by Beaman, Sara
“You saved them both, Margotty. Thanks to you, everything went smoothly. Like magic,” Elmo said.
“I didn't even attempt external cephalic version, which carries a slight risk of pre-term delivery in cases of polyhydramnios, because I was confident that it would go smoothly.”
Elmo gave her a nervous, uncomprehending half-smile. “As you say...”
Margotty slapped the head of mustard greens on the counter. “For you.”
“We owe you gifts, girl, not the other way around,” Elmo said, going to the cabinets and throwing them open.
“I'd like bread, or meat if you have it,” Margotty said as he rummaged.
He found for her two heels of day-old bread, a cup of goat's milk, dried apple chips, and a handful of pecans.
“We'll pay the birth fee soon,” he promised. “The family is scraping together the money even now. Currency is hard to come by and we'll be supporting my sister, now, with the new baby and no husband.”
“I'll take a pair of shoes or a good winter coat if it's easier for you.”
“Shoes?” Elmo looked skeptical. “Hard to find. But we'll do what we can, Margotty. Believe me we will. A healthy baby boy is worth...well, it's worth the world to us.”
Margotty ignored his misty expression and said, “If the mother has continued bleeding, send for me. I'd like to do a postpartum exam soon, anyway, just for health's sake.”
“Oh, she can see Alonzo or Sabina if she has any trouble, which I doubt. Your work here is done, Margotty, and done well. No need to turn your eye to us again.” He smiled and gave her a farewell nod as he closed the door behind her.
Margotty tromped down the stairs, which were newly fashioned from local wood and planed smooth. She could see all her advice and all her cautions were wasted.
If Margotty had her own baby she'd do everything by the book. She'd want a baby all to herself, a baby with no father. She couldn't stand the idea of anyone crossing her on the subject she knew best.
At home she put the stale heels of bread in a bowl and poured the goat's milk over them to soften them up. Cinder somehow knew when there was food to be had and she padded in from the overgrown yard, utterly black, silent and invisible but for her left hind foot which was white. Margotty split the mush with Cinder, eating her half with a spoon while Cinder licked hers off the counter.
****
Irene walked around behind Granny's kitchen, where the bread-maker, Imelda, had her solar ovens. There were trays of loaves in pans, waiting to be baked.
“Irene!” Imelda looked up, dusted flour from her hands. “Bring me what I asked for?”
Irene pulled out the bunches of herbs.
“Perfect,” Imelda said. “Perfect. This will go in tomorrow's loaves. You're too late today.”
Irene shrugged unhappily, thinking of her detour to the obstetrix's. “I hope you can give us an extra loaf today.”
“A standing order for two loaves is one thing,” Imelda said, warming up to her favorite pastime. “But a last minute request for a third?”
Irene held her smile. “You have more than enough, Imelda. You're still selling stale loaves at half price. The day I come to Granny's kitchen and see no day-olds for sale is the day I worry you can't spare another fresh one.”
“Where's my log of goat cheese?” Imelda asked.
“Forgot it,” Irene lied. “I'll send one with Hua when she comes to get our bread later today.”
“Send two,” Imelda said, pushing up her glasses with a pinky so as not to smudge the lenses. Her eyes were made small and piggy behind them, greedy-looking.
“I'll send one and a bunch of mustard greens. Where's your son? We might need him soon. Think he's looking for work?”
“Lazy boy always needs work,” Imelda said. “He'll take his payment in apples.”
“We don't grow apples,” Irene objected.
“But you can buy them,” Imelda said. “I'm going to make hot apple cakes. You want the first batch? Hungry boys from the field would love to dig into those.”
Irene laughed and shook her head. “Tell Gregory to come speak to Paul. They can settle the price between them.”
Walking home, Irene thought of Gregory. He was a hard worker, still single probably only because of the mother-in-law he would bring to the deal. He was interested in Hua's pretty face more than Irene's plain one, but still he might be persuaded. Could he keep a secret?
Irene squeezed her eyes shut and quickened her pace. How could she think like this? Had Margotty suggested the idea just to drive her crazy?
