I looked out before, the truck was gone. No telling
what he's up to now. I'll fix you some good breakfast,
honey. You rise and stretch those legs, hear?" "Yes, Mama. Mama?" I said before she left the
room. She turned.
"Yes, honey?"
"What about. . ." I held my hands under my
ample breasts.
Mama's face turned sad again. "I was going to
tell you about that today," she said sadly. "You'll have
to just pump it out or you'll develop milk fever." "But the milk . . ."
"We can't offer it to anyone's baby, and that
woman won't let Paul have your milk," she added
bitterly. Mama hated waste in any shape or form. "How long will I have to do this, Mama?" "From the looks of you, a few weeks at least,
honey. I'm sorry."
My tears burned under my eyelids. Every time I did this, I would think of my baby forced to drink the milk of a stranger while his mother's milk was poured into the ground. From the way I ached, I couldn't postpone it much longer either. After breakfast Mama showed me what to do. All the hot tears I had held
back streaked down my cheeks.
They seemed to singe my heart as well as my
face. I think Mama turned away and left me because
she, too, was close to crying.
Afterward, when I lay back and closed my eyes,
I thought I could hear my baby's cry. I recalled his
tiny face and imagined what it would have been like
to have his lips on my nipple drawing the milk from
me. Perhaps, if I did this every time, it would make it
a little easier, I thought.
Late in the afternoon, Daddy returned. He had a
swollen left cheek and a black eye. There was a thin
gash along the top of his forehead, and his clothes
were wrinkled and marred with mud and grime as if
he had been dragged through the swamp. He limped