I hadn't allowed David to take him before. I was afraid he would get sunburned, or catch cold, or some terrible thing. Getting down to the beach by the path, with the baby and our lunch basket, blanket, and a pregnant woman to maneuver, was a tricky job. The path was not slippery, but steep and with the slickness of dry sand.
It had never been a problem for my brothers or for David and me. It was a simple walkway from our cabins to the edge of the grass. There it became a sharp dropoff of about five feet cut into the sides of the bank, sloping to the sand. Through years of use it had rough steps easing the drop but the steps were ragged from a recent storm. The sides were close enough to grab onto beach grass if you started to slip.
I went first, with the basket. At the bottom David handed Sampson down to me.
"Don't start yet," he commanded Amy when she started down. He stepped directly in front of her, "Hold on to my shoulders." He led her down. At the bottom he stepped away, took Sampson from me and took the lead. Amy walked between us while I followed up with the lunch. Sure was easier when we didn't have to go through all this fuss.
We went to a secluded place David and I knew about. The grass was squashed flat. If Amy suspected why the area was so beat down she didn't mention it.
While David built a small fire to heat water for tea to go with our sandwiches, Amy and I spread a blanket on the sand. I laid Sampson on it. He immediately flipped over to all fours and started scooting forward. Straight to the sand, and a mouthful. I cleaned him up while Amy laughed. My cleaning annoyed David.
"A little sand isn't going to hurt him. Let him enjoy himself. He'll stop when it doesn't taste good anymore." I pulled Sampson back to the center of the blanket. I was rough when I brushed the sand from his mouth and hands. "Dirty boy! Shame!"
Both David and Amy were shocked. For the second time, I saw David begin to be angry. The baby started to cry. David pulled him away from me. He soothed him, "It's okay. The sand is nice, isn't it?"
He soon had Sampson laughing again but the first crack was there.
The picnic didn't go well. David knocked Amy's cup of tea over onto the blanket. Our argument had made her nervous and she lashed out at him, "Don't be so clumsy, David. You're worse than the baby."
He didn't answer, but got up and walked down the beach. In strained silence we watched him go over to Haystack Rock. The tide was far out that day so that most of the base was exposed. He poked around in the tide pools for about a half hour before he returned. He looked refreshed but his eyes were still a dark blue, a sure sign that he was still upset. Food would perhaps restore his spirits. Amy and I stumbled over each other's words in our eagerness to soothe him.
"There's still a bacon sandwich," Amy offered, while I held out a boiled egg. "I'll peel it if you like?" He shook his head, catching his upper lip with his bottom teeth, a mannerism he had that annoyed me.
"Nah, I've had all I need." He reached over to Sampson and chucked him under his chin. Sampson wiggled over towards him. "Hey, boy, I think the wind is coming up. What do you think?"
Sampson grinned at him.
Looking at Amy, David said, "We better go back to the house."
It was one of the few times that I felt left out, different, odd somehow. I didn't like it. I kept my fear inside me and didn't respond. I knew that Amy didn't want to go back, I could tell by the dismayed look on her face. She didn't come to the beach much since she had gotten bigger in the tummy. Sampson was having such a good time we all knew he was happy where he was. It was a beautiful day. But to argue with that set jaw would have been useless.
We packed the picnic gear back in the basket. Amy and I shook the blanket together. After folding it she hugged it close to her chest. David carried the basket, I carried Sampson, and Amy followed using the blanket as ballast.
She made a joke about it being easier back up the path since we were carrying the food inside us. I couldn't help grinning when David joked, "Yes, but you have a heavier load than we do," and patted her tummy.
David went up the path first. After setting the basket on the grass, he reached down and took Sampson from me. When I reached the top I took Sampson.
David turned to go back down to help Amy, but she was already halfway up. He sucked in his breath. "Amy!" came out sharply.
