As Mama’s belly grew and the leaves shifted from green to red to gold and the winds swung around to the north, the gathering moved into the church basement. The women would sip hot coffee, and always, every Sunday, they settled on my being a girl. You’ll name her Sarah, Mary Holleran said. Mary, same as Juna, has the gift, the know-how.
Mama liked the name Sarah, liked it even more when Mary Holleran said it meant I would be a princess. Mama clung to the idea of giving birth to a princess. The thought of me made my mama want to sweep the wooden floors in her small house, even the corners. The thought of me made her want to wash her clothes in hot soapy water, cut away dead branches, and weed the garden. The thought of me lit up the years ahead. As the women sipped their coffee and dropped napkins at Mama’s feet to foresee the date of my birth, Mama would smooth the strands of hair that poked out from under her white cap, stroke her full belly, and try to lose the sound of her own husband’s voice among all the other voices. A princess would bring some light, some joy, into her home.
Mary Holleran and the other women shied away when next Mama was pregnant. A few mornings, early on, before Mama’s belly began to swell, they laid their hands on her. A boy, they said, again in agreement. All of them except Mary Holleran. She said nothing. After that, the ladies didn’t cackle. They didn’t run their fingers through Mama’s hair or tap their kerchiefs to her cheeks. Mama asked what she should name her baby boy. Is there a name that means prince, she had asked. The women shook their heads and looked to Mary Holleran. Again, Mary said nothing. When Mama’s second was born a girl, the women would not speak to her. They didn’t look down into the face of my sister and coo about her sweet pink nose or the tenderness of each finger. Only Mary Holleran pulled aside the blanket and looked into my sister’s eyes. “I’ve no intent to be unkind,” Mary had said to Mama, “but be wary of this child. Take extra care.”
No one would tell Mama what to name her new baby, not even Mary Holleran, who had named me, and since Mama had been preparing for a boy, she struggled for days. She wondered how to hold this new baby, how to feed it and change it and swaddle it for the night. Daddy wanted no part of the child, wanted no part of giving it a name. He knew he was cursed by this baby who was meant to be a boy. He and his whole life . . . cursed. Because Mama had no one to help her or to tell her what to do, and because my sister was born in June, Mama named her second child Juna.
Mama’s thirdborn, Dale, killed her. After giving birth, Mama lived three days. She lived long enough to hold her boy, touch his slender nose, kiss the tips of each finger, and give him a name. For those three days, Daddy was happy. The whole house was happy. Dale was a boy, and that meant Daddy would live on. He’d live on forever. Dale being a boy made him most precious, but the relief of him being born ended when Mama died. Daddy had been right. Right all along. He had been cursed by the birth of a girl who was meant to be a boy, and then with Mama’s death and the nine, almost ten years that followed during which no woman would agree to take Mama’s place, and year after year of crops that faltered and failed. Daddy was right. Juna was a curse.
As I near the main road into town, I slow to a walk. I take a deep breath in through my nose, pucker my lips, and blow it out through my mouth. I do this several times over to calm myself. I tip my face toward the sun. I’ll have a new place to live one day, God willing. Someplace where the sun shines from sunup to sundown, and I’ll clean the windows every day because always there will be sun.
The road ahead is empty as far as I can see. I jog another few steps until I reach it, settle back into a walk, tuck my blouse into my skirt, straighten the cap on my head, and feel for the strands of hair I plucked loose before leaving the house. I wrap one around my finger like I’ve seen Juna do, hold it there as I keep walking—slow now so when they pick me up, my ride will be long—and then let that strand of hair go and hope it pops into a soft curl falling alongside my face.
There is a rattling. It’s a tailgate with a latch that doesn’t close up so tight and side rails grown loose from someone all the time leaning on them. The rattling grows louder. I don’t look back, but I know they’re coming. Hope they’re coming. The pitch of the engine’s hum drops, and brakes squeal.
“Hop on,” one of those brothers hollers at me.