The hour sped by. Parents arrived to gather their children, and I prepared to leave and make my way home. Karen, the first reader, came up to me and said, “Mrs. Bight, I liked hearing you read. I love to read. Thank you, bye.” At that moment I realized what had drawn me to this child—this is what I must have looked like to Miss Parker.
After dinner Henry said, “Hair looks good. You went straight to the hairdressers, then back home?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
There was so much I wanted to share in my letter home that night, about the library and my new friends at Ginny’s. I described how the children were playful but always attentive when it was time to read stories; that hearing the children call me “Mrs. Bight” warmed my heart; how each child had a different reading ability, so I was careful to make sure they felt comfortable when it was their turn; and how reading to them and hearing their small voices reminded me of Miss Parker’s class; I hoped that the children would learn as much from me as I had from her.
I recounted how the walk to Ginny’s on feet that had outgrown shoes, with ankles that craved a cool splash of water and a belly that grew with every step, was sometimes difficult but always enjoyable; and how the sweat on my forehead and dappled stains on the fabric of my dress at the armpits made me think of home. I reminisced about summers in Louisiana, as I adjusted to summers in the North. Back home, thick June heat would have heralded the arrival of stifling summer hotness. I remembered how it would descend upon the roads, creating dust that clung to my sweaty body like a second layer of skin. I wrote that summer in Boston wasn’t much different, except for the hard surfaces. The sun beat down on the concrete, bouncing heat back into my face. The spring flowers along the sidewalk began to wilt for want of regular rain. At night I’d open the windows in the apartment, hoping to feel a breeze wash some of the dankness out, but the curtains stayed limp; the air just didn’t want to move. Our bedsheets felt as though dryness weren’t meant to be, no matter how long I let them hang on the line after washing. Yet unlike home, I didn’t have a front porch to provide solace from the inside swelter, a place to sit with family and friends, sharing stories or comfortable silence.
Ginny and the girls were easy to write about; it was as though I were looking at people back home whenever I sat in the shop. I described how pretty they were, and so different too. Ginny was the “in charge” person, just like Momma. She walked into the room and a big “shush” hummed as everyone waited to hear her speak. Mabel I likened to my brother’s wife, Bernice, with big shoulders and strong arms ready to provide support even when a person didn’t realize she needed it. And Josie was the fun-loving girl looking forward to the next date or new adventure. Kinda like me, as far as adventure went anyway … the way I used to be. I wrote about their hands—how watching them work made me see how much women can do, and that our hands were alike, North or South. No matter if we were in the fields doing back-breaking chores, in the kitchen preparing to feed the family, standing in a classroom sharing knowledge, making the local women beautiful in shop chairs, or quilting on the porch with special pieces of fabric—our hands danced.
I ended as I always did, with “I love you, your Baby Girl.” Then I sat quietly by the window, clutched the letter to my chest, and tried to block out the sound of Henry’s snoring.
Chapter Nine
I STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS AND STARED DOWN at the ice and slush that had found a home on every inch of the steps and the sidewalk. My back ached, and my stomach protruded so much that only the tips of my shoes were visible to my weary eyes. Somehow I needed to steady myself, hold my back, and rub my belly at the same time, as I gingerly inched down each step.
The first time it snowed had been magical. None of the descriptions in my books came close to the real experience of seeing white flakes fill the air, gently gliding down, dusting the windowsill with shimmery crystals that formed delicate mounds. But moving about while seven months pregnant on the aftermath of snow—ice, slush, cold puddles—was anything but beautiful. I wanted to make my way down the stairs, along the slippery sidewalk, and into Ginny’s shop without falling and rolling along the street like an out-of-control, overstuffed sausage.
Ginny noticed me as I crept up to the door, holding tight to the wall outside. She rushed to greet me. “You all right?”
