Tarnished Gold

7

A Friend Appears

Now that I had felt the life stirring within me, what remained of my pregnancy seemed less terrible to endure. Starting my eighth month, I felt as if I had rounded a long, windy bend la the road and could see my destination looming just ahead. Despite her unhappiness over my being kept secretly in the Tates' house for months and months, Mama seemed pleased with the progress of my pregnancy and the baby's development. Now, during most of the time Mama visited with me, I would ramble on about how the baby had kicked and jumped, how it felt to have a living thing turning and twisting, anticipating its own birth, forgetting for the moment that Mama knew all this better than I did. After all, she had been pregnant with me!

"The baby kicked so hard last night, I nearly fell out of the bed, Mama! I had to sit up and then I spent most of the night rubbing my stomach and talking soothingly to him or her. I wish I knew whether it was a boy or a girl."

"It sounds like a boy to me," she said.

"That's what I thought," I whispered. "I just feel it's a boy and I've been talking to the baby assuming it's a boy. It doesn't feel like I'm being kicked with a dainty foot," I said, and laughed.

Mama listened with her face frozen in a wise smile that gradually turned into a look of concern and worry. I was so wrapped up in my excitement and fancy that I didn't notice for a while, and then I felt my heart skip a beat when I saw how her eyes had darkened.

"What's wrong, Mama?" I asked. "Has Daddy done something?"

"Your daddy always does something to curl the hairs at the back of my head, but no, it's not him I'm thinking of right now."

"Then who? What?"

"It's time we talked about what it's going to be like afterward, honey."

"Afterward?"

"Something magical happens when a woman gives birth, Gabrielle," she explained. "There's all those months of discomfort, labor pain and the birthing pain, of course; but once the baby emerges and the mother sets eyes on this wonderful creation that took shape inside her, all the agony slips from her memory and she is filled with a joy beyond description. I seen it hundreds of times, honey. Especially with first births, the mother can't believe her eyes. I couldn't believe mine when you were born." She sighed so deeply when she paused, I had to hold my breath until she continued.

"That's going to happen to you, Gabrielle, and then, in the same instant, the baby's going to be ripped away from you. You got to prepare yourself for it, although, to be honest, I don't know what to tell you, what to do for you to make that ordeal any easier."

Mama held my hand while she told me these things, and I could see from the grimness in her face that she had already seen my future misery and was feeling sad for me.

"First you were raped and then you had to go through all this with what follows. I'm not going to sugarcoat it, honey. It's a wrenching the likes of which you'll never know again," she said. "I've seen the horror when a baby's born dead. For you, it will be just like that, I'm afraid," she concluded.

I tried to swallow, but my throat wouldn't work. Tears clouded my eyes as my heart drummed the fear Mama had stirred in my chest. Suddenly she smiled with a new thought.

"You remember once when you were a little girl you came to me with a dead baby bird and I told you the mother bird had probably thrown it out of the nest?"

"Yes, Mama. I remember. We buried the bird under the pecan tree."

She laughed. "Yes, we did. Anyway, honey, that mama bird did what she thought was best for the other babies. You couldn't accept that then. What I was trying to explain was the mama bird had to think more of her babies than she thought of herself, of her own sadness.

"That's something you're going to have to do, too. I'm just telling you this now because I want to prepare you for it, prepare you for what you have already decided to do."

I nodded, deep sadness continuing to cloud over the sunshine that had been in my heart. "You told me I had to give up ray innocence, Mama." I nodded. "Now I understand."

"I'm sorry, honey. I should have talked to you more about this before you made your decision, but you were so determined this was the right decision."

"I still believe it's the right decision, Mama," I said softly.

She closed her eyes and sighed again. "Okay," she said, patting my hand. "If you really still believe that, you'll be fine then. And be with you every moment."

She left me some of her herbal medicines and told me she would be coming around more often now that I was in what she called the downhill slide. She remarked that the baby had dropped more than she anticipated it would during the past few days. I did feel like a duck waddling around my small room and pulling myself up the short stairway. Lately I had to stop in the middle and catch my breath. I thought I looked pretty comical and burst out laughing at myself a few times.

