Джон Гришэм - A Painted House

We could not see this episode, nor did we have to, to get the full effect.

But I was more horrified thinking about the severity and duration of the beating I’d get if my father knew where I was at that moment. I suddenly wanted to leave.

“How long does it take to have a baby?” I whispered to Tally. If she was weary, she didn’t show it. She rested on her knees, frozen, her eyes never leaving the window.

“Depends. First one always takes longer.”

“How long does the seventh one take?”

“I don’t know. By then they just drop out, I guess. Who’s had seven?”

“Libby’s mom. Seven or eight. I think she drops one a year.”

I was about to doze off when the next contraction hit. Again it rattled the house and led first to weeping and then to soothing words inside the room. Then things leveled off once more, and I realized this might go on for a long time.

When I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I curled up on the warm soil between the two rows of cotton. “Don’t you think we oughta leave?” I whispered.

“No,” she said firmly, without moving.

“Wake me up if anything happens,” I said.

Tally readjusted herself. She sat on her rear and crossed her legs, and gently placed my head in her lap. She rubbed my shoulder and my head. I didn’t want to go to sleep, but I just couldn’t help it.

When I awoke, I was at first lost in a strange world, lying in a field, in total blackness. I didn’t move. The ground around me wasn’t warm anymore, and my feet were cold. I opened my eyes and stared above, terrified until I realized there was cotton standing over me. I heard urgent voices nearby. Someone said, “Libby,” and I was jolted back to reality. I reached for Tally, but she was gone.

I rose from the ground and peered through the cotton. The scene hadn’t changed. The window was still open, the candles still burning, but my mother and Gran and Mrs. Latcher were very busy.

“Tally!” I whispered urgently, too loud, I thought, but I was more scared than ever.

“Shhhhh!” came the reply. “Over here.”

I could barely see the back of her head, two rows in front and over to the right. She had, of course, angled for a better view. I knifed through the stalks and was soon at her side.

Home plate is sixty feet from the pitcher’s mound. We were much closer to the window than that. Only two rows of cotton stood between us and the edge of their side yard. Ducking low and looking up through the stalks, I could finally see the shadowy sweating faces of my mother and grandmother and Mrs. Latcher. They were staring down, looking at Libby, of course, and we could not see her. I’m not sure I wanted to at this point, but my buddy certainly did.

The women were reaching and shoving and urging her to push and breathe and push and breathe, all the while assuring her that things were going to be fine. Things didn’t sound fine. The poor girl was bawling and grunting, occasionally yelling — high piercing shrieks that were hardly muffled by the walls of the room. Her anguished voice carried deep through the still night, and I wondered what her little brothers and sisters thought of it all.

When Libby wasn’t grunting and crying, she was saying, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” It went on and on, time after time, a mindless chant from a suffering girl.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” her mother replied a thousand times.

“Can’t they do something?” I whispered.

“Nope, not a thing. The baby comes when it wants to.”

I wanted to ask Tally just exactly how she knew so much about childbirthing, but I held my tongue. It was none of my business, and she would probably tell me so.

Suddenly, things were quiet and still inside the room. The Chandler women backed away, then Mrs. Latcher leaned down with a glass of water. Libby was silent.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

The break in the action gave me time to think of other things, namely getting caught. I’d seen enough. This adventure had run its course. Tally had likened it to the trip to Siler’s Creek, but it paled in comparison with that little escapade. We’d been gone for hours. What if Pappy stumbled into Ricky’s room to check on me? What if one of the Spruills woke up and started looking for Tally? What if my father got bored with it all and went home?

The beating I’d get would hurt for days, if in fact I survived it. I was beginning to panic when Libby started heaving loudly again, while the women implored her to breathe and push.

“There it is!” my mother said, and a frenzy followed as the women hovered frantically over their patient.

“Keep pushin’!” Gran said loudly.

Libby groaned even more. She was exhausted, but at least the end was in sight.

“Don’t give up, sweetie,” her mother said. “Don’t give up.”

Tally and I were perfectly still, mesmerized by the drama. She took my hand and squeezed it tightly. Her jaws were clenched, her eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s comin’!” my mother said, and for a brief moment things were quiet. Then we heard the cry of a newborn, a quick gurgling protest, and a new Latcher had arrived.

“It’s a boy,” Gran said, and she lifted up the tiny infant, still covered in blood and afterbirth.

“It’s a boy,” Mrs. Latcher repeated.

There was no response from Libby.

I’d seen more than I bargained for. “Let’s go,” I said, trying to pull away, but Tally wasn’t moving.

Gran and my mother continued working on Libby while Mrs. Latcher cleaned the baby, who was furious about something and crying loudly. I couldn’t help but think of how sad it would be to become a Latcher, to be born into that small, dirty house with a pack of other kids.

A few minutes passed, and Percy appeared at the window. “Can we see the baby?” he asked, almost afraid to look in.

“In a minute,” Mrs. Latcher replied.

They gathered at the window, the entire collection of Latchers, including the father, who was now a grandfather, and waited to see the baby. They were just in front of us, halfway between home and the mound, it seemed, and I stopped breathing for fear they would hear us. But they weren’t thinking about intruders. They were looking at the open window, all still with wonder.

Mrs. Latcher brought the infant over and leaned down so he could meet his family. He reminded me of my baseball glove; he was almost as dark, and wrapped in a towel. He was quiet for the moment and appeared unimpressed with the mob watching him.

“How’s Libby?” one of them asked.

“She’s fine,” Mrs. Latcher said.

“Can we see her?”

“No, not right now. She’s very tired.” She withdrew the baby, and the other Latchers retreated slowly to the front of the house. I could not see my father, but I knew he was hiding somewhere near his truck. Hard cash could not entice him to look at an illegitimate newborn.

For a few minutes, the women seemed as busy as they’d been just before the birth, but then they slowly finished their work.

My trance wore off, and I realized that we were a long way from home. “We gotta go, Tally!” I whispered urgently. She was ready and I followed her as we backtracked, cutting our way through the stalks until we were away from the house, then turning south and running with the rows of cotton. We stopped to get our bearings. The light from the window could not be seen. The moon had disappeared. There were no shapes or shadows from the Latcher place. Total darkness.

We turned west, again stepping across the rows, cutting through the stalks, pushing them aside so they wouldn’t scrape our faces. The rows ended, and we found the trail leading to the main road. My feet hurt, and my legs ached, but we couldn’t waste time. We ran to the bridge. Tally wanted to watch the waters swirling below, but I made her keep going.