Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(76)

You boys going to be all right? Harold said.

Yes sir.

Just holler if you need anything.

Holler loud, Raymond said. We don’t hear too good.

You need anything else right now? Harold said.

No, sir.

That’s it then. I guess we better go to bed. It’s getting pretty late. I’m going to say we had enough excitement for one night.

The girl went back to her room off the dining room and the McPheron brothers went upstairs. When they were gone the two boys removed their shoes and set them in place on the floor in front of the old television console and removed their pants, and then they lay down in their shirts and underwear in the thick blankets on the floor in the old room at the far end of the house, and lying on the floor they looked up into the room where the yardlight shone in on the wallpaper and the ceiling.

She looks like she’s going to have two babies, Bobby said.

Maybe she is.

Is she married to them?

Who?

Them. Those old men.

No, Ike said.

What’s she doing out here then?

I don’t know. What are we doing out here?

They both looked at the pale light showing in onto the ceiling and studied the faded pattern in the old wallpaper. It went all the way around the room and there were stains on it in places and water spots. After a while they closed their eyes. And then they breathed deeply and were asleep.

The next day Guthrie was at the McPherons’ place very early in the morning and he had already loaded the horse into the trailer by the time the two boys had finished the big breakfast of ham and eggs the girl had made for them.

On the way back into town Guthrie said, I missed you. I was worried when I couldn’t find you.

They didn’t say anything.

Are you all right this morning?

They nodded.

Are you?

Yes.

All right. But I don’t want you to do that again. He looked at them seated beside him in the pickup. Their faces were pale and quiet. He changed his tone. I ask you not to do that again, he said. I ask you not to leave like that again.

Dad, Ike said. Mrs. Stearns died.

Who?

The lady over on Main Street. In her apartment.

How do you know that?

We saw her yesterday. She was dead then.

Did you tell anybody?

No. We’re telling you.

But somebody better do something about her, Bobby said. Somebody better take care of her.

I’ll call somebody when we get back to town, Guthrie said.

They drove on down the road. After a while Ike said, But Dad?

Yes.

Isn’t Mother ever going to come back home again?

No, Guthrie said. He thought for a moment. I don’t think she is.

But she left her clothes and jewelry here.

That’s right, Guthrie said. We’ll have to take them to her.

She’ll want them, Bobby said.





Victoria Roubideaux.

They started about noon. That was on a Tuesday. Then she delivered about noon on Wednesday, so it was still a good twelve hours longer than the old doctor had told her it would likely take. But on that Tuesday noon when they started they were not very heavy at first and she wasn’t even sure what they were in the beginning, only that she had had the predictable cramps in her back which moved around to the front, and then in the next few hours they had come on more purposefully and she began to feel more certain then, and then she was both scared and proud, and she was pleased too.

But she didn’t want to make any fuss. She wanted to do this right. She didn’t want to be cheated by alarm or false emotion. So she didn’t tell them right away, the old McPheron brothers, who were outside all afternoon with the cattle in the work corrals, checking the new cow-calf pairs in the bright warm latespring afternoon. In the last two weeks the brothers had taken to staying in close to the house, ever since they’d driven her to the doctor, locating work for themselves to do in the barn or the corrals, and on those occasions when they both couldn’t be nearby they had begun to take precautions so at least one of them was always close to the house, near enough to hear any call that the girl might make.

So on this Tuesday she had been in and out of her small bedroom throughout the afternoon, during those first few uncertain hours, busying herself with the new crib and the sheet and the blankets, and moving about in the neat little room, tidying up what wasn’t untidy, straightening what wasn’t out of order, dusting where no accumulation of dust had been allowed at any time since she had come back from Denver. And as a result she had everything about two times more than ready, and she had already packed and repacked at least twice whatever it was she would need to take with her to the hospital in the travel bag, including a nightgown and pads and baby clothes, all that the books said she would need, all that Maggie Jones had told her to take as well. Earlier she had thought that she would call Maggie on the day that the pains started, but she had decided against it now. She had decided she would call her later from the hospital when she had something certain to call about. She had a feeling about wanting this to happen just for herself. And just for them too, the old brothers, without others being involved. She thought they had earned that. So she busied herself about the house and about the little room and waited until they got harder and more definite, and then late in the afternoon, about five o’clock, she went out to the corrals where they were working and stood waiting at the board fence until they should look up from the cow and calf they were inspecting and see her. And then they did look up and she called to them: