Читать книгу Through a Glass, Darkly - Charlotte Miller - Страница 11

There was a rumble of thunder in the distance as Elise reached the railroad tracks going back into the mill village the last Saturday afternoon in March. She had waited out the storm in Brown’s Grocery on Main Street, sitting in a cane-bottomed straight chair that Mr. Brown had brought out from behind his counter for her, he having refused to allow her to stand while she waited for the rain to slack off. She wanted to make it home before the downpour resumed, so she quickened her pace, going down alongside the loading dock there at the railroad tracks, and starting down the sidewalk before the mill.

The azalea bushes in the yards of the dayboss houses across from the mill were drooping and wet, their color catching her attention from across the street, and she felt a touch of disappointment as she saw that many of their blooms now lay on the ground, beaten from the plants by the rain. The sidewalk was wet, as were the trees around her, and she felt a drizzle hit her face but had no way of knowing if it was from the branches overhead or from the rain that looked ready to resume at any moment. She knew she could have bought the few things she needed from McCallum’s Grocery there in the village. If she had, she would have long since been home. As the wife of a mill worker, she was supposed to do her buying from the stores the Easons rented out to proprietors there in the village; that was one of the unwritten but well-known rules of village life she had been introduced to early, but one she could not bring herself to follow once she learned that almost anything they might need could be bought for less money from the stores along Main Street.

Her trips uptown often brought stares and even comments from people on both sides of the tracks, but she did not care. The walks gave her something to do during the days while Janson was asleep, and they allowed her at least a little time away from the incessant noise and lint of the village—and, besides, they gave her a chance to avoid the smelly, tobacco-chewing old men who considered the village stores their domain, sitting around the pot-bellied stove in the cold months, and now, on warmer days, occupying sagging cane-bottomed chairs between the open barrels of pickles and crackers before McCallum’s Grocery, oftentimes spitting tobacco juice on the ground almost at your feet as you passed. The old men seemed to be an accepted part of village life, but one Elise could not get used to. Their streams of tobacco juice made her stomach roll, and their habit of scratching themselves made her want to run away.

She felt rain spatter her again from the trees overhead, hearing the distant rumble of thunder even over the sound of the mill machinery so close at hand. She could hear voices as she neared the white building that served as the office for the mill, and she saw three boys, none older than eighteen or nineteen, come around the corner of the structure as she neared it, feeling their eyes rake over her only a moment later as they noted her approach.

“Hey, Buddy, look at her,” one called out as they stopped before the steps that led up to the mill office, blocking the sidewalk as they stared at her.

“Look at that red-gold hair and them tits—my, oh my—” the one called Buddy said. “That’s a fresh little piece if I ever saw one.”

She kept looking straight ahead but shifted her grocery sack to her other arm, thinking they would see that she was obviously pregnant and then realize that she was married so they would leave her alone.

“Somebody’s sure been at her; look at that belly—”

She felt herself blush to her hairline, but kept walking, telling herself that it would only be a few more steps and she would be past them. Only a few—

“Hey, I’ve seen her with that red-trash Sanders before, must be his wife—” one of the boys said, and immediately the one named Buddy, who had been standing at the edge of the sidewalk, stepped directly into her path, almost causing her to run up on him before she could stop herself.

“Sanders?” he said, staring down at her as she took a step back, moving again to block her path as she tried to move past him. “You’re married to that red-nigger?”

She glanced up at him, but did not answer, trying again to get past him.

“Answer me—you’re married to Janson Sanders?”

“Yes, I am—now, let me by—” But he moved to block her path again.

“What’s a white girl like you doing married to red-nigger trash like him?” he asked, but she would not answer. “Answer me, girl, what’re you doing married to that red-nigger?” He put his hand on her arm but she jerked away, almost dropping her sack of groceries. “Are you scared of white men, or something?” He stepped closer—too close, her mind told her as she tried to push past. “I bet you ain’t never had a real man, have you—now, I’ve got something that could show you what a real man—”

“Leave me alone!” She tried to pull away, to run. She was shaking so badly that the sack rattled in her hands. She saw people in a yard just down the street, a man passing at the other side of the road, but no one offered to help her.

“Leave her alone, Buddy. She’s gonna have a baby,” one of the other boys said, seeming to have had enough.

“That don’t matter. I’ve had them with bellies bigger than this one—right, little mama? Just because you’ve got a baby inside of you don’t mean you don’t need a man between your legs to—” He placed a hand on her stomach, over the baby inside of her, as only Janson had done before. It was not an intimate touch by any standards, but it went beyond intimacy to her. She drew her hand back and slapped him hard, seeing a stunned look come to his face.

“Keep your hands off me!” she yelled, wishing she had done it earlier.

“You little bitch!” He grabbed her and shook her hard, sending the sack from her hands and her groceries spilling onto the sidewalk and rolling into the road. Fear filled her, fear for herself and for the baby as well. Her eyes searched for someone, anyone who would help her. The yard down the street was deserted now, and the man just across the road was hurrying on as if nothing was happening within his hearing. “I’m gonna teach you to—”

“You get your hands off ’a that lady right now!” A voice came from the steps nearby, and Elise turned her eyes in desperation to its source, finding a tall black man standing on the steps that led up to the mill office, the door almost shut behind him now and a large wrench held in his hand. “You heard me; get your hands off ’a that lady!”

“You get back in that building, nigger. I’ll deal with you later. This ain’t none of your business.”

“Let her go.” He did not raise the wrench held in his hand, but its threat was clear.

