“I didn’t expect it, either,” I said.
“No,” said Mama softly. “You didn’t.”
Grandfather came in with Caleb then, and my talk with Mama was done. I still had the lump in my throat. I was still scared. I went out to feed the chickens. They didn’t seem afraid of anything.
Summer clouds rolled in, and Papa came out of the barn.
“Rain’s coming,” he said, squinting his eyes to see the faraway clouds.
“It was sunny just a bit ago,” said Grandfather. “Summer storms come in fast.”
“I hope it goes fast, too,” said Papa. “We’ll be haying soon.”
The chickens didn’t like rain, and when the first drops came they ran to the barn.
The geese had hatched goslings last week, and they had taken to following Mama everywhere. A large Mama getting larger. They followed her into the barn and out, down the road for walks, and today they tried to follow her into the house.
Caleb and I looked out the small barn window. The cows liked the rain and the coolness it brought. Eleni lifted her face to the rain, and when the wind came the horses ran out in the meadow.
“Was that you in my room?” asked Caleb. “In the night?”
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe it was a dream.”
I didn’t say anything. Caleb looked down at me.
“It will be all right,” he said. “I promise.”
How could he promise that?
Thunder came then, drowning out anything I could say. I stood very still, looking out the barn window. After a while Caleb put his arm around me. We stood there for a long time as the rain pounded on the barn roof and chickens pecked around our feet.
I watched day after day, but there wasn’t much to write. Not much to make up. All I saw was the girl riding the dappled horse when she came again to see Caleb. It was Violet, Maggie and Matthew’s daughter. They met behind the windmill. I heard them laughing and laughing there.
* * *
Princess Violet and Caleb are very happy. They laugh all day long. Their children, Ondine and Tootie, are growing up, and Tootie is getting a little fat even though she eats only nuts and fruits.
* * *
Caleb smiled when I read this to him. He was nicer to me now. He didn’t seem to mind me writing stories about him. Sometimes he even liked them.
But writing was hard. Stories wouldn’t come, and I said so to Grandfather. He nodded.
“Maybe there’s too much going on, Cassie. Too much in your head, filling it up.”
“Mostly Mama and the terrible baby,” I said. “I do not plan to like that baby.”
Grandfather sat down next to me.
“Remember when I first came here? You didn’t much like me.”
I thought Grandfather was mean then. I thought he was hateful and cranky.
“You changed,” I said.
“You changed, too,” said Grandfather.
“You changed more,” I said, making Grandfather laugh.
I thought about what he said. I was different now. So was he. And Mama would be different soon.
Everything would be different. And it would never change back again. But I wrote it that way.
* * *
“Where is Beatrice?” I ask Mama.
“Gone,” says Mama. “Gone away. Flown up to the sky with the doves.”
All we have to take care of are our goslings, Willie Jo and Margaret Louise and Madeleine.
Happily ever after. Just the way it always was.
* * *
8
Days went by, one by one by one, faster and faster. The haying would begin today. There were already neighbors and their horses and cutters out in the fields. The side yard was filled with tables for lunch later on.
I watched Mama all the time now, peeking at her from around doors and watching her nap in the afternoon. I watched her from the tree as the goslings followed her. At night I could hear her as she walked around the kitchen, and I’d tiptoe down the stairs and watch her until she went back to bed. I couldn’t stop watching her.
* * *
I am Mama’s protector. I will keep her safe. I will save her from the terrible baby.
I have to watch.
* * *
“Cassie? What are you doing?”
I jumped as Grandfather came up behind me.
“I’m watching Mama.”
“I can see that. You do it all the time. Why?”
“I have to!” I blurted it out.
Grandfather stared at me for a minute. Then he took my hand.
“Come with me,” he said.
I looked back at Mama.
“I can’t,” I repeated.
“Come,” repeated Grandfather, ignoring me.
He pulled me into the cool, dark barn. Caleb looked up from cleaning a bridle.
“Caleb. Your papa needs the bridles,” said Grandfather.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Caleb picked up another bridle and went out to the field to hitch up the horses. He didn’t look at me.
Grandfather pointed to a wooden trunk.
“Sit there, Cassie.”
“I don’t have time, Grandfather.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You are still mean,” I told Grandfather.
Grandfather didn’t answer. He sat down next to me.
“Caleb told me what you asked him in the middle of the night.”
“Caleb shouldn’t have done that,” I said. “He was asleep, too. He didn’t even remember what I said.”
“Yes, he did,” said Grandfather. “He did, Cassie,” he repeated softly.
Grandfather took my hand again. I tried to pull it away, but he held on tightly.
“Cassie. You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “Caleb’s mama died when he was born because she was frail.”
Frail. I knew that word. We had a lamb born once that was frail, and we’d brought it into the house to keep it warm, and we’d fed it from a bottle night and day. But the lamb had lived.
“Sarah is strong, Cassie.”
