But she didn’t want to make any fuss. She wanted to do this right. She didn’t want to be cheated by alarm or false emotion. So she didn’t tell them right away, the old McPheron brothers, who were outside all afternoon with the cattle in the work corrals, checking the new cow-calf pairs in the bright warm latespring afternoon. In the last two weeks the brothers had taken to staying in close to the house, ever since they’d driven her to the doctor, locating work for themselves to do in the barn or the corrals, and on those occasions when they both couldn’t be nearby they had begun to take precautions so at least one of them was always close to the house, near enough to hear any call that the girl might make.
So on this Tuesday she had been in and out of her small bedroom throughout the afternoon, during those first few uncertain hours, busying herself with the new crib and the sheet and the blankets, and moving about in the neat little room, tidying up what wasn’t untidy, straightening what wasn’t out of order, dusting where no accumulation of dust had been allowed at any time since she had come back from Denver. And as a result she had everything about two times more than ready, and she had already packed and repacked at least twice whatever it was she would need to take with her to the hospital in the travel bag, including a nightgown and pads and baby clothes, all that the books said she would need, all that Maggie Jones had told her to take as well. Earlier she had thought that she would call Maggie on the day that the pains started, but she had decided against it now. She had decided she would call her later from the hospital when she had something certain to call about. She had a feeling about wanting this to happen just for herself. And just for them too, the old brothers, without others being involved. She thought they had earned that. So she busied herself about the house and about the little room and waited until they got harder and more definite, and then late in the afternoon, about five o’clock, she went out to the corrals where they were working and stood waiting at the board fence until they should look up from the cow and calf they were inspecting and see her. And then they did look up and she called to them:
It’s started. I’m just telling you. But I don’t want to go into town yet. It’s too soon. He said it would be a while after they started, about twelve hours or so, he said, so there isn’t any rush yet. I’m just telling you.
They were holding on to a big red calf, holding it down in the corral dirt on its side so they could check it, while its excited mother eyed them balefully from a distance of about ten feet. The McPheron brothers looked up at the girl. Then it was as if they had all at once, and both at the same moment, understood what it was that she was trying to tell them. They released the rope on the calf and it bawled and jumped up and trotted over to its mother, hiding behind her where the old cow had already begun to lick it into calmness and quiet, while the two men came hustling over to the fence across from where the girl stood and said, What’s this? Are you sure?
Yes, she said.
And you’re feeling all right? Raymond said.
I feel fine.
But you shouldn’t even be out here, Harold said. You ought to be back there in the house.
I just came out to tell you, she said. That they started.
Yes but, he said—well damn it, Victoria, you shouldn’t even be on your feet. You need to go back to the house. This ain’t no place for you.
I’m all right, she said. I just wanted to tell you. I’ll go back now.