“You stay outta this, boy—” His words were brave, but he released Elise. She took a step away and tried to calm her beating heart, feeling her knees tremble beneath her. She saw the look that passed between the man named Buddy and the black man, and she was almost certain she would see murder done before her, but then the office door swung all the way in and a heavy-set man in his forties with great jowls for cheeks stepped out to stare down at the group before him.

“Buddy, what’s going on out here?” he demanded, looking at the boy who had shaken her.

Buddy looked quickly from the black man to Elise and back again, and that look had held clear warning. “Nothing,” he said, staring up at his father.

The man looked at Elise, and then to the one person who had helped her. “Nathan, what’re you doing out here? You’re supposed to be inside working on the lavatory.”

“I came out t’ get Mr. Buddy t’ come look at it, t’ make sure everythin’ was okay before I left,” he answered, then turned his eyes to the three boys who had accosted her. “But Mr. Buddy an’ his friends were helpin’ this lady pick up her groceries she dropped so she could go on home when I came out.” His eyes met hers for a moment and she understood—for some reason he would not accuse this boy of what he had done, not even with her there to confirm his words. She remained silent and returned his stare, not understanding, but also not willing to contradict him when he had helped her when no one else had even tried.

“Yeah, that’s what we were doing,” Buddy said, looking at the black man, then slowly bending to gather up the few cans and parcels on the sidewalk. The other two boys moved to retrieve those that had rolled into the street. He refilled the sack and handed it to her. “There you go, lady,” he said, holding onto the sack for a moment too long after she had taken it, his gray eyes boring into hers, causing a chill to move up her spine.

“Buddy, you go on in and look at the lavatory for Nathan. Make sure everything’s okay before he leaves,” the older man said, then waited on the top step until Buddy and his friends had gone through the door before he followed them inside.

Once the door had closed behind them, Elise brought her eyes to those of the man who had saved her. “Thank you,” she said, feeling the words horribly inadequate.

“You’re Janson Sanders’s wife, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

He smiled and nodded. “You tell him that Nathan Betts returned a kindness.”

Elise found herself smiling. “I will.”

“Now, you better go on, Miz Sanders, an’ you best be careful walkin’ past here again. Ladies got t’ watch when Buddy Eason an’ them two friends of his are about; most everybody else does, too.”

“I will, and, thank you again.”

It wasn’t until she had walked a street away that she got the shakes and had to stop for a moment and calm herself. Eason—Buddy Eason. The boy who had attacked her had been the same one who had stabbed Janson, leaving the scar that still marked his right shoulder—but there was even more she knew of Buddy Eason from her months of living in the mill village. The mill workers and their families rarely spoke of anyone in the Eason family, but, when they did, it was almost always about Buddy Eason. She had heard gossip, rumors, about his having beaten a boy almost to death, about another boy, not even a teenager yet, whose arm he had broken. She had been told about a daughter of a mill village family, a girl engaged to be married, whom he had raped, and another he had severely beaten when she would not give into his demands. There were whispers about a teacher he had struck when he had been no more than eight years old, and fires he had started both behind the Methodist church in the village and the school building up town, as well as in a trash barrel just outside the rear entrance to the police station.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing—Janson would not care about any of that. He would not care about anything but putting an end to Buddy Eason’s life once she told him what the man had done and suggested to her today. She could still remember the look on his face when he had at last reluctantly told her about the fight all those years before that had ended in his stabbing, and she knew there was a hatred already within Janson for Buddy Eason that went far beyond anything she had known him to feel toward anyone else. He would kill Buddy Eason for what he had done; there was no doubt. He would kill him, or at least try to, and would either end up in jail, or dead himself, before this day was over—and it would all be her fault. If only she had not gone into town today. If only she had crossed the street when she had seen the three boys. If only—

But there was nothing she could do about that now. If she did not tell him, then certainly Nathan Betts would, and Janson would go after Buddy Eason anyway.

She trudged the remainder of the way home, feeling wearier than ever before. Fear would not leave her, not only of what Janson would do, but of Buddy Eason himself. A man like that could be capable of doing anything, to anyone, here in Eason County. He was above the law, above justice, and he knew it. He would never have to pay for whatever it was he did—and Janson would not care about any of that. Not any of it.

She could not make herself enter the house when she reached it. She stood on the rear porch, one hand on the doorknob, having gone to the back of the house to keep from waking Janson where he slept in the front room that overlooked the street. He would be up within a few hours, and she would have to tell him then—and her mind raced, trying to think of words she could say, or anything she could do, that might lessen the impact of what Buddy Eason had done today. She knew that he would go after Buddy Eason the minute she told him. And then—

She turned and walked down off the porch and back along the side of the house toward the street, realizing a moment later that the sack was still in her hands, but not turning back to take the groceries into the house to put them away. She reached the street and turned in the direction of Dorrie’s house.

Dorrie Keith’s smile changed to a look of concern the moment she opened her front door and saw Elise standing there. “Elise, honey, are you okay, has somethin’—”

Elise shook her head, realizing how she must look with her hair disheveled from the shaking Buddy had given her. “I’m okay, just a little jittery—”

“You’re pale as a sheet, come on in an’ sit down,” Dorrie said, taking the sack from her hands and leading her into the house, then through and to the kitchen where Dorrie did most of her visiting. She made Elise sit down at the kitchen table, then went to chip ice from the block that cooled the icebox in the corner, bringing Elise a glass of ice water and not asking her what had happened until Elise had finished half of it.

