Moderate Expectations

Moderate Expectations

Mary Curry shifted her weight from one leg to the other. If her legs were tired now, how much would they ache in another two or three months, she asked herself wryly. That’s how it is, she thought. The bigger you got the longer a day seemed and the faster your legs tired out. But by the time you got to number five, some things became easier. Especially when number two and three were twins. This time around she barely had any sickness in the mornings during the early months. This one should come out easy as pie. Or so she hoped. He husband William Curry, had moved his family earlier in the year to the newly opened Kansas Territory. He had been lured, like others, by the prospect of acres of cheap farm land. Abolitionists and their supporters in the United States government had made it only too easy for settlers from the nearby state of Ohio to obtain large holdings of land, in the hopes of attracting enough Northerners to outnumber the influx of Southerners from the slave state of Missouri, and thereby guarantee an additional free state. So the Curry family made the uncomfortable journey to the even more uncomfortable relatively barren territory. The weather was nothing to write home about. The summers were over hot, the winters freezing, and it seemed as if the wind was blowing the rest of the year. The landscape was dreary compared to that of Ohio, but none of that mattered to Mary Curry as much as the isolation and loneliness. Her closest neighbors included her husband’s parents, but the distance between their homes made visits few and far between. The Heyes family, Henry, Deborah and their son Hannibal were equally close, or far, as the case may be, in a different direction. It was the loneliness that made Kansas seem so bleak. And this was eastern Kansas. At least it had a few trees to break up the monotony of the prairie grass filled horizon. Thank goodness they hadn’t gone farther west. She smiled as she glanced over at the two rhubarb pies she had baked, one for tonight’s supper and one for tomorrow’s sewing bee. The crusts were golden brown, and she was confident they would taste as good as they smelled. She was a good cook, and a good homemaker. She was also a responsible mother with a good man for a husband, and that gave her consolation and hope for the future. She leaned over the pot of stew she was stirring and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her arm, deftly grabbed the collar of the child attempting to escape below her, and called out, “Mary Curry, where are you? Hurry up and come back and watch your sister.” “Coming, Ma.” The young girl hurried back into the tiny kitchen. The tone of her mother’s voice meant business. “I was hewping Jimmy. I was hewping set the table.” “Never mind that, that’s his job. Here,” and she handed the collar to Mary, “keep an eye on Judith so I can finish fixing supper. That’s your job.” At four, Mary Curry was the

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oldest Curry daughter, and had been given simple chores to perform on the family farm. She threw feed to the chickens under her mother’s supervision in the mornings, and was expected to watch her sister on occasion to ‘free up’ her mother. Mary held fast to the collar she had been given, “stop wigglin’, Judy.” She sat down on the floor and sighed. Holding onto her two year old sister was hard work. The smaller girl was something of a perpetual motion machine and constantly struggled to free herself. Mary’s large green eyes moved to the empty cradle in the far corner. She had been told another brother or sister would be coming in a short time. This produced a vague feeling of concern, as she didn’t know quite what would happen when another young Curry arrived. Her mother said it would be like having a new baby doll. This confused her. Judy wasn’t anything like her dollie. Her dollie was good and Judy was, well, not good. The older Mary, one hand now free, tried to fan air onto her chest. Then she patted her belly complacently. The sun was setting and Mary knew her William would be home shortly. He and their oldest son would surely be hungry after a day’s work in the fields. She soon heard her husband’s whistling in the distance. She tasted her simmering stew and nodded in satisfaction. “Pa!” shouted Jimmy from the outer room. “Pa’s here! C’mon Mwary. C’mon Judy.” Mary got up and ran out the cabin. Judy giggled and toddled on chubby legs after her. The three children ran to their Pa and tugged on his pants’ legs, yelling “Pa! Pa!” excitedly. The elder William was a well-built, robust man with red hair, and his good humor was apparent as he said, “Well now, ain’t it odd Billy? I kin hear voices, but I’ll be durned if I can see a body near by.” He looked into the air in front of him and to either side, and then down at his eldest son. He scratched his head as if puzzled. His eldest son nodded solemnly. This was a nightly ritual, and he knew his part. The three younger children pranced and tugged on their father; they were here, down here, they repeated. They squirmed and jumped. William shook his head. “Mebbe it’s leprechauns, what do you think, Billy? If we kin catch us one he’ll lead us to a pot of gold and we’ll be rich.” “I think it’s elfs.” The younger Billy meant elves but even though he was the eldest Curry child at the advanced age of six, he wasn’t quite up to his letter v yet. “Well you might be right. Elves are known for playing tricks on folks.”

