Eventide

by Sarah Goodman

  Hettie froze for a moment when I delivered the message, then spun into a tornado of activity. Work forgotten, she saddled Lady May in a feverish hurry. “Get on,” she said. “None of that sidesaddle business. We don’t have time to be proper.” I was only too happy to comply. We covered the few miles to Abel’s homeplace at a breakneck pace.

  The Atchleys’ dogtrot house sat cupped in a shady valley between two hills. As we drew near, a little boy wearing cut-off overalls with no shirt underneath hopped out of a rocking chair on the front porch. He raced over the yard with bare feet flying and stretched onto tiptoes, catching hold of Lady May’s bridle. “Clara’s having that baby. They keep running me off, and nobody will tell me how they’re gonna get it out of her.” He turned wide blue eyes on me. “Do you know how?”

  “In theory,” I said, sliding off the horse’s back after Hettie. We charged up the rickety front steps just as Abel came out onto the porch.

  “How is she?” Hettie asked.

  Abel shook his head. “I can’t say. Mama hasn’t come out in a while.”

  Hettie slipped into the cabin and disappeared through a doorway to the left. Abel turned to the little barefoot boy. “Hey, Jep, why don’t you go see what Theo is up to?” He nodded toward another, even smaller boy, who was busily rolling a metal ring around the yard. “You haven’t beaten him in hoop trundling yet, have you?” Jep ran off, Clara’s baby forgotten for the time being.

  The screen door banged shut as I followed Abel into the breezeway that cut through the middle of the house. Two small girls—twins, I thought—peeked out at me from a room to my right. Their small, freckled faces looked pinched with worry. Behind them, a door to the side yard opened, and another girl came in, a basin full of water balanced against one hip. I recognized her as the solemn-looking older daughter I’d seen with Mrs. Atchley at church. “Any news?” Abel asked.

  “’Bout the same,” the girl replied. “I’m Faye,” she added with a glance in my direction.

  “Verity Pruitt,” I said.

  “I know,” she replied. “I’ve been wondering when you’d come around. Abel’s told me all ’bout you.” Abel’s ears went slightly pink, and a little bolt of pleasure zinged through my chest.

  Faye stepped past us and across the dogtrot into the single bedroom that made up the left side of the house. From inside, I could hear Hettie speaking in firm, soothing tones.

  “Y’all take care of them, all right?” Abel said as a cry of pain split the air. His face turned pale.

  I moved to the doorway Faye had gone through, trying to smile reassuringly. In truth, I wasn’t sure I knew how to help either Clara or the baby if something went wrong. “We’ll do our best,” I said, stepping over the threshold and closing the bedroom door.

  The scent of blood tainted the air inside the hot, dim space. Iron bedsteads lined both walls, three on each side. I found myself staring at the newsprint papering the walls, the rag rugs littering the floor, the faded patchwork quilts draped over the beds. At anything but the slight girl on the bed farthest from me.

  Clara’s labored breathing mingled with Mrs. Atchley’s soft hushing sounds. Faye placed a wet cloth from the basin on Clara’s forehead, then stepped back, wringing her hands. She looked at Hettie, standing grim-faced at the head of the bed, then to me. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Run along and check that fire under the big kettle in the backyard,” Hettie said. The girl looked relieved to have an excuse to leave. “I’ve helped with a handful of birthings over the years,” Hettie added for my benefit. “Always boil the rags and sheets. It helps keep the mama from getting childbed fever after the baby comes.” She handed me a new cake of lye soap from the bedside table and gestured toward the basin. “Be sure to wash up real good.”

  Clara shifted her attention from Hettie to me. Sweat-darkened hair clung to her forehead, but her bright blue eyes were clear. Before she could speak, a contraction wrenched a guttural moan from her throat. I gathered every scrap of courage and stepped forward.

  Mrs. Atchley offered me her seat by the bed. “Never thought anything could be more fearful than birthing my own babies,” she said. “But watching my girl go through it is worse.”

  I took Clara’s hand and wiped away the tear sliding down her cheek. “I’m Verity. You’re going to be just fine.” She nodded with a jerky, frantic motion. The mound of her belly shifted, like an earthquake inside her body. From her stool at the end of the bed, Hettie announced it was time to push. Clara breathed fast and shallow as another wave of pain washed over her. The bones of my knuckles ground together in her panicked grip.

