Marigold ran to Helen, who was doubled over, vomiting onto the floor. She hurled again and again, until nothing more came up. She wiped her mouth with her forearm, caught her breath.

“I can’t believe this,” Helen finally said. But she was interrupted by more heaving.

Marigold touched her. She wanted to help Helen, but there was no heat in her hands, only her normal, clammy skin.

“Can’t believe what?” Marigold said.

“I’m too old for this,” Helen moaned. “This must be some kinda joke.”

“What’s a joke?”

“I thought I was all dried up inside. I thought . . . I thought . . . I thought I was all used up.”

Helen leaned over her bedpan. She missed. The floor was painted with bile. The smell made Marigold ill.

“This is my punishment,” said Helen. “This is judgment, judgment for what I am.”

She heaved several times until she was kneeling on the floor, leaning over the bedpan, crying.

Marigold rubbed her hands together. She willed them to become warm. She wanted nothing more than to rid Helen of nausea. She concentrated on her palms, but nothing happened. She tried patting them against her thighs. She closed her eyes. She even said a short prayer. But nothing happened. So she rested her hand on Helen’s neck, which was covered in a thin film of sweat.

“What am I gonna do with a baby?” said Helen.

The words made Marigold think of Maggie. She thought of the day she lost her. She remembered everything about the day. And in this moment, she became a dumb fifteen-year-old all over again. She felt as lost in this world as she’d ever been. And her hands became as hot as fire.

She touched Helen on the shoulder. She felt a current pass between them. It was like electricity, only gentler. The heat grew so hot, Marigold’s hand became slippery. When the heat dissipated, Helen stopped vomiting and wiped the corners of her mouth and turned to face Marigold.

“What in the devil did you just do to me?” Helen backed up against the wall. “What did you do to me?”

“I don’t think the Devil had anything to do with it,” said Marigold.

Thirty-Four
Laborers

“Coot’s in love,” said Aaron in a singsong-like voice. “Coot’s in love. And he’s got it bad too.”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “He’s in love, alright. Look at him, the big dummy.”

The night sky over the Oswalt sawmill was peppered with a million stars that seemed to get brighter with each passing minute. Teems of young men twirled their young ladies on the pinewood dance floor. Lanterns dangled above and candles adorned tables, but Coot thought these were poor substitutes for stars.

The sounds of shoes on the dance floor were almost louder than the fiddle band that serenaded them. Clomping sounds of waltzing people filled the night with happiness and the kind of imagined adventures that youth offers.