“She’s a young girl in a fashionable hat,” said the womanwho made her bed in the third gable. “What could frighten her more than fourold mothers with nary a man between them?”
“Well,” sniffed the woman who made her bed in the firstgable. “If she ever came down to my cellar, she’d know real fright.”
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September became October, October passed into November, and adamp, uncertain snow shimmered on the walks when the stranger came at last tothe four-gabled house. Her knock was hesitant, as if she feared to hurt thedoor.
The woman who made her bed in the first gable of thefour-gabled house came to the door. The scent of myrrh clung to all her clothesand the damp of cellar walls clung to all her eyelids. She was the leastapproachable, so she always dealt with strangers.
“Please, may I come in?” said the stranger, and the womanwho made her bed in the first gable thought for a moment, then nodded once,solemnly, and stepped aside.
The young woman crossed the foyer into the sitting room,where the other three women were waiting. “I’ve brought a pie for you,” shesaid, pushing a towel-covered dish at the most approachable person in thesitting room, which happened to be the woman who made her bed in the thirdgable of the four-gabled house. “I hope you like rhubarb.”
“Certainly,” said the woman who made her bed in the thirdgable, and while she smiled warmly, her hands trembled when she took the dish.“Thank you, dear.” She said dear after a long, conspicuous pause, as ifcorrecting herself.
“My name is Marigold Hest,” said the stranger. “I wonder—doyou know my husband?”
“I doubt it,” said the woman who made her bed in the firstgable, at the same time that the woman who made her bed in the second gablesaid indignantly, “Should we?”
“Never mind that,” said Marigold. “In fact, I’m glad. Itwill make things simpler.” She sat for a moment, fidgeting with the brim of herhat, then huffed out a soft little breath and added, “I’ve heard that you havechildren here. I need one.”
“Do you think they fall out of the eaves?” said the womanwho made her bed in the second gable. “What makes you believe we have a childfor you? You’re a married woman—go get one off your husband.”
The young woman blushed as pink as rhubarb, but shepersisted. “People talk about you. They say you used to be midwives, and nowyou’re witches. They say you’re descended from the women who they hung inSalem. They say you’re German and came to Amherst to seduce our men and spy onus. But I don’t care what you are. Somehow you get babies, lots of them.Please, let me have one.”
None of the women said anything for a long while. The womanwho made her bed in the first gable of the four-gabled house raised her eyebrows.The woman who made her bed in the second gable stifled a laugh. The woman whomade her bed in the third gable did nothing. At last, the woman who made herbed in the fourth gable said, “And what sort of child is it that you’rewanting?”
“Any sort,” said Marigold. “Really, any one would do. Aslong as I can get it soon.”
“We’re not an assembly line,” said the woman who made herbed in the second gable. “Did someone tell you that we had… procured a baby forthem?”
“No,” said Marigold, in a whisper that sounded more likeyes.
“We wouldn’t,” said the woman who made her bed in the thirdgable. “Ordinarily. Not out of selfishness, dear, but because we can’t.”
The others looked at her, noticing the word ordinarilyand wondering if a stranger in a fashionable hat really counted as anexception. They had made an exception, once before. The exception was why thewoman who made her bed in the third gable did not have children.
“But if you can try,” said Marigold. “If there’s any chancethat you could get one for me, that would be better than no chance at all.”
“Why?” said the woman who made her bed in the fourth gable.“You’re young yet. Do you need a child now?”
“I’m afraid to say,” said Marigold. “Must I say?”
“No,” said the woman who made her bed in the third gable,before anyone else could speak. “We will try. Let us try.”
◊
The woman who made her bed in the fourth gable was the firstto take up Marigold’s cause. She took apart the icebox for its metal, marooninga bottle of milk and a package of frozen vegetables so she would have thematerials to begin constructing a child. Sighing in resignation, the otherwomen prepared a meal with all of their perishable foods. This had happenedbefore, with the lamps and the radiator and the toaster oven. Wartime made metalhard to come by. Scrap-metal children had been rationed almost out ofexistence.
“This could be my last,” said the woman who made her bed inthe fourth gable. She had a spoonful of warm grape jelly in her mouth, asoldering iron warming in her hand. “For a while, anyway, this could be mylast.”
The probable lastness of the child did not make him any moreeager to survive.
When he was complete, a small frame of plated steel andplastic with a hungry gaping buzz-saw mouth, the woman who made her bed in the fourthgable called Marigold to the house and laid the child in her arms.
“Oh,” Marigold said. “Oh. What a miracle he is.” Shekissed the shining smooth metal of his face, and held him in her arms. She saidalready he felt like hers. And then she went away.
For three days, the woman who made her bed in the fourthgable stayed there, weeping for the child she had abandoned to another woman,drinking cocoa made with curdled milk, listening to the radio: Little OrphanAnnie had adventures twice daily; the president reported on the War only once,at five. On the third day Marigold brought the pile of wire and aluminum backto the four-gabled house, tucking him underneath her pea-coat to shield himfrom the wind. She wanted him buried properly; she wanted
