So many nights they sat out on the porch, listening to news of the war on the wireless, as Bessie puffed on a cigar and Rusty fiddled with the wooden blocks Bessie had cut for him in the shed and Martha had stained in the kitchen one snowy afternoon. They had been wrapped and placed in his stocking last Christmas, along with some chocolate, an orange, and a wooden airplane that could fly with a rubber band.
As usual, after the president made his speech, Bessie turned the knob of the wireless and they all went to bed. For the first time in a week it was just the four of them in the house.
In her bed Carol lay awake, wondering how far she would have to travel from Kentucky to hear the guns and the bombs. If Martha’s brother had been killed, there must have been children caught up in it too, little boys not much different from her own son. Then she thought of the girl who had come to this house almost seven years ago. The life she had run from. That had been like a war.
Carol used to dream her father was out there, in the woods beyond the house, crouched down, waiting to be seen from a window. Laughing at her. Laughing at them all. There were other feelings too, smaller than fears, but bleak and persistent, that followed wherever she went, just waiting for a break in her thoughts to land.
In the morning, with Rusty still sleeping, Carol crept down to the kitchen and made a batch of fresh biscuits while the house was quiet. Their home had been unusually busy—even with so many sweethearts and husbands fighting overseas. The atmosphere of threat, Bessie said, was pushing people into each other’s arms.
Martha was late coming down to eat.
We’re all she’s got now, Bessie said, pouring herself more coffee.
When Martha finally appeared in the doorway still wearing her nightgown and slippers, Bessie told her to sit and get served for a change.
But once seated she could only stare at the food on her plate.
Please eat the biscuit, Carol said earnestly.
Martha sank forward until her forehead rested on the tablecloth.
I think we’ll go for a drive today in the truck, said Bessie. Burn up some of that gas before it goes stale.
Martha lifted her head and broke into a tearful smile.
Guess you think that’s funny, Bessie said.
No, Martha replied. It’s Rusty. He’s tickling my feet.
Carol went red with anger. Rusty! she hollered, bending down. He even had one of Martha’s slippers in his mouth.
I ought to spank you!
Please, Martha said. Let him. Just for today.
He’s like a little mutt, said Carol, chewing on people’s shoes.
Rusty had grown but his legs were deformed, and it took great effort to slide up and down the stairs on his belly. He was almost seven but still barely spoke. Bessie said they wouldn’t know too much about his condition until he got bigger.
Carol cried about it sometimes, wondering what she had done wrong. Or if it was some curse for how he’d come to be.
Carol would tell Rusty that if he didn’t try and walk soon, he’d stay a baby forever. But he’d just pull down her hand to his cheek. Or bite her fingers so that Carol would have to yell, which only encouraged him. Sometimes when she tried to teach him something, he’d listen for a moment then look away as though the room were full of people that no one else could see. Most of the time he was under the table. It made Carol think of the yellow tablecloth her mother had made. It was one of two things she yearned to have back in her possession. The other mightn’t even be alive anymore. But if he was, he’d be old, with mist in his eyes and an uncertain way of moving about.
Before they went out in the car, Bessie wanted the sinks filled so things could soak awhile. She asked Carol to help her with the buckets.
The kitchen smelled of vinegar and faintly of tobacco from Bessie’s evening cigar—now savored indoors, as it was too cold to sit out on the porch. Fall had begun early, startling them with a quick, heavy frost.
So, do you think the Japanese or Germans gonna invade Kentucky? Carol asked Bessie, as they heaved full buckets from the pump. Rusty was at the edge of the woods picking up handfuls of dirt and squeezing them.
We’re too far, child. Now . . . America’s gonna win this one, but after the victory come, prepare yourself, because there’s gonna be big changes ’round here.
Inside, they poured the cold, clear liquid into deep enamel sinks. Water was heating on the stove so Martha could have a hot bath when they returned from their outing.
Like what kind of changes, Bessie, food rationing?
You hear about all those women in their boiler suits building airplanes, using men’s tools, earning men’s money? You think they’re gonna go back to house-wifing? I don’t think so. Not me. You can’t give someone freedom then take it back. The feeling of bein’ free—havin’ your own money. That’s goin’stick.
They each scooped a mound of sheets and let them sink like soft islands into the gray water.
Martha was in the corner listening to their conversation and holding a cigarette, which was unusual for her. She breathed out a thin line of blue smoke. Maybe we have female president too, eh?
You think I’m jokin’, Bessie said, but what I can also tell you for nothin’ is that Black folks is dyin’ right now in oceans and jungles, even in the sky, fightin’ for a freedom they don’t even get at home. Somethin’s gonna give. Believe you me, there’s a reck’ning comin’.
After packing a lunch of pork cutlet sandwiches and potato salad, the three women drove to the river.
Rusty wanted to go outside but Carol was worried about him falling in the water. Bessie said the river was too far for him to crawl so they swung a door open and put him on a patch of dirt, where he could pick things up and pat the ground in his search for tiny creatures to play with.
That boy don’t feel no cold never, Bessie said. His daddy must’ve been’uh Eskimo.
Carol looked at the sticky mound of potato salad on her plate. Then she felt Bessie’s meaty hand on hers.