His hand was warm, and I could feel tears fill my eyes.
“I am afraid,” I whispered. “I have to keep Mama safe.”
“No, Cassie. That isn’t your job. That is your mama’s job, and your papa’s job. And mine.”
I stared straight ahead, hoping the tears would not fall down my face. Grandfather held my hand, and the voices of Matthew and Caleb and Papa came closer. Finally, just before everyone came into the barn, Grandfather leaned over and kissed me.
It was the kiss that made me cry. I ran away from Grandfather, past Matthew and Papa and Caleb, past Maggie and Violet’s sister Rose and Violet in the yard. I ran past Mama, who turned to watch me. She called my name, but I ran into the house and up the stairs and into my room.
“Cassie!”
It was Mama’s voice at the bottom of the stairs. I opened the door.
“Cassie, I want to speak with you.”
I didn’t answer.
“I’ll climb up these stairs, Cassie.”
“No. I’ll come down,” I said quickly.
Very slowly I walked down the stairs.
“Cassie. I know some things,” said Mama.
“What things?”
“I know you watch me all the time,” said Mama.
I started to shake my head, but Mama stopped me.
“I saw you in the night, watching. I saw you watching me with the goslings. I know you’re afraid.”
“Grandfather told you,” I whispered.
“He didn’t have to tell me,” Mama said. “I’m smart, you know.”
She smiled.
“I am fine, Cassie. I am strong.”
“But you’re old,” I said.
“Older,” corrected Mama.
Mama sat down at the kitchen table.
“I’ll make a bargain with you, Cassie,” she said. “You don’t have to follow me everywhere anymore. You do
n’t have to hide behind doors.”
Mama had seen that, too?
“You don’t have to get up in the night and watch me, because I will let you know if I need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll call you if I need something. I will call you when I’m going to have the baby.”
I sat down next to Mama.
“You will? You will do that?”
Mama nodded.
“I promise,” she said. “I promise, Cassie. You will be the first to know.”
I leaned back in the chair. All of a sudden I was tired.
Mama stood up.
“I have to go help Maggie now,” she said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep. You look tired.”
“Will you . . . ?”
“Call you if I need you? Yes,” said Mama.
Mama put her arms around me. That terrible baby was big inside her. It came between us so I couldn’t put my arms all the way around her.
I went upstairs and lay down on my bed. I closed my eyes. There were no thoughts in my head. There were no words there. No stories. And when I slept there were no dreams.
9
We ate lunch in the shade of the house, all the workers and friends. The horses, near the barn, drank water out of buckets. Caleb washed them down to cool them. The air smelled the sharp, strong smell of cut hay. Little bits of hay hung in the still air.
Caleb sat next to Violet and they laughed at their own private words.
* * *
Still they laugh, the princess and Caleb. They laugh so much that laughter flies out of their mouths, goes up and away on the wind. When the wind dies, the laughter will float back to earth and make some sad, serious, surprised person laugh, too.
* * *
Rose drew a picture of Caleb and Violet, their faces pointed up, mouths open, looking like howling dogs. This made me laugh.
It felt strange to laugh. I hadn’t laughed in a long time, and Mama looked over at me and smiled. Papa smiled, too, and Maggie brought out a tall, white, frosted cake with strawberries. Grandfather ate a bite, then two, then three.
“This is stupendous, Maggie,” he said. “Exquisite!”
He caught me looking at him.
“You and Caleb taught me about words.”
I nodded. Grandfather couldn’t read when he had come back to the farm. All the years of his life he couldn’t read. Until Caleb taught him.
“This cake is magnificent,” said Grandfather. “Tasty, lovely, glorious, stunning! Could I have another piece?”
“Don’t forget we have more haying to do,” said Matthew.
“This cake can only help,” said Grand-father.
Talk and words, some of them Grandfather’s words, swirled around us until it was time for haying again.
We cleared the table, Lottie and Nick hoping for snacks.
“I’m going to town tomorrow,” said Papa, carrying plates to the house. “Who needs something wonderful?”
Papa looked at me.
“Want to come, Cassie? Buy something perfect?”
Mama smiled.
“I’ll have a new horse, if you don’t mind,” said Matthew.
“You could get me a buggy,” said Maggie. “With a leather top.”
“I’ll have another piece of cake,” said Grandfather, making everyone laugh.
“I’ll come to town with you,” said Caleb.
“I’m staying here. I know that,” said Mama. “My back hurts today.”
“I’ll stay here, too,” I said.
Mama took my hand.
“You go if you want, Cassie. Remember what I said.”
I shook my head.
“No, I want to stay and write. I have many things to write.”
“I’ll bring you something. A present,” called Caleb as he ran to bring in the horses. Grandfather walked out into the field, too.
The sky was so blue with a few clouds tossed above the land. Way off the cows moved slowly. A handful of sheep drank from the stream. A perfect day.
