Anderson, Lorraine's mama, had suggested “John,” like the Baptist. Red liked John, but thought it sounded like a white dude who says “buddy” a lot. Lorraine, however, felt it was flavorless. Someone mentioned “Michael,” which Lorraine liked, as it reminded her of the angel. Red liked that one too, but didn't see why they wouldn't just call him Mike, as in Tyson.
“I like ‘Michael,’” Lorraine said. “‘Mike’ is too rough, I think. What kinda two year old runs around with people calling him ‘Mike?’”
“Ain't nobody scared of no ‘Michael Tyson,’ Lorraine!” Red replied.
Lots of laughs, lots of food, lots of memories. Kids played cops and robbers, the women planned a baby shower, and the men drank beers and talked sports.
It was so normal, it could make a strange man sick to his stomach with anxiety.
But in the end, that's what they were.
Normal.
Normal, and good.
Normal, and good, and broke.
But that was alright.
“We gonna make it,” Red Jr. always said.
“Yes we are,” Lorraine always replied.
He believed in the mantra. She believed in him.
As time passed, a name still had not been decided on.
Even when her water broke unexpectedly after Red hit a large pothole in the ‘95 Crown Vic he was driving around.
They rushed to the hospital.
The whole ride there they were shouting up names...
Isaac!
Daryl!
Shakiim!
Peter!
And shooting them down.
At the hospital, there were complications.
The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck, and he was backwards.
Red was in a haze of worry and paranoid anxiety as they tried to explain to him what they were going to do. They spoke to him in jargon, it may as well have been a foreign language. He understood athletic injuries. Pulled muscles. Torn tendons. Broken bones. But this?
He vacantly consented to whatever procedure it was they were trying to explain.
“But she's going to be alright?” He heard himself ask.
“I believe so,” the doctor replied.
In the end, everything was alright. The baby was healthy. Mama was healthy.
“What's his name?” The doctor asked, a birth certificate on the table tray, with a pen in his hand.
“What's yours?” Red asked.
“Haha… Red, I've been your wife's doctor through this entire process and… you don't know my name?”
“It's Josiah,” Lorraine said from the hospital bed, cradling their baby in her arms. She didn't look up from the baby when she said it. She didn't know when she'd ever be able to tear her eyes away from him.
“The doctor's?” Red asked.
“No. The baby's name. Josiah.”
Red figured that God must've told her that. God was always telling Lorraine all kinds of shit. Never had shit to say to Red, but, the way he figured, if God was steering her right, then he was steering him right, too.
“I'm Arnold,” the Doctor said. “Dr. Arnold Yoder.”
Josiah Arnold Hudson was born on a Tuesday evening in the summer of 2004.
He had been spared the weight of his father's name.
He did not know yet the brand new weight on his shoulders.
But it was going to be alright.
“We gonna make it,” Red Jr. said.
“Yes we are,” Lorraine replied.