“Congratulations,” Paul said. “You must be proud.”

The onlookers went back to work. Vern sat on the ground beside Paul. Pete did the same. They all touched Louisville and spoke in a whisper so quiet that nobody could hear what they said. Paul kissed Louisville on the face and held her long, floppy ears. There were few things he loved more in this life than her ears.

He held the animal until the sun dipped low behind the trees and all the children had gone to bed. He held her until Pete and Vern had fallen asleep. He held her until she exhaled a loud, whimpering breath and her body became soft. He held her until he felt the pulse inside her stop.

Paul looked at the night sky and cried. His crying turned into a deep moan. He could hear the strained sounds of his own throat. In some ways, his voice sounded like baying. He cried until the sun came up. And then some.

She was a good girl.

Thirty-Six
The Lame

Marigold washed bedsheets in the large washtub. She scrubbed them until her knuckles were red. Laundry was how she spent her life at Cowikee’s. She cooked, she cleaned, and she washed things. Hers was the only occupation at Cowikee’s that didn’t involve what the other girls referred to as “doing business.”

Marigold scrubbed the white fabric against the metal ribs of the washboard, then wrung it out. She draped it on a string between two tall pines along with a collection of delicates, nylons, and silky clothing.

Helen sat on the porch, watching her. “Pregnant,” said Helen. She pushed a chestful of blue cigarette smoke into the air. “Don’t even know what to expect. I don’t know many mothers.”

“Sickness,” said Marigold. “That’s what you can expect. Lots of it. But it goes away, sorta.”

Helen chuckled. “How would you know?”

“I know.”

“You ain’t that old. How could you know?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“You had a baby?”

“I have a baby.”

Helen said nothing, she only took another drag from her cigarette and held it in. “I’m a lot older than you,” she finally said.

“You’re young enough to be pregnant.”

“Pregnant. I hate this baby already.”

Her words didn’t fall well on Marigold’s ears. Marigold remembered when her mother took her to the preacher in the woods, once she learned Marigold was with child. The man in black had touched Marigold’s belly, squeezed her skin, and uttered odd prayers about sinful babies.

Her mother wanted the pregnancy to be over. She wanted the child to disappear, wanted to pretend it had never happened. But Marigold did not. She loved her Maggie, even before she could feel her.