Perfect.
“I remember when you first came here, Sarah,” said Maggie.
I listened carefully.
“You brought me flowers,” said Mama. She imitated Maggie’s soft Southern voice. “You said, ‘you should have a garden wherever you are.’”
“What was Mama like then?” I asked.
Maggie grinned.
“She was strong-minded and opinionated.”
“And she still is,” I said.
Maggie and Mama laughed.
“Mama cried once because she missed you,” I said.
“Oh I cried, too,” said Maggie. Then she smiled. “But I’m back!”
I looked out and saw Grandfather coming in from the west meadow carrying something, a sheep following him, Caleb and Papa behind.
I ran out to the fence.
“Here’s a present for you, Cassie,” Grandfather said.
It was a new lamb. Very carefully Grandfather put it down and it stood on wobbly legs.
I grinned.
“It is Beatrice!” I said happily, leaning down to pet the lamb.
I looked at Grandfather and Mama and Papa. “Beatrice!”
* * *
The clouds float above, slowly, slowly, like in a dream. The air is sweet with hay.
Beatrice has been born.
* * *
10
Mama handed Caleb a list.
“I’ll stop at Anna’s for a bit,” Papa told her. “I’ll be home late afternoon.”
“I have Cassie here,” Mama said.
“And they both have me,” said Grand-father.
“Be sure to check that lamb,” said Papa.
“Beatrice,” I corrected Papa.
“Beatrice,” said Papa with a smile. “I’m not sure her mother knows what to do with her.”
The wagon started off, then stopped suddenly. Papa climbed down and came over and gave Mama a kiss.
“I forgot,” he said. “I’ll do that again when I get back.”
“All this kissing,” complained Grandfather.
“You should see Princess Violet and Caleb,” I said.
“Cassie,” warned Caleb.
The wagon clattered off and turned out the gate and went down the road, sending up little puffs of dust.
We walked over to the paddock fence. Beatrice stared at us with her little black eyes. She walked a little, then stopped and looked at us again.
“Beatrice,” said Grandfather softly. “Don’t really see how Beatrice can have a name when her mother doesn’t have one.”
“I think her name is Beatrice’s Mother,” said Mama.
“What kind of a name is that?” asked Grandfather.
“It’s what we’ve got,” said Mama with a smile.
Mama went off to the garden, followed by the goslings. Grandfather and I shoveled out stalls and laid down new hay for the horses. When we were done, I took my journal and sat in the meadow with Beatrice and Beatrice’s Mother.
* * *
Beatrice is beautiful and wise and will grow up to be an intelligent and imaginative sheep.
Beatrice’s Mother is not smart.
* * *
When Mama brought us sandwiches and fruit for lunch, I read them this. Grandfather nodded.
“I’m not sure sheep are known for their good sense,” he said.
“Beatrice is unusual,” I said.
The goslings saw Mama and ran over.
“Madeleine, I believe you’re going to be the largest of the three of you,” said Mama. “And you, Margaret Louise, will always be the runt.”
“Small and lovely, you mean,” said Grandfather.
They bustled around Mama until, laughing, she shooed them away.
“You know,” said Mama, “I’m going to go inside and rest. I feel tired.”
“I’ll come in, too,” I said.
“I’ll be in the barn,” said Grandfather. “I’ll come in later for a piece of cake.
”
“Cakes don’t last forever,” said Mama.
“Not with Grandfather around,” I said.
Inside, Mama sat at the table while I poured tea. I took out my journal.
“Did you write in a journal when you were little?” I asked Mama.
Mama smiled.
“No, I never thought of it. You’re lucky, Cassie. That journal is like an old friend, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
There was a silence.
“Sometimes I write things in here that are nasty,” I said.
“That’s what a journal is for,” said Mama. “To put down feelings. That way they don’t clutter up your head.”
I waited for a time while Mama drank tea.
“You know, I wrote something about you in here. And Beatrice.”
“You did? Is that how you seemed to know her name?”
I nodded.
“I wrote that you did not have the terrible baby. You had a baby lamb named Beatrice.”
Mama began to laugh. She laughed so hard that I began to laugh, too.
Finally she stopped to catch her breath.
“You know, it may be a good deal easier to raise that lamb than a terrible baby,” she said.
Those words, “terrible baby,” sounded funny in Mama’s voice. It seemed to give me some courage.
“And I wrote that you made Caleb take care of it because all it did was sleep and bleat. You said I was more beautiful than Beatrice. And smarter.”
My voice got smaller.
“And you loved me best.”
Mama did not laugh. She reached over and touched my cheek.
“And I do love you the best of all the eight-year-olds in this very house,” she said. “And I have enough room in me, Cassie. If I can love three troublesome goslings, I will share some love with the terrible baby.”
I smiled. I loved it when Mama said “terrible baby.” It was as if she had come over to my side. We would both have to deal with the terrible baby when it came.