“I’m here.” It’s Juna. “Right here, Daddy. Calm yourself. Can’t you see?”
And then I notice the thing I should have noticed straightaway. Daddy’s light is out. The lantern we keep burning, all night, every night, is dark.
I listen for Daddy’s answer but hear only more muffled sobs. And then a single cry rises up. It’s nearly a scream, and I slap a hand over my own mouth.
“Daddy, stop,” Juna says. “I’m right here. Clear as day. You can see me. You can see, Daddy. I’m looking right at you.”
“But I can’t.” Yes, that’s Daddy. “I can’t see you. I can’t see nothing.”
Juna’s voice lowers. I can hear she’s still talking but can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s a murmur, almost a hum. I’d like to think she’s speaking sweet words, but I know she’s not. Something always simmers just beneath everything Juna does and says, something that tickles the back of a person’s neck or makes the heart pound quicker. Some part of Juna always lies in wait.
Daddy’s sobs slow. Juna continues to whisper. She wants Daddy to promise her. Promise he’ll do as she asks. Promise he’ll take care of her. Promise her. He can make it all good again. Just promise me. Promise me, is all. The sobs turn into words, Daddy saying yes to Juna. Yes, Juna. Yes.
A tiny speck of yellow floats in the dark room.
“You have to promise me, Daddy,” Juna says. “Promise you’ll make things good again.”
Daddy has been drinking ever since Joseph Carl was lowered into the ground. Every day, from the moment he opens his eyes to the moment he closes them. Other men cut our tobacco, hung it to dry. They propped open the barn doors to keep the air moving. Closed them when the air turned damp. And when Daddy still didn’t come, they stripped the tobacco, sorted it, took it to town.
One Sunday in early winter, Mrs. Ripberger, who had asked that I bring something fresh-picked to the potluck, delivered the money our tobacco brought at auction. Mr. Ripberger drove her in his black truck and waited outside, the engine running. She came with canned asparagus and cloth bags filled with seeds for next year’s garden.
“We missed you,” she said, remembering we never came that Sunday afternoon. “It ain’t much, but it’ll see you through.”
From the truck came a quick blast of the horn, but before Mrs. Ripberger turned to go, she handed me a box, cradling the bottom that had nearly given way.
“Clothes for the little one,” she said, drawing out a thin cotton undershirt that looked as if meant for a doll. “Some is for boys; some, girls.”
As Juna sat at the kitchen table, her hands hanging at her sides so they didn’t happen upon her bulging stomach, I sorted those clothes. We should wash them, I told her. We’ll wait for a sunny day so we can dry them on the line. Some for boys. Some for girls. But I think she’ll be a girl, don’t you? I’m certain of it.
There was plenty of mending to be done among all those tiny clothes—loose bits of lace dangling from a collar, buttons that drooped and needed a stitch or two to tighten them up, snaps that were missing their other half. And as I sorted and folded and stacked the clothes on the kitchen table, I found myself hoping Abraham Pace would see something in Juna’s baby he didn’t like or that worried or frightened him because I wanted Juna’s baby here with me.
Every dream I ever had was gone. Ellis Baine was gone for good. He would never tire of his cavorting and see me and want me. We would never ride off in a train like Joseph Carl once did and live where wheat grew taller than a man. Every dream was gone except for this new dream of mine, the dream of a baby girl living in this house, filling it up with all the sweetness I imagined a little girl brings with her when she comes into the world. We would clean this house and fix this house like we’d never bothered for just ourselves.
We’d break open the walls, put in a window or two. Maybe John Holleran would come back if I asked nice and pretended I never knew a man named Ellis Baine. And the baby would sweeten up Juna. She was softer and rounder and plump in all those places a man does love. She’d keep her sweetness even after the baby came and the softness melted away. The baby girl, who would wear these clothes so tiny they looked to be meant for a doll, would soften up every one of us. She’d soften up our lives, and so I had a new dream for myself.
In the front room, the speck of yellow swells. The glow trembles and grows larger. That’s Juna’s hair falling over one shoulder. She’s leaned over Daddy’s bed. The circle of light grows larger. That’s the curve of Daddy’s back. He has drawn himself up into a ball, his knees bent and pulled up to his chest, his arms probably wrapped around them. Still stroking Daddy’s forehead with one hand, Juna reaches the other toward the lantern. I can’t make out what she’s doing, but because the light keeps growing and its glow keeps spreading, I know she’s turning up the flame. And I know she’s fooling Daddy.