Walk on Earth a Stranger

She steps back, blinking away tears. “I will be very angry if I don’t see you in California.”

Therese darts away before we can respond, and I barely glimpse Mrs. Hoffman and Therese looking back over their shoulders before darkness swallows the whole family.

A moan drifts out of the wagon.

“Coming, Mrs. Joyner!” I holler.

Quickly, the six of us gather around—Major Craven, the college men, Jefferson, and me. “As much as I hate to admit it,” I say. “Frank had a good point.”

“On the top of his head,” Jefferson says.

“There too,” I say. “But about the other thing. Leave the Major’s tent behind, along with Peony and all the supplies she can carry. You fellows take Andy and Olive and the wagon and go on with the others. I’ll stay with her until the baby comes, and then we’ll catch up with you.”

I startle at their response, which is a single, unified chorus of “No!”

“She may need my help,” Jasper adds.

“I’m not leaving you,” Jefferson says. “Never again.”

“Leah!” she calls from the wagon.

I hesitate, unsure whether to argue sense into these fool men or run to Mrs. Joyner’s aid.

“Go,” Jefferson says. “We’ll take care of things here.”

I run to the wagon.

I climb inside to find the children clinging to their mother. Olive holds her mother’s hand, as if in comfort, but her lower lip quivers when she sees me. Andy’s face is swollen, and wetness streaks his cheeks. “Is Ma going to die too?” he asks, his right hand clutching my locket.

“Please,” Mrs. Joyner says. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

Olive is easily led to the back of the wagon, but Andy has to be peeled free. “Jefferson,” I call.

All five men come running.

“Keep the children busy,” I order. “Make sure they get something to eat and maybe put them to sleep in the tent.”

The Major hobbles forward. “Come here, soldier,” he says to Andy. He braces himself against the wagon and lifts the boy by the armpits. “Let’s teach your big sister to make quick bread. Your ma is going to need it.”

The other men linger, as if eager for something to do.

“Go away,” I say, and they slink reluctantly into the darkness.

Mrs. Joyner sags into the soaked feather bed with relief.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” I say, grabbing her hand. The wagon smells of blood and urine and sweat. “Then Jasper can come deliver the baby.”

She shakes her head. “It has to be you.”

“Me?”

“It was supposed to be Aunt Tildy. She was going to help me. . . . You’re the only other woman here.”

I open my mouth to argue, but a wave of pain takes her. Her eyes squeeze shut as her torso lifts from the bed. The last time I brought a baby into the world, she mooed, and I named her Gladiola, and she gave us milk a few years later. Surely this won’t be too different?

Mrs. Joyner collapses when the pain leaves her. “Promise me, Lee,” she whispers.

“Promise what?”

“Promise you’ll look after my children. Make sure they know how much their ma loved them.”

I lost my own mother less than eight months ago. Mrs. Joyner was already with child then. It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Mrs. Joyner.”

“Becky,” she says. “Please call me Becky.”

“All right,” I say. “Becky.”

“I can’t stop thinking about the preacher’s wife.”

“Mrs. Lowrey?”

“Mary. Her name was Mary. A sweet girl. Not much older than you.”

“I didn’t know her very well,” I admit.

“I only spoke to her a few times.” She squeezes my hand. “You were wise to refuse the preacher’s offer. Put off marriage as long as you can.”

I almost ask why, but I’m not sure I want to hear more. Instead, I squeeze her hand in return.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Every time I . . .” She puts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down. It’s not a contraction that’s taken her, but something even deeper and more painful. She tries again: “My own ma died giving birth. So did my grandma. And last year, my older sister . . . Every time I lay with my husband, I thought, ‘Becky, you will be dead in nine months.’ I know it’s God’s will that women suffer, that we are saved through faith and childbearing, but sometimes . . .”

“Things will be fine.” I squeeze her hand again, because one of us is shaking and I’m not sure which.

“You don’t know that,” she says. “That’s the problem with pregnancy—you never know. My husband was a gambler. The fool man never considered that the thing he gambled with most was me.”

All through the night, the contractions come slowly. Too slowly. I count the time between them, and they gradually grow closer together. She makes me check her frequently, which I do by candlelight. I can’t see any way a baby will come out.

Between contractions, she dozes. Once, I try to doze too, but as soon as I nod off, a hand reaches under the canvas to tug at my sleeve, and I nearly jump through the roof.

“Is there a baby yet?” Jefferson whispers to me.

“No,” I whisper back.

“Hampton is back!”

“Oh?” I brace myself for what he’ll say next.

“Just walked right into our camp carrying a barrelful of water, like a peace offering. Found the empty barrel back at the sink and filled it up.”

“Good,” I say. Then: “No one is going to . . . I dunno, do something awful to him? Are they?”

“You mean the Major? Not a chance—not with the Missouri men gone. That extra barrelful might really help.”

I loose a breath of relief. Hampton would have had a very different reception a few weeks ago, even from the families. But everything changes on the road to California.

Jefferson is silent, and I think he’s gone away. I drift off again.

“You know, the Major isn’t such a bad fellow,” he says, startling me.

“Oh?” I blink to wake my eyes. “Even after the way he talked about Indians?”