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“Paaaaaaa…” Jimmy flopped on the ground and rolled, moaning, squealing and laughing. He kicked his legs. “It’s us, me an’ Mwary and Judy. We ain’t elfes. It’s us.” Judy wrapped her arms around her father’s left leg. William tried to turn around. “My leg, I cain’t move it, it’s being held by a…” He looked down, and stopped, pretending to be surprised. “Well would you take a look at that, Billy? It’s Jimmy and Mary and Judy. And here we are thinkin’ its leprechauns or elves.” He slapped his forehead, and then bent down to kiss his children. As he bent over Jimmy he whispered, clearly, so Mary could hear, “maybe you should be thinking about not rollin’ in the dirt, Jim. It’s not at all near wash day and your ma…” He stood and smiled as Mary ran out the door carrying a wooden spoon in her hand. “James Curry,” she cried in dismay, “Get up this instant. And you, Mr. William Curry, you have no excuse. You are a grown man, and know better than to let him roll in the dirt. “Now Mrs. Curry, it was the excitement of the moment. The boy couldn’t help himself.” He brushed down Jimmy roughly with his hands. “Everyone wash your hands and then sit down for supper. You too Mr. Curry,” Mary ordered. The family trooped indoors to the wooden stand with a bowl on it and a pitcher of water on a shelf below. William poured out some water, and scrubbed and dried his face and hands. Then he helped the children wash theirs, and Mary helped them dry off. At the table, William said grace, and the family began to eat, at first rapidly and in silence, with good appetites. After they were somewhat sated, Mary broke the quiet by asking William how his day had gone. He gulped his mouthful of food down and answered, “it was a good day, and we’re goin’ to do better this year than last, but we could be doin’ even better, Mrs. Curry.” Mary smiled, “I’m pleased we are doing better than last year; it’s a blessing. And now that you have William to help after school hours, it should lighten your burden.” Billy sat up straighter pleased at the recognition. Jimmy wriggled and made urgent ‘uh uh’ sounds. “And startin’ this summer I’ll have two strong fellows working for me.” William gave a barely perceptible wink to Mary. “And Mrs. Curry, I’ll be able to expand this farm of ours. We’re growing wheat and corn now, but Morrison paid a visit to the north field this morning and…” Mary looked up sharply, “Did he now?”

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“Yes he did Mary, and he’s a smart man, you can’t deny that, and he’s a man of business. He’s been readin’ the papers and he says sorghum is where a smart farmer will invest for the future.” “Henry Heyes reads the paper as well, and I don’t believe he’s mentioned this sorghum, whatever it may be.” “Henry Heyes is a good man, Mrs. Curry, but you’ll have to admit he is a bit of a dreamer more’n he is a man of business. You cain’t tell me he don’t talk a bit queer at times. But…” and here he cut off Mary before she could protest, and continued rapidly, “Morrison will be talkin’ to him as well. If four or five of us go in on this together, and we each use a small piece of our land to try it out, we should all do well. If it’s a loss, then none of us will stand to lose too much.” He mumbled the last part of his speech so it was barely audible. Mary raised her eyebrows archly. She said, enunciating each word slowly and clearly, “What is sorghum?” “Good question, Mrs. Curry. Glad you asked. It’s a strong crop, and it should be easy to grow. It oughtta produce a big harvest. It’s from Africa, and if it can grow there, than it kin grow here.” Mary looked remarkably unimpressed, so William continued, “You kin make a sugar from it, and it is supposed to be a better feed for the livestock than corn. So I don’t see how we could go wrong.” “What is wrong with corn for feed? The pigs do well on that? And if someone can purchase sugar what would they want with sorghum?” “You have to look at the big picture. It’ll be cheap feed for cattle, and with more land being turned over to farmin’ the ranchers will be needing the feed, and imagine if we could grow and sell our own sugar here instead of importin’ the sugar from cane, why what a market that would be!” “I’m not sure if Mr. Heyes or you are more of a dreamer, Mr. Curry. Crops from Africa growing in Kansas, what an idea.” Billy and Jimmy snickered. “You boys wanna to leave the table?” “No sir.” “Hush up then,” commanded Mary tersely. “Yes, ma’am.”

