H It was summer in the year of our Lord, 1863 and that blustery afternoon, Daniel “Birdie” Kelly, had been laid to rest―what was left of him. His remains, buried in a graveyard that looked more like a barren planet; a world that offered nothing to the living. And with the toss of every spade, I saw clouds of gold dust drift in the wind, like the gold of my dreams―the haunting memories I tried to forget.
H Memories of how Birdie had died at the hands of savage Indians: brutally scalped by Cheyenne Dogmen, as customary―a sharp blow to the head with a tomahawk, and once Birdie had hit the ground, the warrior cut deeply into his skull with a sharp knife, carving along the hairline around his ears and around the back of his neck.
H With one foot firmly placed on Birdie’s back, the warrior grabbed his hair with both hands in a solid grip. And with a quick pull from back to front and one swift upward motion he tore Birdie’s hair off in one bloody piece. A screeching “death-cry” followed and then a proud display of the gruesome scalp of hair, held high for all to see.
H But Birdie’s slaughter had been especially ruthless and for the Dogmen, scalping him was just the beginning. They had tied a noose at his feet and then fastened the rope to a wild Mustang. They slashed the horse’s rump, spooking it frantically across the open plains, dragging Birdie in tow inside a cloud of dust. By the time the Cavalry had found his body, Birdie’s head was missing and his arms were nothing more than bloody stumps―his flesh worn down to the white of his bones.
H Soldiers had first identified him by his name which I had inscribed inside the waistband of his blue army trousers. Later, I had recognized his remains by confirming the birthmark on his left foot―a brown mark in the shape of a small bird.
H Wolves had devoured his organs and buzzards had scavenged most of his torso, leaving little else except something that vaguely resembled the carcass of a large salmon.

VIRGINIA MAE MERCY had memorized the verse in her mind: Ephesians 5:6—“Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of these things the wrath of God comes upon the sons of disobedience.”
H But even so, she would relive the moment in horror for many months, as she tried to replace that grisly memory with one of hope and a new outlook for her shaken life.
H A memory of something she had always longed for and at that moment she needed more than anything else in her life. Wishful memories of her unborn male child, which one day she hoped would ease her own heartbreaking death into a moment of rare beauty.
H But not on this day, for she faced a moment of truth: another moment of impending death that would merge the recent events of her life into a fear she could no longer deny.
H Now her frail body trembled with a queasy feeling that touched her soul. And before the priest had finished his eulogy, Virginia Mae Mercy, abused wife, adulteress, and forbidden sister, had felt a warm stream of amniotic fluid run down her legs, forming a puddle over the parched, Kansas earth.
H She fainted, breathless at the sound of it, like an open spigot, while helpless mourners crossed themselves and mumbled broken prayers.
H Her mother, Hattie, a midwife with the sensibilities of a cowpoke, had quickly called out for help. Mr. Wakefield, Virginia’s former pastor, who had caught her in his arms, quickly laid her into his buckboard wagon and rushed to Hattie’s house nearby, where they would try to save the infant.
H Hattie tried keeping Virginia calm as the wagon wheels hit ruts and crushed dry clumps of dirt and rocks over the bumpy trail to her house. She stared at the back of Mr. Wakefield’s head, as if she could bore a hole through it with her eyes, suspecting he might have fathered the child.

H Moments later, Virginia lay in bed, pushing, panting, and screaming. Hattie, undaunted, had quickly layered the bed with towels, just as she had done many times before. Virginia looked about the bedroom, trying to find something to ease her mind―anything that resembled normalcy. She stared at the mantel with its family heirlooms decisively in place. A daguerreotype of a bride and groom―faces stoic, Virginia and Birdie. It was flanked by small books, a Victorian clock, and a music box that suddenly played the last few notes of Stephen Foster’s Beautiful Dreamers, when a gust of wind blew the bedroom door―slammed it shut.
H It’s her third, so I probably don’t have much time, Mr. Wakefield. Maybe I can save this one, said Hattie.
H I had a feeling it would come early―her feet started swelling last week. This morning they looked like hams. I begged her to stay home where she belongs, but you know how sentimental Virginia Mae is.
H Hattie spoke to him with a tone of accusation in her voice and a furrowed brow. She crossed herself and proceeded about the task like a priest about to perform an exorcism.
H You can leave now, Mr. Wakefield. Open the windows on your way out, she said.
H Lie on your side, bend your knees to your chest, and take a deep breath, Virginia Mae. Come on Ginny, don’t go limp on me now―we’ve been through this before.
H Virginia looked at her mother as if she wanted to die and take Hattie with her―she fainted again. When she regained consciousness, it was as if she had come out of a nightmare―she thought about everything that had gone wrong in her life. She thought about telling how Birdie had died: not in a courageous battle against Confederate soldiers, but in a squabble with Cheyenne Indians who had scalped him and desecrated his body. She wanted to tell how she hated him for the anguish to her soul―the forsaken child she was about to bear in his name.

