The Baby
I choke back my pride and take Wednesday supper with Chance, Florence and Mrs. Grome. But it isn’t like before. They heard my hissy fit. They watched me shuck the trimmings from my goldfinch hat and stomp it to pieces. They saw me behave like a young’un. Yet, these open-talking folks don’t break a breath about it. Still, it’s as present as a foul odor everybody smells, but is too polite to bring up.
Chance talks well-mannered, the way he did the first time we met, not like someone who held my hand and kissed me. I reckon Grandpa’s proposal left him skittish. I miss the boy who always spoke his mind. I want to explain to him Grandpa’s reasons. But how can I explain what doesn’t make a dollop of sense to me?
* * *
I no longer let Mrs. Grome shoo me from her kitchen. I insist on helping until she relents. Might be it makes me feel less beholden to Grandpa’s money.
After Thursday’s breakfast, she washes dishes and I dry.
Grandpa slips in the back door, his face tighter than my last-year’s dress. “Ginnie Lee, we got to go. Now.” His hat is in his hands and he twists its brim between his fingers. “Your ma had the baby.” He stops his twisting and grips the hat brim so tight his fingers lose their color. “It didn’t make it.”
A wet saucer slips from my fingers and breaks on the floor. I feel broken, too. “How do you know?”
“That Boy Scout Hadley found me, brung me a telegram. It come ta the Camp, but it took ‘em a spell ta find me. Git yer things. I got train tickets. We leave in a’ hour.”
Grandpa’s hands twitch. I know he wants to hug me, and I sorely want to be hugged. But that wall of lies and harsh words stands firm between us.
I reach for the broom to sweep up the broken dish, but Mrs. Grome takes it. “Go on, Child,” she says.
An hour. So little time. I change into my second-best dress and tie on my back-home bonnet. I throw my clothes into the leather suitcase, my shaking fingers packing and repacking them until the latches close. I strap my letter book to its side, and bump it down the stairs.
Chance takes it from my hands at the foot of the steps and carries it to a waiting automobile.
Florence gives me the hug Grandpa couldn’t. “I’m so sorry, Virginia.” She and Chance ride to the railroad depot with us, where she hugs me again.
Chance takes my hand. “I didn’t want us to part this way. There’s so much to talk about. I…I wish I could do something.”
But nobody can do anything. A baby died. Mama must be hurting deep, and I am not there for her.
A disconnected thought drops into my head. “You can do something, Chance. Explain to Corporal Westy why I have to leave without saying Goodbye.”
“I will.” He squeezes my fingers between his, and his gray eyes hold my eyes tighter than he holds my hand. But my befuddled mind can’t understand what they try to say.
“I’m sorry for what Grandpa did.” I pull my hand away slow-like, letting my fingers feel the warmth from his as long as they dare.
The train whistle calls to us, and Grandpa and I climb the quivering metal steps. The engine hisses and belches steam as we find our seats. I take a last look at Gettysburg, a last look at Chance on the platform. I wave, but I can’t smile.
Hot tears burn inside my throat, but I can’t let myself cry. If I start, I’ll never stop. I’ll cry over what will never be between Chance and me. I’ll cry over the Grandpa who changed and betrayed me. I’ll cry for the baby I didn’t see. I’ll cry for Jackson, Ashby, Charlotte, Lavinia, Jefferson, and Eleanor, my brothers and sisters who didn’t get to grow up. And I’ll cry for Mama, who has suffered more than any mama should.
As our train chugs from the depot, I ponder on the birth. When did Mama feel the first twinge? Were Daddy and Aunt Freddie there? Or did one of them have to fetch the other? How long did the pains last? And how long did the baby breathe before life slipped away?
I wonder on the telegram. Skitter Falls has no telegraph. Someone had to hike clean to Richwood to send it. When was it sent? If Grandpa were at the Camp—as he should have been—it would have reached him sooner. And we’d be closer to home by now.
I never should have come on this trip. There shouldn’t have been a trip. Why didn’t I listen to One-Thumb Willoughby’s warning? If only I could go back to my birthday and say, “No, thank you, Grandpa. I’ll stay home.”
The train’s roar sounds in my ears and pulses through my body. Grandpa says nothing, and I say nothing back. It’s his fault I’m not home when Mama needs me. She always clung to me when a baby died. From Jackson to Eleanor, losing them made her need me more.
