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imagined.
    “I can see what Gloria means,” Mae said. “There's something satisfying about standin’ at the window, lookin’ out at the sunset.”
    “You know what would be even better?” The dream-filled voice of Biddy made them all pause and turn to her. “It would be even better to know that you were standing at your own window in your own house looking at your own yard and doing your own dishes.”
    That feeling settled among the women, and while nobody said anything at first, the sense of agreement was strong. After a few seconds, Sadie's voice broke the melancholy in the room.
    “What would be best,” she said, “would be to be at your window, doing your dishes, and have the man of the house come up behind you, nuzzle your neck, and say Tut, tut, darling. You look tired. Why don't you sit down and let me finish up?'”
    The laughter was back. Not loud, not raucous, but soft and complete. It was a sound that filled every corner of the room. Gloria enjoyed her contribution to it, loved the feeling of it bubbling up from deep within her. She was just finishing a long soprano sigh when she felt it.
    That first pain.
    That first tug.
    She handed the last clean cup to Biddy, used the end of her apron to wipe her hands, and grabbed her coat.
    “I've got to get home now, girls,” she said and closed the door on their good-byes.

    The single window faced the east, so she couldn't watch the sunset, but Gloria did look through her blue flowered curtains as the shadow of her cabin stretched across the yard. All the lights were on at Jewell's, the windows open. The crowd Jewell was expecting didn't arrive. From what she could tell, there were just a few men over, playing cards and buying drinks. The house sounded full, not loud, and Gloria knew that if she ever did have a place in it, she wouldn't after tonight.
    The pains progressed with the darkness. First erratic and inconsequential, they grew in intensity and regularity. She'd almost laughed at the first ones. Ooh, that's a big one!” Or, “Yep, I think this is it!” Laughing, she thought, was better than screaming—not that they'd been strong enough to make her scream. Besides, laughter meant strength.
    But as the shadows lengthened and the darkness crept in and around her home, the laughter died.
    “1 should have told Sadie,” she said to the empty room. “She should be here. She said she'd be here.”
    There was a little fire in the stove, not much more than embers right now, and still she felt hot. She'd taken off her clothes earlier, and now sat on her bed wearing one of Mae's nightgowns. The room was encased in darkness. Her only lamp sat on a little shelf that jutted out from the windowsill. She rarely lit it, preferring to lie in the darkness and concentrate on feeling the movement of the baby within her.
    The life within her.
    Left in the dark, she could imagine the trappings of a home surrounded her. She could conjure the breath of a sleeping mate. She could pretend that this child was coming into a world where it would be loved and cared for in a way she never was. She tried to imagine herself, an unborn mass in her mother's womb, tried to see her mother lying in darkness eagerly awaiting Gloria's arrival. A single flame in the lamp would make all of that disappear. Asolitary strike of a match would light the whole room and reveal its bed, its bureau, its chair, its stove. Worse, it would reveal the small green leather case, the legacy her mother left her. The rootless existence handed to her. The mere presence of light was not worth the dashing of a dream, not on any ordinary evening, anyway
    But this was no ordinary night. With a shaking hand, she lit the lamp, turned the flame high, and waited for someone to notice.
    Another pain seized her.
    Why hadn't she told Sadie? Why didn't she call out to her now? Why not risk the few steps across the yard? The pain that gripped her made Gloria feel as though the muscles in her body were about to rise