Dorrie’s husband, Clarence, came in the rear door from his gardening long before Elise finished her story. He stood listening as he dried his hands on a towel, and then continued to stand leaning against the wall near the rear door, his arms crossed across his chest long after Elise had finished speaking. His eyes at last went to Dorrie and the two of them exchanged a look before he voiced what was already Elise’s worse fear. “Janson’s gonna try t’ kill him when you tell him,” he said quietly as she felt Dorrie’s hand come to rest on her own with a concerned pat.

“I can’t let him do that. It was all my fault. I should have crossed to the other side of the street when I saw them, or—”

“No,” Dorrie said with a shake of her head. “It weren’t your fault; it was Buddy Eason’s. Him an’ them friends of his are a bad sort, an’ Buddy’s th’ worse of th’ lot. Th’ world’d be better off without any ’a them three, though I’d ’a never thought Carl Miles would’a turned out like he has, ’cause his folks’re good people, but I guess runnin’ around with Buddy Eason’d do that t’ anybody—”

“But, I can’t let Janson—he’ll end up in jail or killed or—”

“Shh—” Dorrie said, giving Elise’s hand another pat, her presence helping to steady the girl’s nerves. “Don’t you worry about that none. You got that baby t’ think about now, an’ you been through enough already. Me an’ Clarence’ll come back t’ th’ house with you, an’ maybe Clarence can talk some sense int’ that man ’a yours when you tell him,” she said, looking up at her husband, and Elise saw Clarence nod his head in apparent agreement with his wife.

Elise had already burned a skillet of cornbread in the old woodstove in her kitchen by the time Janson awoke. She had the rear door standing open to try to air the smoke out of the room. Clarence was sitting at the kitchen table and Dorrie trying to help her salvage what she could of the meal, when Janson entered the kitchen from the middle room of their three, his short, black hair messy from sleep, though he had dressed before he had left the front room. His eyes moved over Clarence and Dorrie, then went immediately to Elise, giving her the sudden and horrible thought that he would think something had happened with the baby, which made her blurt out the entirety of the truth before she could even consciously arrange her thoughts.

She watched his face drain of color as she told him what Buddy Eason had done and suggested to her today, realizing with a sudden clarity of thought that she was not censoring her words or the impressions of what had happened to her in the slightest way, though she knew she had earlier in speaking to Dorrie and Clarence.

Dorrie stood beside her now, though Elise could not tear her eyes from Janson’s face—she could do nothing but stare at him, seeing the awful loss of color leave his face, being replaced suddenly by a redness that she knew was anger.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked at last, his words perfectly clear, though she could see his jaw was clenched, his green eyes in that moment harder than she had ever seen them.

“No, he frightened me more than anything—”

He stared at her as her words fell silent. “He put his hands on you.” It came out as a statement, and the look in his eyes in that moment was worse than anything she had imagined. She could see murder in his expression. He was going to kill Buddy Eason for what he had done today. She was certain of it.

“He put his hand on my stomach, and, when I slapped him, he grabbed me by the arms and shook me, but he didn’t—”

But he was already halfway across the room headed for the open rear door, and she saw happening exactly what she had feared. She ran after him, knowing that he intended to go out that door and cut across the back yard and the yard of the house behind them on the way to the mill to find Buddy Eason. He intended—

She grabbed for his sleeve, only to have her hands pushed away. “Janson, you can’t—”

But he did not even look at her.

“Janson—”

Then Clarence was between him and the door.

“Get th’ hell out ’a my way, Clarence.”

But Clarence would not move. He met Janson’s gaze for a long moment, staring at him even as Dorrie reached Elise’s side and reached to draw her away.

“He’ll kill you,” Clarence said, conveying more feeling in his toneless words than Elise had ever seen in him before. “He’ll kill you, today, or some other day, if you go up against him. Elise ain’t hurt this time, but what’ll happen t’ her once you’re dead? Who’s gonna look after your wife an’ your baby if Buddy Eason kills you because you came after him? From what Dorrie tells me, you’re th’ only family she’s got now, you an’ that baby, ’cause she gave up her own people t’ marry you—are you gonna leave her behind now? You best think of your wife, boy, your wife, an’ not yourself an’ your own pride that you got t’ avenge now by goin’ after him.”

Janson stared at him, and Elise felt her heart rise to her throat to choke her, certain that he would still go after Buddy Eason.

Then Janson took a deep breath, and Elise knew that he was struggling to control the anger that was still written plainly in every line of his body.

“One of these days somebody’s gonna make Buddy Eason pay for all he’s done,” Clarence was saying as Janson turned at last to look at Elise again. “One of these days—but not today. You got your wife t’ think about, boy, an’ she’s been through enough already. She’s been through enough.”

It seemed as if Buddy Eason was determined to make his presence known in the village, and most especially to Elise, as the weather grew warmer. He drove down their street so often in the afternoons that she took to locking the doors at night while Janson was at work, even though she knew the locks were of little use, for they opened with a large skeleton key that was readily available in the mill office. Janson had told her she was never to go near the mill again unless he or someone else was with her, and that suited her just as well—she had no desire to run into Buddy Eason.

As the days passed and she became larger with the baby, she no longer felt like doing so much walking anyway—oh, how she missed the luxury of having an automobile to take her wherever she wanted to go, as she had had when she had lived in her father’s house. Back then she had never thought it a luxury that their family had owned three automobiles, her brother’s Packard, her father’s Studebaker Big Six President, and the ugly Model T Ford she had hated so much, as well as a number of trucks. She could not now think of any family she knew personally in the mill village, except for snooty Helene Price and her husband, Bert, who owned even a single automobile, and she was amazed sometimes when she realized how naive she had been never to realize how privileged her life had been as Elise Whitley. That life seemed so far away now, that life of easy transportation, of electricity in her home, of running water and decent bathroom facilities. Now there was walking if she had to go anywhere, kerosene lamps to light their three rooms, and that little room in the back yard that nauseated her stomach each time she had to use it.