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“Mrs. Curry, I won’t be investin’ so much in it that we’ll be takin’ a big risk. That’s the beauty of a number of us buyin’ in on it together. You see, Heyes and I can grow it where our lands jine together, and help each other make a success of it.” Mary sighed, “I see you have your heart set on it, so very well then, as long as you don’t try it on your own if the others back out.” William grinned, “My darlin’ Mrs. Curry, I knew you’d come ‘round. You’re a smart one, you surely are.” “Don’t you flatter me William Curry, I’ve given my consent to the scheme, but if it doesn’t work, you’d best stick to corn and wheat.” “You see boys,” William turned to Billy and Jimmy, “Your Ma is a farsighted woman. That’s the type of woman you should be lookin’ out fer when you are grown men and want a wife.” Mary rolled her eyes, and changed the subject at hand, “Tomorrow is the ladies sewing circle. I don’t get female company much more than once a month, so I’d appreciate it if you would take James with you to the fields as well as William. I’ll have my hands full with the ladies and the girls.” She used her napkin to wipe the stew off Judy’s head. Judy had been experimenting with stew placement during her parents’ conversation, and stew was now artistically placed in small mounds on the table around her, as well as on her head and left arm. Mary cleaned off Judy’s arm, picked the small girl off of the books used to raise her to table level, and set her on the ground. “Darlin’, you know I would walk the plains in the dead of winter for you.” “Taking care of the boys is all I ask,” said Mary, smiling in turn. She glanced down at the books. “You really must thank Mr. Heyes for bringing all those books by for you to read, I really don’t know how we would manage without them.” “I’ll thank him, but I don’t think I’ll tell him what we’re usin’ ‘em for.”

Mary surveyed her house with pride. She acknowledged to herself that her family in Ohio would consider it a shack more than a cabin, as she and William euphemistically referred to it. It was built with what little straight lumber was available nearby, supplemented with a few large rocks thrown in for support. It was primitive. But it was spotless. And it was

