We walked through an apple orchard. The fruit lay soft and putrid on the ground. There was the steady glum sound of bees. They flew heavily and moved out of our way reluctantly as we walked. At the edge of the trees the brambles had taken over. They had mounted the fence and formed a solid tower, six feet high. The berries were thick and sweet and crushed each other in our buckets. “I don’t care how much you eat as long as I get at least two quarts from each of you.”

“Mama! I’m afraid of the bees.”

The children’s voices were soft in the air. They wedged their small bodies deeply in the crevices of the huge bush. I worked away from their voices. The thorns clung and scratched my skin. I walked along the edge of the patch and picked the low, easy bunches. The pail’s wire handle dug into my arm as I filled it.

A line of gray trees marked the edge of the river. They were dead here, like at Sam’s, so I figured it was the same stretch of trees. The blackberries thinned out and I climbed down the shore, balancing the pail on my arm. I moved a little farther on, a few steps more through the tangled brush. I could see the clearing across the river, and a small gray figure was hunched at the edge of the water. It was not far. Ninety feet. Eighty feet. The gray water looked thick and moved slowly. The figure rocked back and forth, and little splashes rose from her hands in the water. Her shawl slipped back and I could see the faint white of the part in her hair. Carlotta. There was a pile of white beside her on the bank. She lifted a white rag out of the water, shook it, wrung it in her hands, and dropped it on the pile.

“Did you see that?”

Jean stood behind and above me, her bucket sagging against her shoulder. She squinted at the figure across the river.

“What’s she doing?”

“Laundry.”

Jean climbed down and stood beside me.

“I don’t know where she got those rocks. It’s all mud along the bank there.”

“What rocks?”

“Those. She puts one just under the water, puts the diaper on it, and then beats it with another rock. I keep trying to get her to bring them over and put them through my machine but she won’t. That water’s filthy. At least she promised to boil them after she’s done them in the river, but I don’t know if she does or not. The baby seems okay. I don’t understand why she couldn’t do them in the kitchen sink.”

“It’s against her religion or something,” I volunteered.

“She’ll think about religion when her kid’s screeching with a rash.”