“They’re coming,” whispered Melanie a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drain my gutschange your mind undeceived and buried her face in the pillow. Her voicecame out muffled.
“My poor baby. My poor baby.” And, after a long interval: “Oh, Scarlett, you mustn’t stay here.
You must go and take Wade.”
What Melanie said was no more than Scarlett had been thinking but hearing it put into wordsinfuriated her, shamed her as if her secret cowardice was written plainly in her face.
“Don’t be a goose. I’m not afraid. You know I won’t leave you.”
“You might as well. I’m going to die.” And she began moaning again.
Scarlett came down the dark stairs slowly, like an old woman, feeling her way, clinging to thebanisters lest she fall. Her legs were leaden, trembling with fatigue and strain, and she shiveredwith cold from the clammy sweat that soaked her body. Feebly she made her way onto the frontporch and sank down on the top step. She of the porch and with ashaking hand unbuttoned her basque halfway down her bosom. The night was drenched in warm soft darkness and she lay staring into it, dull as an ox.
It was all over. Melanie was not dead and the small baby boy who made noises like a youngkitten was receiving his first bath at Prissy’s hands. Melanie was asleep. How could she sleep afterthat nightmare of screaming pain and ignorant midwifery that hurt more than it helped? Whywasn’t she dead? Scarlett knew that she herself would have died under such handling. But when itwas over, Melanie had even whispered, so weakly she had to bend over her to hear: “Thank you.”
And then she had gone to sleep. How could she go to sleep?