She sat in the front room of their half of the mill house late on a Friday afternoon in June. Janson had left for his shift in the mill no more than twenty minutes before, but already darkness had begun to fall, an early darkness brought on by a storm she could hear approaching in distant and prolonged thunder from the west. The rain had not started yet, and she found herself dreading when it would, for that would mean she would then have to pull down the side windows in all three rooms, leaving as ventilation only the front and rear windows that were protected by the overhangs of the two porch roofs.

She sat reading again the letter she had received from her mother the day before, and tried to write a letter in response, but her mind would not stay with what it was she was trying write. She missed her mother terribly, and her brother, Stan, and now that the baby’s due date was drawing closer she found herself missing them only more, and missing her home in Georgia as well. She got up and moved about the three rooms they had in the mill house, thinking how odd it was that her child would be born here and would grow up in such a place.

The house she had lived in as a child had huge verandas in the front and rear, and tall, white columns. Frosted panes etched with floral designs were inset into huge double doors that opened into the downstairs hallway. That hallway led to twin parlors at the front of the house, a library, sewing parlor, dining room, and downstairs bedroom, as well as a grand staircase to the second floor. The rooms were filled with plush, brocaded settees, with shelves of first-edition books, with mahogany furniture and expensive rugs. Lovely wallpaper covered many of the downstairs walls, and delicate designs much of the upper. Crystal chandeliers of electric lights hung from ceilings, and lovely Coalport china filled the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room. Her mother had promised to give her that china one day, a day now that would never come.

When Elise thought now of growing up in that house, it was of a sense of grace and beauty that she knew her children would never know. Her children would never sit beneath a chandelier that hung over the dining room table in a house her family had lived in for generations. They would never sit around a table covered with her grandmother’s antique lace tablecloth; they would never eat from her mother’s cherished china, or drink from the pressed-glass water goblets her Great-Aunt Eunice had left to her father. They would never know anything of the life she had known, and that realization sat heavily on her that evening as she moved about the rooms of the mill house.

As darkness settled in, the storm finally hit, and with a ferocity that Elise had not expected. She pulled down the exposed windows, then sat in a rocker she drew nearer to the kerosene lamp on the table in the front room, hearing the thunder crash outside as she tried to occupy her mind with the volume of poetry she had been reading, but she quickly gave up as she was unable to concentrate on the words. She got up and thumbed the latches on the front and back doors, then blew out the lamps and lay down, though she knew there was little chance she would sleep with the storm now lashing rain against the windows, and with her cotton nightgown already sticking to her from perspiration.

It was in the middle of the night as she lay listening to the storm that the first contraction came, surprising her with its intensity—but the baby was not due for more than a week, she kept telling herself; that was what the doctor had told her. Dorrie had said she could expect to go even longer than that, because a first baby never came as soon as anyone thought it would.

But a second contraction came, and then a third, and she sat on the side of the bed in the darkness, trying to force herself to remain calm. It would be hours, even days, before the baby would come. Dorrie had said it took a long time for the first baby even once the pains started, and her mother had written she had been in labor for eighteen hours before Bill was born. There would be plenty of time for Janson to go for the doctor when he arrived home from his shift in the mill. That would be early morning—but still she got up and lit the lamps, feeling safer in the glow of the kerosene light. Janson had told her that a light burning in a mill house in the middle of the night would bring someone to check to see if there was trouble, so she expected—

But no one came, and, as she listened to the storm intensify outside, she knew that no one would. She thought things were going faster than they should—first babies were supposed to take a long time, but surely this could not go on for eighteen hours or more. She knew she would never be able to stand it.

She sat in the rocker and watched the lightning flash outside, trying not to hold her breath when the contractions came. She had already found out that doing so only made it hurt worse—she had to have help. She could not take the chance on the baby coming with her alone, or of something going wrong, and she realized she was almost crying as she got the oversized wrap Janson’s Aunt Rachel had given her and wrapped it around her shoulders—all she had to do was walk next door, just across the length of the front porch, she told herself, and she could have the Breedloves’ oldest daughter run for Dorrie. The girl would be watching her younger sister and brothers while their parents were working their night shifts. Elise would just have to be careful as she made her way across the front porch—she could have Dorrie here shortly to wait with her, and send Clarence Keith or one of the boys for Dr. Washburn if the time came before Janson got home. Dorrie would know when they would need the doctor; she had been through this six times herself, with her four boys, a little girl who had been stillborn, and twins, one having died in childbirth and the other only a few hours after—and Elise wished she had not thought about that now. Oh, how she wished she had not thought about it.

She had to stop halfway across the floor, catching hold of the foot of the bed for support as another contraction came, making her bend with the tightness that built into what she knew was coming. After a moment she straightened and made her way to the door. She watched her footing carefully as she stepped out onto the wet porch. Lightning flashed and struck something nearby, making her jump. Rain was pouring down, beating heavily on the porch roof and blowing in to wet the hem of her gown as she made her way across the narrow distance to the Breedloves’ front door. She could hear the sudden squeal of frightened children from inside as lightning flashed again, followed by thunder so intense that it rattled the upper panes of the windows. She banged on the door, feeling the wind whip the rain under the edge of the porch roof, quickly soaking through the bottom edge of her gown and making it stick warmly to her legs. She banged on the door again, then reached down to twist the doorknob in her hands, finding it locked. Lightning flashed again, forking off into two bolts that seemed to hit the ground at the far edge of the village. There was the sound of the strike, then the clash of thunder so powerful it shook the boards of the porch beneath her.