I shuffled beside her as she helped me inside and led me to the nearest chair, where I sat with a thump. “Getting harder and harder to walk at all, never mind on slippery sidewalks.” I held tight to my stomach as I spoke; the baby was kicking as if to tell me he finally felt safe too, now that I was warm and not moving about like a drunken sailor.
“Best be careful,” Ginny said. “You take a fall, and it’s you and the baby that could suffer.”
“Was thinking on the way here that I may need to stay close to home from now on. Baby’s due in about eight weeks. It pains me to think about not coming out on Wednesdays, seeing all of you, reading to the children, but … I don’t know … I may need to stop.”
“You’ll still see us,” Josie said. “We’ll come by your place to visit. See how you’re doing.”
“Not sure that’ll work. Henry won’t want me to have visitors.”
“We’ll come anyway, when he’s out. On Wednesdays—we’ll keep the same day as now, at lunch time, and take turns so one of us is always here to handle the shop.”
Mabel nodded in agreement as both she and Josie continued working on their customers’ hair.
“I’ll miss the children. They’re such a treat. Last week they surprised me with a baby shower. Brought in hand-made cards and a few gifts—a rattle, a pacifier, a crocheted blanket, and the cutest little infant booties. It was nice of their mothers to think about me. But I had to leave everything there, in a storage box.” I didn’t want to cry, but that first tear fell from my chin onto the desk, and suddenly my eyes were so full of moisture that I lost sight of my friends and the room.
Ginny rubbed my shoulders, saying, “Just let it out. You’re a jumble of emotions right now. It happens to all expecting women. Your mind and body, not your own.”
“Gonna miss y’all.” I squeezed Ginny’s hand as she continued to rub my shoulders.
“You heard Josie, we’ll visit.” But the tone in Ginny’s voice belied the assurance of her words.
Finished with the paperwork for the day, I slowly put my coat, hat, and gloves on—the newest clothing I owned, which Henry had brought home one day, telling me to “keep my baby warm when you’re outdoors.” Ginny had touched up my hair for what I feared would be the last time. I looked around the shop and took in the smells of hair being cleaned and styled with fancy products designed to enhance a woman’s beauty. I hoped that a permanent imprint of this magical world would be stenciled on my mind.
Gentle snowflakes were brushing against the lettering that spelled Ginny’s backwards, when you looked from this side of the glass out at the street. The icy sidewalk looked terrifying again. I began to envision my walk to the library—holding onto walls, parked cars, light poles—praying to God that I wouldn’t slip and fall. And then the stairs up to the library’s front doors, steep and slick—it was going to be so difficult. I’d tell Susan when the children left that this would be my last day for a while. At least until after the baby was born and I was able to get around with him. Maybe not until the spring.
Ginny interrupted my reverie. “Before you go, we have something for you.”
She went to the back storage room and rolled out the most beautiful baby carriage, with a big red ribbon tied to the handle bar. The girls gathered around me, each giving me a big hug and kiss on my cheek. “You’ll need this for your walks with the baby, once winter lets up,” she said.
I touched the deep blue cloth on the bonnet of the carriage and ran my hands along the inside, which was cushioned with soft silky fabric and equipped with a little pillow and blanket. “It’s lovely,” I said, more to myself then to them. “Thank you, but I can’t take
it to the apartment.”
“Don’t you worry ’bout that,” Josie said. “We decided to keep it here until the baby’s born. We’ll just bring it over on one of our visits. Tell Henry it’s our gift to you. We got a plan.” There was a defiance in her voice that gave me little comfort.
After my reading session at the library ended, I said good-bye to the children, tidied the room, and wistfully looked around the space that had become more home to me than the apartment. Then I took one long last deep breath of the book-scented air, turned, and headed out the front door of the library.
My head was bent low, to fend off the snow that was coming down fast and thick and to make certain of my footing on the wet steps. I saw the tips of his shoes before I heard him bellow at me.
“Nell! What the hell you doing here?” He grabbed my arm in a vise-like grip.