She looked up, reached out a hand. The motion threw her off balance and she slipped, sliding back down the path. From his reaction you would have thought she'd fallen from a thirty-foot cliff rather than just slipping a few feet into loose sand. They fussed over each other at the bottom of the path. I stood there holding a squirming Sampson. I was as concerned as they were but I couldn't do anything. I knew she couldn't be hurt by that little fall but I didn't know about her baby.
I called, "Is Amy okay? Can I help?"
David mumbled something sounding like, "...don't know," and paid no more attention to me.
Finally, feeling forgotten and tired of trying to hold Sampson, I called down, "I'm going on up. I've got to put the baby down. I'll be back."
He looked up long enough for me to see the worry in his eyes. "No. That's okay. We'll be there soon."
The house sounded hollow, more so because I knew that David and Amy, though only a little ways away, were not with me at all. This pregnancy was their problem. That was evident whenever any problems arose. I could feel the weight of their years together before Sampson and I, came into their lives. Although we celebrated good times together and had shared my worries, this worry was not mine. I was only at the edge.
I busied myself washing up Sampson. He was cranky and tired and I was angry and didn't know why. With water that wasn't very warm, I scrubbed his naked little body, then went after the sand in his ears. He was as mad as I now. Scooping handfuls of water I splashed it into his ears and kept a firm hold around his slippery, fat little middle. He twisted away, got a face full of water, and let out a scream of pure mad. I yanked him from the basin and slapped him on his bare bottom. The CRACK was loud in what I thought was an empty room.
For a long second there was a silence after the noise, then the room filled with a deep, angry, "Sophie!" and a shocked, "Oh!" Sampson's howl poured over David and Amy's words.
Honestly, I was as horrified as they. I loved that little one more than my own life even, yet in a fit of despair I'd lashed out even quicker than I would have at one of Mandy's children. As bad as it was, and as I felt, I also was embarrassed that they had seen me spank the baby. I hadn't hurt him, but he screamed as if I'd tried to throttle him.
Amy rushed over. "Here, just let me take him."
I refused. I wrapped a towel around him and carried him past a white-lipped David to my bed upstairs where we both crawled under the covers and cried together. No one came up and soon the baby fell asleep. I was too ashamed to go downstairs. The heat of the day had made me sweaty, I was exhausted. Soon I slept too, Sampson's breath warm on my face.
It was almost dark when his soft pawing at my chest woke me. I gave him my breast, he latched on. The slurp was a peaceful happy sound and our sleep had erased our mutual anger. Full, he was easy to dress. His skin was cool from a breeze that came through the half-open window. I put him in a short cotton dress that left his legs free to crawl but covered his arms. The light blue lace at the neck and arms brought out the bright blue of his eyes, David's eyes. His face was pink with the sunset that shadowed the room. A surge of love for him and remorse for both of us swept through me, and I hugged him close.
His softness always amazed me. My happy boy giggled and his little hands grabbed onto my hair and tugged. I pried his fingers open and finally had my head free. He laughed and reached again for my hair, but I was too quick for him.
"No, no, naughty little Sampson," I cooed while I nibbled at his chubby fingers. He shrieked with joy, so I dropped him to the bed and attacked his cool toes.
"This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home." I wiggled the sturdy middle toe. "This little piggy had roast beef, and this litt
le piggy had none." By the time I reached, "...piggy cried all the way home," he was almost convulsed with laughter and waving his feet so that the last little piggy-toe slipped from my grasp.
I finished with kisses all over and bubbled my lips against his throat. He grabbed me around the neck and came up, clinging to me. I wrapped one arm around him and with my free hand grabbed a shawl from the top of the dresser and folded it around his back and chilly feet. We were ready to go downstairs.
I knew what we looked like when we came into the living room, compared to the way we'd left. My hair was mussed in a way that I knew David liked. Both Sampson and I were pink from our play.
The room smelled good, and safe. David was standing at the stove stirring a pot of beans. Amy, at the fireplace, put a log on the fire and politely nodded at us, then sat again in the padded rocker. The room with the small fire and warm food smell was very comfortable but the air was heavy with disapproval.