But our conversation did leave me in gloom, and despite the prohibitions against it, after Mama left I decided I had to look out on sunlight and nature. I lifted the shade on the window to permit the sunshine to warm my face.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, it seemed, I saw a boy about fifteen come walking on his hands over the lawn on my right. He paused and did a flip, landing on his bare feet; and when he did, he set eyes on my window. I backed away quickly, but when I sat forward to peer out again, he was still there, standing fixed in the same spot, gazing up at my window. I feared he had spotted me. My heart pounded, anticipating trouble. If Gladys Tate found out, there was no telling what she would do in the state of mind she was in these days. The closer I was getting to delivery, the more nervous and irritable she became.

I moved to the side and stared down at the boy, while he studied the window, trying to decide if he really had seen anything, I imagine.

Then he smiled and did a back flip. He went down on all fours and kicked his feet up to start walking over the grass on his hands again. He turned, folded into a somersault, and then jumped to his feet, spinning like a ballet dancer. He had such grace and smoothness to his gymnastics, I couldn't help but watch. He smiled, stopped, and magically turned into a puppet right before my eyes.

His shoulders rose as if strings were attached and his arms lifted, his hands limp. His hands snapped up and he jerked his head to the right and then to the left. Before I could shake my head with amazement, he folded his body, imitating a puppet when the strings were released. As soon as his knees touched the grass, however, he snapped back up, his arms floating higher, his hands flapping. I couldn't help but laugh. It came out of my mouth before I could subdue it, but if he heard me, he didn't acknowledge. Instead, like the puppet he was pretending to be, he started to walk to his right, his legs lifting and falling with that jerky movement reminiscent of a doll on a string. He went around in a circle and then, once more, as if the strings broke, he folded to the ground and just lay there, frozen, his eyes like glass.

Finally he widened his eyes, smiled, and stood up. He gazed at me, but he didn't speak; at least, not with his tongue. Instead, he began a series of hand movements I recognized as sign language. I watched him for a while and saw the frustration when I didn't respond. Even if I could, I didn't know how to respond, what to say. Was he asking questions?

I had seen only one deaf-mute before, Tyler Joans, who was eight when I met him. I had accompanied Mama on a traiteur mission to help Tyler's mother cure some warts on the back of her hands. The Joans family had moved away years ago and I never really got to know Tyler.

The boy below stopped and put his hands on his hips. He was a tall, slim boy with dark brown hair that fell over his forehead and covered his eyes. He wore a pair of khaki pants and a faded white T-shirt torn at the collar.

I pulled back when a tall, stout man appeared carrying a rake. I heard him call, "Henry!" and then I saw him gesture angrily for the boy to follow. "Finish your chores, boy, before I tan that hide of yours." He signed quickly with his big hands and shook the rake in the air.

The boy put his right forefinger on the top of his head, spun like a top, and shot off to the left, leaving me laughing quietly and wondering who he was

That night I was drawn back to my window when I thought I heard my heron strutting, about on the balcony railing. But instead of the nocturnal bird, I found a bouquet of hyacinth tied with a string. Their lavender blossoms were pale with a dab of yellow on the center petals, surrounded by some green leaves. Surely my heron hadn't brought them, I thought, and gazed into the darkness, looking for my benefactor. How could he have known how much I missed the sight of hyacinths stretching from bank to bank on the bayou surface? I was always fascinated by the way their color changed with the changing skies, shimmering from lavender to dark purple with a passing cloud. To me it was as if a divine artist were continually repainting the world in which I lived. It was never boring, never without surprise. And that was something I craved dearly these past, dark months, shut away from the world I loved.

"Thank you," I called into the night, and waited for a response. All I heard was a mournful owl and the monotonous symphony of cicadas.

I hid the flowers under my bed before I went to sleep. I would have to cast them out the window when they faded and dried so Gladys Tate wouldn't find them. She lingered in my room the next morning after she had brought my breakfast, and I was afraid she knew that the strange but fascinating boy had seen me.

She sniffed and gazed about suspiciously as I ate. "Smells like spring in here suddenly," she said.

"The breeze is bringing in the scent of flowers," I replied, but she stood there, still looking suspicious.

"Octavious hasn't been here, has he?" she suddenly demanded. Terrified of what would happen if I said yes, I shook my head quickly. "That cologne he wears turns my stomach now."

"No, madame."