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truly better than living out of their wagon as they did for the first few months after arriving in Kansas. She was especially proud the wooden buffet William had built. It was covered with a white linen runner, on which her remaining pie was displayed prominently. Plates, utensils, and cups and saucers were out and ready for her guests. She had also placed a platter of cold fried chicken on it, in case Deborah Heyes had one of her not infrequent cooking accidents. Deborah had promised to provide the main course, but that was always an iffy proposition, Mary mused. She planned to tell Deborah that the chicken was leftover from supper, a small white lie that would hurt nobody. The men folk were gone, and her two girls were playing quietly with their corn husk dolls in the corner. The windows were open, and a gentle breeze made the linen curtains flutter. The weather was at its best during spring in Kansas, and the clear sky provided ideal lighting for sewing. She heard a wagon approach, and went to the threshold to greet the ladies. She saw Rachel Grant with her two daughters, and a passenger she knew to be her own mother-inlaw. Then a second wagon of ladies neared, including Deborah Heyes, her closest neighbor. Next to Deborah was her son, Hannibal, now too large for Deborah to carry over, laden with her sewing basket as well, but too young to walk over himself. Mary stepped out, and helped the ladies park the wagons, and supply their horses with feed and water. The women exchanged warm greetings and hugs. Those who were close friends kissed each other on the cheek. Mary, acting as mother hen, shooed them indoors, and laid out the food they had brought. “Mary, I am so pleased you thought to fry some chicken. Mine was nearly done when little Hannibal began to cry, and I forgot it until I smelled the burning. I did bring one of Mr. Heyes’ fine cured hams in its place.” Hannibal toddled along side her as she spoke, one hand grasping his mother’s dress. Deborah placed the tin platter of wrapped meat on the buffet. It must be admitted that a few of the ladies looked slightly askance at the ham, and there were some silent prayers as to its edibility. Deborah Heyes’ reputation as a cook had spread far and wide by this time, and many were beginning to question Henry’s ability as well, not so much because he couldn’t manage his farm, but more from a suspicion of his excessive book learning. Somehow it was difficult for the prairie locals to believe that someone so educated could be practical in the matters of daily life and subsistence. A few of the other women had brought children as well, girls who were old enough to sew or learn to sew, as well as boys too young to be with their fathers in the fields, and younger girls. As Hannibal was the youngest child present, Deborah sat nearest the corner to keep an eye on him and the other little ones.

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The other young toddlers joined little Mary and Judy in the same corner, but the boys and some of the more restless girls went outside to explore, with many admonishments to stay close at hand, and futile warnings to keep clean. Lucille Curry, the oldest lady present, was given the comfortable high backed chair near the window. She had brought her knitting with her as her eyesight was failing, and sewing had become difficult. Neither Mary nor anyone else knew her exact age, but she was old enough to inspire respect and not a little fear in Mary and the locals. William seemed awed by his own mother as well. There were rumors she was a witch. Mary wondered about her. She knew how to concoct remedies and potions that many of the locals swore by, and could read tea leaves. She could also predict the future life and sex of a baby before it was born, a subject of pressing interest to Mary in her condition. Rachel Grant herded her two daughters onto seats near her after her sons ran outside. She was a tall, robust woman with a considerable will. Her daughter, Dorothea, now entering her teen years, was a pleasant surprise as she had inherited only the best of her mother’s physical traits. She was tall and healthy like her mother, but without any tendency towards stoutness. Her face, framed by soft, natural curls, was a lovely heart shape, and her mouth formed a pretty pouting heart as well. She was good natured, but not as bright as her, slightly less pretty, sister. Mrs. Messilina Morrison was present as well. She had a severe appearance that her good nature belied. Her hair had turned prematurely grey, the result of hardships suffered and almost constant childbearing. She brought her two youngest boys, and they were already romping with Rachel Grant’s sons. The ladies had a pleasant day of sewing, eating and gossip. It was a welcome break from the rigors of daily life in Kansas, and the dullness that was inevitable in isolated farm life. Eventually the children that had been playing outside ran in happy, hungry and tired. They helped themselves to food and then sat with the toddlers in the corner. As a result the children’s corner became a hub of activity and the noise began to increase. With so many children present minor fights threatened to break out if not quickly forestalled. Messilina Morrison took the initiative. She glanced at the nightshirt Deborah was sewing for Henry, and offered to hem the sleeves. “My dear, if you would be so good as to entertain the youngsters, they so adore your stories, and while you are doing so I will finish this up for you as I see it is nearly done. She took the shirt from Deborah, who was more than relieved to hand it over. She folded it in half so that the shoulders matched with one sleeve on top of another. It became apparent that the left sleeve, a good seven inches longer than the right, would more properly fit a giant than the slender, short Henry Heyes. The Grant girls’ stifled laughter at seeing this, to their mother’s stern disapproval. She gave them a curt glance, and they resumed their sewing in a more serious manner.

