“Maggie—”
“They are! He’s going to need a home, Mama!”
She lets out a long breath as she sets the pudgy brass cat on a saucer. “That doesn’t necessarily mean we’re the ones who should be giving him one.”
“Why? Why shouldn’t it be us? We have the room. We even have the clothes and the diapers!”
I hadn’t meant for that to hurt her, but I think it did a little. She flinches, same as when you touch something that is hotter than you think it will be. I want to say I’m sorry, but she speaks again before I can.
“Let’s just consider all this one day at a time. If Mrs. Arnold thinks the authorities would appreciate us taking this child, then—”
“She already told me they would.”
Mama goes on as if I hadn’t rudely interrupted her. “Then we cantalk to Uncle Fred and we can write to Papa and we can see if it’s the right thing to do for the child. It has to be about what’s best for him, Margaret, not about what’s best for us.” She picks up her cup. “You need to step aside now so I can get back upstairs.”
I move away from the entrance to the kitchen. Mama comes through the doorway and looks down on the baby from several feet away. Despite the motherly smile, I see exhaustion and worry and distress on her face.
“Willa’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”
Mama just nods and turns from me to head for the stairs.
•••
I wait all morning and half the afternoon for Mrs. Arnold and she never comes for me. Uncle Fred finally sends me down to the church to see what is keeping her. I find Miss Heloise in the kitchen with a group of ladies who are washing up soup jars just brought back from their mercy missions. Boxes of groceries have just been delivered and more dirty jars are being brought in by old men in felt caps.
“Oh!” Miss Heloise says when I ask for Mrs. Arnold. “She’s not here. She’s home sick. I’m afraid she took ill last night.”
“She’s sick? With the flu?”
“I’m afraid so. What is it you need, dear?” She moves about the kitchen like it is on fire.
“Well, I...” My voice just falls away when I realize Heloise is now so busy with all Mrs. Arnold’s responsibilities heaped on her that she’s forgotten all about the baby.
“Did you come to tell me your mother can resume taking food down to South Street? We missed her today.”
“She can’t right now. My sister’s not feeling well.”
Someone calls her name. She pats my shoulder. “Oh. I see. Sorry to hear that. All right, then. I’m sure I can find someone else.”
She tells me, sweetly, to run along home, she is so very busy.
When I get back to the house, Evie is playing with the baby in the sitting room and Uncle Fred is making coffee for himself and a crew ofgrave diggers the city has sent over to load up a truckload of decaying bodies.
“Well?” he says, but I can tell he is too busy to talk to me about what to do with the baby, which is fine with me because the answer to the problem is clear as day. The adults are making it much too complicated.
“Mrs. Arnold wasn’t there.”
“So now what?” He pours coffee into a cup. “I haven’t heard back from the police, you know. No one’s asking about that child.”
“Mama said this morning we need to think about keeping him,” I answer. “The orphanages are all full and he probably doesn’t have any other family. We’re all that he has now.”
“I suppose,” he says, and turns from me to pour more coffee.
I can’t help smiling a teensy bit at those two words as I make my way to where Evie and the baby are.
There will be no more trips to South Street with Mrs. Arnold—or anyone else. Willa is going to get well, the flu is going to go away, the war is going to be won, Papa and Jamie will be coming home, and the baby is going to be ours.
