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than half a minute. As soon as he got his breath back he started to screech like I never heard Gunther
screech, not even when he was a baby. Sweet-Ho held him against her for comfort. Then she handed him to Veronica because their mother needed comfort, too.
    Mrs. Bigelow was standing there in the creek with her skirt hiked up and her bosom all exposed, and she was smiling same as always. Smiling and smiling and smiling, with that empty look in her eyes. Sweet-Ho, talking real quiet and calm, buttoned up her dress all gentle-like and took her hand. She led her up the creek bank and through the field toward home. Veronica and I followed behind with Gunther. He had quieted his screeching and was just shuddering and sobbing into Veronica's shoulder.
    It was like we was a family, walking. It was like Sweet-Ho was mother to us all, firm and loving and holding the hand of the most troublesome child. The rest of us stumbled along, wet and scared, through the high grass, and not one of us knowing what had happened or what it meant.
    We passed Millie Bellows's house, and I could see her there on her porch, peering over the railing at us, all curious-like, nosy, and evil-tempered, but she held her tongue and didn't call nothing for a change. She watched is all.
    Off in the distance I could see Norman Cox, too, as we passed his house. He was standing on the steps watching, and for once he didn't call out nothing either. He had a scared look, same as us. Pelting pebbles and calling names, that was nothing special. But now it was as if there was something new in all our lives, and it might bring real harm.

5
    Old Gunther, he wasn't any the worse for wear after having such a mortifying experience, being pelted with stones and licked and drowned and baptized all in the space of five minutes. But I suppose when you're only four years old nothing surprises you much.
    Mrs. Bigelow went off to the hospital again, the very same day that she baptized Gunther in the creek. Sweet-Ho took her home and fussed over her, humming comforting songs and such, smoothing her hair, taking off her wet clothes, and then when Mrs. Bigelow went to sleep, finally, still smiling like she always done, Sweet-Ho called Veronica's father at his office, where he usually went on Saturdays. She told him in a solemn voice to get hisself straight home because there was trouble.
    So he came home, and together he and Sweet-Ho helped Mrs. Bigelow into one of them gauzy dresses she always liked, and then he took her to the car. Me
and Veronica and Gunther stood on the porch and watched. We was still wearing our wet clothes, but the hot sun mostly dried them after a while, until we was all three somewhat mussed and mossy-smelling, and later Sweet-Ho would look at us and wrinkle her nose and tell us to change.
    She didn't wave. We thought she might, from the car—Mrs. Bigelow, I mean—but she kept her head down and didn't look back, so we was all three waving at nothing. The car kicked up some dust and pebbles from the driveway and then it drove away. Sweet-Ho had been watching from the kitchen door, and after they was gone she opened it, and we heard that creaky sound it always made. She looked at us standing there.
    "It wasn't your fault," she said, all gentle-like.
    Gunther wasn't even paying no attention. He was examining the spring on the screen door to figure out what made it squeak. And me, I knew it wasn't my fault. But I could see that Veronica needed to hear that. It was Veronica who looked at Sweet-Ho with questions in her face.
    "I'm sorry," Sweet-Ho said to Veronica. "I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner that she was gone. I was trying to watch her real careful, because I could see that something in her imagination was making her more agitated. But I took my eyes away, thinking she was resting—"
    "I don't know what you mean by agitated. She's crazy, that's what," Veronica said, looking at the porch floor.
    "Your mama's sick, is all," Sweet-Ho said. "It's a