Jean set her bucket down. She slid the last few feet down the bank into the water and grabbed a naked stick to steady herself.

“Carlotta!”

Her shout rolled out over the water. Somewhere farther up it echoed slightly. The little figure on the far bank uncurled. Carlotta stood, secured the loosened shawl, and said, “Hi,” in a conversational tone that carried easily between the banks. Jean giggled, embarrassed. The sun was low, tipped strangely in the sky.

“Come on over and get some of these blackberries!” Jean called.

Carlotta shook drops of water off her arms. “Can’t hear you. From that side you have to yell. The wind’s wrong or something.”

“Come get blackberries!”

Carlotta still moved as though she was pregnant. The shawl and the long dress ballooned around her as she stepped to the bush where the tired boat was tied. She pulled it up, stepped in gingerly. She knelt in the center of the boat and tipped an oar out, caught it just before it fell out completely. She pulled on it, and the slow current carried her a few feet from us. Carlotta stuck the oar in the mud on the downriver side to hold the boat. There was a sheen of sweat on her face. I nodded at Carlotta. She nodded back. Jean examined her bucket and mine.

“I’ll give you this bucket. Sally’s smashed all hers. They’re only good for jam now.” She swung her pail to Carlotta, who set it on the bottom of the boat.

“Thanks very much.”

“Don’t eat too many in one day. I suspect too much fresh fruit gives a nursing baby colic. They make great pies when you’re sick of eating them with cream. How’s your little boy?”

Carlotta smiled and lifted the shawl. Beneath, strapped below her breasts, was a sling. Carlotta bent forward and the bundle swung out from her body like a hammock. She lifted the cloth away from the child’s face. We crouched to look. He slept. Eyelashes. A faint beginning of dark brows. The newborn lumps and wrinkles had smoothed; now the face was fat, the skin clear. The child’s pouted lips were swollen, and a white blister ran the length of each.

“How come his lips are blistered?” I asked.

Carlotta flicked the cloth back over the little face and leaned back. The shawl fell over her breasts, and she covered the sling.

Jean tapped my shoulder. “That, spinster, is from the sucking. All babies get that. It doesn’t bother them. He looks really good. He’s gained a lot of weight. Have you named him yet?”

Carlotta nodded. “Yes. Ishi.”

“Ishi Rommel. Well, I’ve heard worse.” Jean flicked dust from her hem. “When are you coming over? How about tomorrow? Bring Aram and come for lunch. We’ll have barbecue.”

“That’s nice. Maybe. I’m not sure we can.” Carlotta smiled.