"Stand up," she commanded. I put down my fork and did so. She stood beside me, her hands on her stomach, and gazed at mine. "You're lower down than me," She molded her padding a bit. "Any other pains?"

"No, madame."

She sniffed the air again and then, just before leaving the room, paused, her eyes focusing on something on my floor. She knelt down and picked up a tiny piece of the hyacinth stem.

"What's this? How did it get here?" she demanded.

"What? Oh. There's a heron that lands here every night," I said, pointing to the window. "She dropped some leaves and sticks."

Gladys screwed her eyes on me for a moment and then smirked. "I'll have my gardener check on that. We don't want a bird attracting attention to the window. Just stay away during daylight."

"Yes, madame," I replied, and went back to eating my breakfast. She paused for a moment, but I didn't look at her and she finally left.

Later that morning, I heard a tapping sound on the small balcony and against the window. I approached it slowly and observed that someone was throwing tiny pebbles. Peering between the curtain and the window frame, I saw my young gymnast again. This time he was juggling apples and got up to five. He stopped and offered me one.

I smiled and nodded. "I'd love one," I said, expecting he would throw one up, but in a flash he disappeared beneath the balcony. Moments later, I heard him scaling the wall and saw his hand on the railing. He pulled himself up and over as quickly as a cat. It surprised and frightened me.

"You mustn't come up here," I said, shaking my head emphatically. I gestured for him to go back down. "Please."

He tilted his head and wore a grimace of confusion. Then he smiled and pointed to himself. "Hen ree," he said, and pointed to me. When I didn't respond, he repeated the action. "Hen ree."

"I'm Gabrielle," I told him.

He shook his head and held up his hands, pointing his right forefinger at his left palm.

"I don't know how to say anything with my hands. Please, you must climb back down. No one is supposed to know I'm here." I shook my head and pointed to myself.

He shook his head as if I had said something in a language foreign to him and then boosted himself up on the railing. When he stood on his hands and turned to me, I cried out in fear, but he just laughed and bounced back onto the balcony. He squatted and started to speak in sign language again. He was explaining that he was mute and could speak only with his hands. He continued these rapid hand movements, carrying on what I was sure was a long conversation.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know how to read your hand movements." I held up my hands and shook my head.

He paused and stared at me a moment, thinking. He had eyes the color of pecan shells and moved nervously from side to side as he struggled to think of another way to communicate his thoughts.

"You've got to go back down," I said, waving toward the railing. "Madame Tate will be angry. She doesn't want anyone to know I'm here, understand?"

He raised his eyebrows and grimaced, holding out his arms, questioning. It was so frustrating. I started to act out what I was telling him, first trying to look like Madame Tate, scowling, walking about with exaggerated authority, shooing him away. All I did was make him laugh.

Finally I pointed to myself and then put my finger on my lips and shook my head. He seemed to understand what I was telling him now.

"It's just something that has to be kept secret. Please don't tell anyone I'm here." I wagged my head and kept my finger on my lips.

He smiled. Keeping a secret was obviously fun to him. He nodded emphatically and then his gaze fell to my stomach.

His eyes widened and then he put his right palm under his left hand and rocked his arms as if he had a baby in them.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "I'm pregnant and I'm going to have a baby soon."

I saw that he wasn't going to get off the balcony quickly, and I did enjoy the company, even if he was a mute.

"Do you work here for the Tates?" I asked, and pointed to the house and the grounds. To indicate work, I raised and lowered my arms as if I were chopping wood and then carrying something, He nodded and began tb make gestures to indicate his work as a grounds person raking up leaves, trimming hedges and trees, planting. "Shouldn't you be in school right now?" I asked him. I pointed to him and then seized a book and held it up, pretending to read. Then I pretended to write. His face brightened.

"Skooo."

"Yes, school," I said, and pointed to him.

He nodded, and from the expression on his face when he did so, I understood that he wished he were in school rather than working. He shook his head and went through the gestures to indicate grounds work again. Then he leaned in to look at my room. It filled his face with more curiosity. This close to him, I could see the tiny freckles under his eyes and a small scar under the right corner of his lower lip. He had a complexion almost as dark as Daddy's, and I could see that although he was slim, his arms were lean with muscle and his stomach rippled like a washboard. His eyes raked over the dolls and then settled on my embroidery. I could read the question in his face and gestures.

