Three weeks later, as she climbed down the ladder and hoisted a full basket onto her hip, she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach. She dropped the basket and clutched herself. James looked up at her in confusion. His face was a blur. And then he and everything around him became black.
When she came to, she was on her back. There were shadows above her.
“She needs to get back to the camp before she drops this baby right here,” a woman said.
“Some of ’em come so fast you don’t even bother to stop what you’re doing.”
“We need to find a doctor.”
“Not likely.”
And then women were holding her upright, urging her to move. “Come on, now, honey,” one said. “It’s not too far.”
She pitched forward, slipping out of the women’s grasp. She tasted dirt and vomit.
• • •
She woke in a rush of terror. Hands worked between her legs. “Don’t kill my baby!” she screamed, to make that boy-doctor stop what he was doing with his cold instruments.
“Shh, señora.” It was a girl, sixteen or seventeen. She smiled and nodded reassuringly. She removed a bloodstained towel from underneath Mary and then put a fresh one in its place. Her hands worked precisely as she adjusted the bedclothes.
“What’s happening?” Mary said.
“Shhh, señora,” the girl repeated.
“Where am I?” And then she remembered. They had laid her on the bed of a truck. Someone had carried her up a flight of stairs. There had been a man telling her not to push yet, and then to push, push! And someone had held her hand the whole time. She remembered that. Was it this girl who was tending to her? Who was helping her recover from—
“My baby! Where is my baby?”
The girl smiled at her.
“My baby!” Her throat was raw. “Where is my baby?”
“El bebé está durmiendo.”
“Dead? Is my baby dead?”
An older woman came into the room. She leaned over Mary and gently pushed her shoulders back onto the pillow. “Tranquilizate,” she said.
But Mary kept screaming, her voice grating against her throat until she could hardly make a sound. The young girl ran out of the door, calling, Señor. Señor! After a few minutes, Charlie came into the room and stood by her bed.
Mary reached out and clutched his wrist. “What did you do to my baby?” she said.
“The baby is fine.”
“I want to see my baby.”
The young Mexican girl returned holding a bundle. “Un niño,” she said, leaning over so that Mary could see the tiny face shrouded by white cloth, a baby set into a dish of vanilla ice cream.
“A boy?” she asked.
“Sí, muy pequeño.”
Mary held out her hands. She was startled by the weight of him; he felt barely heavier than the blanket he was wrapped in. His face looked crushed; his brow pushed down on his eyes. The bones of his hand reminded her of the skeleton of a baby field mouse that Della had once found. It was completely intact, missing only its future. Mary looked up and, for the first time, took in her surroundings. Everything in the room was white. White bureau. White bedframe. White curtains billowed in the breeze. A small crystal chandelier swayed, and a rainbow refraction of the cut glass pieces fluttered across the wall.
“Where am I?” she said.
“You’re in my home,” Charlie said.
“I told you this wasn’t any of your business anymore,” she said.
“You could have died. The baby could have died.”
“That didn’t bother you some months ago.”
“You’re not well,” he said. “You had a hard time of it.”
“My kids! Where are my kids? Where are they?”
“They’re fine,” he said. “They’re being looked after.”
“By who?” she said. “You just let any stranger take care of them?”
“There was a woman in the camp. She says she watches your children while you work.”
“That Lucille? I have to pay her or she won’t care for them right. And how’s she gonna feed them?”
“It’s taken care of.”
She looked down at herself. She was wearing a white nightgown. Her dark skin showed through a fretwork of lace at the neck. Her hands, still crusted with dirt from the field, had left smudges on the baby’s wrapping.
“Why doesn’t he cry?” she said.
“His lungs are weak.”
“He’s not going to make it.”
“He’s here,” Charlie said. “He’s not going anywhere.”
The older woman took the baby from her.
“Where is she taking my baby?”
“Cecilia knows what to do,” Charlie said, smiling. “She raised me.”
• • •
She slept so heavily that when she next awoke she felt as if her mind had been erased, wiped clean of all memory. She stared at the white walls of the airy room and waited for her brain to piece itself back together. She’d had her baby. He was alive. Her children were at the camp. They were being fed. She was lying in a room in the big house with many windows.
The young girl was by her side. Mary’s breasts ached; her milk had come in. She made it clear that she needed to see her baby, and the girl quickly left the room and returned with him. Mary opened her nightgown and put him to her. She felt his lips on her skin, but he did not drink. After a few moments, he began to whimper. She ran her finger along the roof of his mouth in order to get him to suck on it, and then quickly replaced her finger with her long, warm nipple. But he simply dandled the skin in his slack mouth until it fell out. When she squeezed to get the milk going, her eyes watered from the pain. She needed him to relieve her. She rubbed the liquid on his lips to tantalize him, but he just continued to make soft, pathetic sounds. Mary felt helpless and ashamed and insulted by this tiny infant, this little thing that mocked her and whose birth had weakened her so that she had to be cared for by a man who’d just as soon this baby had never existed and who had no more use for Mary than he did for a broken-down tractor.