“Henry!” I couldn’t move. The steps began to whirl beneath me; it felt as though I were suddenly seeing double, my eyes playing tricks on me. “I …”
“You what? Stepping out on me, lying!” He pressed his face into mine. Steam flowed from his flared nostrils as he gripped my arm more and more tightly. His expression reminded me of the way the mean hogs had looked in the pen; they’d attack at the slightest provocation, and we knew to stay away whenever the animals took on that look.
“I …” Only moans emitted from my tightened throat.
At that moment the library door opened and several of the children bounded out, with their mothers at their side. “Bye, Mrs. Bight, we’ll miss you,” they said in unison.
I limply waved to them. Their mothers glanced at me, concern flashing across their faces. Then they looked away and quickly moved on past Henry and me.
“How they know you?” Henry hissed in my face, pulling me closer to him.
“I read … volunteer … Wednesdays.”
“That’s over! Understand?”
“But …”
He yanked my arm and tugged me within an inch of his nose, so that we were facing off like two boxers preening for the cameras before the big fight. “No more hairdresser either. Understand?”
“Henry, stop it. You’re hurting me,” I pleaded. “You’ll hurt your baby!” My head was reeling. I didn’t recognize this Henry. He’d been replaced by a manic animal on the verge of strangling me.
“Stay home, do as I say. Understand?”
My body felt limp, as though it had been drained of blood, its bones reduced to mush, my heart wrenched out with a knife. Cold was seeping into my feet, through the sleeves of my coat, and down my neck. “Yes, Henry,” was all I could manage in response to his anger.
Fiercely pulling on my arm, he rushed me down the stone stairs. I slipped from one snow-laden tread to another, practically falling with each jerky motion. We sped along the sidewalk like two people trying to catch a departing train. When we approached Ginny’s shop, I bent my chin deep into the top of my coat collar. No, I silently begged, keep going. But he stopped right in front of the window, just stood there glaring at my friends until they noticed us. I wanted to melt into the snow gathering around my shoes, become a puddle that would dry up and disappear in the next day’s sunlight.
“Nell, you okay?” Ginny poked her head out the door.
I just shook from side to side, without looking up.
“You sure?” she asked.
“This here my wife!” Henry shouted, and shoved me toward Ginny and the shop window, never letting go of my upper arm. “She do as I say. You put things in her head. No more!”
I heard Ginny walk out and the door close behind her. She said in her most controlled and in-charge voice, “Nell’s my friend. We look out for our friends around here.” The tips of her shoes were almost touching the tips of Henry’s shoes.
“She’s my wife. Coming home, not leaving. You stay away, woman. You hear me!”
She stepped toward Henry, closing the gap between the tips of their shoes. Then she began to speak to me, but she never took her eyes off of him. “Nell, I’m gonna come around your way, just to visit. It’ll be unannounced, since you don’t have a phone. But the girls and I will visit. And if it ever looks like you in any kind of trouble, any at all, or if you don’t answer when we knock on door, then I want you to know that I’ll call the police. I’ll just ask them to look in on you, make sure you’re okay, what with being alone and pregnant and all. Remember—I will call the police.” She touched my shoulder on the side that wasn’t numb from pain and lack of circulation.
Henry made a guttural hog sound and dragged me down the street toward our apartment. I never looked up, just groaned as he dragged me away.
Chapter Ten
THERE WAS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR. I WASN’T SURE if the sound was just in my mind, since unsettled sleep had given way to delusions in the morning. I squirmed in bed, clutched the blankets to my chest hoping for some warmth, and tried to let sleep take hold again. I heard the knock again, through the haze of a sleeping-waking state, at the same moment that the first contraction gripped my insides.
The pounding on the door was overshadowed by the screams of pain that rushed from my throat with the next contraction. I pumped quick breaths of air from my lungs and out my mouth, the way the doctor’s nurse had showed me during the last office visit: “Do this when you feel the first jolt; it’ll help you manage the pain and relax your muscles.” She had demonstrated the process and watched me as I mimicked the breathing technique. “Good,” she’d said. “You got it.”
