When I got there, the mayor and Mrs. Hudson were in the parlor having tea with Mrs. Stenger, the pharmacist’s wife, so I just said hello, checked on Twyla and little Mathew, who has already gained a pound, and then headed down the back stairs, intending to leave through the kitchen. I had my hand on the knob when Twyla’s mother, Nancy Savage, stopped me.
“She doing pretty good, ain’t she?”
“She is. Twyla’s taken right to motherhood.”
“That’s why I hate to see it.”
I’m adrift in this conversation. “See what?”
“The judge planning on giving our baby away. Says little Mathew got to go. Either he goes, or Twyla and I can leave with him. He says there’s no place for a baby in his home. He means a black baby.”
“What does Mrs. Hudson think? It doesn’t seem right. It’s not the judge’s baby to give away.”
“She disapprove, but she says he the boss.”
“Nancy!” It’s her mistress calling from the parlor. “Can you bring us some more tea, honey?” The cook bites her chapped lips. “Coming!” she calls and picks up the teapot.
“Pray for us, Miss Patience,” she whispers as she leaves, and there are tears in her eyes.
Before riding home, with a heavy heart, I decide to visit Becky at her clinic in the courthouse. I’m wondering what she thinks of the whole mess. She’s mentioned this possibility before, but I didn’t think the rumors could be true. We haven’t spoken since our tiff about the Klan, and that was weeks ago.
“Hello,” I call, entering the empty waiting room of the Women’s and Children’s Health Program. “Hello?”
The receptionist’s wooden desk is unoccupied, but that doesn’t surprise me. The clinic runs on a tight budget, and Mrs. Cooper, the secretary, works only part-time. I take a seat, prepared to wait a few minutes, figuring that Becky must be in the single exam room with a patient.
To kill time, I inspect the small space, which smells faintly of Lysol. This is where the home health nurse holds her classes. What interests me are the posters. The yellow announcement by the front door exhorts the benefits of corn: FOOD FOR THE NATION, SERVE SOME AT EVERY MEAL. An attractive dark-haired woman is baking corn bread. I didn’t know corn was that healthy! I’d better plant more next year.
Over the desk is another sign, this one with an orange border and a man sneezing into a handkerchief: COUGHS AND SNEEZES SPREAD DISEASES. Finally there’s one next to the restroom: STAMP OUT TUBERCULOSIS! Santa Claus holds a letter with the famous Christmas Seal on it, a fund-raiser for the National Tuberculosis Association. I let out a long sigh. My mother and grandmother both died of it, the Great White Plague.
There’s a muffled sound inside the exam room and I straighten my skirt, ready for Becky and her patient to come out, but the door doesn’t open. Then I hear moaning. A chair scrapes, and there’s moaning again. “Becky?” No answer. “Becky?” a little louder.
I stand up and step closer. Becky and I are friends, but this is her place of work and I can’t interrupt her; still, it does seem odd that she won’t answer. Maybe she’s ill . . . I move right up to the door and press my ear against it. “Nurse Becky? Are you okay?”
The woman clears her throat. “Just a minute . . . ” I sit down again, but she doesn’t come out. By Mrs. Kelly’s gold pocket watch it’s 3:10. Five minutes later she still hasn’t shown. Finally I step over, tap twice, and crack the door open. “Becky?” I whisper. “It’s Patience. Can I come in?”
“Oh, it’s you, Patience . . . yes. You’d better. You’d better see this.”
That wasn’t the answer I expected. I open the door, step inside, and close it behind me. “Are you all right?” I can see that she isn’t. Her face is mottled, her eyes are red from crying, and tears run down her pale cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
She turns to her side and indicates the exam table. That’s when I see it. Lying on a clean blanket is a tiny baby boy, smaller than a doll and clearly dead. Its skin is so thin that you can see the blood vessels, and its face is dark and bruised.
“When I came in this morning,” starts out Becky in a small voice, “I found a box tied up with string at the door. The waiting room was full, so I didn’t open the package until everyone left. Then I almost fainted. This is so sad! I never saw anything like it. Do you think the baby could have been alive when I got here? Do you think it died because I didn’t look right away?” She starts to sob and touches the infant with one finger. I touch it too, but the baby is so cold and stiff, I pull my hand away.
“Oh, Becky. I don’t think so. Really. Look at the body. He was so early. I doubt he ever took a breath. His lungs wouldn’t have been formed yet. I’ve seen infants born prematurely before. This baby wasn’t ready to come. It’s nothing you did or didn’t do . . . But whose baby is it, anyway? Do you think it’s one of your patients or one of mine?”
“I don’t know. I thought it might belong to one of the traveling families, someone passing through who heard about the clinic. Some of those people moving north, looking for work up in Pittsburgh.” She folds her hands as if in prayer and starts to cry again. My arm around her, I cry too, but my tears are different.
I’m thinking of the little boy I lost. Would he have looked like this, so frail, so not ready to live on this earth? And his little body, would it have looked like this? I don’t even know where they buried him.
There’s a knock at the outside door. “Mailman!” a low voice calls out. Becky jumps up and uses her body to shield the baby, though there’s no way the postman can see through the closed exam room door.
“Thank you, James,” she yells out. “Just put it on the desk. I’m with a patient.” Then to me, in a whisper, “What shall we do with him?”
We both collapse back into our chairs and I squint, not understanding. The nurse goes on, “Well, we can’t just throw him away. He has to have a proper burial.”
“We could let the sheriff take care of it.”
“No! If we do, there will be a manhunt. He’ll want to know whose baby it is and will search the vagrants’ tents down by the riverbank. He might even put someone in jail.”