The frolicking stopped minutes later when we got to the river. "Hang on, Luke," she said as she shifted into low and leaned over the wheel, her eyes wild with fear. Hang on to what? It was a one-lane bridge with no guardrails. If she drove off, then we'd both drown.
"You can do it, Mom," I said without much conviction.
"Of course I can," she said. I'd crossed the bridge with her before, and it was always an adventure. We crept over it, both afraid to look, down. We didn't breathe until we hit dirt on the other side.
"Good job, Mom," I said.
"Nothin' to it," she said, finally exhaling.
At first I couldn't see any Latchers in the fields, but as we approached the house, I saw a cluster of straw hats deep in the cotton, at the far end of their crop. I couldn't tell if they heard us, but they did not stop picking. We parked close to the front porch as the dust settled around the truck. Before we could get out, Mrs. Latcher was coming down the front steps, wiping her hands nervously on a rag of some sort. She seemed to be talking to herself and appeared very worried.
"Hello, Mrs. Chandler," she said, looking off. I never knew why she didn't use my mother's first name. She was older and had at least six more children.
"Hello, Darla. We've brought some vegetables."
The two women were facing each other. "I'm so glad you're here," Mrs. Latcher said, her voice very anxious.
"What's the matter?"
Mrs. Latcher glanced at me, but only for a second. "I need you -help. It's Libby. I think she's about to have a baby."
"A baby?" my mother said, as if she hadn't a clue.
"Yes. I think she's in labor."
"Then let's call the doctor."
"Oh no. We can't do that. No one can know about this. No one. It has to be kept quiet."
I had moved to the rear of the truck, and I was crouching down a bit so Mrs. Latcher couldn't see me. That way, I figured she'd talk more. Something big was about to happen, and I didn't want to miss any of it.
"We're so ashamed," she said, her voice cracking. "She won't tell us who the father is, and right now I don't care. I just want the baby to get here."
"But you need a doctor."
"No ma'am. Nobody can know about this. If the doctor comes, then the whole county'll know. You gotta keep it quiet, Mrs. Chandler. Can you promise me?"
The poor woman was practically crying. She was desperate to keep a secret that had been the talk of Black Oak for months.
"A Painted House"
"Let me see her," my mother said without answering the question, and the women started for the house. "Luke, you stay here at the truck," she said over her shoulder.
As soon as they disappeared inside, I walked around the house and peeked into the first window I saw. It was a tiny living room with old, dirty mattresses on the floor. At the next window, I heard their voices. I froze and listened. The fields were behind me.
"Libby, this is Mrs. Chandler," Mrs. Latcher was saying. "She's here to help you."
Libby whimpered something I couldn't understand. She seemed to be in great pain. Then I heard her say, "I'm so sorry."
"It's gonna be okay," my mother said. "When did the labor start?"
"About an hour ago," Mrs. Latcher replied.
"I'm so scared, Mama," Libby said, much louder. Her voice was pure terror. Both ladies tried to calm her.
Now that I was no longer a novice on the subject of female anatomy, I was quite anxious to have a look at a pregnant girl. But she sounded too close to the window, and if I got caught peeking in, my father would beat me for a week. An unauthorized view of a woman in labor was undoubtedly a sin of the greatest magnitude. I might even be stricken blind on the spot.
But I couldn't help myself. I crouched and slinked just under the windowsill. I removed my straw hat and was easing upward when a heavy clod of dirt landed less than two feet from my head. It crashed onto the side of the house with a boom, rattling the rickety boards and scaring the women to the point of making them yell. Bits of dirt splattered and hit the side of my face. I hit the ground and rolled away from the window. Then I scrambled to my feet and looked at the fields.
Percy Latcher was not far away, standing between two rows of cotton, holding another clod of dirt with one hand, and pointing at me with another.
"It's your boy," a voice said.
I looked at the window and got a glimpse of Mrs. Latcher's head. One more look at Percy, and I raced like a scalded dog back to the pickup. I jumped into the front seat, rolled up the window, and waited for my mother.
Percy disappeared into the fields. It would be quitting time soon, and I wanted to leave before the rest of the Latchers drifted in.
A couple of toddlers appeared on the porch, both of them naked, a boy and a girl, and I wondered what they thought of their big sister having yet another one. They just stared at me.
My mother came out in a hurry, Mrs. Latcher on her heels, talking rapidly as they walked to the truck.
"I'll get Ruth," my mother said, meaning Gran.
"Please do, and hurry," Mrs. Latcher said.
"Ruth's done this many times."
"Please get her. And please don't tell anyone. Can we trust you, Mrs. Chandler?"
My mother was opening the door, trying to get inside. "Of course you can."
"We're so ashamed," Mrs. Latcher said, wiping tears. "Please don't tell anyone."
"It's goin' to be all right, Darla," my mother said, turning the key. "I'll be back in half an hour."
We lunged into reverse, and after a few bolts and stops, we were turned around and leaving the Latcher place. She was driving much faster, and this kept her attention, mostly.
"Did you see Libby Latcher?" she finally asked.
"No ma'am," I said quickly and firmly. I knew the question was coming, and I was ready with the truth.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes ma'am."
"What were you doin' beside the house?"
"I was just walkin' around when Percy threw a dirt clod at me. That's what hit the house. It wasn't my fault, it was Percy's." My words were fast and sure, and I know she wanted to believe me. More important matters were on her mind.
We stopped at the bridge. She shifted into low, held her breath, and again said, "Hang on, Luke."
Gran was in the backyard, at the pump drying her face and hands and about to start supper. I had to run to keep up with my mother.
"We have to go to the Latchers'," she said. "That girl is in labor, and her mother wants you to deliver it."
"Oh, dear," Gran said, her weary eyes suddenly alive with adventure. "So she's really pregnant."
"Very much so. She's been in labor for over an hour."
I was listening hard and thoroughly enjoying my involvement, when suddenly and for no apparent reason, both women turned and stared at me. "Luke, go to the house," my mother said rather sternly, and began pointing, as if I didn't know where the house was.
"What'd I do?" I asked, wounded.
"Just go," she said, and I began to slink away. Arguing would get me nowhere. They resumed their conversation in hushed tones, and I was at the back porch when my mother called to me.
"Luke, run to the fields and get your father! We need him!"
"And hurry!" Gran said. She was thrilled with the prospect of doctoring on a real patient.
I didn't want to go back to the fields, and I would've argued but for the fact that Libby Latcher was having a baby at that very moment. I said, "Yes ma'am," and sprinted past them.