She banged her fist on the door again, yelling out the name of the eldest girl. “Carolyn! It’s Elise Sanders from next door—please let me in!” But, even as she yelled the words and twisted the doorknob in her hands again, she realized the children would never hear her over the sound of the storm. She banged again, calling out the girl’s name, but stopped as another contraction started to build.

Elise leaned against the damp wood of the door, bending slightly as the tension built into the pain she knew was coming. She made herself breathe, riding the contraction to its peak—what am I going to do? she thought, raising her hand to bang at the door again, feeling so absolutely alone.

The morning was a dark gray, clouded and reluctant. Little light showed through the windows of the card room, and it was only the mill’s whistle that told Janson it was time for the workers to come in for the shortened Saturday shift.

He left the card room that morning more tired than he had felt in a long time. He passed through the picker and opening rooms and stood in the wide double-doors that opened out onto the loading dock, staring at the rain. It was still coming down steadily, drenching everything outside, slacking up just to start down in torrents again only moments later. The clay road looked ankle-deep in red mud, the trees and bushes soaked and drooping. Pneumonia weather, Gran’ma would call it.

He looked up at the clouds that hung low and heavy over the village—then ducked his head and hurried out into the downpour, going down the sidewalk before the mill, and then along the sloshy mud streets, the action of his own steps, and that of the few automobiles that made their way down the slippery roads, quickly covering the legs of his overalls in red mud. The village had come to life in the gray, early-morning hours. There was the damp smell of woodsmoke coming from kitchen flues as biscuits baked in ovens and sausage, eggs, and bacon fried in skillets the village over. The mule-drawn wagon that was sarcastically referred to as the “ice-cream wagon” sloshed down a muddy street on its rounds to clean the outdoor toilets. The ice truck was parked in front of a house, Mr. Harper nodding a greeting as he hoisted a block of ice destined for use in someone’s icebox, and Janson watched as neighborhood children crowded about him even in the rain for the treats of chips and slivers of ice that he always gave them.

He was soaked long before he reached the house, Luree Breedlove giving him a disapproving look from her open front door, making a pointed comment about muddy feet and tracking the porch, which he chose to ignore. He heard a soft sound from the bed as he entered the house, and he turned to see Elise lying there, the sheet twisted and knotted about her, her reddish-gold hair damp with perspiration and matted to her forehead.

“Elise—” He moved quickly to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it, taking her hand in his. Her face was drawn and tired, her skin even paler than usual. “It’s started? Why didn’t—” But he could not finish the thought as she suddenly tightened her hand in his, digging her nails into his palm. Her face twisted with pain, her breath catching in her throat for a moment before she seemed to force herself to breathe again. He waited through the pain with her even as she twisted his hand in hers, feeling helpless. At last the grip on his hand decreased. She took a deep breath and licked her lips, looking exhausted and so young for a moment that he could do nothing but look at her. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say as he brushed the sweat-drenched hair back from her forehead. “I wish it didn’t have t’ hurt—”

She managed a weak smile. “I’m just glad it’s finally time. I think you’d better go for the doctor; I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”

“Will you be okay until I get back?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet, still holding onto her hand, unwilling to let go.

“I’ll be fine—go and ask Dorrie to come wait with me until you bring the doctor back.”

“I will.” But still he did not let go of her hand.

“Go on, Janson. I’ll be fine—”

He released her at last and moved toward the door, looking back at her one more time before going through out onto the front porch. Once free of the house he ran, almost stumbling in the front yard, but catching himself, and running on into the muddy, red clay street.

Dr. Curtis Thrasher rubbed his tired eyes and set about repacking his medical bag, going through the contents that morning with eyes and hands that were tired from lack of sleep. He had spent many nights with little or no rest in his forty years of practicing medicine in Eason County, but the past week, with Dr. Bassett bedridden with a back injury, and Dr. Washburn out of town on a family emergency, had seen him as the only able-bodied physician in the county, and had resulted in a state of exhaustion he had not known in many years. He had spent few nights as long or as distasteful as the one he had just been through, however, the one spent cleaning up after a poorly done self abortion on Clois Eason, working through the entire night just to try to save the stupid girl’s life. Well, now he knew she would live, and there would be no child, perhaps no child ever, so badly had she done herself, and perhaps that was for the best. In Curt’s opinion, there were more than enough Easons in this county already.

He stretched, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his back—I’m too old for this, he told himself. He’d become a doctor to save lives and help people, not to clean up after some stupid girl doing away with her child—but I ought to be used to it, he thought. It was not the first time he’d had to attend to the after-effects of an abortion, not even the first time he’d had to lend such care to one of the Eason girls, but, then he’d been called upon to do so many things for the Easons over the past forty years, things that medical school had never prepared him to do. It was just that he was so tired, so unbelievably tired, and not just in body alone.