She crested a ridge and her house came into view. It was a big, sprawling place sheltered by a mature oak, built on a hill and surrounded by open land. It had been the model home for the old community, well-designed with all the extras and most importantly, a big, working brick fireplace. It had been a natural place for Paul and Lazarus to occupy because of the two-acre community park that had abutted it.
Their first task had been to plow it under so they could raise corn and sweet potatoes and soybeans in rotation. They'd also added a composting area, a rainwater cistern, and an equipment shed. When farming so much land by hand had proved too much work for the two of them, they'd divided half the fields into small plots for anyone in town who wanted a garden. In exchange for the tilling and the water and the compost for good soil, they kept a portion of the harvest.
Paul and Lazarus Hoeblum had abandoned the survivalist hold-out in the mountains where their parents had retreated during the Collapse. They arrived at Thorn Creek leading a donkey burdened by a load of working weapons: rifles, shotguns, and handguns. Guns were like instant cash, instant entry to any community they'd picked. They settled on Thorn Creek, though, where Irene was living, and she had watched them clearing the land. When Paul's eyes had turned to her...
Her heart filled as she watched him now, moving steadily down the rows. No one, no one would come between her and her husband. She headed back to the house.
Lang was off taking a turn milking the goats in the community corral, and Hua was setting up the things they'd need to turn their portion of the milk into cheese.
“You were gone a while,” Hua said as Irene put down her bag and began scraping ashes out of the hearth.
“I talked to Imelda about Gregory coming to work here,” Irene said.
Hua nodded. “I went to the trading post to see Gretchen,” she said. “I met a monk there.”
“A monk?”
“Yeah, a Catholic monk,” Hua said. “Said he comes from a monastery far away.”
“A monastery?” Irene couldn't believe something like that could have survived. “Was it evacuated during the Collapse? Or did they ride it out?”
“Don't know,” Hua said. “I invited him to dinner. Ask him then.”
Irene laughed. “You invited him to dinner?” She wished she'd asked for two extra loaves from Imelda.
“Yeah. I want him to bless the baby,” Hua patted her middle. “Our family was Catholic, you know. Maybe he will bless the whole house.”
Irene went out with an old plastic tub lined with dried grass to collect eggs. The hens nested anywhere they chose, so it was a task hunting down each nest and then trying to slip the egg away from the testy hen. Many people in town had chickens so Irene had to be careful to only take eggs from hens with two green bands on their left legs, even though plenty of other chickens found their way to nest on the property.
She disturbed a chicken on its nest only to find it had one purple band on its right leg. There was no egg anyway. She straightened her back and looked around, appreciating the view from the back of Paul and Lazarus’ property. From where she stood the land rolled away down to the square plots below. There were a lot of people working their plots, harvesting fall vegetables like greens and broccoli and late peppers. Lazarus was turning the compost with a pitchfork, and even from this distance it looked like hard, punishing labor. Paul was taking a break, talking to Wendy McTeague, who always had a green and lush gar
den plot and a mouthful of gossip.
The community plots added healthy elements to the diet of a town which mostly traded for dry and canned goods brought in by scavengers and traders. There were also scattered flocks of chickens, the herd of goats Tikko kept, and the little gardens people tended in their own yards. Hunting, fishing, and gathering wild fruits and nuts supplemented the food supply and could sometimes be bought at the trading post.
It was a tight, interdependent community. Everyone knew everyone else's business, seeing Mrs. McTeague had reminded Irene of that. Neighbors were always hungry for gossip, always watching for someone to come down sick in case they should be confined to the sick house. Someone was always match-making, always talking about who was having a baby and who wasn't. Irene knew Kathy’s baby had arrived long after her husband had passed. Some people speculated that the father was Beck, a picker who lived in the office park outside the town's gates.
Irene couldn't imagine trying to keep such a secret. If she went to Sabina how long would the anonymous donor stay anonymous? She watched Paul nod farewell to Wendy and pick up his pitchfork again. Irene waved but she couldn't catch his eye, and felt a sudden unreasoning sadness that they had missed the tiny connection.
Irene walked the path back to the big house. Hua had been cooking all day so the kitchen was warm and filled with the smell of sizzling fat and thyme and the last of the late raspberries. Lang was back from milking, and all three women worked together to finish preparing the big meal, setting one extra place for the traveling monk.
Just at dusk a tall, lanky figure came striding down the worn path to the big house, carried on long legs and swinging gangling arms. Paul and Lazarus were just coming in from the shed and he went to wash up with them. The man was a head above either of the brothers, but half as substantial.
When they came in the monk greeted the wives with a beaming smile. As he was introduced he said to each, “Peace be with you,” and Irene was strangely comforted by it. He wore a scratchy-looking brown robe with a wide collar, long sleeves, and a belt around the middle. The hem of his robe ended just a few inches too early, revealing bony ankles and a pair of well-oiled leather walking shoes, no socks.
“Such a happy - a lovely home,” the monk said. “So warm and, uh, p-pastoral. Such a welcome contrast to all the squalor, the decay, you know. So nice to see b-benevolent, charitable folks instead of the hard- the angry sorts you get these days.” He had a funny way of speaking, as if he tripped on certain words and had to begin again with a gulp of air. He was so friendly, though, so warm and genial that it was easy to overlook the annoyance.
“Do you remember the time before the Collapse?'” Irene asked. It was hard to judge the man's age. He was weathered and lined and spotted and his close-cropped hair was a pale color that could have been graying or just sun-bleached.
“Oh, some,” he said. “I know the old world best through the p-pages of- through tomes, you might say, ha ha.”
At supper Irene sat quietly while the others talked. The monk complimented every dish he tasted, spoke solemnly on matters of faith to Lang, was tender with Hua about the trials of pregnancy, and enthused with Lazarus over hunting and game.
He even drew Paul out. On his travels the monk had seen a working cistern that could pump rain water for crops or filter water for drinking. Paul questioned him mercilessly about it and soon Lazarus joined in, too. At their urging, the monk sketched out rough plans of what he had seen.
The candles burnt lower and lower, and finally Hua dragged herself off to bed. Lang and Irene got up to wash dishes, and Paul and Lazarus stepped outside with the monk for a rare smoke. When Irene took the dirty water out to pour it over the compost, she met the monk as he was coming back from the privy.
“Irene, is it, yes?”
“Yes,” Irene stopped and swiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Out in the cool evening air she felt a little shiver.
“Such a lovely – a convivial evening. Such good food. You and your sisters are excellent cooks, excellent.”
“Thank you.” Irene blushed. “I thought you would disapprove of Lang and Hua, together with Lazarus.”
“Oh, not me, not me.” He smiled. “It's strictly against doctrine – against policy, of course. Though nowadays hardly anyone b-bothers with that sort of, uh, morality. There aren't too many Catholics- too many p-practicing Catholics left after the Collapse. So, uh, beggars can't be – can't dictate – you have to take what you can get, certainly.”
Irene nodded.
“Go, uh, go forth and be...well, multiply and glory be unto...yes, et cetera, et cetera.”
Irene's goodwill melted away. “I should get back inside,” she said.
“Oh, uh, pardons, p-pardons,” the monk said quickly. “I hope I haven't - I don't wish to upset you.”
“No, it's fine,” Irene said, glancing over the monk's shoulder to make sure Paul and Lazarus were still standing by the front door where they couldn't hear.
“It seems you are a bit, uh, melancholy?” the monk asked.
Irene sighed. Her parents were Baptist, not Catholic. She hadn’t been raised to confide in priests as Hua and Lang had been. She hesitated and the monk folded his hands patiently.
In a low voice she said, “I had some bad news today.”
“So sorry to hear it, so sorry. Perhaps, uh, you might b-benefit from some, yes, some counsel? Maybe a talk in, uh, private?” he added when he saw her look at the men again. “It's my duty and my pl-pleasure to offer - to give succor – to minister to the p-populace. I've talked with many others.”
