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remembered—how pleasant she felt upon awakening after Dr. Beau had stuck her with a needle to put her to sleep; how passionate he was about the value of theexaminations; how she believed the blood and pain that followed was a menstrual problem—nothing made them change their minds aboutthe medical industry.
    “Men know a slop jar when they see one.”
    “You ain’t a mule to be pulling some evil doctor’s wagon.”
    “You a privy or a woman?”
    “Who told you you was trash?”
    “How was I supposed to know what he was up to?” Cee tried to defend herself.
    “Misery don’t call ahead. That’s why you have to stay awake—otherwise it just walks on in your door.”
    “But—”
    “But nothing. You good enough for Jesus. That’s all you need to know.”
    AS SHE HEALED , the women changed tactics and stopped their berating. Now they brought their embroidery and crocheting, and finally they used Ethel Fordham’s house as their quilting center. Ignoring those who preferred new, soft blankets, they practiced what they had been taught by their mothers during the period that rich people called the Depression and they called life. Surrounded by their comings and goings, listening to their talk, their songs, following their instructions, Cee had nothing to do but pay them the attention she had never given them before. Theywere nothing like Lenore, who’d driven Salem hard, and now, suffering a minor stroke, did nothing at all. Although each of her nurses was markedly different from the others in looks, dress, manner of speech, food and medical preferences, their similarities were glaring. There was no excess in their gardens because they shared everything. There was no trash or garbage in their homes because they had a use for everything. They took responsibility for their lives and for whatever, whoever else needed them. The absence of common sense irritated but did not surprise them. Laziness was more than intolerable to them; it was inhuman. Whether you were in the field, the house, your own backyard, you had to be busy. Sleep was not for dreaming; it was for gathering strength for the coming day. Conversation was accompanied by tasks: ironing, peeling, shucking, sorting, sewing, mending, washing, or nursing. You couldn’t learn age, but adulthood was there for all. Mourning was helpful but God was better and they did not want to meet their Maker and have to explain a wasteful life. They knew He would ask each of them one question: “What have you done?”
    Cee remembered that one of Ethel Fordham’s sons had been murdered up North in Detroit. Maylene Stone had one working eye, the other having been pierced at the sawmill by a wood chip. No doctor was available or summoned. Both Hanna Rayburn and Clover Reid, lame from polio, had joined their brothers and husbands haulinglumber to their storm-damaged church. Some evil, they believed, was incorrigible, so its demise was best left to the Lord. Other kinds could be mitigated. The point was to know the difference.
    The final stage of Cee’s healing had been, for her, the worst. She was to be sun-smacked, which meant spending at least one hour a day with her legs spread open to the blazing sun. Each woman agreed that that embrace would rid her of any remaining womb sickness. Cee, shocked and embarrassed, refused. Suppose someone, a child, a man, saw her all splayed out like that?
    “Nobody going to be looking at you,” they said. “And if they do? So what?”
    “You think your twat is news?”
    “Stop worrying your head,” Ethel Fordham advised her. “I’ll be out there with you. The important thing is to get a permanent cure. The kind beyond human power.”
    So Cee, bridling with embarrassment, lay propped on pillows at the edge of Ethel’s tiny back porch soon as the sun’s violent rays angled in that direction. Each time anger and humiliation curled her toes and stiffened her legs.
    “Please, Miss Ethel. I can’t do this no more.”
    “Oh, be quiet,