I’m sorry, child. I didn’t mean to bring up the past in so cavalier a fashion.
When do you think he’s gonna talk? Carol asked with more exasperation than hope. Maybe we should take him to a special doctor?
I was thinking that, said Bessie. It’s a long drive to the city but we could do it. I wouldn’t be able to come in with y’all. You know that right? It’ll have to be you and Martha.
He does speak a little, said Martha. I heard him chatting to your doll, Mary Beth.
But he don’t talk like he should, Carol said without correcting her. The strain in her voice was clear now to the other women.
Let’s wait until the war’s over, said Bessie.
Carol sighed loudly. That’s your answer to everything. That and fooling people with bits o’paper they can’t hardly read.
Bessie’s eyes narrowed. That’s right, she said. I’m the most dishonest-honest person you’ll ever meet.
Martha put her sandwich down and they all laughed for the first time in many weeks.
After her bath, Martha said she felt much better, and over supper they put the radio on. But when the newscaster said the fighting overseas had never been so bad, Bessie got up and switched it off. Rusty crawled out from under the table to see what had happened.
Look at that! said Bessie. He understands things just fine.
Before Carol could respond, the sound of a man’s screaming filled the room. They all looked at the radio, but it was coming from outside.
Bessie wiped her mouth on a checkered cloth napkin.
Carol, you carry Rusty upstairs, then get my tools ready.
On the hall landing, Carol looked out to the front yard. A woman had fallen while trying to get out of a car. The bottom of her dress was hiked over her knees, and a wire clothes hanger was sticking out from between her legs. Her boyfriend was crying for help and attempting to lift her. Within moments, Bessie and Martha were out there with the World War I canvas stretcher they’d gotten cheap from a traveling salesman.
With the sheer amount of blood on her dress, Carol felt certain the girl was coming in to die.
It wasn’t the first time women had shown up this way. In the old days, Bessie said they used slippery elm drunk in tea, or gunpowder and whiskey, or tried lifting something heavy. If these methods didn’t work, they took drastic steps, such as knitting needles, bicycle spokes, or bones from an old corset.
Once they had brought the girl in, Martha cut off her clothes and lay her down in a bed. As usual, Bessie was completely calm as she began the examination.
The woman’s name was Marjorie.
Listen to me, child, Bessie told her coolly. This may pinch a little, but I want you to jus’ breathe and relax, breathe and relax, that’s all you got to do from here on out, don’t think, honey . . . just breathe and relax, with the help of Jesus, Bessie gonna make it all better.
Martha held the girl’s blood-covered hand and stroked her forehead.
Harold! the girl cried out. Harold! I’m gonna die! Harold!
Bessie looked up into the girl’s eyes. Oh my sweet baby, there ain’t no way you goin’ die. Now Harold jus’ outside on the porch. Be brave for him now. You can always be more relaxed than you are . . . breathe and relax.
On a small table beside the bed, Bessie’s implements were laid out: a speculum, uterine sounds, dilators, curettes, wired gum catheters, and a suture kit. Carol had been taught to set them out in a special way so Bessie knew where each one was without having to look.
Carol watched from the doorway. When it was almost over, and the girl’s eyes closed, Martha stepped away from the bed and washed up, then stood with Carol.
Do you think she was in a lot of pain?
Martha thought about it before answering. Probably worst pain of her life.
But Bessie said she’s not goin’ die, right?
Martha shrugged. She says that to everyone, typical doctor.
Ain’t it strange how love can lead so quickly to pain?
Martha turned to Carol with a wry smile. It’s not love that does this. But you’re right: all love leads to pain of one kind or another. It’s something I can’t understand.
By dusk, the young woman was in a deep sleep. As they didn’t know if Marjorie would survive the night, Bessie made an exception and let Harold sit in the room at her bedside. He was a tall, nervous man in thick glasses who had failed to make the war draft on account of flat feet.
When Rusty was finally down for the night, Carol took the man some black coffee and an unbuttered biscuit. As she gave him the plate, he tried to speak, but choked on the words. Then he took off his glasses and sobbed bitterly into his hands.
Carol went away.
When she returned some time later, the man was leaning forward in his seat, staring at the sleeping girl.
Carol took a chair from the corner and put it next to his.
We should’ve just got married when she realized, he said without looking at Carol.
Why didn’t you?
Marjorie didn’t want to wed in shame. My parents are quite religious and she didn’t want to disappoint them.
They stared at the thin, brown-haired girl under cool white sheets that had been scrubbed many times over.
How pale she was and how very still, Carol thought, neither dead nor alive, but somewhere in between, in some crack.
I always wonder what’s going on in people’s heads, Carol said. I mean, sleeping people that is. We have no idea what sleeping people feel.
I’ve been praying all night, Harold confessed. I don’t know what else I can do.
Bessie says praying is always good, day or night, don’t matter. He’s always listenin’.
Oh, sweet Jesus, Harold said. Please don’t take my Marjorie, my sweet girl.
Carol kept the man company all night, leaving him only now and then to check on Rusty.
By morning Harold was holding one of Marjorie’s hands while Carol held the other.
By noon she still hadn’t woken up. Her chest was moving, they could see that. But her eyes were closed. She was still so far away.