  For hours it went on. Clara would push until her strength was gone, then collapse back against the bed. Before she could stop gasping for breath, the next pain would crash over her. Hettie urged her on with all the tenderness of an army general, but Clara seemed to respond to the toughness. “One more. With all your might, girl,” Hettie said. “You’re almost done.”

  With a scream that vibrated through my skull, Clara gave a final push.

  “It’s a boy!” Mrs. Atchley shouted as Hettie lifted the newborn into her arms, directing me to tie off the umbilical cord with a length of crochet thread before cutting it with sterilized scissors. Clara’s cries turned from exhaustion to relief.

  A sudden, awful quiet filled the stifling bedroom. Under the blood and mire, the baby’s skin was dusky. His soft breaths, fluttery and slow, grew fainter and farther apart.

  “What’s wrong?” Clara asked.

  Mrs. Atchley’s beaming face crumpled with worry. Hettie smacked the soles of the baby’s feet, but there was no response. A blue line appeared around the tiny lips.

  I acted before I had time to second-guess myself. With one swipe, I cleared the bedside table. Snatching the newborn from Hettie, I laid him down and grasped both his wrists in one hand. Then I extended the tiny arms over his head, and quickly brought them back down. My voice was steady as I counted to four, then repeated the motions. Stretch the arms, expand the chest, swing back down, apply pressure on the thorax.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  Clara’s soft sobs sounded distant. Her mother’s worried questions barely registered as I counted. I couldn’t take my eyes from the baby’s rib cage, fragile as a bird’s bones under my hands.

  I leaned in close, listening. Praying. Arms up. Arms down. Press in, listen, count. From the corner of my eye, I saw Hettie, hands to her mouth, despair filling her eyes. No breath. No change. The room felt hollow, as though all sound had been siphoned away with the baby’s breaths.

  And then, a sigh. Petal-soft, delicate as a whisper.

  I lifted his arms again and heard a shaky inhalation. A cough, and finally, a cry. Faint and wavering and miraculous.

  Scooping the baby up, I held him to my face. Tacky blood smeared my cheek. I listened to his breaths gather strength. The mewling cry grew stronger as angry color flooded his cheeks.

  Clara reached for her son. I handed him over, light-headed with relief. She pressed him close and his cries settled. He opened his eyes to peer at his mother.

  “Hello there, little one,” Clara said, voice trembling. She placed a kiss on the wrinkled forehead. “You gave us quite a scare.”

  Hettie and Mrs. Atchley hugged, spinning in a giddy circle. I burst out laughing in delirious gratitude that the baby boy lived. “How did you know what to do?” Mrs. Atchley asked.

  I wiped blood from my cheek with the hem of my skirt. “My father taught me, in case I ever needed to resuscitate someone. He’s a physician.” The pride in my voice surprised me. The swell of joy that came with helping Clara’s baby enter the world took me completely aback. Nothing I’d done before had ever felt this significant. A deep, settled peace rested over me. There were still so many things I didn’t understand, there was still so much I couldn’t do well, but in this one thing—when it counted most—my skills were enough. My work mattered.

  From out in the dogtrot, Abel hollered, “Is everythi
ng all right?”

  “It’s a boy, Uncle Abel. And he’s perfect,” I shouted back.

  “His name is William,” Clara announced. While Mrs. Atchley persuaded her to hand the newborn over for his first bath, I washed up and ventured into the main room of the little cabin. Exhaustion and elation swirled through my veins. I felt like I could take on the world. But maybe after a solid nap.

  I collapsed beside Abel, who looked up from a stick he’d been carving into a whistle for his younger siblings. “It sounds like you did great in there. Do you think you’ve got a future in midwifing?”

  “You know, maybe I do.”

  He reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you for helping Clara. And William.” The buttery light of a new day spilled over the five youngest Atchley children, all bedded down on quilted pallets on the floor. Jep sucked his thumb, one arm flung over Theo’s shoulder. Faye slept with her curly-headed little sisters snuggled against her chest.

  “It was an honor,” I said.

  Abel watched his siblings, looking thoughtful. “If you’re going to have a child with no daddy to speak of, this is a good family to do it in,” he said. “William won’t ever lack for love or someone to watch out for him.”

