Seed on the Wind

“Get back in bed,” she said. “You’re crazy, don’t you know you’re sick?” She led her down the hall and into the bedroom. “Come on, back in bed this second. I’ll bring your breakfast. I was only gone a minute or two, and of course you had to wake up while I was away. No, wait, I’ll change the sheets while you’re out. Here, put this around you and sit here. I’ll shut the window.”

Lora took the shawl and stood with it in her hand. “Where is it?” she said.

“Where’s what? It’s all right. Don’t bother me with questions, wait till I get your bed fixed and bring your breakfast.” She was a miniature cyclone, dragging off the old sheets, flapping out the clean ones, running from one side of the bed to the other. “I haven’t had a minute’s sleep, not a minute. Neither has he. And Martha got here late — she was at her sister’s last night — and I had everything to do myself — it’s past ten o’clock and she’s just started on the breakfast dishes—”

Lora took her by the arm and turned her around.

“Where is it?”

Her mother became perfectly still in her grasp as an animal will, feeling itself caught. She made no reply.

“What have you done with it?”

Her mother’s eyes met hers, and she stepped back from them.

“It’s dead. You’ve got to know. It’s dead.”

Lora stared at her. She stared back, and added:

“It was born dead.”

Lora took two steps to the bed and sat down on its edge. “No,” she said. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was born dead,” her mother repeated. “That’s why you had such a hard time. It was terrible. I ought to know, I took it myself.”

Lora continued to stare at her. Finally she said, “That’s a lie. It wasn’t dead. I heard it. I knew you were no good. Oh, god, I’ve known all my life you were no good.” Her fists were clenched tight, separately, in her lap.

“It’s not the first time a baby was born dead,” said her mother. “I know it’s terrible. It’s hard. Look here, you say I’m no good. I’ve told you, haven’t I? I’m not as big a coward as he is. I’ve stood up to you and told you. He went early, so he wouldn’t be here when you woke up, I know. He went as soon as it was daylight, leaving me to tell you. I know I’m no good, but look at him.” A laugh rattled out of her. “You’re none too lucky in your mother, but your father, your own father—”

“Where is it?” Lora demanded.

“What? It’s dead I tell you.”

“Yes, I mean where is it.” She unclenched her hands and stood up, steadying herself by the bedpost. “I want to see it.”

“It’s gone.”

“It can’t be. I want to see it. Listen, Mother, please, can’t you see I’ve got to see it?”

At that her mother flopped on her knees by the bed and began to cry. Her thin shoulders rose and fell, her head rolled back and forth on her folded arms, and she sobbed as Lora had never heard her before. Lora stood a moment, then sat down on the bed again. After a while words began to come in the interstices of her mother’s sobs, with her head still buried in her arms. Of course Lora wanted to see her baby, she said. Of course she did. She couldn’t. It was really gone. He had taken it. He had taken it right away and gone out of the house with it and stayed a long while; he had stayed two hours or more. When he came back he wouldn’t say anything except that he had attended to it. Then he ate breakfast, a big breakfast, four eggs she had never known him to eat before, and pretty soon, after daylight came, he went again, leaving her, Lora’s mother, to tell her. Lora was suffering of course, but so was she; she had suffered for twenty years and there would never be an end of it.

Lora reached down and gripped her mother’s shoulders and pulled her up to look at her.

“Was it dead?” she demanded.

Her mother nodded. “It’s dead.”

“Was it dead when he took it?”

That question was never answered. Not then or ever. Mrs. Winter got to her feet and stumbled out of the room, sobbing afresh, and down the stairs. Lora sat on the edge of the bed staring at the open door. She got up and pushed the door shut, then returned and sat down again. She felt cold and faint and the objects in the room were staggering crazily in front of her eyes. She fell back onto the bed and pulled the covers up, turned over on her face and lay there without moving.

When Martha came in with her breakfast tray half an hour later she refused to move or make any reply to the maid’s greeting, until, frightened, Martha approached and touched her shoulder; then she turned her head a little.

“Let me alone, I’m all right.”

“You’ve got to eat, Miss Lora. You ought to eat while it’s hot.”

“All right. Let me alone.”