Abed by Elizabeth Massie Page B

in with a swish of old apron and a flourish of cloth napkin. The tray and its contents are visible behind her in the hall, but the meal is the last of Mama's concerns. When business is tended, the meal will be remembered.
    Â  “Meggie," says Mama. "What a pretty sight you are there in your dress. Makes me think of a little yellow kitten." The cloth napkin is dropped onto the back of the stinking chair, and Mama straightens to take appraisal of her daughter-in-law. There is something in Mama's apron pocket that clinks faintly.
    "Well, you gonna stand there or do you have a 'good morning'?"
    Meggie looks toward the window. Two stories is not enough to die. And if she died, she would only become one of the walking dead. She looks back at Mama.
    "Good morning," she whispers.
    "And to you," Mama says cheerily. "Can you believe the heat? I pity the farmers this year. Corn is just cooking on the stalks. You look to the right out that window and just over the trees and you can see a bit of John Johnson's crop. Pitiful thing, all burned and brown." Mama tips her head and smiles. The apron clinks.
    Neither says anything for a minute. Mama's eyes sparkle in the heavy, hot air. The dead folks' eyes sparkle when they walk about, but Meggie knows Mama is not dead. The older woman is very much alive, with all manner of plans for her family.
    Then Mama says, "Sit down."
    Meggie sits on the clean spot on the mattress.
    Mama touches her dry lips. She says, "You know a home ain't a home without the singing of little children."
    Oh, dear Jesus , thinks Meggie.
    "When Quint was born, I was complete. I was a woman then. I was whole; I'd done what I was made to do. A woman with no children can't understand that till she's been through it herself."
    Meggie feels a large drop of sweat fall and lodge above her navel. She looks at the floor and remembers what Quint's shoes looked like there, beside hers in the night after they'd climbed beneath the covers. Precious shoes, farmer's shoes, with the sides worn down and the dark coating of earth on the toes. Shoes that bore the weight of hard work and love. Shoes Quint swore he would throw away when he'd earned enough money to build the new house. Shoes that Meggie was going to keep in her cedar chest as a memory of the early days.
    Quint doesn't wear shoes anymore.
    "You know in my concern for you and Quint, I would do I anything to make you happy." Mama nods slowly. "And if I've got it figured right, you're in your time again. I know it ain't worked the last couple months, but it took me near'n to a year and a half   before I was with Quint.”
    Mama steps over to Meggie. She leans in close. Her breath smells of ginger and soured milk. "A baby is what'll help make some of the bad things right again, Meggie. It's a different world now. And we's got to cope. But a baby will bring Joy back."
    â€œA baby,” echoes Meggie. "Mama, please, I can't...”
    â€œHush, now,” barks Mama. The smile disappears as quickly as the picture from a turned-off television set. She is all business now. Family making is a serious matter. "Get abed."
    The word stings Meggie's gut.
    "Abed!" commands Mama Randolph, and slowly, obediently, Meggie slides along the mattress until her head is even with the pillow.
    Mama purses her mouth in approval. "Now let's check and see if our timing is right." Meggie closes her eyes and one hand moves to the spotted hem of the yellow dress. In her chest, the bone of pain swells, hard and suffocating. She cannot swallow around it. Her breath hitches. She pulls the hem up. She is naked beneath. Mama Randolph has not allowed undergarments.
    "Roll over." Meggie rolls over. She hears the clinking as Mama reaches into her pocket. Meggie gropes for the edge of the pillow and holds to it like a drowning child to a life preserver. Her face presses into the stinking pillowcase.
    The thermometer goes in deeply. Mama makes a tsking sound and moves it about until it is wedged to her