"Yes, I do that," I said. He nodded, smiling and gesturing with appreciation. "Thank you. Of course, if I didn't keep busy, I would go nuts," I mumbled. He looked confused, so to indicate going nuts, I rolled my eyes and shook my head. His right eyebrow lifted. I was sure I looked absolutely ridiculous going through these silly gestures.

He began to sign another question.

"I don't understand. I'm sorry." He worked harder and I caught on.

"Oh. I can't go down." I shook my head. "I told you," I said, pointing to myself and then holding my finger on my lips. "I'm here secretly." He grimaced with confusion, but he didn't let it linger. He indicated he wanted to crawl through the window. "No," I began, but he was already moving into the room. When he stepped down, I brought my finger to my lips and pointed to the floor to indicate he must keep very silent. He understood and walked with exaggerated care. It brought a smile to my lips, which made him smile.

Then he reached up as if he were plucking a fly out of the air and opened his hand in front of my face to reveal a single costume-jewelry pearl in his palm.

I laughed. "How did you do that?"

He held up his forefinger and closed his eyes, pretending great concentration. After a moment he opened them and reached behind my ear to produce another pearl.

I laughed again. "You're very good."

He nodded, smiling emphatically.

"Who taught you all this?" I pointed to the pearl and then to him. Either he was very bright or he could read lips, too. "Graaaaa pppaaa," he said.

"Your grandpere?"

He nodded.

"Why can't you speak well?" I asked, pointing to my tongue and making movements with my fingers. He pointed to his ears, to my stomach, and then to himself.

"You were born deaf," I concluded.

And for the first time, I wondered how my baby would be at birth. Would he or she have some defect? Mama thought it was all going well, but even Mama couldn't know everything. If a baby was born out of unwanted sex, would that affect the baby's health? I had been treating my pregnancy like an illness, not wanting this baby inside me until the moment I felt it move. I'd hate to be responsible for it being born deaf or blind. I should have asked Mama, but then I thought she might not tell me the truth for fear I would sit here and worry all day.

Henry walked about the room, gazing at the dolls and then at the dollhouse, which intrigued him. He knelt beside it, and after a moment, he, too, realized it was the Tate house. He pointed to it and to the walls.

"Yes." I nodded.

Just then the baby kicked especially hard and I moaned and seized my stomach. I had to sit on the bed. Henry gazed at me with curiosity and concern, and I pointed to my stomach and then kicked my foot in the air. His eyes widened. The baby kicked again and again. I gestured for Henry to put his hand on my stomach. He stood up slowly and approached timidly. The baby was still very active. When Henry hesitated, I reached out, took his hand, and brought it to my stomach. I held his palm there as the baby continued to kick.

Henry's face beamed with excitement. Then he laughed. He started to sign question after question. I shook my head. He pointed to my stomach and then made his arms into a cradle.

"Oh, you want to know how long?" I thought and counted out six fingers to indicate six weeks, but I could see that he didn't know whether I met six days or six months.

He folded his legs and sat on the floor in front of me, gazing up with wonder. When I looked into those dark brown eyes, I could just sense the myriad questions that swirled around in his pool of curiosity. Who was I? Why was I being kept secretly here? Perhaps he even wondered about the father of the baby. What did it all have to do with the Tates?

He pointed to himself again and again said, "Hen ree," and pointed to me. He wanted to know my name very badly and was frustrated with my inability to tell him. I thought for a moment, wondering how far he had gone in school. I rose, got a pen and paper, and wrote out my name. He sat beside me on the bed and looked at the notepad. Then I pointed to my lips and sounded out my name slowly.

"Ga-bri-elle."

He shook his head. I realized he was illiterate. Perhaps he had never been to school or had only been there a very short time, I thought. How sad. I considered the problem and then I took his right hand and put it on my throat. His eyes were filled with surprise and even a bit of fear. I repeated my name, hoping he would feel the vibrations. Then I put his hand on his own throat. I did it a few times until I saw a brightness in his eyes.

"Ga."

"Go ahead, that's it," I said excitedly.

"Ga brrr."

We repeated the action until he pronounced the second syllable and then finally the third. I gestured for him to say it faster.

"Gabri . . . elle."

"Yes, that's my name."

Henry beamed, enjoying the success. Then, timidly, he put his hand on my stomach again. The baby was much quieter. Henry looked disappointed.

"He's sleeping," I said, and laid my head on my shoulder and closed my eyes. Henry lifted his hand away, but stared at me sweetly. I smiled at him and he smiled back. Then he stood up slowly as if he saw something in the air. He walked with exaggerated steps, like a hunter sneaking up on prey. He snatched the invisible air and brought his hand to his nose, taking in a delightful whiff. I laughed and he bowed, put his hands behind his back, stepped before me, and then voila . . . he held out a tiny magnolia blossom.

The astonishment on my face filled him with delight. I assumed, of course, that he had been keeping it under his shirt, but it was such a wonderful surprise, I couldn't keep the tears from filling my eyes.

"Thank you," I said. "And thank you for the hyacinth you left last night."

He bowed and looked toward the window.

"You have to go back to work?" I mimed the raking of leaves, pruning of hedges, and he nodded. I held out my hand for him to shake. "Good-bye," I said. "Thank you."

He held my hand for a moment and then went to the window. "Be careful," I said. He smiled and then slipped out the window and over the railing, scampering down the gutter pipe like a squirrel. I glanced out the window and saw him hurrying around the corner of the house. Like a dream, he was gone, but my magnolia blossom smelled delicious and wonderful. It filled me with pleasing memories and allowed me to close my eyes and put myself back in the bayou, free to enjoy the world I loved, at least for a few moments.

That night, right after I had my dinner, I had my first bad fright. I hadn't been sleeping well these last weeks as it was. The baby was so active. When I woke each morning now, I felt as if I had been dragged through the swamp by my swollen feet. Just sitting up took great effort, and my lower back ached so badly at times, I had to lie down again. When Gladys saw these symptoms, she began to imitate them to the point that she looked worse than I felt when I saw her in the mornings. She complained about coming up the stairs as if she were really carrying a child, groaning and rubbing her lower back.

One morning when she had gone on and on about how poorly she was sleeping and how hard things were for her, I exploded.

"What are you talking about? Why are you complaining so loudly? I'm the one who is actually suffering," I cried.

She stared at me with ice in her eyes. "How can you say you're the one who is actually suffering? Do you think just pretending to be pregnant is enough? I have developed the ability to feel what you feel, know what you know, and yes, suffer what you suffer so that no one, no one, do you understand, will doubt this child is my child, this birthing is my birthing. And I'm doing all this for you, as much as for the baby. I don't expect any gratitude. That's too much, but at least I expect understanding. So stop your whining. You're not the only one who's been put through turmoil," she snapped, and pivoted to leave me in the wake of her outburst.

I was too uncomfortable to care. Mama told me much of it was normal, but I could see some concern in her face during the last visit, so after dinner, when I felt a little nauseous, I lay down. As soon as I did so, I was stricken with contractions and I became very frightened. I kept waiting for them to end, but they remained intense.

"Mama!" I moaned. What was I to do? The cramps were so severe, I could barely sit up. The pain continued, seizing me in a vise that reached around my stomach to my back, shortening my breath. I gasped, unable to even call out for help, not that there was anyone who would hear me.

Then I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Henry crawling in the window. He saw the grimace of pain on my face and immediately became concerned. He rushed to my side, signing questions, but I didn't have the patience. I groaned and gasped when my stomach tightened again. I had my skirt raised and Henry put his cool palm on my stomach. The tightness amazed and frightened him, too. He pulled his hand away as if my stomach were on fire. I took deep breaths and waited. It eased and I let out a sigh of relief.

Drips of sweat-trickled down the side of my face. Henry found a handkerchief and returned to my side to dab my face. I looked up at him and smiled. My bosom rose and fell with my heavy breaths. I've got to send for Mama, I thought. She didn't tell me this would be happening now. It's too soon.

With his hands and gestures, Henry asked if my baby was coming now.

"I hope not," I said. "It's not supposed to." I shook my head, but another contraction began. And then I felt the warmth leaking down the inside of my thighs. The sensation sent an electric shock up my spine and into my heart. Henry saw the look of terror on my face. Slowly I raised my head and ran my fingers along my leg. When I looked at my fingers, I screamed. They were covered with blood. The expression of fear on Henry's face reinforced my own.