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Messilina surreptitiously trimmed the sleeve back, and began to hem it. A low murmuring came from the corner punctuated with excited comments from the children as Deborah began Cinderella, the original Grimm’s brothers’ version. Deborah Heyes soon had the children enthralled and enraptured with the story. The mistreated young girl was helped by two doves that lived in the tree she had grafted from the branch her father had given her from his travels. No fairy godmother in this version! The excitement grew as the story reached its climax. When the prince tried the glass slipper on the first step sister’s foot, the step sister cut off her toe to fit it in the slipper, and the prince began to ride back with her to his castle. The ladies, busy with their gossip, missed hearing this. “Now the handsome prince rode on his charger with the step sister seated behind him, grasping her arms around his waist. They passed the tree with the doves. And what do you think happened?” The children opened their eyes wide in anticipation, and held their breath. Deborah continued, “The doves sang out to the prince, ‘Look back, look back, there’s blood on the track.’” The children, especially the boys, wiggled in gory pleasure at the evil step sister’s downfall. Soon the second step sister, who had cut off her heel to fit the slipper, was riding with the prince on his charger. “They also passed the two doves and what do you think occurred?” asked Deborah of the children. The children squealed excitedly, “look back, look back; there’s blood on the track.” At this point the other mothers looked over at the story corner, and back at each other. “Deborah, WHAT are you telling the children?” asked Mrs. Grant. “It’s Cinderella, Cinderella,” the children replied. “It’s real good. It’s almost done. Don’t stop Mrs. Heyes,” they squealed. Deborah Heyes continued, but this time the other ladies stopped their gossiping to listen as well. Soon the ending neared. Cinderella was married in the cathedral to the prince. As the wedding party entered the cathedral, the birds each pecked out an eye of one of the step sisters. After the wedding, they pecked out the sisters’ other eyes as they walked

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down the steps of the cathedral during the recessional. Cinderella then found noble lords to marry her step sisters, and they all lived happily ever after. Mary closed her eyes momentarily, imagining the sleepless night ahead as her children woke up in turn, never at the same time, from nightmares. “Mrs. Heyes that was a real good story. Tell another,” one of the children demanded. “I suppose I could tell ‘One Eye, Two Eyes, Three Eyes,” she began. Messilina Morrison hastily cut her off, “Lucille Curry, you did promise to tell us the future today. Please read my tea leaves.” Fortune telling from a real witch could not be beat, not even by the most gruesome of stories. Soon all eyes were riveted on Lucille as she predicted amazing futures of prosperity, travel, and happiness for those present. The children watched in dumbfounded amazement. The highlight of the afternoon was when Lucille placed her hand on Mary’s growing belly. She closed her eyes while feeling her unborn grandchild’s movements. She muttered and nodded intently. The room became silent. Finally Lucille sat back in her chair. “The movements are propitious,” She proclaimed clearly. “The child will be born healthy and of a goodly size. It will be of superior intelligence, but slightly timid. It won’t matter as it will be a girl, another granddaughter.” The girls present cheered and the boys looked disappointed. “She will have a successful marriage, a long life, and many children,” Lucille finished with assured finality. “Oh congratulations Mary. You are having another girl, how lovely,” the ladies said happily. Since Mary already had two girls and two boys, the ladies would no doubt have been happy irregardless of the child’s sex, but it was still pleasant to know for certain whether to make pink or blue baby clothes. After putting the children to bed, Mary and William sat together on a rough wooden bench William had built, enjoying the cool nighttime breeze. William idly stroked Mary’s hair. Mary hummed softly, and they both smiled to themselves over their respective thoughts. “You seem happy enough, Mrs. Curry. You had a good day with the ladies then?”

