Light to the Hills: A Novel (51)
A thought occurred to her then. “Was he alone? Frank?” She jiggled baby Miles to get him to hush.
“Yes ma’am. It was just him. Must’a slipped and fell in, and that current’s been rough with all this rain. Imagine that’s how he come to be snagged up like he was.”
“Yes,” she’d said faintly. “I imagine so.” Amanda had stepped back inside and shut the door, sinking into the rocking chair Frank had made for her. She unbuttoned her blouse and settled Miles where he could eat, his tiny mouth pulling hungrily, unaware of how his world had just changed.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” Amanda sang to him in a whisper, too stunned to cry. “Papa’s gonna buy you a mockin’ bird.” She’d sucked in a breath when the truth of that line sank in. Papa wouldn’t be buying this baby a thing. It was all on her now, their childish plans for adventure washed away in the rising river.
Amanda and Junebug passed the naked berry thicket along the trail. Each thin branch that had held plump blackberries in the summer was now etched in ice like a glass sculpture. Along with Finn’s mistletoe, Amanda had taken with her a paper-wrapped parcel of wild berry preserves that Rai had given her. She pictured Mooney spreading a thick helping atop a hoecake and was thankful she had something to give her for watching Miles, not that she ever would have expected such a token. More than anyone, Mooney had shown her what she’d missed by not growing up with a sister. Amanda probably owed her life to Mooney. Far more than berry preserves could pay.
Amanda’s eyes stung a bit as she remembered it. True to his word, the sheriff had told his wife about the newly widowed young mother he’d met, and before the sun slid past the treetops that day, another tap echoed on Amanda’s door. This time, a trio of women stood on her porch, their arms full of food and their sleeves rolled up. Amanda stood in her bare feet, her hair hanging in a limp braid down her back, and felt her exhaustion settle into her bones so completely, she nearly collapsed.
They stepped across the threshold and went to work. One of them gently lifted Miles from her arms and settled her into the chair while another put the last sticks of kindling in the stove and drew pail after pail of water to heat for a bath. The last, strong-armed, with a friendly face, headed around the back to chop a stack of wood to have on hand. They scurried like mice around the kitchen, tidying and scrubbing where Amanda had neglected since Miles had come. In between filling the tub with warm water, they fed her bites of ham and poke greens to make her blood strong and made her sip lady’s slipper tea for extra strength.
Amanda didn’t know them; she hardly knew anyone in town, Frank preferring they keep to themselves. The bathwater drawn, one of the women helped her undress and step into the water. She sank down and hugged her knees to her chest. How long had it been since she’d looked in a mirror? She could only imagine what she must look like. When she’d settled there, the water surrounding her like a wool cloak, warm and comforting, she rested her forehead on her knees and let her tears flow freely into the tub, the first she’d shed since the sheriff had brought the news. A warm bath, a good cry, and a cup of tea: her mother used to say that was close as you could get to the Holy Trinity here on Earth.
The ministering hands of the women never stopped. They wasted no breath on words that would’ve meant little in her state. Instead, they sang or hummed, their harmonies as natural as the wind skipping through the treetops. Without realizing she was doing it, Amanda swayed in the water as they dipped and poured, scrubbing and washing her clean. She wished Mama were there—a common tug when the torch of motherhood was passed. But these women, strangers, no less, mothered her and Miles just right. An hour later, Amanda was dry and warm, wearing fresh clothes with her hair pinned up, and she lay in her clean bed sipping hot tea with Miles bathed and nestled in beside her, grunting and cooing. Her larder was stocked, at least enough for the next week, and she had enough kindling to keep a fire going.
Two of the women gathered their things to make their way home, but the third, the one with the friendly face, stayed. She’d sat on the edge of Amanda’s bed, her round face flushed. Amanda noticed for the first time that she was far along pregnant. With her short black hair and dark dress topped with her white apron, she looked like one of the cheerful chickadees that sometimes landed at her window when she spread crumbs to lure them.
“Now then,” the woman began. “My name’s Mooney, and we’re all of us in the same bit of a fix, trying to get by with just our own selves and our young’uns. Many hands make light work, so we do what we can when someone’s in need. I’m sure there’ll be a time when you can return the favor.” She rubbed her round belly and smiled. “We were sorry enough to hear about your husband.”
“I need to get word to my family,” she said. “They don’t even know about Miles yet.”
“Sheriff sent one of his deputies up the mountain to tell your folks. Somebody figgered who they were—the preacher up in Pickins, they said. Dependin’ on how passable it is, they should be here ’fore too long, and y’all can decide about a funeral and such. No need to worry none till then.”
“I’m grateful, Mooney. Truly. I never felt so cared for in all my days.” Amanda clung to Mooney’s hand. She thought a minute. “Where’s your husband?” she asked.