house she had lived in as a child had huge verandas in the front and rear, and tall, white columns. Frosted panes etched with floral designs were inset into huge double doors that opened into the downstairs hallway. That hallway led to twin parlors at the front of the house, a library, sewing parlor, dining room, and downstairs bedroom, as well as a grand staircase to the second floor. The rooms were filled with plush, brocaded settees, with shelves of first-edition books, with mahogany furniture and expensive rugs. Lovely wallpaper covered many of the downstairs walls, and delicate designs much of the upper. Crystal chandeliers of electric lights hung from ceilings, and lovely Coalport china filled the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room. Her mother had promised to give her that china one day, a day now that would never come.
When Elise thought now of growing up in that house, it was of a sense of grace and beauty that she knew her children would never know. Her children would never sit beneath a chandelier that hung over the dining room table in a house her family had lived in for generations. They would never sit around a table covered with her grandmother’s antique lace tablecloth; they would never eat from her mother’s cherished china, or drink from the pressed-glass water goblets her Great-Aunt Eunice had left to her father. They would never know anything of the life she had known, and that realization sat heavily on her that evening as she moved about the rooms of the mill house.
As darkness settled in, the storm finally hit, and with a ferocity that Elise had not expected. She pulled down the exposed windows, then sat in a rocker she drew nearer to the kerosene lamp on the table in the front room, hearing the thunder crash outside as she tried to occupy her mind with the volume of poetry she had been reading, but she quickly gave up as she was unable to concentrate on the words. She got up and thumbed the latches on the front and back doors, then blew out the lamps and lay down, though she knew there was little chance she would sleep with the storm now lashing rain against the windows, and with her cotton nightgown already sticking to her from perspiration.
It was in the middle of the night as she lay listening to the storm that the first contraction came, surprising her with its intensity—but the baby was not due for more than a week, she kept telling herself; that was what the doctor had told her. Dorrie had said she could expect to go even longer than that, because a first baby never came as soon as anyone thought it would.
But a second contraction came, and then a third, and she sat on the side of the bed in the darkness, trying to force herself to remain calm. It would be hours, even days, before the baby would come. Dorrie had said it took a long time for the first baby even once the pains started, and her mother had written she had been in labor for eighteen hours before Bill was born. There would be plenty of time for Janson to go for the doctor when he arrived home from his shift in the mill. That would be early morning—but still she got up and lit the lamps, feeling safer in the glow of the kerosene light. Janson had told her that a light burning in a mill house in the middle of the night would bring someone to check to see if there was trouble, so she expected—
But no one came, and, as she listened to the storm intensify outside, she knew that no one would. She thought things were going faster than they should—first babies were supposed to take a long time, but surely this could not go on for eighteen hours or more. She knew she would never be able to stand it.
She sat in the rocker and watched the lightning flash outside, trying not to hold her breath when the contractions came. She had already found out that doing so only made it hurt worse—she had to have help. She could not take the chance on the baby coming with her alone, or of something going wrong, and she realized she was almost crying as she got the oversized wrap Janson’s Aunt Rachel had given her and wrapped it around her shoulders—all she had to do was walk next door, just across the length of the front porch, she told herself, and she could have the Breedloves’ oldest daughter run for Dorrie. The girl would be watching her younger sister and brothers while their parents were working their night shifts. Elise would just have to be careful as she made her way across the front porch—she could have Dorrie here shortly to wait with her, and send Clarence Keith or one of the boys for Dr. Washburn if the time came before Janson got home. Dorrie would know when they would need the doctor; she had been through this six times herself, with her four boys, a little girl who had been stillborn, and twins, one having died in childbirth and the other only a few hours after—and Elise wished she had not thought about that now. Oh, how she wished she had not thought about it.
She had to stop halfway across the floor, catching hold of the foot of the bed for support as another contraction came, making her bend with the tightness that built into what she knew was coming. After a moment she straightened and made her way to the door. She watched her footing carefully as she stepped out onto the wet porch. Lightning flashed and struck something nearby, making her jump. Rain was pouring down, beating heavily on the porch roof and blowing in to wet the hem of her gown as she made her way across the narrow distance to the Breedloves’ front door. She could hear the sudden squeal of frightened children from inside as lightning flashed again, followed by thunder so intense that it rattled the upper panes of the windows. She banged on the door, feeling the wind whip the rain under the edge of the porch roof, quickly soaking through the bottom edge of her gown and making it stick warmly to her legs. She banged on the door again, then reached down to twist the doorknob in her hands, finding it locked. Lightning flashed again, forking off into two bolts that seemed to hit the ground at the far edge of the village. There was the sound of the strike, then the clash of thunder so powerful it shook the boards of the porch beneath her.
She banged her fist on the door again, yelling out the name of the eldest girl. “Carolyn! It’s Elise Sanders from next door—please let me in!” But, even as she yelled the words and twisted the doorknob in her hands again, she realized the children would never hear her over the sound of the storm. She banged again, calling out the girl’s name, but stopped as another contraction started to build.
Elise leaned against the damp wood of the door, bending slightly as the tension built into the pain she knew was coming. She made herself breathe, riding the contraction to its peak—what am I going to do? she thought, raising her hand to bang at the door again, feeling so absolutely alone.
The morning was a dark gray, clouded and reluctant. Little light showed through the windows of the card room, and it was only the mill’s whistle that told Janson it was time for the workers to come in for the shortened Saturday shift.
He left the card room that morning more tired than he had felt in a long time. He passed through the picker and opening rooms and stood in the wide double-doors that opened out onto the loading dock, staring at the rain. It was still coming down steadily, drenching everything outside, slacking up just to start down in torrents again only moments later. The clay road looked ankle-deep in red mud, the trees and bushes soaked and drooping. Pneumonia weather, Gran’ma would call it.
He looked up at the clouds that hung low and heavy over the village—then ducked his head and hurried out into the downpour, going down the sidewalk before the mill, and then along the sloshy mud streets, the action of his own steps, and that of the few automobiles that made their way down the slippery roads, quickly covering the legs of his overalls in red mud. The village had come to life in the gray, early-morning hours. There was the damp smell of woodsmoke coming from kitchen flues as biscuits baked in ovens and sausage, eggs, and bacon fried in skillets the village over. The mule-drawn wagon that was sarcastically referred to as the “ice-cream wagon” sloshed down a muddy street on its rounds to clean the outdoor toilets. The ice truck was parked in front of a house, Mr. Harper nodding a greeting as he hoisted a block of ice destined for use in someone’s icebox, and Janson watched as neighborhood children crowded about him even in the rain for the treats of chips and slivers of ice that he always gave them.
He was soaked long before he reached the house, Luree Breedlove giving him a disapproving look from her open front door, making a pointed comment about muddy feet and tracking the porch, which he chose to ignore. He heard a soft sound from the bed as he entered the house, and he turned to see Elise lying there, the sheet twisted and knotted about her, her reddish-gold hair damp with perspiration and matted to her forehead.
“Elise—” He moved quickly to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it, taking her hand in his. Her face was drawn and tired, her skin even paler