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“Mmm,” Mary answered, “and you with the boys?” “Absolutely, and I did tell you that both Heyes and Morrison came by this afternoon and we’ll order the sorghum tomorrow? Morrison filled Heyes in on all the details, and he was eager to get started, you’d best believe. So Morrison is going to the dock and will send a letter back by boat with McCallum to the shippers. McCallum delivered a shipment of –um-well—uh—necessary medicinal waters and…” “You mean liquor, Mr. William Curry, and you know full well you didn’t tell me earlier about Mr. Heyes and Mr. Morrison visiting you this afternoon.” “I could have sworn I did… I remember now! You were busy with the children…” “…you thought you would leave it til later?” “When you were less distracted, you might say.” “And more relaxed and in a better frame of mind to accept the scheme?” “I didn’t say that, Mrs. Curry. Now you’re puttin’ words in my mouth.” He smiled. “Not that the idea didn’t occur to me.” She smiled back at him. “Now you know I’ve already given my consent.” She was quiet a moment, and then continued, “William Curry, I’m your wife, for better or worse. As it happens I have complete faith in you. You have made sound decisions so far, and if you say sorghum is a fine crop, I believe you.” He became serious as well. “It is Mary, and I’ll make a success of it, you’ll see.” He took her hand in his and kissed her on the top of her head and then on her lips. He sat back and began an excited and lengthy dissertation on all he knew about sorghum. Mary listened patiently. When his wife’s eyes glazed over, he realized that he had run the topic dry. Farming, bringing life from the dirt, fascinated him, and he could discuss it for hours. But Mary was a woman, and he had to remind himself that women had, well, women’s things to do and be concerned about. Business was beyond most of them, he figured. He quickly changed the subject. “You haven’t told me yet about your day with the ladies.” “Mr. Curry, we’re having another girl.” “Are we now? And how can you be sure of that?”

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“Your mother, Mrs. Curry said so, and you know she is always right about those things.” “Well, I suppose I’ve had plenty of experience with her predictions to know that’s true ‘nough.” “You know it is. The ladies are going to make us some lovely baby clothes for a girl, which is good. Judith has been so hard on the clothes we had for Mary and they are near to ruin. And the boys’ baby clothes are almost rags so it is a good thing it will be a girl. I imagine I can salvage some of Judith’s, so we shall do fine.” “Then I suppose it’s good that my ma said it will be a girl. We won’t have much free money, not fer awhile, not until we sell the first harvest in fall.” He put his arm around her shoulder and they both sat back in contentment. They watched the stars and the moon in the cloudless sky. She thought of their child and the pretty pink wrap she was going to sew. He thought of sorghum, and prosperity and what it would mean for his family. His thoughts made a circle and came around to his future child. He broke the silence. “Mary,” he asked with a half worried, half wicked smile, “you don’t suppose my ma is possibly wrong this time, do you? After all, everybody makes mistakes, and she’s had such a long string of luck.” Mary laughed, and raised her eyebrows,”oh William Curry, I wouldn’t advertise that anywhere near by. Lucille Curry, make an incorrect prediction? It’s unheard of. You would be laughed off the prairie.” They settled back to enjoy the quiet. A scream came from the girls’ room. “Remind me to tell you about Deborah Heyes’ version of Cinderella when I return,” Mary said blandly as rose from her comfortable seat and went indoors to calm the frightened child. Some months later, the atmosphere of the Curry household was one of underlying electrical excitement. Mary’s belly looked “near to burst” as Billy so aptly put it. The four children could not sit still. The two boys wrestled on the rug in front of the now disused fireplace much to their father’s delight, and he urged them on. The girls were playing with their dolls in a most animated manner. Judy had overheard her elders discussing a hanging, and was trying to ‘string up’ her doll, much to her sister’s horror. Not knowing exactly how that was accomplished she soon had the doll wound in string like a spool.

