I didn’t have to hide resentment or hurt feelings from Eva. There were none. If I had a touch of regret, it was about my poor choices, like dating Spencer. Certainly it wasn’t over losing him. Good riddance. Taking care of Ellen was exhausting but rewarding. Not so with Spencer. I was thankful I didn’t need to deal with him.
She continued. “I reckon the father’s family will be paying her bills, since I hear he’s run off to college like he had nothing to do with it.” She gave a short laugh. “Or more likely his parents packed him off lickety-split. Easier to pay the bills and not let the relationship go further. Mama and Daddy have bigger expectations for their only son than a local girl.”
If Eva thought she might pry a secret loose from me, she got nothing but my tired smile.
Eva nodded good-bye. As she went to the car, she added, “If you need anything out here, you let me know. I know you’re a strong, smart girl and devoted to your grandma, and I can see you’re a fine mommy to the babe, too, but no one can handle it all. You let me know and I, or my Anthony, can be here in twenty minutes. And happy to do it.”
She meant it and had a good heart, but she was also an information broker, as I called such folks. Grand had explained such things to me when I was a child. People like salesmen, and people who did deliveries and paid lots of visits around the county were the purveyors of personal and interesting information long before the local newspaper was being printed and sold. The worst of all such invasions of privacy were local diners and doctors’ waiting rooms. Frequent those places, per Grand, and you could never expect to have a modicum of privacy. Needless to say, we didn’t eat in town a lot. My grandparents considered Mildred to be the exception, and they were never proven wrong.
It occurred to me, almost belatedly, that my Ellen had a half brother out there. Beyond a moment of speculation, the information held no meaning to me whatsoever. I had plenty of other things to concern myself with, and I put it out of my mind.
Eva had stuck the latest issue of the local newspaper in the top of the food box. She’d also tucked a baby book in the side of the box. The book was pretty and mostly pink. I thumbed through it. There were pages for all sorts of dates and events and pictures. I left the baby book on the kitchen table and took the newspaper out to the porch to read while I kept my eye on my sleeping Ellen.
There it was, in the section with engagements, weddings, births, and obituaries. I hadn’t submitted an official notice in the paper, but it didn’t surprise me. No doubt they pulled the information from legal records, and Mildred had said she’d file notice of the birth for us, so I guessed she had.
“Baby Girl Cooper, born to Hannah Cooper,” and the date. That was it.
I decided this wouldn’t be my baby’s birth notice. It wasn’t good enough and didn’t deserve a place in Ellen’s baby book. I went into my bedroom and found a school notebook, my spiral notebook from history class with plenty of empty sheets left in it, and took it back out to the porch.
I wrote:
Ellen Clara Cooper, daughter of Hannah Cooper and great-granddaughter of Clara and Edmund Cooper of Cooper’s Hollow, was born on a cold, overcast day in February—a day that was immediately made bright by virtue of her shining countenance, her charming blue eyes, and her sweet smile and voice. She was born with light-brown hair, almost golden, and curly and feathery, and she grabbed her mama’s hand with a strong grip. She knew she was exactly where she belonged—in her mama’s arms.
Feeling life’s rhythm strong in me now, I flipped to the back inside cover. It was a lightweight cardboard with more substance than the thin sheet of lined paper, and while my Ellen slept, I sketched her sweet baby profile and the tiny, slightly curled fist resting near her cheek as if she’d fallen asleep before the thumb could complete its journey to her mouth. Her lips, soft and full, were posed as the traditional cherub’s bud mouth, and the nose was perfect. Simply perfect.
This would start the baby book off as it should. Only the best that love could give was what my Ellen deserved.
I wasn’t a great artist, but I had some skill, and I did one more sketch later that day. Gran was holding Ellen, and when I put the pencil to work, I kept glancing up at her.
“What’s this?” she finally asked. “Why are you looking at me?”
Ellen reached toward Gran’s moving lips. Her hand, with its chubby fingers, waved, and she smiled. The pediatrician had said she was too young to smile, but Gran and I knew better.
“Hold still and don’t get her stirred up,” I said. “I’m drawing a picture for her baby book.”
“What? Of who? Me?”
“Hold still, Gran. This is for Ellen. For her baby book. A picture of her being held by her Great-Gran.”
Gran chuckled, and the sound and movement delighted Ellen. Her arms swung and her feet pumped.
“Hold still, girls. Show a little respect for the pencil, please.”
Gran smiled and didn’t protest again. Instead, she touched the pert nose, the rosy cheek, and Ellen waved her tiny hands again and gurgled happily.
George Bridger was a lean, angular man with a beard that had gotten whiter and longer over the years. It had grown straggly and wasn’t always clean. Every few months, Mr. Bridger bestirred himself to cross over Elk Ridge and hike down to our Hollow. Only once did I ever remember his driving over. Instead, he walked. Gran and Grand had known him since before water ran in the creeks, as they liked to say, and they were some kind of distant kin. Mr. Bridger had been fast friends with Grand in particular. He lived alone. I think the old man walked down to visit and to check on us, feeling a family sort of responsibility, and to let us have the honor of checking up on him, too. Sometimes I think he hoped he’d find his old friend, at home and miraculously restored, no questions asked. I understood, but I couldn’t help him with that. Other than Mr. Bridger, Eva Pullen’s one visit, and Mildred, we saw no one, which was fine with all three of us gals.
He visited one day while I was working with my clay at the kitchen table. He didn’t approve, being as it was a kitchen table, and he’d wanted to pull up to it and have a cup of coffee and share a little conversation with Gran. Gran insisted they could settle at one end while I worked. After a bit, I realized the conversation had ceased. I looked up to see him watching.
“What’re you making?” he asked. “A bowl?”
“A bowl or a pot. I suppose it would work for a cup, too.”
“It’s got wings?”
“Butterfly wings.” I motioned with my hands. “Or rather hands and fingers shaped to mimic butterfly wings. I made the bottom, the bowl part, on the wheel, and then came in here to make the wings and attach them.” I finished smoothing a missed edge into the main body. “This is Ellen’s long naptime during the day, and my only time to get things like this done.”
“That so?” he asked.
“I’m going to carve her name in it. I’ll save it for her till she’s older.”
He laughed.