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, thinking of my own mother. Her entire life would have been different if her family had treated her as the Atchleys had Clara. If she’d told them the truth, perhaps they would have.

  Hettie opened the door, rubbing tired eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ll stay to help out for a little while, but y’all can head on back.” She looked to me, and the lines around her mouth deepened with a smile. “You did good in there.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Getting to my feet, I looked out over the fields to the west, toward Argenta, only a few miles away. I could be standing in my grandparents’ home in little more than an hour. “There’s something I need to do in Argenta before I head back.” I wetted my parched lips and rushed ahead. “It turns out I may have some family there.”

  19

  Hettie must’ve seen something in my face that made her reluctant to ask questions. “All right,” she said slowly. “But take Abel with you to drive.”

  We set out for Argenta in a light buggy borrowed from Mrs. Atchley. The seat was really meant for one, making the journey most distracting. Abel’s leg pressed against mine, and even through my skirt and petticoat, I was aware of the contact.

  When the little white church and parsonage came into view, my stomach knotted. “I hope Mrs. Mayhew is here alone,” I said, just as Reverend Mayhew stepped out onto the parsonage porch.

  “That’s a shame,” Abel mumbled, stopping the buggy.

  The preacher scrutinized us from under the brim of his derby hat, a well-worn Bible tucked under his arm. Mrs. Mayhew came outside, wiping her hands on a gingham apron. I found myself searching their faces for any signs of my mother. Was she there, in the curve of Mrs. Mayhew’s chin? Or in the preacher’s thin build?

  Mrs. Mayhew’s gentle face lit with that same unexpected recognition her husband had shown when he saw me at the fair. “Can we help y’all?” she asked.

  “I’m Verity Pruitt. I’m living with the Weatherington family outside of Wheeler. This is their nephew, Abel Atchley.” Abel tipped his hat in greeting.

  “I reckon y’all are here to get married,” Reverend Mayhew said in a sonorous voice. “That’s the usual reason a young pair shows up unexpected.” His thin lips twitched as if he were in pain.

  “No, sir,” I said, hand lifted in protest. “I need to talk, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Mayhew’s light blue eyes flitted to her husband. “Certainly,” she said, holding open the door.

  Abel moved to follow, but I stopped him with a touch on his arm. “I think this is something I need to do alone.” He searched my face for a moment, then nodded.

  I followed the couple into their small parlor, settling onto a low sofa as the Mayhews took seats in two stiff-looking green-and-ivory-striped chairs across from me. While Reverend Mayhew laid his Bible down gently on the coffee table between us, I stared intently at a framed print of the Ten Commandments tacked to the chintz wallpaper. A breeze slipped through the open windows, ruffling the pink petals in the hanging baskets of geraniums.

  Mrs. Mayhew smiled gently, waiting for me to speak. A piano stood behind her, with a hymnal propped open on its stand. I could just make out the title at the top of the page, a song called “Coming Home.” “I’m sure this will seem outlandish, but I hope you’ll hear me out,” I began.

  I picked my way along, as though the words were precarious stepping-stones in a creek. “I came here not long ago on an orphan train from New York. I think … well, as it turns out…” I stopped, took a steadying breath, and tried again. “My mother was from Argenta. And I believe you knew her.”

  Mrs. Mayhew peered at me, then looked to her husband. “You see it too, don’t you?”

  The preacher inhaled deeply. “Yes, there’s no mistaking her.”

  Emboldened, I hurried on. “Mother never talked about her early years. I only just learned about her history here, so—”

  “She was a good friend to our Mary,” Mrs. Mayhew interrupted. “You’ve got to be Elizabeth Sutter’s daughter. You look just like her. Liz was a kind, sweet young woman. She was Mary’s closest confidante.”

  The silence stretched, long and thin, until my startled voice snapped it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I looked back and forth between them. Confusion roiled my thoughts into a muddy mess.

  Reverend Mayhew leaned back in his chair, his face falling into shadow. “Elizabeth’s people moved here a few years before Mary … left. They’re all long gone now.” His jaw worked as he struggled to hold back some strong emotion. Mrs. Mayhew fixed her tired gaze on nothing in particular. Both were too overcome by painful memories to notice my own turmoil.