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William Curry could barely sit still. He would continually jump suddenly from his chair, pace the room, and then sit down suddenly again, only to bounce up from his chair. Mary was pleased that he could still be so excited by the arrival of a new baby, even a girl, and smiled at his long strides. “Anytime now,” she began, but he quickly interrupted, “not anytime now, Mary. Tomorrow.” “What?” She looked down at her belly, clearly puzzled. “The sorghum. It’s arrivin’ tomorrow. Heyes, Morrison, and me, we’re going to the dock to pick it up.” “Pa, can I come?” Billy sat up, one hand holding his kicking brother down as he asked. “Me too, please Pa.” Jimmy struggled against his brother’s grip. “Mr. Curry, what about the baby? She’s due anytime now.” “Mrs. Curry, she’ll wait for me. None of the babies have arrived without me here. You’re a clever one. You’ll see to that.” The two boys were both up now, and were leaning on their father’s legs. Jimmy pushed his hands on his father to get his attention. “It’s hardly up to me, William Curry.” “My darlin’, you’re the mother. You can do it. Now I’ll be takin’ goin’ with Heyes first thing in the mornin’ to the river, and yes, you two can come as well,” the two boys shouted hooray and jumped up and down, “and I’ll be back in the late afternoon. Like I said, you’re a clever one, and if you think the baby is comin’ I know you’ll be able to get her to wait an hour or two until we return.” Mary responded dryly, “oh certainly, William Curry, I’ll simply tell her, her father’s not at home and to take a nap until he arrives.” “There, I knew you could do it,” said William, not really listening. Judy came over with her string wrapped doll and held it out to her mother. “Hwang doll,” she demanded. Mary unwound the string mummified doll, and made a noose from the string, which she tightened around the doll’s neck.

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“This is how you hang someone, Judith,” she said, holding the doll up by the end of the rope. The next morning Henry and Deborah Heyes rode over. Deborah and young Hannibal were going to spend the day at the Currys’ house while the men went to the river, and Mary was glad to have the company of a female adult in case anything happened. She had given birth to her previous children in Ohio with her mother present, and had been afraid she would be alone when the baby arrived this time. Deborah had several miscarriages prior to Hannibal’s successful birth, and Mary didn’t expect any significant help from her, but the presence of another adult provided some comfort. Deborah boiled a kettle of water for tea, and the ladies settled down outside to mend and sew in the summer’s heat as the children played outside. Mary looked up from her sewing, and announced calmly, “the baby’s coming soon. My pains have started. Deborah, will you come inside the house with me?” “Of course dear,” responded Deborah assuming Mary wished to lie down. Indoors, Mary led Deborah to her marriage bed in the far corner. On it were her Bible, a diary she kept, and some personal items. All the items had strings with bits of paper attached. On the bits of paper Mary had scrawled in pencil the names of her children. “Deborah, if I don’t survive, promise me that you will see that my children receive the belongings with their name. Tell William to keep my Bible and journal until Mary is old enough to read and care for them.” Deborah made no protest, understanding only too well the dangers of childbirth on the prairie without proper doctors or care. Mary gave a slight gasp. Deborah jumped. Mary smiled weakly. “It’s OK, Deborah. It’s simply that the pains are coming hard and quick. I suppose that having given birth four times already means this one will be out in a hurry.” “Do you want me to clear the bed so you can lie on it?” “No thank you dear. When the time comes I think I’d rather squat. It’s easier that way, I’ve found.” Four hours passed and Mary’s smiles turned to grimaces.

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She wiped sweat from her brow. The heat was intense, and she was dripping. Her blouse was soaked. Even Deborah was glistening. “Dear me, I feel as if I’ve got a giantess inside me pressing down.” A call came from outside. Mary and Deborah exchanged surprised looks. It was rare to have one visitor, much less two in a single day. Deborah went outside to see who was arriving. Soon she could make out the form of Lucille Curry, who somehow ‘knew’ Mary’s baby was on her way. She was carrying a wooden object. As she neared, Deborah could make out a stool with a hole in the seat. “Mrs. Curry, that is so kind of you. That will make it more comfortable for Mary than squatting.” “Well, at least she has enough sense not to lie down,” said the older woman in approval. She held the birthing stool out to Deborah. “Take this inside and get Mary settled,” she ordered. Lucille followed Deborah inside the shack. “I assume you are ready Mary,” she stated as if there were no question that the baby would make its appearance now that she had arrived. “Why do people think I can make the baby appear at will?” asked Mary in a bemused voice. “Oh very well,” said Lucille, “we’ll wait.” She sat down, a bit put out. A few hours later, Mary Curry gave birth to a fine healthy baby. She leaned back against the wall behind her. “We should get you to bed, dear,” said Deborah. Mary laughed wearily. “You are bound and determined to get me to lie down, aren’t you, Deborah? If you don’t mind, I would like to see my baby girl first.” The two other women stood still in silence staring at each other. “What, what is it? I can hear her cry; there’s nothing wrong with her, is there?” “No, there’s nothing wrong with the baby Mary, it’s just that, that…” began Deborah.

