A Piece of the World(56)

“I know you have difficulty with those stairs, and your mother isn’t well,” she says. “I’m honored to fill the gap. Where is dear Mary?”

When everyone has trooped upstairs, I step out into the cool air of the backyard, shadowed at this early hour by the house. Al has been plowing the garden plot, and the dirt smells fresh and damp from yesterday’s rain. Tessie neighs in a distant field. Lolly winds between my legs, pressing against my calves. Sinking onto the stone step, I pull her into my lap, but she yowls and slinks away. I feel low, heavy, weighted to the earth. Earlier in the spring a birth announcement arrived from Ramona and Harland: a girl named Rose, seven pounds, nine ounces. In June, Eloise married Bill Rivers, and Alvah eloped with Eva Shuman a few weeks later. I’m glad for Sam and Mary, for all of them, but every ritual—weddings, births, christenings—reminds me of how alone I am. My own life so barren in contrast.

Tears well in my eyes.

“Why, there you are!” Glancing over my shoulder, I see Gertrude’s face cross-hatched in the screen. “I’ve been looking for you all over. The midwife doesn’t need me at the moment. She says Mary is a natural.”

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, hoping she didn’t see, but nothing gets past Gertrude. “What on earth is wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No.”

She tries to open the screen, but I’m sitting in the way. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Can I come out there?”

The last thing I want to do is explain my tears to Gertrude Gibbons. She is here out of curiosity, after all, and boredom, and her endless desire to know what’s going on. “Please, just give me a minute.”

But she will not. “Mercy, Christina, if—”

“I said,” I tell her, my voice rising, “leave me alone.”

“Well.” Affronted, she pauses. Then she says coldly, “I was coming down to help with breakfast. But I see you have let the fire go out.”

I stand up unsteadily. Then I yank open the door, startling her, tears clouding my vision. I lurch into the kitchen. My awkwardness irritates me even further; everything is a blur, and Gertrude is looking at me in her usual obtuse, judgmental, pitying way.

I hate her for it. For seeing me clearly, for not seeing me at all.

I careen through the pantry, forcing her to step back against the wall. I want to be upstairs in my bedroom, with the door shut, but how can I navigate the stairs without her watching? And then I realize I don’t care. I just need to get there. Leaning against the wall, I pull myself along the hallway until I reach them. I use my forearms and elbows to hoist myself up the narrow stairs, stopping to rest every few steps, knowing that Gertrude is listening to every grunt. When I reach the landing at the top, I look down. There she is, standing in the foyer with her hands on her hips. “Honestly, Christina, I do not under—”

But I won’t listen. I can’t. Turning away, I wrench myself along the floor to my bedroom, where I kick the door shut behind me.

I lie on the floor of my bedroom, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, I hear footsteps plodding up the stairs.

Then a rap on the door.

“Christina?” Gertrude’s voice is laced with affected concern.

Scooting backward I grasp the bedpost, then turn around and heave myself up onto the mattress, trying to slow my pounding heartbeat. Her presence on the other side of the door radiates a nasty heat; I am flushed with it.

Another rap.

“Go away.”

“For mercy’s sake, let me in.”

There’s no lock. After a moment, I watch the white porcelain knob turn. Gertrude steps into the room and shuts the door, her doughy face pinched with pantomimed worry. “What is wrong with you?”

I wish I could dart around her, but my only recourse is words. “I did not invite you here.”

“Well, your brother asked me to come. Honestly, with three of you infirm in this household I should think you’d be grateful for it.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

For a moment we glare at each other. Then she says, “Now listen. You make breakfast for this family every single day of the year. You need to pull yourself together and prepare some food right this minute. Why are you being so hateful?”

I’m not sure I understand it myself. But my flinty anger feels good. Better than sadness. I don’t want to let it go. I cross my arms.

She sighs. “We are about to welcome this wonderful new life—this baby! I’m sorry to be blunt, but you are acting like a child. Maybe nobody else is saying this to you, but I assure you they’re thinking it.” She runs her hands down the bedspread near my leg, smoothing the wrinkles. “Sometimes we all need a good friend to tell us what’s what.”

I flinch from her hand. “You are not a friend to me. Much less a good friend.”

“Why . . . how can you say that? What do you mean?”

“I mean that . . .” What do I mean? “You take pleasure in my misfortune. It makes you feel superior.”

Her neck reddens. She puts a hand to her throat. “That is a terrible thing to say.”

“It’s how I feel.”

“I invited you to my wedding! Which—let me remind you—you did not attend. Nor send a gift.”