them, also. "I've never seen a baby being born," I said. "I don't even know much about it."
"Neither have we!" Maria laughed. "But we'll prepare you for that part. Ben will show you our books, and explain everything in advance so that you'll know exactly what to expect when the time comes. Only, Ben," she added to him, "I think you'd better do it
soon,
because I don't know how much longer we have. The calendar says two weeks, but there are times when I wonder if it might be sooner."
I promised to talk to my parents, and Ben said he would, too. Suddenly I thought of something. "What if it's born at night?" I asked. "There won't be enough light. I could use a flash, I suppose, butâ"
Ben held up one hand. "Don't worry!" he said. He cupped his hands into a megaphone and held them against Maria's stomach. Then he spoke to the baby through his hands: "Now hear this, kid. You are under instructions to wait until Molly comes home. Then come, but do it in daylight, you hear?
"That'll do it," Ben said. "Maria and I are determined to have an obedient child."
Before I left, I took Ben aside and spoke to him alone. "I'm sorry, Ben, for what I said that day."
He squeezed my shoulders. "That's okay, Meg. We all say things we're sorry for. But do you understand now what I was talking about that day?"
I shook my head and answered him seriously, honestly. "No. I think you're wrong, to anticipate bad things. And I don't understand why you even want to think about something like that. But I'm still sorry for what I said."
"Well," Ben said, "we're friends, anyway. Hang in there, Meg." And he shook my hand.
Will walked me home across the field. He was very quiet. Halfway home, he said, "Meg, you're very young. Do you think it's a good idea, really, being there when that child is born?"
"Why not?"
"It might be very frightening. Birth isn't an easy thing, you know."
"I know that." I dislodged a small rock with one toe and kicked it through a clump of tall grass. "For pete's sake, Will, how can I learn if I don't take risks? You're the one who taught me that!"
Will stopped short and thought for a minute. "You're absolutely right, Meg. Absolutely right." He looked a little sheepish.
I looked around the field. "Will, what happened
to all those little yellow flowers that were here last month?"
"Gone until next June," he told me. "They've all been replaced by July's flowers. Molly's goldenrod will be in bloom before long."
"I
liked
those little yellow ones," I said grumpily.
"'Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving?'" Will asked.
"What?" I was puzzled. He never called me Margaret; what was he talking about?
He smiled. "It's a poem by Hopkins. Your father would know. 'It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for,'" he went on.
"Not me," I told him arrogantly. "I
never
mourn for myself."
"We all do, Meg," Will said. "We all do."
That was three weeks ago. July is almost over. Molly isn't home yet. The baby hasn't been born, so I suppose it's following Ben's instructions and waiting for her. I've studied the books on delivering babies with Maria and Ben, and I'm ready to do the photographs. My parents don't mind. When I asked them, they said "Sure" without even discussing it. They're very preoccupied. I know why, finally.
It was a few nights ago, after supper. My dad was smoking his pipe at the kitchen table. The dishes were done; Mom was sewing on the quilt, which is almost finished. I was just hanging around, talking
too much, trying to make up for the quiet that had been consuming our house. I even turned the radio on; there was some rock music playing.
"Hey, Dad, dance with me!" I said, pulling at his arm. It was something silly we used to do sometimes, back in town. My dad is a
terrible
dancer, but sometimes he used to dance with Molly and me in the kitchen; it used to break my mother up.
He finally put down his pipe and got up and started dancing. Poor Dad; he hadn't gotten any better
"Neither have we!" Maria laughed. "But we'll prepare you for that part. Ben will show you our books, and explain everything in advance so that you'll know exactly what to expect when the time comes. Only, Ben," she added to him, "I think you'd better do it
soon,
because I don't know how much longer we have. The calendar says two weeks, but there are times when I wonder if it might be sooner."
I promised to talk to my parents, and Ben said he would, too. Suddenly I thought of something. "What if it's born at night?" I asked. "There won't be enough light. I could use a flash, I suppose, butâ"
Ben held up one hand. "Don't worry!" he said. He cupped his hands into a megaphone and held them against Maria's stomach. Then he spoke to the baby through his hands: "Now hear this, kid. You are under instructions to wait until Molly comes home. Then come, but do it in daylight, you hear?
"That'll do it," Ben said. "Maria and I are determined to have an obedient child."
Before I left, I took Ben aside and spoke to him alone. "I'm sorry, Ben, for what I said that day."
He squeezed my shoulders. "That's okay, Meg. We all say things we're sorry for. But do you understand now what I was talking about that day?"
I shook my head and answered him seriously, honestly. "No. I think you're wrong, to anticipate bad things. And I don't understand why you even want to think about something like that. But I'm still sorry for what I said."
"Well," Ben said, "we're friends, anyway. Hang in there, Meg." And he shook my hand.
Will walked me home across the field. He was very quiet. Halfway home, he said, "Meg, you're very young. Do you think it's a good idea, really, being there when that child is born?"
"Why not?"
"It might be very frightening. Birth isn't an easy thing, you know."
"I know that." I dislodged a small rock with one toe and kicked it through a clump of tall grass. "For pete's sake, Will, how can I learn if I don't take risks? You're the one who taught me that!"
Will stopped short and thought for a minute. "You're absolutely right, Meg. Absolutely right." He looked a little sheepish.
I looked around the field. "Will, what happened
to all those little yellow flowers that were here last month?"
"Gone until next June," he told me. "They've all been replaced by July's flowers. Molly's goldenrod will be in bloom before long."
"I
liked
those little yellow ones," I said grumpily.
"'Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving?'" Will asked.
"What?" I was puzzled. He never called me Margaret; what was he talking about?
He smiled. "It's a poem by Hopkins. Your father would know. 'It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for,'" he went on.
"Not me," I told him arrogantly. "I
never
mourn for myself."
"We all do, Meg," Will said. "We all do."
That was three weeks ago. July is almost over. Molly isn't home yet. The baby hasn't been born, so I suppose it's following Ben's instructions and waiting for her. I've studied the books on delivering babies with Maria and Ben, and I'm ready to do the photographs. My parents don't mind. When I asked them, they said "Sure" without even discussing it. They're very preoccupied. I know why, finally.
It was a few nights ago, after supper. My dad was smoking his pipe at the kitchen table. The dishes were done; Mom was sewing on the quilt, which is almost finished. I was just hanging around, talking
too much, trying to make up for the quiet that had been consuming our house. I even turned the radio on; there was some rock music playing.
"Hey, Dad, dance with me!" I said, pulling at his arm. It was something silly we used to do sometimes, back in town. My dad is a
terrible
dancer, but sometimes he used to dance with Molly and me in the kitchen; it used to break my mother up.
He finally put down his pipe and got up and started dancing. Poor Dad; he hadn't gotten any better
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