“He won’t take to me,” she said in defeat.
The girl’s expression was odd as if she, too, was embarrassed by Mary’s failure. Then Mary noticed that two lakes of wetness had spread over the front of the girl’s blouse. She remembered that from her other babies: how the cry of a stranger’s child would cause her milk to come.
“You have a baby, too?” she said.
“Lo siento, señora,” the girl whispered.
And then Mary understood. “You’re feeding my baby?” She began to yell, repeating the question over and over as if it would begin to make sense. The girl became frightened and made for the door, but when the baby let out a shriek, she turned back, her face opening in surprise.
“Un buen grito,” she said, patting her chest.
He howled again. Mary laughed. “I guess he’s got lungs on him now.” She held him out toward the girl. “Please,” she said.
The girl sat at the foot of the bed and opened her shirt. The baby took her milk and quieted, his little sucks and moans punctuating the silence.
“Mary,” Mary said, pointing to herself.
“Alma,” the girl said. She lifted the baby from her breast, covered herself, and then handed him to Mary. Mary patted his back and jiggled him up and down. When the burp came, both women sighed.
• • •
She begged Charlie to bring her other children to her, and early the next evening the door opened, and there they were. Della, June, and Ray ran to the bed and flung themselves across it, their dirty clothes like rain clouds against the white sheets. Trevor stood quietly by her side. Ellie stayed in the doorway, holding James’s hand. She looked like a young woman—protective and wary and fierce.
“The lady gave us iced
tea in the kitchen,” Della said.
“That was nice,” Mary said.
“And the glasses have straws stuck right on them,” Della said. “And there was leaves in the tea.”
“That’s mint.”
“We could put in as much sugar as we wanted,” June said. “The lady said so.”
Alma appeared at the door with the baby. Mary held out her hands. “Here he is,” she said. “Here’s your new brother.”
“Oh!” June cried, as if she had just been given a doll. “Oh, I love him!”
James pulled away from Ellie’s grip and came to Mary’s side. He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at the baby. Mary stared into James’s dark, wet eyes, which were as mysterious to her as a horse’s.
“Lucille told us you were going to live here now,” Ellie said. “She said you got yourself a leg up in the world and that you were taking your chance.”
“Lucille has half a brain.”
“You told us never to talk mean about people who are slow,” Trevor said.
“Lucille said you made your luck on your back,” Ellie said.
Mary looked at Alma but could not tell if the girl understood. She turned back to Ellie. “Every one of you was made on my back and every one of you is my good luck. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ellie mumbled.
“Say it out loud.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
The following morning, when Mary woke up, Alma was in the room, cleaning.
“Will you get me my clothes?” Mary said.
Alma looked at her blankly.
Mary pointed to her nightgown. “My dress. I want my dress back.”
“No más vestido.”
“I don’t understand you. I want my clothes. I want to go home.”
“Es sucio,” Alma said. She looked down at her apron and pointed to a stain.
“I don’t care if it’s dirty. I’m not gonna spend the rest of my life in this”—she grabbed her nightgown—“this useless thing.” She struggled to get out of bed. “Bring me my baby. El bebé.”
Alma left the room, and a few minutes later Charlie appeared at the door. “What’s this I hear about you leaving us?”
“I have to get back to my family. I have to get to work.” She sat down on the bed, exhausted. “The baby and I don’t belong here.”
“He’s plumping right up,” Charlie said. “It seems this house is doing him good.”
There was something in his voice that made her alert. “My children need me,” she said.
“I just thought, well, that he could stay here for a while.”
“A while?”
“Well . . . for however long he likes.”
“He’s a baby,” she said. “He won’t be telling you what he likes and what he doesn’t like for some years yet.”
“Think about it, Mary,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his. “Think of his life here. What we could offer him.”
“What does your family want with a bastard child?”
“He’s a Dodge.”
“Just ’cause you’ve got money you think you can do anything you want with a person. Hire them. Fire them. Fuck them. Take their babies. I’m not leaving my baby with strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger,” he said. “Neither is Alma. He took to her so fast.”
She slapped him across the cheek. “That’s a vicious thing to say.”
“You have six other kids.”
“You think I don’t know what happens when I spread my legs? That I’m just some idiot woman who doesn’t know how to stop having babies? I chose all seven of my children. I chose them.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“Well, that’s the difference between us. I’m not sorry for one single thing.”