The small bedroom went sideways and spun around crooked in her eyes. Virginia broke out into a cold sweat. The scent of dry logs was suddenly overpowered by the stench of childbirth―amniotic body fluid and splashes of bloody urine.
H You’ll have to grin and bear it, said Hattie. I’ve only got a trace of chloroform left and I’ll have to use just enough to dull the pain, so you can stay awake and push.
H She moistened a small towel with a splash of chloroform and held it briefly to Virginia’s nose.
H Breathe easy, Ginny.
H Virginia gently inhaled the vapors and her thoughts drifted into a dreamlike state, recalling recent moments in her life. Like most of the mistakes in her past, it had started with a man she had always admired, Pastor Wakefield.
H She remembered the night she had found herself with him inside the dimly lit sacristy of her church in the throes of something unholy. When an intruder had suddenly swung the door wide open, burst into the room, and her gleaming moment came rumbling down, as if a twister had just collided into Kansas.
H Pastor Wakefield had looked up but he could barely see the woman who towered over him. The woman had gasped, stepped back quickly, dropped something and fled the room.
H The sound of her hurried footsteps, scratching against the wooden stairs, was all they heard. The musty scent of her garments lingered in the air.
H What was that? said Virginia.
H You mean, who was that? whispered the pastor.
H What?
H Mother Raiza.
H Are you sure it was her?

H He nodded.
H She dropped something. What was it?
H The pastor reached for a lamp.
H It’s the Adam and Eve painting that we used for last week’s sermon. I painted it myself. It’s yours if you want it.
H Virginia stared at him and shook her head in disbelief.
H Fine. But now what?
H What’s the matter? he asked.
H Virginia fussed with her blouse and tried keeping it closed where the buttons had been torn off.
H What kind of question is that?
H The pastor didn’t say a word.
H What do you think is the matter?
H He stood silent for a long while.
H Well, I don’t plan to walk out of here holding hands with you, Mr. Wakefield.
H The pastor, resigned, peered at Virginia, who hid in the shadows. He opened the door and looked outside in both directions, squeezing himself sideways out the door, as he left the room carrying his shoes in his hands. He looked back before he turned a corner but Virginia was nowhere in sight. She sat quietly in the darkness.
H What have I done now? God forgive me, she said.
H She clung to the painting. The lantern’s flame flickered and suddenly died out. She tilted the painting towards the window and wondered about the two figures, mesmerized by the anguish on their faces. She closed her eyes.
H I don’t love you either, she said.
H She felt too abandoned to even breathe.

BREATHE GINNY, BREATHE DEEP and push hard with this contraction. Good Lord, they’re about two minutes apart. This poor child’s in a hurry, said Hattie. I see its head and it’s coming quick. Give me a good push with the next one, honey, so I can grab its shoulders. That’s it.
H Hurry, Mama, it hurts so bad.
H Hush! What did you expect? The baby’s head is out, now push for God’s sake.
H I’m trying!
H Well, try harder. Come on, Ginny, push hard, it’s stuck. That’s it keep pushing, I’ve got it by the shoulders. A little more, that’s it. It’s a boy! Good heavens.
H A boy, Mama! How’s he look?
H Like a lump of flesh, drenched in blood, covered with yellow stuff and he’s blue for crying out loud!
H Mama?
H I think he’s okay, Ginny―please. Let me clear his throat and nostrils. He’s not breathing yet. Come on little boy, take a deep breath already, you’re scaring me. Come on little boy, take a deep breath already, you’re scaring me. That’s it, breathe. My God, I think he’s going to be all right. Let me clean him up a bit, Lord only knows who the heck he looks like.
H Something’s wrong, Mama.
H What’s the matter?
H I feel like pushing again. I’m not done. I feel like another one is in there―and here it comes!
H Must be the afterbirth, go ahead. What the heck is that? Are those toes? Good Lord, little feet, Ginny.
H I told you I wasn’t done.
H Heavens, you could’ve given me a chance to put the first one down, hold on for the love of God, it’s breech!
H Mama―?
H Don’t fret, just keep pushing, I’m ready for this one and I hope to God it’s the last one. It’ll be all right, just a little push. That’s it, it’s coming. I’ve got its feet and pulling. Can you push? I’ve got to reach for his arms before they get stuck and break―stop pushing for God’s sake!