Irene thought for a minute. “Come tomorrow mid-day. The men will be in the fields and Lazarus' wives will be busy elsewhere. We could talk then.”
“P-perfect, yes, excellent suggestion. I wish you peace until then.”
Irene smiled, and the weight seemed to lift just a fraction. She wouldn't worry anymore about it, not tonight. She'd put it from her mind and rest easy.
The monk stayed 'till the men finished their smoke, and then went away cheerfully into the night, headed back to Gretchen’s trading post where traders and other travelers bunked while in town.
****
It was a rainy morning so Margotty slept late, Cinder curled in the crook of her arm. Rainy and cold. She needed a coat, she needed boots, she needed all sorts of things with winter coming on. But most of all, unless someone dropped by unexpectedly again as Irene had done yesterday, she'd need food. And that meant she'd have to work for it.
She felt a surge of irritation knowing that Kathy would probably be seeing the doctors today and wouldn't send for her. Margotty knew well enough that Alonzo and his sister Sabina were only medical assistants, not doctors, though they were the best the community had and did well enough. Still she wished they'd leave all pre- and post-natal care to her. She needed the extra work and the meals it paid for.
She heaved herself off the bedroll she had laid out on the floor in the back room and dragged herself into the kitchen. In one of the cabinets, which were nearly bare otherwise, she had a pitcher with some water in it. Margotty couldn't buy good water from one of the wells, so she drank boiled rain water from the community cistern.
She had a hard boiled egg left and some goat cheese from Irene, so she mashed the egg and some of the cheese together in a bowl, giving only a spoonful to Cinder and of course letting her lick the bowl clean afterwards – there was no easier way to clean it. The cat would have to hunt today for the rest of her meals.
After breakfast the rain had slowed to a drizzle so Margotty put on her worn, flimsy sandals and headed for the trading post, which also served as the town post office. She'd been at Thorn Creek for almost two years now with no word, but she still checked for letters from home.
Margotty had been traveling with a caravan when her mother died unexpectedly. She’d gotten off at the very next stop the caravan made. It was too dangerous for a very young woman to travel alone; too many desperate women willing to
pay good money for a surrogate mother and the slavers would just as happily pick her up as an unattended child.
Margotty had tried to send word back home to her aunts through some carrier, who promised to deliver it to some caravan, which was supposed to pass it off to some other rider, and on and on all the way back to Canada. With no money attached to the letter, she was relying on the kindness of people she'd never met, so her letter may not have even made it home.
Meanwhile, she was stuck in Thorn Creek. Not a bad place to be stuck – it was the safest, most prosperous town in miles and miles and miles – but on a day like today, with the rubble-strewn streets awash in mud and the smell of the outhouses wafting from the edge of town, Margotty longed for the clean, sterile times she'd known as a girl, living in the Canadian public bunker. And for an escape from the superstition and ignorance attached to sound medical science here.
At the trading post, Gretchen saw her walk through the door and shook her head. No letter. Margotty shrugged off her disappointment and drifted over to the stocked shelves. She looked longingly at the canned food and jars of pickles and bags of cornmeal and dried meat and the barrel of fresh apples and the baskets of onions and garlic.
With an inward moan she pulled herself away and went out back to the outhouses. When she returned there was a strange-looking man standing by the door talking to Amity, who had come in to drop off jars of fruit preserves for Gretchen to sell on consignment. The man was dressed in a habit like a monk, his hair trimmed above the ears and shaved off the neck in a rough approximation of the tonsure.
As a rule, Margotty avoided religious people. She lowered her eyes and squeezed past him for the door. At the last minute he stepped back and the heel of his shoe pressed down on her bare toes. He didn't seem to notice.
“Ow! Watch it, Friar Tuck,” Margotty snapped.
“What? Oh!” The man stepped off her foot and looked down at her. “Friar Tuck, huh? Here's a smart little - an educated girl,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “Not many read, uh, Sir Walter Scott these days, or maybe you're more of an T.H. White enthusiast.”