Page 130 of The Frozen River

I am tempted to tell them both about the woman that Ephraim Ballard married—and the scandal that enfolded us—when Sally screams.

Here it is, then. She’s ready.

It isn’t fast and it isn’t easy and it isn’t enjoyable for a single one of us in that room. It takes Sally Pierce nearly two hours to heave her child into the world. The damage is no worse than what I often see in rooms like this. But she will require stitches, that much is sure.

“Hello, little one,” I say, and if my hands are shaking as I lift the squalling newborn and inspect him, it is only because I know what is coming.

He is beautiful. Big. Healthy. Not a single deficiency that I can detect. I want to pull him to my chest. Cradle him. Kiss his face. Sniff the dark, chaotic hair. This instinct is so strong that I hesitate to hand him to his mother.

But there is Sally with her arms held out, waiting to receive him. This girl who has always managed to avoid directly meeting my gaze has no such trouble now. Those big, calculating hazel eyes challenge me to ask the question required by law. She has waited for this moment, defying all other attempts to coerce her into speaking the father’s name.

I will not give in so easily, however. I take a different tack instead. After wrapping the baby in soft, clean linen, I hand him to her and watch as she puts him to her breast.

I watch her first awkward attempts.

I watch the grimace and hiss of pain when he finally latches on.

I watch Sally watch me, and though it is cruel, I let her squirm in silence. Then I pull needle and thread from my medicine bag.

“You shouldn’t feel much,” I tell her. “But if I don’t do this, you will bleed for days.”

The only sound is that of a newborn grunting and gulping as he tries to eat his first meal. Every few seconds Sally winces. Hisses. Yet I don’t know if this is because of the vice that has attached to her left nipple or because of my needle. There is no bringing new life into this world without pain, however, and sometimes it assaults us at both ends.

“What did William mean?” I ask Bonnie. “When he told you to explain her situation?”

“He thinks I know who the father is.”

“Do you?”

“Honestly? I haven’t the slightest idea who it could be.”

“I find that there are many mysteries in this world. But I do not consider the father of this child to be one of them.”

Bonnie Pierce, God bless her, gives me this moment. She does not ask me to clarify, but rather allows me the pure, unadulterated pleasure of stealing every ounce of thunder from her daughter. There is no surprise here, and Sally takes no victory.

Once the stitches are done and the thread has been clipped, I sit back on my stool. Take in the full measure of this girl who has caused such trouble over these last few months.

“You have a beautiful boy,” I tell her. “What will you call him?”

I know the answer already because I have seen the truth of it with my own eyes, yet it is a hammer to my heart when she speaks the words aloud.

“His name is Jonathan. After his father.”

Sunday, April 18—Clear and pleasant. Birth. I was called from the Hook to attend Sally Pierce who I found to be in labor. She was safe delivered at 1:00 p.m. of a fine son. Her travail was severe, but she managed well, and I left her cleverly with her own mother. Sally declared that my son Jonathan was the father of her child.

I break the quill. That’s how hard I press against the paper. It snaps in half, in my hand, and I sit back to watch the ink run down the pad of my thumb. I do not typically pour my feelings into this book of mine, but today there is so much more that I want to say. Yet I am out of ink. I’ve used the last of it just now, and I’ve no energy left to wander down, in the dark, to the mill, where Ephraim has left the other disk. So I wash my hands instead and go to bed. But I do not sleep. I lie awake, aware that my son never came home tonight, and I wonder if he is out cavorting around, or whether he has gone to meet his newborn son.

NORTH MANOR MONDAY, APRIL 19

I need another quill and more ink. I meant to send one of the girls down to the mill this afternoon, but they are gone now—my entire brood of children—off to the Hook to shop and socialize for the evening, and there is no one to run the errand for me. So I gather my journal and make my way down the path.

Even now I am rehearsing how I will tell Ephraim that he has another grandson. I doubt he will be surprised at the news. Or even displeased—I have never known a man who enjoys being around children more than Ephraim Ballard—but the handling of Jonathan will not be pleasant. As far as I’m concerned, my husband cannot get home soon enough.

It is odd to be in Ephraim’s space without him. He’s been gone over a week, but it still smells of him. Yet without his voice and the constant fluttering of Percy’s wings, the mill feels abandoned. No matter. There’s the ink, on his worktable, along with a jar of new quills and the rest of his tools.

Ephraim’s draw blade and Revenge sit in a neat row with the chisels and handsaws. Cleaned and oiled. Precise. Just like the man who keeps them. I do my best not to mess with his things while he’s gone but I do pull a blueish gray quill from the jar and press the sharpened tip against the pad of my thumb.

My husband had been collecting feathers for a week before he left. Some from the loft where Percy now roosts, but others from the forest. One can’t simply dip a feather into ink and write, however. Ephraim prepares each quill by hand.