He closed his medical bag, then stood for a moment staring down at it where it rested on his desktop. He needed sleep, and badly, but he knew there would be no sleep for him this morning, and perhaps not throughout most of the day. He would not be seeing patients in his office, but there were hospital rounds to make even on a Saturday, the occasional emergency, and at least one drive to a patient’s house he could not avoid. After having worked through the night to save the life of Clois Eason, he would now have to spend the morning with her grandmother, as he had to spend almost every Saturday morning. There would be nothing wrong with Patricia Eason, at least nothing that sunshine and fresh air would not cure, but the weekly visit was obligatory—she was certain she was ill; she was always certain she was ill, and her husband, Walter Eason, demanded that Curt be there for her whenever she asked for him. Curt would make the perfunctory examination, prescribe his sugar waters and pills, and listen to her complaints—and the listening, he knew, would be the most effective medicine. He could almost feel sorry for the woman, considering the two sons she had raised, the younger of which she had buried before his eighteenth birthday, and her three grandchildren, the two girls being little better than alleycats, and her only grandson, Buddy, being—

There was a sudden, hard pounding at the exterior door that opened into the reception area of the office. Curt sighed, knowing it would be some emergency that would deny him any rest at all today. He made his way from his book-lined office and across the deserted reception area, wishing he had already left to make the visit on Patricia Eason, for that might have avoided this one extra burden.

He opened the door, preparing himself for some mother with a sick child, or mill hand with a bloody injury. The man standing on the doorstep appeared uninjured, however, and the sight of someone bothering him so early on a Saturday morning who was obviously in no dire need of help replaced Curt’s exhaustion to a degree with anger.

“You’re th’ doctor?” the man asked, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. He was soaked, his overalls muddy; he was dark, too dark to be a white man, and had to be from the mill or village, considering the amount of cotton fibers matted in with the wet black hair that was plastered to his forehead.

“Yes, I’m—”

“You’ve got t’ come with me—”

“I don’t have to go anywhere with you—” Curt snapped, then he forced a degree of control over his exhaustion, making himself speak in a more reasonable voice. “Is someone injured at the mill?” he asked, rubbing his eyes again.

“It’s my wife—she’s havin’ a baby. You’ve got t’ come—”

“Your wife? What’s her name?”

“Elise—Elise Sanders. She’s hurtin’ real bad—”

“Well, of course she’s hurting, man, she’s having a baby,” Curt snapped, then took a deep breath. “Her name’s not familiar. She’s not one of my patients—”

“She’s been seein’ Dr. Washburn. There wasn’t nobody at his place, an’ th’ woman next door, she sent me here—”

“How close are her contractions?” But the man only stared at him. “Well, take her on to the hospital,” Curt said, turning to start across the room toward his open office doorway, hearing the man trudging across the clean floor behind him. “I have a patient to see right now, but I’ll come to the hospital to check on your wife as soon as I’m through. Labor can last for a long while—”

“I ain’t got no way t’ get her t’ th’ hospital.” There was a sound of desperation to the man’s voice.

Curt turned to find him just a few steps behind as he reached the door to his office. “Well, then get a midwife to help her. That’s what most of you mill families do anyway.”

“I promised her a doctor. I’ve got th’ money. You’ve got t’—”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Curt said, losing his patience with the man. He had already offered to care for the woman; what more could he do? There were too many other patients needing his services today for him to spend the entire day waiting for one woman to give birth. It could be hours before she was ready to deliver—hours wasted, with hospital rounds to make, and no one else to tend emergencies. That was what midwives were for, when Curt had two other doctors to cover for, the hospital, and Patricia Eason still waiting for his visit. “Now, go on and find a midwife for your wife. There are many good—”

“She wants a doctor. I’ve got th’ money. It’s at th’ house; all you got t’ do is—”

“I’ve already told you I don’t have time for this. Either get your wife to the hospital, or get a midwife to tend her. Now, I’ve got a patient waiting—”

“Elise cain’t wait. She’s bad off; there ain’t no time for me t’ get a midwife. You’ve got t’—”

“I’ve already told you—”

“I’ll give you every cent I got, an’ more when I get it.” The look of desperation in the man’s eyes made Curt feel all the more tired—the woman was probably hours away from delivery, and this man wanted to drag him out in the middle of a rain storm just to sit by her bedside and wait.

“This is just a waste of time. I’ve told you what you can do, and I have no intention of going over it again. Now, please leave my office; I have more important things to do.”

A muscle clenched in the man’s jaw. “Ain’t nothin’ more important than Elise. You’re gonna come help her.”

“If you don’t leave, I will call the police and have you put out.”

Curt reached for the telephone resting on the desktop, but the man’s hand closed over his wrist before he could pick it up. “You’re comin’ with me—”

“Let me go, or I’ll—” He tried to free his arm, but the man held it only more tightly. “Turn me—” There was a moment’s struggle, and at last Curt managed to free himself, moving quickly to the fireplace set into the wall nearby to take up a poker from the stand at its side. He turned back to the man, holding it between them. “Now, go on, I told you.”

The man stared at the poker for a minute, but did not move. The muscle worked again in his jaw, and then his eyes lifted to meet Curt’s over the short distance.

“Go on,” Curt warned again, raising the poker between them to make certain the man understood the threat. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

Still the man did not move.

“You’re not doing your wife any good by just standing there,” Curt said, watching the green eyes, feeling the uneasiness rise within him—the man was not going anywhere.

But suddenly he turned and strode from the office, and Curt heard the front door slam behind him as he left the building. Curt walked out of his office carefully, looking around the reception area to make certain the man was not simply lying in wait for him.

He moved cautiously to the exterior door, stopping for a moment to survey again the reception area before he reached to thumb the bolt that would secure the door against the man’s re-entry.

