Mike had said quietly at breakfast that he'd found her bucket at Clarence's house, full of muck, and thrown it away, but it was all very mysterious and he wouldn't talk of it because today was Festival and they had to get the statue to the plaza, and nobody had seemed to have the time to talk about the night before—or anything else.

Anyway, he assured Ellen, there'd be a dozen Bahamians selling buckets on Township Beach.

"Grandma will get you a bucket at the beach," promised Ellen.

"With Rainbow Bright on it?" challenged Thea.

"We'll see what we can do."

The child ran off to help her daddy with whatever he was doing. The sounds around the house were becoming frantic and strangely sinister: hammering from the porch outside the studio as Jake and William constructed a crate for the statue; the crash and clank of Mike's jeep as he mated it with a trailer to trundle the statue off to town; the screech of Carla's grindstone as she made some last-minute change.

The unveiling was scheduled for one P.M., and the statue was still here!

The grindstone stopped behind the door. In the sudden silence Ellen was certain that she heard Carla sobbing.

No one was supposed to enter the studio, in case the statue was unclothed. She knocked.

"Yes?" There were tears in Carla's voice. Ellen heard the rustle of the sheet as she covered the piece. "Okay, come in."

The figure was covered, still an enigma beneath the great white sail. Carla was sprawled on a chair in her leather apron, tearing off her gloves. She was crying.

Ellen went to her and kneeled by the chair. She took her hand, as hard and callused as Mike's. "Carla, what is it?"

"I'm going to destroy it!"

"You will if you keep this up," she promised quietly. "You have to stop, Carla. You're having labor pains!"

"Oh, Ellen," Carla said fiercely, "that's talk-show artist crap!"

"I'm no artist, but we're mothers." Ellen got up and moved to the window. "Before Mike was born, I was so happy pregnant, and he was so safe, and it's a cold, cold world... and at times I didn't want it to end for me, or him."

"You don't understand!"

"Your work is ready to be born, Carla." She looked at the robed form. "Bear down hard and let them cut the cord."

Carla rose suddenly. She moved to her welding torch. "No. I'm going to scrap it."

"What?"

Carla's eyes blazed. "Why do you think I wouldn't let anybody see it? Not you, not Thea, not Mike?"

"Because it wasn't ready!"

"No." Carla unscrewed the head of her welding torch, moved to her workbench, selected another, and screwed it on. "Something happened after we came back from the funeral."

"Carla, what do you mean?"