H Make up your mind, Mama! You want me to push or not? I need another boy. Did you say it’s a boy?
H Well, he’s got a sack the size of a cumquat, for heaven’s sake. Just breathe until I can get the baby’s arms straight―I’ll let you know when you can push again.
H Lord, he’s not moving.
H Mr. Wakefield cringed at the sound of Virginia’s screaming and grunting, as he paced about the porch and peeked inside, trying to catch a glimpse of the tiny wailing baby.
H He had plenty to wail about himself, as anxious as a would-be father. He watched the black, cumulous clouds in the distance, loom closer. A thunderstorm had approached from the south and lightning flickered over the landscape. He could hear the thunder, rumbling yonder. A reminder of the darkest day he will never forget. The day it rained in his heart, just as hard as it had rained outside the church, where the hollow sound of winds from a squall, gusted, rattled, and poured rain against the stained glass windows.
H Inside the church it was silent near the altar where he stood and talked with the Mother Superior in a hushed voice.
H Pastor―Mr. Wakefield, it has been three days since the incident. I decided to confide the matter to the Archbishop, she said.
H Mother Raiza, you realize the implications of such a thing.
H Mr. Wakefield, you realize the facts, do you not? Have you no shame at all in the matter? This is not the time for your trickery and malfeasance, Mr. Wakefield.
H No, of course not. What was the Archbishop’s response?
H Mother Raiza looked at him strangely.
H Would you expect anything less than being banished from the clergy?
H Pastor Wakefield stood silent, his eyes averted.

Are you going to deny it? I cannot imagine…
H My apologies, Madam.
H I am ashamed for us all, she said.
H I have fallen from grace and ask your forgiveness.
H Ask it from God. I judge no one. And as for that…your accomplice, Virginia, I should’ve known. She is just as guilty and no longer welcome here.
H She made the sign of the cross and continued.
H I’ve already reassigned her duties as well. My prayers are with you both, nonetheless. Forgive me sir; it is all I can do. The Archbishop will contact you in the interim. His word will be final, of course.
H The pastor’s face fell hard. Mother Raiza had turned away. Thank you kindly. I beg your pardon, he said as she departed. He then turned about and proceeded to leave the church without another word from Mother Raiza.
H Pastor Wakefield lowered his head as if to hide from the watchful eyes of the saints that flanked the doorway. His careful footsteps clacked through the desolate aisles, echoed beyond the pews to the front entrance.
H The massive oak door squeaked when he pushed it open and there he found Virginia soaking under the thunderstorm.
H The door struggled against the blowing rain and shut hard behind him with a steely click of its latch.
H It sounded like an explosion. Like a big bang at the epi-center of the universe. As if the beginning of something dreadful.

HATTIE HAD FINALLY DELIVERED the second baby, but he did not cry. She spanked its bottom, but he did not make a sound. He was not breathing. He was limp and stillborn.
H Lord, not again, said Virginia.
H Virginia winced at the baby’s tiny, deformed face. She took a deep breath wondering if she could have brought herself to breastfeed it: trying to find telltale features that would point to who the father might be. She asked God for a reason why this wretched little creature deserved to die.
H She did not dare touch him, as if to deny herself the sadness. Its twisted, blue umbilical cord that strangled him had not been cut, when Virginia Mae Mercy had already decided she would not love him.
H To Virginia, birthing the healthy boys she had always longed for was like wishing the world was perfect. As if she had ex-pected that in one spectacular instant, one phenomenal mo-ment, everything in the universe would fall into its rightful place. But for the second time, one boy had died―the other was not expected to survive. She seemed to have lost everything again.
H Everything, but for one lost soul. When her firstborn child had taken a late, deep breath eight years before, Virginia had sensed she would be different. She sensed that this female child, who she did not want, would some day matter.
H This poor child―the only sickly fetus that had overcome death and miraculously made it to the other side was now a mysterious little girl with secrets of her own.
H A solitary child whose only sin on this earth had been that she was born the wrong gender.
H A hopeless creature that seemed to have been cast down from heaven itself―condemned to live in a world that did not know how to love her―this side of paradise.