Belle told her the husband’s actions didn’t surprise her. “I ain’t trying to speak ill of the dead, but them Macon men got reputations.”
“Child, please! You ain’t said nothing but the word.”
Whenever Miss Martha walked from behind the counter, the baby would kick excitedly inside Belle. Maybe it was the free food she gave them whenever the produce supplier drove in and brought in new stock. In late August, a slab of home-raised streak-o-lean. Early September, a paper sack of scuppernongs, which thrilled Belle to her soul. She didn’t even wait to wash the grapes. She bit into one and sucked the inside from the skin, crunching the seeds.
Miss Martha smiled, showing her gap. “These colored folks up here don’t like no scup’nons, but I knowed you would.”
“I shole do. I thank you so much.”
Whenever Belle tried to offer money for the gifts, the old lady told her, put that away. Don’t be hurting her feelings. She helped Belle load her bags of fresh vegetables in the child’s red wagon Geoff bought her, and Belle dragged the wagon home behind her, thrilled with her treasure. She’d bring what she could up the stairs to the apartment, leaving the rest in the hallway for her husband to deliver when he returned from school.
*
When Belle’s time came, Dr. Moorhead brought in a group of male residents, who took turns peering at Belle’s shaved, gaping privates, and, oh, the pain that held her in its humiliating twist, because she was afraid to accept twilight sleep. And, Jesus, if this was labor cut in half, what was the full parcel? During those agonizing seventeen hours, fourteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds, Belle prayed for her own death. Let that damned baby survive on its own, if it wanted to cause this much trouble. But Belle forgot her pain the moment she was handed the white-faced, blue-eyed ugliness. She loved this ugly thing. She loved her so much.
The next day, the nurse came to the maternity ward to demonstrate how to bathe the babies.
“How about we start with yours, Mrs. Garfield?” The nurse scanned the rows of infants. A finger pointed at a dark infant, born at a low weight. Belle shook her head. Another dark baby, a little girl. That went on for several minutes, with the other mothers laughing, already forgetful of their gendered agony, but the game wasn’t funny to Belle.
The younger Garfields named their daughter Lydia Claire, and when mother and baby came home, Belle didn’t want to leave the house. It was so cold outside; sometimes, it even snowed. Other days, the baby had an accident after Belle dressed her in one of the outfits that her grandmother had sewn and mailed to her. The baby would squirt shit through her cloth diaper, gurgling as if having accomplished a goal.
Other than visiting Dr. Clements, the pediatrician who shared Dr. Moorhead’s practice, Belle only left the house on Sundays, to visit her in-laws. She’d hoped the parlor ambushes would end once a grandchild entered the scene, but the baby only became another weapon. Miss Claire constantly joked that if she kidnapped the baby, the police wouldn’t return her. Lydia didn’t look a bit like her mother, she told Belle, and she criticized nursing as old-fashioned.
Every time, Zachary Garfield would cut into his wife’s harshness, talking over her.
“I’m very happy you’re nursing, Belle.” He smiled. “It’s so healthy for the baby, and these modern women care far too much about high bosoms. You’re such a good mother.” He’d hold out his hands for Lydia, and she’d grab his silly tie, printed with a bear digging into a honey jar. The baby nuzzled into his chest as her grandfather rocked her, kissing the top of her head, saying Lydia was his favorite little girl in the world. His pretty, pretty girl, and there would be a serene interval before Belle’s mother-in-law began her jagged criticism again.
After these visits, Belle would lie in her apartment bed, crying, as Geoff stood in the doorway. Whatever he’d done, he was so sorry. Please forgive him, as she covered her head with the spread. Throughout the week, she asked Geoff to go to Miss Martha’s store with her list. Please give her apologies. Tell her friend that it was just too cold to go outside, and please don’t forget his home training. Put a handle on that lady’s name.
One Sunday, she found her nerve to confront him. “Geoff, I’m not going to your mama’s this evening.”
“What’s wrong, baby? Are you not feeling well?”
“No. I’m sorry to say, your mama is mean. I can’t take her anymore.”
“I know that.”
“You do? Then, why don’t you say something?”