The women who lived in the four-gabled house frowned andshook their heads. But they would not say sorry. They were glad to see that ayoung pretty stranger could not succeed where they always failed.
“A pity, that I could not make a better child,” said thewoman who made her bed in the fourth gable. “But not, I suppose, a surprise.”
“A pity,” said the woman who made her bed in the firstgable.
“A pity,” said the woman who made her bed in the secondgable.
The woman who made her bed in the third gable would not sayanything.
◊
They let Marigold bury the child; she had already purchased aheadstone for him.
“Bury him anywhere you like. Just, please,” said the womanwho made her bed in the fourth gable, “not where water can reach him. He’ll fryif water reaches him.”
Marigold didn’t say what she thought, which was: he’salready dead, why should it matter what reaches him? She only nodded. Sheshifted his small body in her arms, and she handed the women a printedinvitation to a wake that none of them would attend.
◊
The woman who made her bed in the second gable felt a sort ofpity for Marigold, now that the girl was grieving like the rest of them. ThatMarigold considered herself their superior, that she came to them in secretwith her fashionable hat hiding her prim face, only made the girl morepathetic. She had not realized yet. She didn’t know. Some women simply aren’tmeant for children.
The child that the woman who made her bed in the secondgable made for Marigold would be a calla lily, with a decorative white face anda stem that wouldn’t wilt—at least not for a while. “Come twice a day and feedher,” she instructed Marigold, tipping a watering can over her own brood ofchildren.
The wet soil darkened to a rich, nourished color. Marigoldstudied the ground attentively. “What is that you’re feeding them?”
“What does any mother feed her hungry infant?”
The girl’s eyes widened. She said, “I don’t believe I can dothat, ma’am.”
“Don’t you ever call me ma’am,” said the woman who made herbed in the second gable. “When your child pushes her way out of the ground,when she looks at you with her hungry mouth wide open, then you’ll believe youcan do it. The milk has to be yours, understood?”
“Yes ma’am,” said Marigold, cowed but unrepentant, watchingas a row of robust, root-colored children uncurled their long tendril-arms andlifted their faces to the sun.
◊
The woman who made her bed in the second gable had gardenclippers that she kept in perfect condition. She polished them before and afteruse, kept them from rust, and removed them from their leather case for onereason only: to cut loose those children who had come to term. It was withgreat reluctance that she handed the clippers to Marigold, who cut her childout of the ground and then, minutes later, sent her back to it.
“It seems wrong to bury her where she grew,” Marigoldwhispered.
The clippers rested in the pocket of Marigold’s flannelskirt. With uncharacteristic gentleness, the woman who made her bed in thesecond gable took them and returned them to their leather case.
“We could try again,” said the woman who made her bed in thesecond gable, but she said the words so Marigold would know she didn’t meanthem. And Marigold, sniffling, obediently shook her head no.
“I think my husband suspected, after the first child,” shesaid. “Perhaps it’s a blessing that this one died so soon. It would be wrong totry again. Wouldn’t it?”
She wanted to be told: no, it’s not wrong. Let’s try. Thistime your child will not be fed on borrowed breast milk. This time you will notmake a diagonal cut down your child’s stem, as if she is a flower you arepreparing for a vase. This time you will be better.
“Years ago, I let them grow too long, and they hurt me,”said the woman who made her bed in the second gable. How many years, the girlwould not know. “They made my insides ache. But I wanted them to stay with melonger, that’s why I did it. You don’t yet know what it feels like, to losethem again and again.”
“It must be dreadful,” said Marigold.
Later, she baked an apple tart. She smudged all the lipstickfrom her mouth and let her fashionable hat sit crooked on her head, and shesought the woman who made her bed in the third gable.
◊
The women who lived in the four-gabled house found each otherin tabloids, then in Sunday papers, then finally in a medical journal thatthree times failed to pass a peer review. But before then, the woman who madeher bed in the third gable had lived alone. And the house had only one gable,and she could bear no children.
To the woman who made her bed in the third gable, this was atragedy.
To the rest of the world, it was a great relief.
◊
The woman who made her bed in the third gable gasped infright when Marigold came to her door. Visitors, when they came to thefour-gabled house at all, never climbed the staircase to the rooms where thewomen made their beds. When the woman peeked around her bedroom door, shesighed softly in relief and stepped aside. Marigold removed her hat, thenstepped over the threshold.
“Is that apple?” said the woman who made her bed in thethird gable.
“Yes—a tart.” Marigold handed over the steaming dish as ifshe could not wait to be rid of it. The woman who made her bed in the thirdgable set the dish aside, and did not look in its direction again.
“I suppose you heard what happened to the last baby,”Marigold said, after a moment.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” said the woman who made her bed in thethird gable, her voice quivering on the final word. “That must have been veryhard for you.”
“Yes,” said Marigold. Then, steeling herself, she added, “Iwant to try again.”
“I’m afraid that’s how all her children come out. Theysimply cannot survive without the earth to nourish them.”
“Not from her,” Marigold said. “From you. Please. It wouldmean the
