Gran spoke up. “What’s so funny, old man?”
Mr. Bridger finished his last swig of coffee with a slurping noise and said, “Well, you’d best make two of ’em. I never knew a child who didn’t break a breakable.” He chuckled, appreciating his own wit. “That pot with its wings looks like an invitation, an outright temptation, to little hands to touch.”
I considered what he said. It made sense. After all, if one was good, two was better, right? Smart to have a spare.
Despite her ailments, Gran lived beyond either of our expectations. I liked to think it was because I gave her such loving care. On good days she’d get up and move around. On other days she sat in her rocker or lay abed, but for those few months we shared baby Ellen, I had glimpses of a time I, myself, couldn’t remember—of my own babyhood, of when Gran had made funny faces and spoken to me in baby talk. I didn’t doubt her face had shone as brightly back when I was a baby as it did when she made faces over Ellen. In those long-ago days, Gran’s hair had been the color of corn silk, though already mixed with gray, and while her wrinkles were fewer, they would still have been in evidence, as she was just over sixty when I was born. Back then, she said, she’d still had shapely legs and nice ankles. She and Grand had used to go dancing, at least until my parents died. Now those swollen legs burdened her. Sometimes they seemed to weigh a ton, she said. On the days she spent abed, Gran would ask for Ellen to lie beside her at naptime or when I was fixing meals.
I’d place my daughter in the crook of Gran’s arm. Gran would offer a finger, which Ellen would grasp and hold on to with every ounce of her baby strength even while they slept. We both knew the time was coming when Ellen would become mobile. She’d start crawling, and our current arrangement wouldn’t work so well. Gran wouldn’t be able to chase after Ellen, and I’d have extra burdens on me. I worried about it. Gran said not to borrow trouble, that things would work out. As it turned out, there was nothing to worry over. Not in this case. Before crawling ever had the chance to be a problem, we lost our sweet Ellen.
CHAPTER THREE
Ellen was in my bedroom in a small wooden fold-up crib. My grandparents had used it for me when I was little bitty, and for my mother when she was a newborn. It was a simple bed with a two-inch mattress and wooden slats to let the air through. I kept fresh linens on it all the time. I’d fed my sweet baby Ellen, and she was dozy. The heat and humidity made her extra drowsy on top of her meal. A summer storm was trying to roll in. It had bunched the bad air up ahead of it, and we all felt the heaviness. I put Ellen into her small crib for her nap that day instead of with Gran, because Gran was hurting especially hard. Storm fronts always tortured her joints and bones.
I’d given Gran some herbal tea to help. She was finally dozing. Ellen was quiet in her crib, her eyes still peeking, but with the half-conscious, unfocused look they’d get before she slipped off into sleep. I was eighteen and bone-tired myself. A five-month-old daughter, an eighty-year-old grandmother—they depended on me. My body ached with the oppressive front, too, but never as hard as Gran’s did. I supposed my time would come one day, but not for decades yet, I hoped.
While Ellen and Gran slept, I went into the backyard to watch the trees. Up high, the boughs bent in the fitful winds, not yet breaking through to the thick air closer down on the ground. I felt the storm approaching and yearned for the freshening breeze to blow through and push out the dirty air. The clouds were dark and massing. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The rain was likely to be heavy. On impulse, I arranged some old bricks around my herb patch to divert the runoff that was bound to happen. The slope could be a problem, but thankfully the creek was far enough downslope I didn’t need to worry about flooding. Cub Creek was likely to get itself a nice replenishment today. I stood there in my bare feet, sniffing the air and feeling the change. The leaves in the trees near the edge of the forest seemed to be growing larger and turning over, so I knew I was right—there’d be real rain. I checked the window and door to the toolshed, and the pottery cabin, too. Everything was shut up tight.
The atmosphere was uneasy. My bones and my brain were uneasy, too, and felt brittle. I checked on Ellen. She was sound asleep. I saw the slight rise and fall of her back as she slept. I didn’t touch her lest I disturb her. Even through the closed windows, I felt the electric pull of the coming storm. I needed, wanted, to focus on it. Grand had been the same when an electrical storm approached, and Gran had said it was in my genes. Gran, herself, had fallen off into real sleep, and I was grateful. The heavy, anxious air pressing around me made me restless. I was always one to meet it head-on instead of running or hiding.
The storm came as promised. I sat on the porch rocker, not rocking but leaning forward as I watched the clouds turn nearly black. Then I stood at the steps, eager, as the freshening wind blew its way through and bent the trees by force.
I wanted my share of it and lifted my arms. The skin on my arms prickled, and then my whole body shivered with the electricity. When the clouds opened and the rain fell in sheets, I stayed out of reach of the drops but enjoyed the clean feel of it washing away the thick, dirty air the storm had bunched up in our Hollow. A sharp boom of thunder sounded and reverberated from hill to ridge. I poked my head back inside the house to listen, but neither of my charges showed any sign of having been disturbed.
When the wind shifted and the rain began to pelt the porch floor, I went into the house. I left the front door open, taking a risk that the rain would wet the floor because inside felt like a stale, dusty sauna badly in need of an influx of new air.
Despite the noon hour, the day was dark as the storm continued around and over us. Too dark and very quiet. I stood in the living room. Gran was in her bed, and I listened to her breathing. She’d slept through the thunder and lightning and the downpour. Her chest rose and fell evenly. She was resting easier. The weather front was passing, and the air pressure was rising. My own bones felt better, too.
Careful not to disturb her, I walked softly through the dim room and went to check on Ellen.
My baby was sleeping. She was due to be waking up soon, but she wasn’t moving. Maybe she was feeling the break in the weather the same as Gran did. I touched her back through the lightweight cotton gown she wore. It was pink with burgundy roses, handworked by Gran’s own mother.
The house rattled in a strong gust. There was a sucking sound, then a loud crack outside. Part of my brain recognized a tree was going down, its root ball being plucked from the wet ground. I didn’t care as long as it didn’t land on the house.