I felt I couldn't bear it if either of them mentioned the afternoon. The happiness I'd come downstairs with slipped away. Cold fear from the pit of my stomach surged through me. I determined to pretend nothing had happened. I blew again on Sampson's neck and he giggled, which caused Amy to put down the book she'd picked up, and look at us, or rather, at Sampson.
She spoke directly to Sampson. "Oh, all happy now, huh?"
He babbled at her and, forcing a laugh, I handed him to her. "He wants his Auntie Amy." I talked to her through Sampson. "How are you, Aunt Amy?"
"Aunt Amy's just fine now." She took on the pretense, "Just a little tired."
"Well, then," I said brightly, "Mommy better help Daddy with dinner then," and turned before she could continue.
I crossed the room and, quickly and lightly, playfully, put my arm around David's shoulders and looked down into the pot. He didn't pull away from my touch but didn't lean in to me, either. My arm felt heavy.
"Beans, huh." My voice was forced but my fear drove me on. He was close, but distant. "Almost done?" I asked, softer, but it seemed that my voice cracked in an empty room. "Looks like you used up the last of the pork."
He mumbled, "Um huh."
I ignored the briefness of his answer and acted as if we'd had a normal conversation, and a normal day. "Well, I guess I got here just in time. How would you like some biscuits?"
A short, "Okay," from the man I loved and who now was avoiding looking at me as much as I was avoiding looking at him.
"And a little salad?" I still had my arm on his shoulder.
"I'll go," he said, still distant but I saw and felt his body relax a little, and the fear in my stomach loosened. He took the bucket from a nail on the wall by the door and left for the garden.
Making the quick biscuits gave me an armor against any but the lightest talk with Amy. That room that usually felt so spacious to me was now cramped, small. I mixed and rolled and cut while chatting on about new clothes for Sampson. Amy fell in with it, no more eager than I to renew the unpleasantness of the afternoon.
David came back with not only lettuce and tomatoes from the garden but new corn, a rare thing as the coast climate made it hard to grow. He was happier, lighter than when he'd left, perhaps because it was such a beautiful evening outside.
He put the corn on the table. It was already shucked, explaining why he'd been gone so long. I admired the small yellow ears while he put on a pan of water to boil.
The thing I feared most was silence so I talked and talked, about the corn, the garden, the lovely night, the baby, until finally they were drawn into the happy atmosphere I was working so hard to create. By the time we sat down to the table for dinner, with only the lamp and the fire for light, the coldness in my stomach had eased. Amy ate with Sampson on her lap, feeding him a bit of mashed bean now and then to keep his hands out of her plate. David finally gave him a scraped-clean carrot to hold and nibble on.
"Sophie and I are going to make Sampson some new clothes," Amy said.
"New clothes?" David smiled, and my spirits soared at the sight. "He already has more clothes than I do."
"Those are baby clothes. He's getting to be a little boy."
We were in such a hurry for him to grow up.
"His knees are red from crawling and I think a pair of pants would suit him just fine," Amy said.
"Pants?" David pretended to be shocked. "Why, I didn't wear long pants 'til I went to school."
"David, this is 1919, not the 1880's."
He started to protest but Amy cut him short. "We're going to cover his knees and that's that."
"Well," he said firmly, trying to maintain his control of things, ignoring our grins, "A big boy with long pants shouldn't be sitting on laps at the table." He reached over and tickled Sampson on his belly. "I'll start on your high chair tomorrow. How about that?"
Sampson arched his back and the carrot flew across the room. David got it, washed it, and handed it back. He promptly dropped it again. Sampson's game went on until David took him on his lap and held him until dinner was over.
The evening was quiet with Amy reading, me cleaning up and then sewing, and David trying to figure what he needed for the chair. Sampson lay rolling around his feet, playing with a stuffed doll.
We went to bed early with me deciding to have the baby in with me. I was glad it wasn't my night with David. I opened the window that looked out upon the ocean. The air was glorious and warm, reminding me almost painfully of the night on the beach that now seemed so long ago, when being here was all new, and I'd not yet met David. I wanted time before we slept together again. I wanted to snuggle close and if he'd pulled away, it would have scared me. Still, as always, I missed him and was grateful for the quiet snoring sound from Sampson's cradle close to my bed.