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“That what? Tell me!” Lucille Curry answered sharply, “What Deborah is saying is that I was wrong in my prediction, Mary. It’s a boy.” She looked at the baby as if it was somehow his fault, and shook her head in a gloomy manner. Mary almost laughed in relief, “If that is all, Mother Curry, I think a boy is fine. I’m not exactly certain what I will do with all the pink…” “It’s not the pink clothing that matters. It’s a boy. It’s not the girl I foresaw. I have never erred before. You know that. This is a bad omen, Mary Curry, mark my words.” “Lucille Curry this is a joyous occasion and that is a dreadful thing to say.” Deborah Heyes was shocked into speaking her mind. Lucille Curry shook her head again. She turned to leave, resembling a raven of ill omen in her black dress. Deborah followed her. “Mrs. Curry, your birthing stool.” “Let Mary keep it. I don’t want it.” The old woman grumbled to herself under her breath and walked homewards. Deborah walked back and slowly put the stool on the floor. The women were silent for a minute. Then Deborah spoke. “We mustn’t let what your mother-in-law said spoil the day. She’s upset because she was wrong. Mary, he’s a lovely child. Mrs. Curry is just being an old grouch. Wait until the news spreads. My oh my, won’t she be red faced. She’ll probably have to hide away for months, maybe years to live this down.” The women laughed at that. Mary tried to imagine life without her mother-in-law for the next few months, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Deborah, let me see him.” Mary held out her arms. Deborah who had been holding the baby brought him close so that Mary could take him. She stared at him in wonder, eyes wide. “Deborah, what shall I do? I haven’t got a boy’s name ready.” Deborah answered, “What you should do is go to bed and rest, Mary. You can worry about naming him later.”

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William and Henry arrived home with the boys and the sorghum in the evening. Deborah greeted them with a smile, and led them to the bedroom. Mary was resting with her baby beside her wrapped in the pink blanket Deborah had crocheted. William bent over to look at his child, and then stood back proudly to allow Henry to see ‘her.’ “She’s a beautiful baby. Congratulations,” said Henry. “Yes, he is,” responded Mary as Deborah laughed, no longer able to keep a straight face. “What?” yelped both men in unison. “Now don’t tell me that Mrs. Curry was wrong,” said Henry, “your mother is the finest seer I’ve ever met. She has never made a wrong prediction.” “Well, I guess she has this time ‘round.” William sat on the bed and stroked Mary’s hair. “So we have another son?” he asked quietly. Mary nodded. “Another son, but one with no name as of yet. Perhaps his father can think of one.” “My Bible, where’s my Bible?” William scrambled for the book until he found it. He flipped the pages. “Ah ha,” he said winking at Henry and Deborah, “here’s a name for him Mrs. Curry, Riphath.” “William Curry, if you think…” “Don’t care for that one? Alright then, how about Nemrod?” Mary gave her husband an ugly glance. He laughed, and closed the book. “I was thinking of Jedediah if we had another son, Mrs. Curry.” “You had a boy’s name ready?” She gasped. “Well now, I did say that my Ma has had a long string of luck. Now that just ain’t natural. So I thought to myself it would be a wise idea to have a boy’s name ready and waitin’, just in case her luck had run out on her, you see.” Mary Curry smiled at her husband and at her new son.

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“Jedediah Curry it is.”

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