  My mother hadn’t been the Mayhews’ daughter, only the friend of their beloved child. Perhaps Mama and Papa really had lost a baby before I’d been born, and that part of my father’s rant had been accurate. But equating my mother with the missing Mayhew girl based on Papa’s cryptic words had been a bridge too far. I felt foolish, like a little child who’d insisted her daydreams were real.

  Somewhere down the hall, a grandfather clock sounded its resonant notes. “If you’ll excuse me.” The reverend stood abruptly. “I have duties to attend.” His hasty steps echoed through the house. When the screen door slammed behind him, Mrs. Mayhew winced.

  “It’s hard for Franklin to speak about our Mary,” she said. “Anything that reminds him of her…” She sighed deeply. “How much do you know?”

  “I’ve heard about the baby,” I said, quietly.

  She pressed a hand to her heart. “Mary’s life was far more than the way it ended, but that’s all anyone recalls.” Mrs. Mayhew swallowed hard, as though forcing down bitter medicine. “But you came here to talk about your mother, didn’t you? I’m sure you want to know what she was like.”

  I nodded, glad to at least have this small consolation. “Yes, I’d like that. Mama passed away several years ago.”

  Mrs. Mayhew leaned across the table to press her warm, soft hands over mine. “I’m sorry. I was fond of Elizabeth. She and Mary were almost inseparable. For a time, anyway. Her folks were sharecroppers. Mary sometimes worried that Elizabeth worked too much.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Elizabeth wasn’t cut out for that life, I don’t think. She wasn’t a weak person, mind you, but she never enjoyed farming.” It seemed I had more in common with my mother than stubborn brown hair.

  “Mary could be impulsive,” she continued. “I hoped Elizabeth would be a calming influence on her. But they seemed to drift apart toward the end. We saw less and less of Elizabeth.” She rubbed wearily at her temples. “I believe she knew about the trouble Mary was in. Elizabeth was such a sweet girl. It must’ve upset her to learn about Mary’s condition.”

  I picked at a strand of horseh
air poking through the sofa’s upholstery. “I’d love to hear more about my mother’s best friend, if you’d like to tell me about her.”

  Mrs. Mayhew’s eyes lost focus. “Mary was spirited, but gentle, too. Motherly, you might say. All her life, she talked about how she’d have a whole houseful of children when she grew up.” Mrs. Mayhew fidgeted with a tatted lace doily on the arm of her chair. “When Mary was small, she had an imaginary little sister. She called her Aurelia, of all things.”

  I recalled Miss Maeve’s story of losing her family to influenza, and her sister having had the same lovely, unusual name. “It sounds like a character from a fairy tale,” I said.

  “Perhaps it was,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “Mary always had her nose stuck in a book. It was hardly ever a religious text, and her daddy didn’t like that. She loved her adventure stories and myths. Anything fanciful, really.”

  “My sister is like that,” I said. “And my friend Abel.” I gestured toward the front yard, where Abel waited. “I think they’re opposed to reality.”

  Mrs. Mayhew smiled. “Mary especially loved old Celtic tales. My people came from Ireland. Mary took after my side, with that red hair of hers.” She sighed. “And the temperament to match.” I could imagine my demure, steady mother being drawn to the outspoken Mary, with her flaming hair and strong will.

  “When she was born, I wanted to name her for my grandmother. Franklin insisted we choose a Bible name. Mary Eve was our compromise.” She paused, her eyes roaming the room before coming to rest on me. “If you take out the r and y, you’re left with the name I wanted to give her. Maeve. Such a pretty, magical name. She always seemed more like a Maeve to me.”

  Maeve. Mary Eve.

  “She’s been gone for nineteen years.” Tears spilled down Mrs. Mayhew’s cheeks, slipping unchecked from eyes so pale blue they were almost colorless. How had I not noticed the resemblance before? They were exactly like Miss Maeve’s.

  “If she’d only told me she was in trouble, maybe it would’ve ended differently. I feel sure all the worrying about her daddy and me finding out ruined her health and made the baby come early.…” Her voice trailed off. “I would’ve helped her run away. I never hated him like Franklin did.” She waved her hands as if to wipe clean a slate. “I doubt there’s anything more torturous than thinking on what might have been. That’s why the Lord tells us to forget what is behind and press ahead.” Mrs. Mayhew pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and wiped her tears.