22.Merry Christmas
Life seemed to be again as it had been before the bad day but I noticed a strain in our easy-close feeling towards each other. I grew sharper with the baby as he started getting into things and it became more of a chore to keep him clean and unhurt. At seven months, Sampson was walking around the furniture, pulling himself up on the bookcase and pulling things down. By early December, going into his eighth month, we had to watch him all the time to keep him from crawling upstairs, or if someone went outside, he would scoot for the open door.
I started to feel like I had to do everything. Amy was approaching her seventh month, and, by the doctor's orders, she rested a lot, downstairs. She watched Sampson and played with him when she wasn't sewing, or reading, or writing. The main job, of course, of taking care of him was mine. David spent hours painting in their room because the coop was too cold. If the weather was even halfway decent I went out, taking Sampson, or, braving the cold wind, with David.
We'd pass my old cabin, with me feeling sorry for it being empty. I worried about the flowers. The rose bushes stayed hardy through the winter but they suffered as the wind sculpted them to parallel the house.
Whether with David, or with him and Sampson, when we got down to the sand I was always cheered. I loved the briny smell of the ocean and the noisy waves, but I only needed a little bit of it. I worried about Sampson getting cold, or I'd start to think about making the bread to go with the soup we most always had simmering. I'd want the warmth of the house and back we'd go.
When Sampson wasn't with us, David and I once in a while stopped at my old cabin on the way back, to build a fire to warm the cabin and stave off the coast mold. "Just keeping it up for Mrs. Hawley." There I'd let David have his way with me--or I'd have mine with him--as the cabin warmed and dried. I loved being alone there with him, but as Amy's time grew closer so did our concern about leaving her for too long.
David enjoyed the winter, his first with two women and a small child to keep him company. I felt better than I had the previous winter, naturally, but there were more and more days of fog and rain which made me feel closed in. The last winter I'd hated because I'd been so terribly lonely and afraid. This winter was much easier, but still, by Christmas I was restless and we st
ill had at least two more months of coast winter, and Amy's birthing to get through.
For Christmas David killed another hen, and I braved the cold to walk to the store in town to buy a small ham and apples. I made applesauce with cinnamon. David dug the last of our garden carrots. Amy boiled them and added butter and brown sugar. I made a rice pudding that Sampson loved--all over his face. We celebrated, as David said, "in style." Our gifts were few. I remember that Christmas so well.
It started early, with all of us up as soon as dawn broke. Amy and I were ready to open the presents that lay under the small tree David had cut from the woods behind the house. David wanted to eat breakfast first. Amy and I agreed that we could delay until we'd made coffee, but otherwise, why wait? Sampson was up, feeling our excitement, babbling and laughing. Amy looked at me in pretend despair. It was barely dawn. She flung her arms like she was giving up.
"If I live through a hundred and fifty Christmases with you, David Smithers, God forbid, I'll never understand--" She turned back to me, her eyes wide and eyebrows lifted. "I do understand Sophie, I really do. He loves surprises, and he hates them." She paused.
I said, "Explain it to me then. Is it something to do with a man's stomach always coming first?"
David was pacing from the tree to the window looking over the ocean, and back to the tree. "Here now, you two. Don't gang up on me. I just think a little something, maybe a little oatmeal to tide us over. You know we always--" He started toward the stove.
Amy blocked his way, her belly making a good barrier. "Yes, I know 'we always' but this time we don't. This time we open our presents first."
"But, why?"
"Because I say so, and you know better than to annoy a pregnant woman." She gave him a little shove that tumbled him into a chair.
"You see, Sophie," she said, as if David wasn't there, "he hates it when it's all over. He waits so long. Christmas is his favorite day. He fumbles around the packages, feeling this one and that, doesn't matter if it's his or not. You saw him."
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