Against the Season by Jane Rule

move against her own pain. “Kathy doesn’t call, but she’ll want me.”
    “I love you, Amelia Larson,” Rosemary said, kissing Amelia on the cheek.
    “It’s nice to know,” Amelia said, though the declaration had fallen short in the wide space there was to her own need. “Go along home now. I’ll phone you tomorrow.”
    Kathy would hear her coming down the long corridor and compose her face. “A good brave girl” she wanted to be, and maybe she’d be able to manage it for herself. Being good at pain, for most people, was a matter of practice rather than courage, or so it seemed to Amelia.
    “How is it now?” she asked as she swung into Kathy’s curtained bed and look at the whitely wakened face.
    “I think maybe I’ve begun, too,” Kathy said.
    “Good.”
    “But maybe it’s only her baby,” Kathy added, an uncertain shake in her voice.
    Amelia smiled at her.
    “I mean, like wanting to throw up because somebody else is,” Kathy tried to explain, then suddenly grunted and closed her eyes.
    “That’s you, all right,” Amelia said. “And that’s fine. Get the idea, get the rhythm. It’s hard work, child, but you’re good at that.”
    After a moment Kathy eased herself again and took her breath. Then she said, “They try to tell you, but it isn’t like they say.”
    Amelia had trouble hearing her because of a sharp complaint from the woman in the next bed and the busyness of nurses around her.
    “Time for you now,” one of the nurses said.
    “I wish it was for me,” Kathy said.
    “It will be; just go with it,” Amelia said.
    It was clear that her hard labor had begun, but, as the hours passed and each of the other two women went in to be delivered, Kathy stayed caught in the prerhythm of pain. There were nurses to talk with her, guide her. The doctor was there, his tired young face sometimes intent, sometimes impatient, knowing he had been called back too early. He and Amelia went into the hall occasionally, taking coffee together.
    At six o’clock in the morning, Kathy whispered to Amelia, “Am I going to die?”
    “No, child. You’re going to have a baby.”
    “All right, Kathy,” the doctor said. “Let’s get this job done.”
    As they wheeled her into the operating room, Amelia went back to the waiting room, empty again, her own. She sat down in her chair and immediately slept, exhausted and peaceful, her part of it done.
    “Miss Larson?” The doctor shook her gently. “Miss Larson?”
    “Over?” she asked, opening her eyes.
    “Over,” he said. “A nine pound, four ounce girl.”
    “I’m not surprised,” Amelia said.
    “I’ve called you a cab, and don’t argue with me,” he said, as a nurse came into the room with a wheelchair.
    “I can walk,” Amelia said.
    “You worked nearly as hard as she did.”
    “All right. Just wheel me down to see her before I leave.”
    “You’re a good, brave girl, Kathy,” Amelia said and saw the characteristic euphoric smile of accomplishment that comes of birth. “And that’s what you’ve had. We’ll all get some sleep now, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    The nurse wheeled Amelia out into a sunny morning. What an old fool she must look, carried out in a wheelchair after having someone else’s baby! Without Sister, she had no style. Sister had been her style, her right arm, the last bit of strength she did not have by herself. It didn’t really matter, however, since Sister was not there to mind.

VII
    A GATE, IN A YELLOW cotton shift and sandals, lounged in the early sun on the front steps of the Larson house. She had rung the bell when she first arrived just a little after seven, but either no one was home or everyone was still asleep. As she debated walking back to a small store several blocks away to buy something for her breakfast, a cab pulled into the drive. Agate stood up and walked down the steps to meet it.
    “Good morning,” she said to Amelia. “I’m the new maid.”
    “Agate?” Amelia asked.
    “Yes.