After their honeymoon, the newlyweds move into our family homestead to save money for a house of their own. I like having another woman around, particularly one as young and friendly as Mary, who is solid and kind and laughs easily. She is good company in the house, helping me cook and clean.
Sam and Mary settle into a bedroom on the third floor, away from the rest of the family, and soon enough, Mary is with child. Unlike Ramona—as reported in her letters—she has no morning sickness. We sit by the hearth as she knits blankets and I sew frocks for the baby, talking about the weather and the crop yield and the people we know in common, such as Gertrude Gibbons, who was married recently herself. (She sent an invitation to the wedding, but I didn’t go.)
“That girl’s got some border collie in her blood. Can’t help herding and nipping. But she’s all right,” Mary says.
The image makes me smile, both because it’s exactly what Gertrude does and because Mary says it so matter-of-factly, without rancor. I don’t mention my waspish comment to Gertrude at the dance. It’s hard to feel proud of that.
MONTHS LATER, WOKEN in the middle of the night by a low moan, I lie in the darkness of my bedroom, my breathing the only sound. Sitting up, I strain to listen. Minutes pass. Another moan, louder this time, and then I know: it’s time for the baby to be born. I hear Sam’s heavy footsteps down two flights of stairs and out the front door. The Ford engine revs; he’s on the way to get the midwife.
I bend and unbend my legs, as I do every morning, and carefully swing them over the side, holding onto the spindle frame as I reach for my dress on the peg on the back of the door. In the darkness I pull on stockings and lace my feet into shoes, then make my way downstairs, leaning on the banister. Papa is in the foyer in his wheelchair, bumping around, muttering under his breath in Swedish, trying to navigate the doorways to get to the kitchen. He must’ve roused himself from bed, a task Al usually helps him with.
I fill the kettle from the urn of water on the floor, fire up the Glenwood, and take out oats for porridge and bread for toast as the sun rises in the sky. After some time, I see the car pull up in front of the house. The midwife steps out, carrying a large tapestry bag. Then the back door opens and Gertrude Gibbons emerges. What is she doing here?
“Look who I found,” Sam says, stepping into the kitchen. “Mary thought it might be useful to have another set of hands.”
“How are you, Christina?” Gertrude says, just behind him, smiling brightly.
“I’m fine, Gertrude,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. We haven’t seen each other since that long-ago dance, and it feels stiff and awkward between us.
“I know you have difficulty with those stairs, and your mother isn’t well,” she says. “I’m honored to fill the gap. Where is dear Mary?”
When everyone has trooped upstairs, I step out into the cool air of the backyard, shadowed at this early hour by the house. Al has been plowing the garden plot, and the dirt smells fresh and damp from yesterday’s rain. Tessie neighs in a distant field. Lolly winds between my legs, pressing against my calves. Sinking onto the stone step, I pull her into my lap, but she yowls and slinks away. I feel low, heavy, weighted to the earth. Earlier in the spring a birth announcement arrived from Ramona and Harland: a girl named Rose, seven pounds, nine ounces. In June, Eloise married Bill Rivers, and Alvah eloped with Eva Shuman a few weeks later. I’m glad for Sam and Mary, for all of them, but every ritual—weddings, births, christenings—reminds me of how alone I am. My own life so barren in contrast.
Tears well in my eyes.
“Why, there you are!” Glancing over my shoulder, I see Gertrude’s face cross-hatched in the screen. “I’ve been looking for you all over. The midwife doesn’t need me at the moment. She says Mary is a natural.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, hoping she didn’t see, but nothing gets past Gertrude. “What on earth is wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No.”
She tries to open the screen, but I’m sitting in the way. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Can I come out there?”
The last thing I want to do is explain my tears to Gertrude Gibbons. She is here out of curiosity, after all, and boredom, and her endless desire to know what’s going on. “Please, just give me a minute.”
But she will not. “Mercy, Christina, if—”
“I said,” I tell her, my voice rising, “leave me alone.”
“Well.” Affronted, she pauses. Then she says coldly, “I was coming down to help with breakfast. But I see you have let the fire go out.”
I stand up unsteadily. Then I yank open the door, startling her, tears clouding my vision. I lurch into the kitchen. My awkwardness irritates me even further; everything is a blur, and Gertrude is looking at me in her usual obtuse, judgmental, pitying way.
I hate her for it. For seeing me clearly, for not seeing me at all.
I careen through the pantry, forcing her to step back against the wall. I want to be upstairs in my bedroom, with the door shut, but how can I navigate the stairs without her watching? And then I realize I don’t care. I just need to get there. Leaning against the wall, I pull myself along the hallway until I reach them. I use my forearms and elbows to hoist myself up the narrow stairs, stopping to rest every few steps, knowing that Gertrude is listening to every grunt. When I reach the landing at the top, I look down. There she is, standing in the foyer with her hands on her hips. “Honestly, Christina, I do not under—”
But I won’t listen. I can’t. Turning away, I wrench myself along the floor to my bedroom, where I kick the door shut behind me.
I lie on the floor of my bedroom, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, I hear footsteps plodding up the stairs.
Then a rap on the door.
“Christina?” Gertrude’s voice is laced with affected concern.
Scooting backward I grasp the bedpost, then turn around and heave myself up onto the mattress, trying to slow my pounding heartbeat. Her presence on the other side of the door radiates a nasty heat; I am flushed with it.
Another rap.
“Go away.”
“For mercy’s sake, let me in.”
There’s no lock. After a moment, I watch the white porcelain knob turn. Gertrude steps into the room and shuts the door, her doughy face pinched with pantomimed worry. “What is wrong with you?”
I wish I could dart around her, but my only recourse is words. “I did not invite you here.”
“Well, your brother asked me to come. Honestly, with three of you infirm in this household I should think you’d be grateful for it.”
“I assure you, I am not.”
For a moment we glare at each other. Then she says, “Now listen. You make breakfast for this family every single day of the year. You need to pull yourself together and prepare some food right this minute. Why are you being so hateful?”