It was not until after the door was locked and he returned to his office that he at last put the poker down on the desktop beside his medical bag. He stood for a long moment staring down at it, then reached to take up his bag, knowing Patricia Eason would be waiting for him.

Dorrie Keith felt as if she were in a nightmare that morning as she stood staring out at the driving rain where it beat against the side window of Elise and Janson’s front room—but her nightmarish feeling could be nothing compared to what even now made Elise Sanders moan from where she lay on the bed. Dorrie made herself turn away from the window and move toward the bed to see if there was anything she could do for the girl, but she knew there was nothing she could do to help. Only time and nature could help Elise Sanders now; time, nature, and that husband of hers if he would only get here with the doctor.

Dorrie reached to take the cloth from the basin of water that rested on the table beside the bed, squeezed it out, then gently wiped Elise’s sweaty face. She smiled down at the girl and nodded her head, but did not say anything, then she turned and paced across the room, toward the window again, then back toward the front door—where was that doctor?

She heard Elise moan again as another pain came, and she tried to shut her ears to the sound—Elise was little more than a girl; she ought to be worrying about new dresses and returning to school next year, not a husband, a house, and a baby so soon. Dorrie looked toward the bed, seeing Elise twist and knot the sheet in her hands as the pain peaked and then began to lessen—she just looked so young lying there, her reddish-gold hair soaked with sweat and sticking to her forehead. She was little more than a year younger than Dorrie had been when Wheeler James had been born, but she seemed so much younger, so unaccustomed to the way the world was. Her husband had done this to her, and now he was taking all the time in the world in getting a doctor here to her now, while this baby was getting ready to be born all too soon—where was he, and where was that doctor? If this baby should decide to come before they got here, Dorrie had no idea what she would have to do to help the girl. She might have had babies of her own, but this was altogether different. She’d had little choice in the matter when she had been the one giving birth, and little idea of what the old, black granny woman had done to help her in each birthing. In fact, she had even forgotten the feel of the pain, the hurt, the tearing, especially so bad with the first, in the feeling of holding her baby in her arms for the first time—but now, here in this sticky, humid room, those memories had come back, memories of twenty-seven hours of labor, memories of pain so bad she had thought she would die, and those memories would not leave her now. She looked toward her friend where she lay on the bed, her eyes closed, exhaustion on her face as she waited for the next pain to come. Maybe it was better that it was going more quickly for Elise; Dorrie did not think the girl would be able to survive many more hours of this.

But if the child should come before the doctor arrived—

She paced across the room again, then back toward the door, wringing her hands before her. She was not accustomed to feeling useless, but there was nothing she could do now other than be with Elise—oh, Lord, where was her husband, Dorrie wondered as she moved back toward the bed, bending again to sponge Elise’s face off as another pain came and went. Elise took a deep breath and licked her dry lips once it was over. “He’ll be here soon; I know he will,” she said, reaching to take Dorrie’s hand.

“Sure he will, honey,” Dorrie said, making herself smile at the girl as she sat down at the edge of the bed. “An’, don’t you worry. Ain’t nothin’ t’ havin’ a baby. I was up cookin’ supper only a hour or two after I had each one ’a mine.”

Elise ran her tongue over her lips again, moistening them. “You’re a terrible liar, Dorrie,” she said, smiling for a moment.

“Ain’t I, though,” Dorrie said, and reached up to pat the girl’s cheek. “But, don’t you worry none. That man ’a yours’ll be here any minute with that doctor, an’ he’ll make sure you an’ that baby both have a easy time ’a it.”

“I know he will,” Elise said, moving slightly on the bed and releasing Dorrie’s hand, and Dorrie knew that another pain was beginning to build for the girl. Dorrie watched her face until she could take no more of it, then got up from the bed and moved again toward the window to stand staring out at the rain: I will cause it to rain upon the earth, she found herself quoting silently, forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth. She looked back to her friend—Janson, for God’s sake, please hurry, she thought, please hurry.

She paced away from the window toward the bed, to the chifforobe across the room, and then back to the window, until she felt she would wear a path in the floor.

The door banged open and Janson came in, wet, muddy to the knees—and alone. He started toward the bed, his face a study in fear, but Dorrie intercepted him half-way across the floor. “Where’s th’ doctor?” she demanded.

“He wouldn’t come. Said he had a patient—” He looked past her, toward the bed and his wife.

“She’s havin’ that baby soon. You’ve got t’ get somebody t’ help her.”

“Damn it—don’t you think I know that!” he yelled into her face, then pushed past her and toward the bed, stopping to kneel beside it and take his wife’s hand in his own. “I couldn’t get th’ doctor t’ come, Elise. I tried—”

“I know you did.” Her voice was quiet, almost too soft to understand.

“I’ve got t’ go get Gran’ma. I got Mr. Brown’s wagon an’ team from up town; I tried t’ get th’ grocery delivery truck, but it was in a ditch at the edge of town because of th’ rain—”

“Your gran’ma’s too far off,” Dorrie broke in, and Janson looked up at her. “That baby ain’t gonna wait that long.”

She could see his hand tighten over his wife’s, and his worried eyes returned to Elise.

“Granny Alice from over in colored town delivered all ’a mine, an’ she’s closer. Mrs. Smith at th’ edge ’a town is even closer than that. You got t’ go get her, or, if she ain’t there, Granny Alice—”

“I will, just tell me where—” He started to rise to his feet, but Elise stopped him.

“No.” She held tightly to his wet sleeve, a look of near desperation in her eyes. He knelt again at her side, taking both her hands in his.

