God punished the wicked. She was the wicked. But every day, she repented her wicked ways, worked toward her redemption.
She pushed herself to her feet, wincing as her knees creaked. She wore her scrubbing dress—a cotton tent that hung to the middle of her calves—and thin-soled slippers. Her hair, well past her waist now, hung in a brittle, graying braid down her back.
She was not afforded a mirror, as vanity was a sin lodged dark in every woman’s heart, but her fingers could feel the lines scoring her face.
She told herself to be grateful Sir still wanted her to do her marital duties, that he rewarded her by providing for her.
She pressed her hand to her belly, where she knew another child grew. She prayed it would be a boy. Every night, she knelt and prayed for a son, one her husband would allow her to keep with her. One she could love and feed at her breast, could tend and teach.
She emptied the bucket, filled it again. Time to scrub the cupboards, the counter, the cold box, and the little kitchen sink. Time to do her work.
But after she carried the bucket into her kitchen, she had to lean against the wall. It was the baby, of course. Growing inside her, needing to take from her, that made her so tired, and half-feverish with it.
She’d make some tea, sit for a little while until she felt stronger. Stronger for the baby, she thought as she got out the jar holding the dandelion greens Sir had been so kind to teach her, an ignorant woman, how to dry.
She put a cup of water in a pot to boil, and while it did, used the hot, soapy water in the bucket to scrub while she waited.
It wouldn’t do to let it go cold. Waste not, want not.
By the time the water boiled she felt hot and dizzy. The tea would put her to rights, the tea and a little sit-down time.
She poured the boiling water over the plastic teaspoon of greens, carried it with her to the chair.
As she sat, she closed her eyes. “We’re just going to rest a minute,” she told the baby. “Just going to take a rest. We’ve got beans and tomatoes to harvest tonight. And maybe some summer squash. We’ve got—”
She broke off, gasping at the sudden, vicious cramp.
“No! No, please!”
The second doubled her over in the chair, dropped her onto her knees as the cup fell out of her hand, spilling dandelion tea on the old braided rug.
She felt it leave her, that life, felt it flood out of her in blood and pain.
God punished the wicked, she thought, and lay on the rug, wishing for her own death.
— Present Day —
Bodine managed to get home just before dark—and before another hit of February snow. As she stripped off her winter gear, she caught the scents of cooking from the kitchen.
“God, that smells good! We’re in for another couple feet they’re saying, Clementine. You might want to—” Spotting the sturdy, stoic cook wiping hastily at tears, Bodine broke off, rushed forward. “What’s the matter? What happened? Is somebody hurt? Mom—”
Sniffling, trying to shoo Bodine aside, Clementine shook her head. “She and your dad are out on a date. It’s nothing. I got something in my eye.”
“Don’t hand me that bull. You could have a splinter the size of my thumb in your eye and you’d pluck it out without shedding a tear. You sit down.”
“Can’t you see I’ve got this chicken to finish?”
With a flick, Bodine turned off the burner. “It’ll keep. I said you sit down, and I mean it. Right now.”
“I’d like to know when you started giving orders around here.”
“I’m giving this one. Or do you want me to call Mom?”
“Don’t you dare do any such thing!” Face set, cheeks still damp, Clementine sat. “There. Satisfied?”
Though she wanted to snap back, Bodine held her tongue. She thought to make tea, decided it would take too long and she might lose the advantage. She pulled out a bottle of whisky instead, poured two fingers.
After slapping it down in front of Clementine, Bodine sat. “Now, you tell me what’s wrong. How many times have I told you when I got hurt or upset or just mad enough to cry?”
“It’s nothing to do with you.”
“You’re everything to do with me.”
Defeated by that, Clementine lifted the glass, downed half the whisky. “I don’t know what came over me. I just heard … A friend of mine in my quilting club—you know Sarah Howard.”
“Sure. I went to school with her younger son, Harry. I— Oh, Clem, did something happen to Mrs. Howard?”
“No, no, she’s fine. I’m just—” Holding up a hand, Clementine composed herself. “Sarah’s friends with Denise McNee—that’s that poor child Karyn Allison’s ma. She took her name back after the divorce some years back. Sarah’s cousin Marjean married Denise’s brother, and Sarah and Denise got friendly over the years.”
“All right.”
“We were meeting up tonight, the quilting club, at my house. Eight to ten. Sarah just called, said how she couldn’t come—she was bringing her coffee cake.”
The rambling road wasn’t hard to follow. “What happened to Denise McNee, Clem?”
“She took a bunch of pills, Bodine. Just swallowed a bunch of pills the doctor gave her to help her get through this terrible time. I don’t know what kind of damn pills.”
“Oh, Clem.”
“It was Sarah who found her, went over to take her a casserole, give her some company for a while. It was Sarah who found her and called an ambulance.”
“She killed herself.”
“Tried to. Might have done it yet. She’s in the hospital, and Sarah said they just don’t know yet. She was sobbing over the phone, Sarah was. Just beside herself. And I just started thinking how that poor woman wanted to die, how she lost her child in such an awful way, and it’s the same as losing her heart.”
“I’m so sorry, Clem. I’m just so sorry.”
“She ain’t never going to be the same, that mother.” Chin quivering, Clementine used the hem of her apron to wipe at her red-rimmed eyes. “If she goes on living, she’ll never be the same as she was. People look at me and think I’ve never had children, but that’s not the truth.”
“No, it’s not.” Tone gentle, grip firm, Bodine took Clementine’s hand. “You’ve got me and Chase and Rory. I guess Callen, too, really.”
“It just came over me so hard.” Steadier, Clementine dashed away tears with her free hand. “A good friend of mine crying over the phone for a friend of hers. That poor girl dead for reasons we just don’t know. And Cora, bearing up all these years, not knowing if a child of hers is dead or alive. It just came over me so hard, and had me thinking how would I bear up, how would I live through if something happened to one of mine?”
She rocked herself a little, sipped at the whisky. “There’s just no love like the love of a mother for a child, no matter how that child comes into their life, and no loss or grief to match it.”
“We’re going to take care of ourselves, and look out for each other, I promise you. Don’t I let Callen tag along with me half the time going to work, or Rory? So I can keep an eye out for them?”