The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay Read Free Page B

“Oh, yes, Dad knows.” Mother had laughed in that warm way she did. “He’s my rooster, and you’re my little chick.”
    Mother called them lots of funny things when she was happy. They were her sweet peas or her toadstools or field mice. She called them things like that, and then she’d chase them around the kitchen and tickle them. Avis would get wild with giggling. Then Mother would march them out of the house. They would scatter like bees in a frenzy until she gathered them in. “Come back, come back!” she’d call across the yard or up into the hayloft, where they sometimes hid. “It’s time to do something useful.” And they’d come. Together they’d set about cleaning something . . . or patching a quilt . . . or shelling those endless beans . . . or peeling . . . or scraping.
    Idella turned her face into the pillow and fell asleep.
     
    There was a sound. Idella could hear it, strange, dragging at her from outside of sleep. She turned restlessly. It’s the baby, she thought, remembering. The baby’s crying. But it didn’t sound like a baby. Idella stiffened. A scream shot through her whole body. But it wasn’t her scream. It came from down below. “Oh, God, the pain! The pain! It’s going right through me!” It was Mother.
    Idella listened hard. The house had changed. There were footsteps, both men’s and women’s. She could hear men’s voices outside. Dad was there. She sat up and looked out her window. It was still nighttime, but she could see shapes. Blackie was out there, Dad’s horse. He was jumpy, and someone was holding him steady. “Change ’im at Mulligan’s, Bill. They’ve got good horses, and they’re ’bout halfway.” Dad swung up onto Blackie in one motion and took off fast. No wagon, just the horse, pounding down the road in the darkness.
    “Della?” Avis was whispering beside her. “Why is she crying? The baby’s come already.”
    “I don’t know, Avis. Dad just took off on the horse.”
    Idella went to the door and opened it a crack. The kitchen lamps were full on. She could hear Mrs. Doncaster at the stove. “We need more rags. Fred, go over the house and get more rags. Bring the sheets and blankets if you’ve got to. We’ll tear ’em up. These are black with it. And bring our kettle for clean water. I’ll stay here till the doctor comes, and then I’ll take the baby.” Idella heard Mr. Doncaster’s heavy footsteps leave before Mrs. Doncaster had finished talking.
    She crawled out into the hall. She could see Mrs. Doncaster stirring things in the big washtub. There were ugly dark splotches across the front of her dress, on her skirt, and up her arms. It was blood. Black blood was coming from out of Mother, soaking up all the rags. And Dad had gone twenty miles for the doctor on horseback in the night.
    The bedroom door opened. Mrs. Pettigrew, from down the road, came out holding the baby. “You’d best take her now, Elsie. The poor thing needs to suck. I’ll take over here. Lord help us get through this night.”
    Mrs. Doncaster was wiping blood off her arm with her apron. “Give it to me. I’d take it on home, but I don’t want to leave Emma.” She put her hand carefully under the baby’s head. “Any letup?”
    “Not to speak of.” Mrs. Pettigrew moved to the stove and looked into the steaming kettle of rags. “Lord, how quick these have all been gone through. And she keeps on so about the pain. Straight from her heart, she says, straight through her.”
    Idella lay flat on the floor and pushed her fist tight against her mouth. She wanted Mother. She wanted to run down the stairs and send all those people home and take care of her. She wanted the pain and the bleeding to stop. So much blood was flowing that it made everything black.
    A sharp cry came from the bedroom. “Go on in to her, Petty, and do what you can.” Mrs. Doncaster stood holding the baby, rocking it, with her pinkie finger up against the corner of its mouth. The baby turned to