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Authors: Rita Leganski
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identify any works of the devil that tried to disguise themselves as United States mail. It was a practice well suited to Adelaide Roman, a woman who understood the ways of the devil.
Arrival
A T no time after William’s death had it been suggested that pregnant Dancy move in with Adelaide rather than Letice. She couldn’t have stood Adelaide anyway—all the gossip mixed in with Bible quoting, Praise-be-to-Godding, and unceasing holier-than-thou judgments. Nor did she wish to feel unwanted, or to listen to the snide insinuations that her father had been a failure.
Most days Dancy just sat very still and stared into nothing. She nibbled at her food and sipped at her drink. Dancy couldn’t place herself back in the world because her world had gone missing, completely erased by some cold, cruel void. She had lost every manner of feeling, from the sensation of touch to the experience of emotion. She could have plucked an egg from boiling water and never felt a thing. Dancy was like a sieve; the only thing she could hold were the boiled-down husks of cooked-away happiness, leftovers from a life that had drained through the wires.
If she wanted for anything she had only to ring a silver bell, which she did for the first time on the night her water broke. And she only rang it then because she was too big to bend over and clean up the mess. It was the last day of January 1950, and it was two weeks too soon for Bonaventure to happen.
Bonaventure heard the water break and felt something give way beneath him. Then he heard the sounds of the little bell’s clapper, and of footsteps, and of questions formed from rushing words. The voice that belonged to Letice had a bit of something in it that hadn’t been there before. His mother’s voice was different too, stretched out and brittle at the edges, and her breathing had become erratic.
Letice marshaled an outer calm while frantically and surreptitiously looking for any sign of late-term miscarriage. She telephoned the doctor and Dancy’s mother and took the suitcase that had been packed some three weeks before from where it stood beside the tall old walnut chiffonier. Mrs. Silvey sat Dancy down and cleaned her up a bit, while Mr. Silvey brought the car around and mentally rehearsed the route to the hospital.
Sensation and emotion returned to Dancy in a rush, and she began to feel two different fears, one far greater than the other. The lesser was the fear of pain; the greater was the fear of losing her connection to William. As long as the baby was inside her body, so too was a part of her husband, and she felt close to him, and warm and safe and loved and touched. She didn’t want to lose him again.
Bonaventure heard sharp yelps of pain when the womb where he lived began to contract. So many sounds were raging around him that he couldn’t separate happiness from fright, and his own heart started to race. He could hear the whimpering of his mother’s fears but didn’t know what to do with them. Her heart was telling him to stay, while her body urged him to go. He pulled on his ears in complete desperation and listened as hard as he could.
“Don’t be afraid,” said a familiar deep voice. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Trinidad Prefontaine could not find sleep. Her room was bathed in a ghostly light, for the moon was nearing full. A winter rain fell against her windowpane, its rivulets turned silver by that waxing moon. She’d been restless inside her own skin for three days, as if some strange and invisible imp were blowing its breath against her neck. That scamp had been following her in the daytime too, from stove to cupboard and from inside to out, like a playful, excitable secret. The rascal would ceaselessly sing a wordless song and escape from the corner of Trinidad’s eye when she turned. It was a supernatural being; she was certain of that.
Of late Trinidad had been noting signs of a coming alteration, some event of momentous
Arrival
A T no time after William’s death had it been suggested that pregnant Dancy move in with Adelaide rather than Letice. She couldn’t have stood Adelaide anyway—all the gossip mixed in with Bible quoting, Praise-be-to-Godding, and unceasing holier-than-thou judgments. Nor did she wish to feel unwanted, or to listen to the snide insinuations that her father had been a failure.
Most days Dancy just sat very still and stared into nothing. She nibbled at her food and sipped at her drink. Dancy couldn’t place herself back in the world because her world had gone missing, completely erased by some cold, cruel void. She had lost every manner of feeling, from the sensation of touch to the experience of emotion. She could have plucked an egg from boiling water and never felt a thing. Dancy was like a sieve; the only thing she could hold were the boiled-down husks of cooked-away happiness, leftovers from a life that had drained through the wires.
If she wanted for anything she had only to ring a silver bell, which she did for the first time on the night her water broke. And she only rang it then because she was too big to bend over and clean up the mess. It was the last day of January 1950, and it was two weeks too soon for Bonaventure to happen.
Bonaventure heard the water break and felt something give way beneath him. Then he heard the sounds of the little bell’s clapper, and of footsteps, and of questions formed from rushing words. The voice that belonged to Letice had a bit of something in it that hadn’t been there before. His mother’s voice was different too, stretched out and brittle at the edges, and her breathing had become erratic.
Letice marshaled an outer calm while frantically and surreptitiously looking for any sign of late-term miscarriage. She telephoned the doctor and Dancy’s mother and took the suitcase that had been packed some three weeks before from where it stood beside the tall old walnut chiffonier. Mrs. Silvey sat Dancy down and cleaned her up a bit, while Mr. Silvey brought the car around and mentally rehearsed the route to the hospital.
Sensation and emotion returned to Dancy in a rush, and she began to feel two different fears, one far greater than the other. The lesser was the fear of pain; the greater was the fear of losing her connection to William. As long as the baby was inside her body, so too was a part of her husband, and she felt close to him, and warm and safe and loved and touched. She didn’t want to lose him again.
Bonaventure heard sharp yelps of pain when the womb where he lived began to contract. So many sounds were raging around him that he couldn’t separate happiness from fright, and his own heart started to race. He could hear the whimpering of his mother’s fears but didn’t know what to do with them. Her heart was telling him to stay, while her body urged him to go. He pulled on his ears in complete desperation and listened as hard as he could.
“Don’t be afraid,” said a familiar deep voice. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Trinidad Prefontaine could not find sleep. Her room was bathed in a ghostly light, for the moon was nearing full. A winter rain fell against her windowpane, its rivulets turned silver by that waxing moon. She’d been restless inside her own skin for three days, as if some strange and invisible imp were blowing its breath against her neck. That scamp had been following her in the daytime too, from stove to cupboard and from inside to out, like a playful, excitable secret. The rascal would ceaselessly sing a wordless song and escape from the corner of Trinidad’s eye when she turned. It was a supernatural being; she was certain of that.
Of late Trinidad had been noting signs of a coming alteration, some event of momentous
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