31

Monday, December 25, 1939
Rome, Georgia

Mr. Nevan Nevilles
1 South Main Street
Cottonwood, Georgia

Dear Papa,

It’s Christmas Day and I am writing you this letter on the stationery Lottie gave me for my present. She says it’s like me: pretty and pink. What she means is that with this baby growing inside me I’ve got that woman’s glow and I’m flushed from the extra weight. (Just so you know, I’m laughing as I say that, even though I know you probably are not.) Also, just so you know, I am writing one letter to you and one to Mama. Sometimes, Papa, I think I can share my true heart with you better than with her. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love her just as much as you. It’s just that with you things are different. Please don’t tell her I said so.

I know you are probably upset because you have hardly heard from me since I’ve been gone. I want you to know it’s not because I’m angry with you or anything close to it. I understand why you sent me here. It’s been okay, I reckon. Lottie has fretted over me and says she is glad I’m here, but I can tell Charles would prefer I hurry up and have the baby so I can do whatever it is I’m going to do and leave. I think he likes keeping Lottie to hisself, and he forgets that she was my sister before she was his wife. I’ve tried to do my part around here, Papa. Helping Lottie with the chores and the babies and all, but with me more than a week past the date Dr. Martins said I would have the baby, I’m pretty miserable. Too miserable to do much but lay around all day and grow bigger.

Maybe you don’t want to hear about this. I don’t know. But I figure you are used to the ways of a woman who is in the family way what with Mama having six babies and one that died along the way. And you may as well hear about it because I know I’ve got to make a decision soon. Could be as soon as tomorrow.

And I think I’ve made one.

Yesterday, which was Sunday, Lottie made me get up and go to church with them. You know I usually don’t think a lot about God, but I’ve been going to church pretty regular since I’ve been here. I guess I figure I need all the forgiveness I can get or, if nothing else, all the guidance. Whether you like it or not or even if you love me or hate me, I don’t really and truly feel guilty about loving Valentine Bach. Because I do love him, Papa. Or at least I did. I don’t think I feel too much of anything these days toward him. And especially with me growing more miserable with every day and especially in this house. Lottie won’t even say his name. Not even to me. But every night before I go to bed, I say it in a whisper and I ask God to keep him and his new wife safe and happy. I think, Papa, that if I do this, God will help my heart heal because I’m going to tell you something, Papa, my heart hurts. I never knew a heart could hurt like this, but it does.

So I went to church, and the preacherman was talking about Mary and Jesus, what with it being Christmas and all. And I got to thinking about Mary being a virgin when she got in the family way, and I thought about how people must have talked about her. Gossiped about her in her small town of Nazareth like people would have talked about me in Cottonwood had I stuck around. And I thought about how much God must love us to give His Son (Lottie says you’re supposed to capitalize that part) away to a world that didn’t deserve Him. Didn’t love Him (God) enough to even recognize Him (Jesus) when they saw Him. Charles said at the dinner table after church that there is a Scripture that says something about God sending the Light of the world but the world knowing Him not and that this is one of his favorite passages. I’m not sure where it’s from in the Bible exactly, but Charles said it was there, so I suppose it is. Charles is a pretty fine Christian man, in spite of the fact that he’s ready for me to go home.

Papa, I want you to do something for me, will you? I want you to go talk to Valentine. I want you to tell him I want him to take our baby. Even though he doesn’t deserve it, Papa, because he didn’t love me proper, I want our baby to be raised by him and Lilly Beth. I know I can’t do it. Raise the baby. I know I can’t be like Mary. For one thing, I don’t have a “Joseph” willing to marry me. For another, Mama wouldn’t be able to handle the shame of me bringing the baby home. But, Papa, I also know I can’t give my baby to no stranger and expect to return to life in Cottonwood like nothing ever happened.

So, I’m begging you, Papa. If I could get down on my knees, I would, and I would be begging you to do this for me. No one ever has to know where the baby came from. Just us and Valentine and I suppose Lilly Beth and maybe the Bachs. But you can tell them for me I won’t interfere. Not ever. This will be their baby. And I can live my life knowing where my child—their child—is. Happy and healthy and in a house of love. Because that’s the way I imagine it, Papa. I imagine it full of love. As much as Valentine loved me (and Papa, I do believe he did), he loved Lilly Beth more, so that sure must be a mess of loving.

Please don’t think I’m crazy, Papa. And please don’t think I don’t know what I’m doing. All I’ve had is time to think about it. I can’t give Valentine my love or my life, but I can give him our child. I guess that is my love and my life. And maybe God will forgive me all the way and I can find someone to love me one day like I loved Valentine Bach.

Please, Papa.

All my love,
Stella

P.S. I am now writing this part the day after Christmas. I was reading the paper this morning, and it said that yesterday King George over there in England made a speech about the war and all. It said he quoted some poem, and it really hit my heart. I want to share it with you, Papa. The king said, “I said to the man who stood at the Gate of the Year, ‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’ And he replied, ‘Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be better than light, and safer than a known way.’ ”

I got that out of the paper, Papa, and I don’t know who wrote it first, but it sure said something to me. I guess no matter what happens after today, I’ll be walking out into the darkness holding on to God’s hand.

One more thing, Papa. And you’ll know it by the time you read this letter. My birthing pains have started. I’m going to seal my letters to you and Mama and go tell Lottie. I’m not afraid, Papa. I’m not. I’m picturing myself holding on to your hand. And I’m holding on to God’s hand too.

Still yours,
Stella