"Mama!" I cried. I struggled to sit up, and Henry rushed to help me. "Madame Tate!" I screamed her name. The blood continued to flow. I tried to walk, but the cramps were so severe, I had to double up. Henry helped me back to the bed. With all the strength I could muster, I screamed again.

"Madame Tate!"

Silence followed. Where was she? She always claimed that every little sound made in this room could be heard below. She said she heard me moaning in my sleep. Why couldn't she hear my scream?

Henry pointed to himself and then to the door, asking me if I wanted him to go for help. I did, but that also meant Gladys would know he had been here and my secret presence and pregnancy had been discovered. Gladys would be furious. I really didn't know what would be worse: my waiting for her to eventually hear my cries or having her know about Henry. With the contractions coming faster and lasting longer each time, and the blood still streaming down my leg, I felt I had no choice. I took a deep breath and nodded, gesturing for him to go fetch Gladys Tate. He opened the door and bounded down the stairs.

I took deep breaths and waited, but instead of hearing Gladys coming, I heard Henry rattling the door below. He came running back up to tell me the door below was locked.

"What? Why?" I moaned.

Henry gestured that he would go out the window, down and around to the front of the house for help.

"No, wait," I cried, holding out my hand. He stood, confused as I tried to think sensibly in the midst of suffering another contraction. It nearly took my breath away. I gasped and gasped, but I kept my hand up so Henry wouldn't leave the room.

I realized that if Henry went busting into the house exclaiming my predicament, everyone would know about my existence up here and the secret would be exposed. Gladys wouldn't go through with her part of our bargain. I couldn't let Henry do that.

When the contraction eased, I gestured for Henry to hand me the pen and paper on the dresser. He did so and I wrote, Mama, come quickly. Then I folded the paper and on the outside wrote, For Catherine Landry. Urgent. I pointed to it.

Henry looked at it, but shook his head. He didn't know who Mama was. But then he smiled at me and gestured that he would find out and get the note to her. He patted my hand and headed for the window. In moments he was over the railing and gone. All I could do was hope that the deaf-mute boy would find a way to Mama.

Another contraction came, but it was of shorter duration. It was followed by a longer respite and then the next contraction was bearable. I took my washcloth and cleaned off the blood. It seemed to be easing, too. As my pain and fear lessened, my thoughts went back to the door below and my anger intensified. Why had Gladys Tate decided to lock that door tonight of all nights?

Stronger, breathing easier, I rose and went to the top of the short stairway.

"Madame Tate!" I called. "Madame Tate!"

It seemed quite a while before I got any response, but finally I heard the key being turned in the lock below and saw the door open. She poked her head in and cried in a raspy loud whisper, "Quiet! You hear me? Quiet."

"Madame Tate, I need you right now," I said.

She stepped-into the hallway and gazed up at me. I was still clutching my stomach and bent over. She was in a formal black dress, wearing a diamond necklace with matching teardrop diamond earrings. Her hair was done up and she wore makeup.

"Lower your voice," she said.

"Why did you lock that door?"

"We have guests, business associates and their wives. I had to show them the house and be sure you didn't just pop out of here. What's wrong?"

"I'm bleeding," I said.

"What? Bleeding?" She paused. "We're bleeding!" she exclaimed, her face in a twisted grimace.

"No, we're not bleeding. I'm bleeding and I've been having contractions. Something's not right. Something's happening," I said.

"Oh, dear me. I have these guests. What will I do?"

"I've sent for Mama," I blurted without thinking. I was so angry about her worrying about her guests and not me, I didn't think.

"Sent for? How?"

"Never mind right now. Something's seriously wrong, I told you. I think I'm having a premature delivery. The contractions are starting again."

"Oh!" she cried, and suddenly clutched her own false stomach. "Contractions! Bleeding! The baby's coming . . . Octavious," she yelled. "Octavious. "She turned from the door, her hand on the jamb and bent over.

"Madame Tate!" I called. "Wait!"

"Octavious!"

She slammed the door shut and then I heard the key turn in the lock.

"Madame Tate!"

Another contraction came rushing through me, tightening so quickly this time, it felt more like a punch in the stomach. My lungs hurt. I tried to take a deep breath. The room began to spin and I lost my balance, stumbling to the right. I fell sideways, landing on the dollhouse, splintering and smashing it with the weight of my body, just managing to break my fall a little with my extended right hand. But the contraction was so severe, I couldn't get up. I lay there, sucking in air.