An hour later, while the baby slept peacefully on the bed, Mary let Alma dress her. She raised her hands like a child, and Alma lifted the nightgown over her head. Mary stood naked and unembarrassed as Alma took a damp rag and washed Mary’s arms and legs, her belly and her back. She helped Mary into a stranger’s green dress. She knelt on the floor and tried to fit Mary’s feet into a pair of heeled shoes, each one decorated with a small bow on the point of the toe. They were the most beautiful shoes Mary had ever seen.
“Maybe I could have yours?” Mary said, pointing to Alma’s woven sandals.
“Mis zapatos?” Alma said, coloring with embarrassment.
“Sí.”
Mary slipped into the girl’s sandals, feeling their warm dampness. Her feet settled into the depressions worn into the leather. Alma put on the heeled shoes, her face opening into a wide smile as she admired her feet. When Mary was finally ready, she picked up the baby and settled him into her arms. Alma reached into the pocket of her apron and brought out a glass bottle filled with her warm milk. She tucked the bottle into the folds of the blankets.
Charlie was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “What will you name him?” he said, when she reached him.
“George,” she said. “My father’s name.”
“Georgie,” Charlie said.
“Just George,” she said.
“Will you tell him about me?” Charlie said.
“I don’t lie to my kids.”
“What will you say?”
“I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll tell him you were a decent sort of man in your heart.”
• • •
Back at the camp, the children were quiet and careful, unsure of her. The girls admired her green dress, touching the fabric as if it were made of jewels. James stayed close as she boiled potatoes, never letting her more than an arm’s length from him. When George began to cry, she opened the top of her dress and put him to her breast. He turned away.
“What’s wrong with him, Mama?” Della said. “Why don’t he want to eat?”
Mary unscrewed the cap of the bottle. She dipped her finger into Alma’s milk and rubbed the liquid on her nipple. She put George to her breast again. He sucked briefly before he stopped. His cries grew more disconsolate.
“Just give him the bottle,” Ellie said.
“He has to get used to me,” Mary said. She dipped and rubbed her finger again, and again he rejected her. His cries became screams.
“Why don’t he want you, Mama?” Trevor said.
Mary held back her tears. She had to get him to feed from her or her milk would dry up.
“What are you gonna do now, Mama?” June said.
What now? It was the question that ruled her life. What will we do now, Mama? Where will we go now? How will we eat now, Mama? Her children stared at her, waiting for her answer.
The night before, Mary had woken in that white room to find Charlie standing by her bed. She had no idea how long he had been watching her. He was gentle as he led her down the darkened stairway and through the rooms of the sleeping house.
First he showed her a sitting room decorated all in blue. His mother’s favorite color, he said. Then he took her to a darker room outfitted in a manly style. A standing globe was next to the window. A set of leather chairs were directed toward one another, waiting, she imagined, for men to sit in them and say important things. He showed her the dining room, where a silver vase filled with blush-colored roses sat in the center of a long mahogany table that was polished to such a high gleam that Mary could see her face reflected in the surface. Each time they entered a new room, Charlie turned on a light as if he were illuminating a magical world. When he switched off the light, Mary had the impression of that world disappearing forever.
“This is my favorite room in the house,” he said, when they entered a library lined with books. He walked along one of the shelves, his hand running over the bindings.
“Have you read all the
se?” she said.
“A lot of them. I read literature in college. Not my father’s choice.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“The sciences. Something a farmer could make use of.”
He pulled a heavy book out from one of the shelves and opened it, turning the thin pages with the tip of his finger. He read aloud. “‘The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding—Riding—riding—The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.’” He stopped and smiled to himself.
“What’s that?”
“This was my favorite poem when I was a boy. I made my father read it to me every night until I could read it for myself.”
“Well, keep going,” she said.
“It’s a long poem.”
“I’ve got a long patience.”
He continued, gaining speed until he was reading in a rhythm that reminded her of a horse galloping across a field, tossing its mane from side to side. He read about the landlord’s daughter named Bess who loved a highwayman so much she saved his life by sacrificing her own. When he was finished, he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, lining it up so that it was flush with the other bindings.
“I would not shoot myself to warn my lover,” she said.
“You’d let him be killed by the redcoats, then?”
“He was a thief.”
“But she loved him,” he said.
“Well, it doesn’t pay to love a dishonest man.”
• • •
Are you all right, ma’am?”
“What?”
The taxi driver turned around in his seat and looked at Mary. “Do you want me to drive you back to the bus station now?”
“So soon?”
“We’ve been sitting here for a half hour.”
“I’ll pay you more. Whatever you think is fair. I just want to sit here a little bit longer.”
The taxi driver looked out the window. “Not a lot of houses like this around anymore,” he said.
“Yes,” she said distractedly.
“I’m going to go stretch my legs.”
Mary Coin Page 23