But she hadn’t described how searing the pain would be, how my body would want to curl into a fist but couldn’t with the baby on top of all my organs, fighting to kick his way out. When the pain subsided I heard more hammering on the door and Ginny shouting, “Nell! Let us in.” I rolled onto my side, pushed myself to the edge of the bed, and shuffled to the door, holding my back and stomach for balance.
“Nell! You look … oh my! You’re in labor!”
I stared at her and then at the wet stains on my nightgown and legs. “Ginny, help!” It was all I could say before another involuntary reflex gripped my body and forced a scream so loud that my ears started to ring. “Please!”
“Lay her on the floor,” Ginny said to Mabel.
“We need an ambulance!” Mabel shouted.
“Too late for that—this baby’s coming now! Get the pillows and sheets, and check your watch; count the time between contractions. Boil some water. Wipe her forehead. We’re having a baby!” Ginny shouted orders to Mabel while easing me onto the floor.
“You just settle right here, Nell. I’ve done this before.”
“But … Henry … wants his baby born in hospital,” I managed to protest between the sudden bouts of pain and my forced breathing.
“Not going to happen. Don’t worry about Henry. You the only concern now.”
“But—” I fell back with the next muscle lurch and belted out a scream that must have shaken the walls. “Let it out!” I could feel the baby pressing against my uterus, trying to force his way into the world. “Please!” I begged Ginny.
“Not yet; if it’s too soon you’ll hurt yourself. Don’t push! I’ll tell you when.”
“Momma!” I shouted at the air.
“Mabel, help me roll Nell on her side and put pressure on her back. Rub hard! Nell, keep doing the breathing; you have to hold on a little longer.”
I wanted Momma, Bernice, Daddy—I wanted to grab them, hug them, shout at them. “Where are you? Why did you send me away? Why don’t you answer my letters?” I sobbed into the sweat-drenched sheets, confusing my body with its labor pains and the empty ache nursing my soul. “Henry! What’ve you done to me?” I thumped my fists on the floor.
Ginny stuck her fingers inside me, searching around the way I remembered the midwives doing with other women back home. It had looked disgusting then to my young and curious eyes, and it felt even worse now, when I was the object of the prodding.
“Okay, I think she’s ready,” Ginny said. “Put her on the fl
oor and sit behind her for support. She’s gonna need it.”
Mabel shifted me, straddled her legs on either side of my shoulders, and rested my head against her stomach. She dabbed my forehead with the cool cloth and kissed the top of my head. “It’s okay,” she said in a reassuring voice that made me think even more about my Momma. “You’re with family.”
The sobs came harder and harder; my mind and body were shaking as if I were in a rickety carriage barreling down a cobblestone street.
“Push!” Ginny commanded. “Push!” Mabel angled me forward as I pushed until my energy was exhausted.
“Rest a moment,” Ginny said. Before I could finish a series of quick breaths, she shouted again, “Push, harder!” I pushed and suddenly felt something between my legs begin to move, stretching me open. “It’s the head! One more big push!” She put force against my stomach with her hand while Mabel raised my shoulders higher. I strained so hard my eyes pressed shut, my neck muscles began to ache, and my chin seemed to meld into the top of my chest bone.
“I have his head!” Ginny took hold of the baby’s head and gently moved it from side to side, easing it out of my vagina. I could see the protruding scalp, covered with blood and ooze, as she continued to pull.
When the baby’s legs were free, she gathered it up and plopped him on my chest. Then she cut the cord and eased the afterbirth onto the sheets with a splash. Mabel used the damp cloth to clean his skin, wipe his eyes, and clear his mouth. The tiny thing let out a wail. I looked away, my arms limp at my side.
“Nell, hold your baby, give your breast,” Ginny said with a lilt of concern in her voice.
“Not mine!” I crossed my arms over my face and yelled, “Take it away!”
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