This close to the floor, I could hear the commotion below: footsteps followed by shouts and exclamations, Octavious's voice, the voices of servants, guests, and then Gladys Tate's moans. With her bedroom right below, I was able to hear her screams. I heard her scream, "Blood! Contractions!"

My own contraction subsided again. I struggled to sit up and then I crawled and pulled myself back to the bed. During my moments of relief, I prayed for Mama's imminent arrival and I asked God to forgive me for any sin I might have committed.

"Don't punish the baby," I pleaded.

When my next contraction came, I muffled my cries by putting my closed fist in my mouth and biting down on my own knuckles and fingers. I couldn't let the people below hear me, not that they would have with all the noise Gladys Tate was making. It was strangely like an echo of my own inner screams and shouts of agony. It was as if my pain did travel through the floor and ceiling below until it settled in her so she could sense when to cry out and when to be silent.

I never found out how Henry located Mama, but he did so. To me it seemed like hours and hours before she came, but later I realized it had been less than an hour. I heard her voice below first and then I heard doors slam and the landing grow very quiet. Soon after, the door below was opened and Mama came bounding up the stairs. I was never so happy to see her face.

I told her what had been happening. She examined me and looked at the bloodstained sheets.

"What's it all mean, Mama?"

"The baby's been stirring a lot. He wants to be born sooner, honey.”

"Is it going to happen right now?"

"It's hard to say exactly when, but maybe very soon," she replied. "Maybe very soon."

She sat back and held my hand.

"I think I passed out from one of the contractions, Mama. I can't remember how long ago the last one occurred."

She nodded -aid looked around, seeing the crushed dollhouse. "You fell on that?"

"Yes, Mama."

"You can't be alone anymore, honey, and I don't want you up here any longer. That woman wants you in her bedroom, now anyway," she added with a smirk. "I don't know what she did to herself, but she had blood on her thigh when I was brought up to see her

"Who was that boy you sent?"

"His name's Henry. He works here. I didn't want Gladys Tate to find out that he knows I'm here, but I was desperate, Mama."

"Let's not worry about what she thinks anymore, honey. I want to bring you downstairs where you'll be more comfortable and things will be easier."

I saw in her eyes that she was more worried than she wanted me to believe.

"Will the baby die, Mama?"

"Babies can be born early and be strong, honey."

"But it's usually the other way, isn't it? It's my fault," I moaned. "I wanted to be out of here so much, I forced the baby to hurry."

"Nonsense," she said.

"It doesn't deserve this. It's not the baby's fault. It didn't ask to be born this way," I wailed.

"Gabrielle, stop this right now," Mama commanded. Her face was firm, her eyes blazing with authority. "If you're going to lie there and worry about everything, you'll make it harder and more dangerous for both you and the baby, honey. Trust in God now. It will be what He wants, and we will do what we can. This is not the time to be weak."

I swallowed back my tears and nodded.

"I'm sorry, Mama."

"Okay, honey."

"Where's Daddy?"

"Your father is downstairs with Octavious Tate. He jumped for joy when he heard you might be giving birth."

"Why?"

"Another opportunity to ask for more money. He's been sitting on this like a fat hen on a fat egg, just waiting for the chance to put the squeeze on the man. I don't know who to dislike more for it, your father for his greed or Octavious Tate for what he's done to you. The man deserves to have your father on his back, but your father ain't doing this to get justice for you. I'm sure he's gambled away most of what he took from the Tates and got himself into new debt."

"It just gets worse and worse, Mama. Maybe it was all my fault."

"Nonsense, and don't you even think it," she snapped. "Oui, it's hard, but like any storm, it will come to an end and the sun will shine again for you, Gabrielle." She wiped away the strands of hair dampened with my sweat. "Can you stand or should I go get those scoundrels to help carry you down?"

"Let me try first," I said.

"Good girl."

She helped me to my feet.

"Suddenly my stomach feels ten pounds heavier, Mama, and my legs feel like two sticks of lard."

Mama laughed. I breathed easier. With her at my side now, I wasn't afraid.

Of course, I was still like someone poling in the canal for the first time. I was excited and anxious to do well, but I didn't know what was around the next bend.