“Elise—I cain’t get th’ doctor t’ come; I got t’—”

“No, no, not that—don’t leave me; I don’t want you to leave me. I want you here when—” The last word was gasped out between clenched teeth and Dorrie saw her face wrench with pain again.

“Elise—” Janson’s voice sounded frightened. He held tightly to her hands even as she twisted his own, his eyes never leaving her pain-closed ones.

When it was over she licked her lips and looked up at him, the fear in her eyes almost more than Dorrie could bear. “You’ve got to be here. We’ll be okay if you’re here—”

“Elise, I cain’t. I got t’ get somebody t’ help—”

“No, I want you here—”

“I’ll go,” Dorrie stated, knowing she could take no more of this helplessness, no more of the sounds of pain, no more of this hot, sticky room. “I can drive a team an’ wagon just as good as you, an’ I know right where t’ go—”

“But, if—” Janson looked from her to Elise, and then back again, unable to put his fear into words. “What if—if the baby—”

“It won’t get here before I can get back. You just stay with her—” She started for the door, looking back to the man’s worried face for a moment before going out into the rain—he looked so young himself, so utterly lost and helpless, kneeling at the side of the bed, his wife’s hands held tightly in his own.

She hurried as fast as her size would allow to the wagon, getting up onto the driver’s seat as the horses moved skittishly to her presence. She closed her mind to the rain that soaked immediately through her clothes, making them cling warmly to her skin as she whipped the horses hard. They whinnied in protest and the wagon jerked forward, almost unseating her. Within seconds her dark hair was loose from its bun, hanging wet and heavy down her back as she whipped the horses even harder, hearing the protesting honks and curses of the driver of a car that she almost ran from the road and into a muddy yard alongside a village street. She knew that she had to get Mrs. Smith or old Granny Alice as quickly as possible, for she had lied again. Elise’s baby was coming very soon.

Janson had never felt so useless, or so frightened, seeing pain that he could not stop or control, wanting to help Elise, but unable to think of anything he could do that might lessen what she was going through. He knelt beside the bed, wet and muddy still, and he prayed—please, God, don’t let the baby come without somebody to help. Please, God—

She squeezed and twisted his hands when the pains came, digging her nails into his flesh until both hands throbbed. “I’m so sorry—” was all he could think to say over and over when each was finished. Though he did not know what it was he was sorry for.

He silently cursed the doctor for refusing to come, cursed Dorrie and the midwife for taking so long, and Mrs. Breedlove when she would not come to help—he should have made the doctor come, he kept telling himself.

He watched her face as another pain began to build, seeing her eyes close and her face set a moment before she wrenched at his hands again—please, God, help me, he prayed. Please, God—

It was over. After the hurt and the fear, after the cries of pain, and the scream of a new life—it was over. Janson sat beside the bed in the old rocker, moving only enough to keep the chair in motion slowly back and forth. He was exhausted, his mind dulled from lack of sleep and food throughout much of this day—but it was over.

He rocked slowly, his mind wandering over all that he had seen and learned today—he was a father now, the baby newly born and sticky still and screaming when Dorrie had arrived with the old midwife. Janson had been driven from the house immediately, told to go wait on the porch out of the way where he belonged until they called for him, but that did not seem to matter—he had seen his own son being born.

He rocked slowly, the warm baby wrapped in a faded hand-me-down blanket in his arms. The baby was quiet now, after his loud screams of protest at his entry into the world. He slept peacefully in Janson’s arms, his little hands curled into fists against his chest, and Janson watched him, just as he watched Elise where she slept in their bed. Dorrie would be back soon, bringing plates of food for him and Elise from the supper she was preparing for her own family. Janson had not eaten all day, but that bothered him little. He just wanted to sit and rock his son, sit and watch his wife sleep.

Elise smiled briefly as she slept, her face peaceful now after the nightmare she had lived through. He wondered what she dreamed, and if she dreamed, after the treatment she had suffered under his incompetent midwifery—she had seemed to forget it all as soon as the baby was born. She was crying and laughing at the same time as she counted the little fingers and toes, even as Dorrie and the midwife came in and drove Janson from the room—by the time they allowed him back inside, the baby was cleaned up and the bed changed. Elise was in a fresh cotton nightgown and the baby was in her arms. “He looks so much like you,” she kept telling him. “Don’t you think he looks just like you?”

She fell asleep holding the baby, and Janson took him gently from her arms so as not to wake her, then sat down in the rocker to watch her sleep, too exhausted to do anything but sit and watch the peaceful breathing of his wife and son. They had agreed months before to name the baby Henry Alfred if it were a boy, after Janson’s father and Elise’s brother, and Janson could not help but to think that his father would have been pleased when he heard Elise first use the name. “Hi, Henry—do you like your name?” she had said very softly, in a tone Janson had never heard her use before.

Before today he had never even held a baby in his arms, but it seemed such an easy thing to do now—he was a father, and Elise was a mother. He looked at the little face, seeing both of them there, the shape of Elise’s nose and mouth, his own dark hair and coloring. Elise’s child—he should have been born to the finest things in life, to the experienced care of a doctor, born in a soft feather bed, and wrapped in the finest linen blankets. Instead, her child had been conceived on the straw mattress of a narrow, sagging rope bed, and born into inept hands that knew nothing but hard work. He had been wrapped in a faded, hand-me-down blanket, never to know the comforts and luxuries of life to which Elise Whitley’s child should have been born. He would never have the fine education, the nice clothes, and the gentle way of life that could have been his birthright. There was so little Janson could give him compared to all he should have known, so little, except for one thing.