The Mother

by Barbara Smith "Mama, be still!" Sarah bent over the bed, pressing both hands against Mary's frail shoulders. In the dim light from the shaded window, the old woman looked gray, gaunt. "Child—" she murmured. "No, Mama!" the daughter insisted. "You mustn't talk." Sarah was heavy and damp with July sweat, her brown hair hanging in tendrils around her face. "Rest," she commanded. "But, Child—" the mother persisted. She struggled. "No!" Sarah commanded again. "Don't talk. Save your strength." Now the dying woman felt anger. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Her shoulders pinned to the bed, she still lifted her head. Her filmy eyes scoured the room. Near the door she could see her son Charley and his two boys. They were watching. To Charley's right stood Cousin Harry and his wife. At the foot of the bed were two other people, but the old woman couldn't make out who they were. Behind Sarah grouped her kids—all four of them. "Did Marion come?" Mary whispered. Sarah smiled a pasty smile. "Yes, Mama. He's out in the field with Pa." "The kids?" "Yes, Mama. They're all here, too— up in the attic playin' with the toys." Mary squirmed, but her strength was going. She knew it wouldn't be long now. "How many—" she tried to ask. "Altogether?" Sarah finished the question for her. The old woman nodded. "Right now about fifteen. The rest are coming later, Mama. You rest." "I can't." She was trying to get up again. "Not yet." "You can and you will." Sarah was getting impatient. "What's the matter with you, Mama?" There was a little humor left, Mary discovered . "I'm dying', honey," she whispered and smiled. Sarah choked. "Oh, Mama, you know what I mean." Again she pressed the thin body into the flowered sheet. "You lie back and rest. Save your strength for the others." Someone came in the door. The old lady squinted, pushing against Sarah's hot hands. "It's only Pa." the daughter said. "Pa," she addressed him, "come talk sense to Mama. She won't be still." The white-haired man crept to the side of the bed, his eyes searching Mary's face. He could see the fading. "Ma," he asked, "what's troublin' you? Be peaceful !" "I can't!" the old woman insisted. Now she moved as if to swing out of bed. Her legs twitched under the sheet, her hands scrabbling at Sarah's. But there was no getting up. Now the tears were tears of despair. "Henry," she murmured , and he leaned close. "You gotta do somethin'." "What, darlin'?" the old man asked. He bent way down to hear her words. "Henry," she repeated, her hand now up on his cheek, "they's fifteen for dinner ." Everyone in the room strained to listen, their eyes on the figure in the bed. Once more she repeated. "Henry," she sighed, "they's fifteen for dinner, and I figger I didn't make enough bread." 28 ...