“Oh, lots of things. Some babies pop right out, others take days.”

“How long did I take?”

He thought for a moment. “Don’t guess I remember. First babies usually take longer.”

“Were you around?”

“Nope. I was on a tractor.” The arrival of babies was not a subject Pappy cared to dwell on, and the conversation lagged.

I saw Tally ease away from the front yard and disappear into the darkness. The Spruills were settling in; their cooking fire was just about out.

The Reds scored four runs in the top of the first inning. Pappy got so upset he went to bed. I turned off the radio and sat on the porch, watching for Tally. Before long, I heard Pappy snoring.

I was determined to sit on the front steps and wait for my parents and Gran to return from the Latchers’. I could almost see the scene over there; the women in the back room with Libby, the men sitting outside with all those children, as far away from the birthing as possible. Their house was just across the river, not far at all, and I was missing it.

Fatigue was hitting hard, and I almost fell asleep. Camp Spruill was still and dark, but I hadn’t seen Tally come back yet.

I tiptoed through the house, heard Pappy in a deep sleep, and went to the back porch. I sat on the edge with my legs hanging off. The fields beyond the barn and the silo were a soft gray when the moon broke through the scattered clouds. Otherwise, they were hidden in black. I saw her walking alone on the main field road, just as moonlight swept the land for a second. She was in no hurry. Then everything was black again. There was not a sound for a long time, until she stepped on a twig near the house.

“Tally,” I whispered as loudly as I could.

After a long pause, she answered, “Is that you, Luke?”

“Over here,” I said. “On the porch.”

She was barefoot and made no sound when she walked. “What’re you doin’ out here, Luke?” she said, standing in front of me.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked.

“Just takin’ a walk.”

“Why are you takin’ a walk?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I have to get away from my family.”

That certainly made sense to me. She sat beside me on the porch, pulled her skirt up past her knees, and began swinging her legs.

“Sometimes I want to just run away from them,” she said, very softly. “You ever want to run away, Luke?”

“Not really. I’m only seven. But I’m not gonna live here for the rest of my life.”

“Where you gonna live?”

“St. Louis.”

“Why St. Louis?”

“That’s where the Cardinals play.”

“And you’re gonna be a Cardinal?”

“Sure am.”

“You’re a smart boy, Luke. Only a fool would wanna pick cotton for the rest of his life. Me, I wanna go up North, too, up where it’s cool and there’s lots of snow.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. Montreal, maybe.”

“Where’s that?”

“Canada.”

“Do they have baseball?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then forget it.”

“No, it’s beautiful. We studied it in school, in history. It was settled by the French, and that’s what everybody speaks.”

“Do you speak French?”

“No, but I can learn.”

“It’s easy. I can already speak Spanish. Juan taught me last year.”

“Really?”

“Si”

“Say something else.”

“Buenos dias. Por favor. Adios. Gracias. Senor. Como esta?”

“Wow.”

“See, I told you it was easy. How far away is Montreal?”

“I’m not sure. A long way, I think. That’s one reason I wanna go there.”

A light suddenly came on in Pappy’s bedroom. It fell across the far end of the porch and startled us. “Be quiet,” I whispered.

“Who is it?” she whispered back, ducking as if bullets were about to come our way.

“That’s just Pappy getting some water. He’s up and down all night long.” Pappy went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I watched him through the screen door. He drank two glasses of water, then stomped back to his bedroom and turned off the light. When things were dark and silent again, she said, “Why is he up all night?”

“He worries a lot. Ricky’s fightin’ in Korea.”

“Who’s Ricky?”

“My uncle. He’s nineteen.”

She pondered this for a moment, then said, “Is he cute?”

“I don’t know. Don’t really think about that. He’s my best buddy, and I wish he’d come home.”

We thought about Ricky for a moment as our feet dangled off the porch and the night passed.

“Say, Luke, the pickup left before dinner. Where’d it go?”

“Over to the Latchers’.”

“Who are they?”

“Some sharecroppers just across the river.”

“Why’d they go over there?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“ ‘Cause it’s a secret.”

“What kinda secret?”

“Big one.”

“Come on, Luke. We already have secrets, don’t we?”

“I guess.”

“I haven’t told anybody that you watched me at the creek, have I?”

“I guess not.”

“And if I did, you’d get in big trouble, wouldn’t you?”

“I reckon I would.”

“So there. I can keep a secret, you can keep a secret. Now what’s goin’ on over at the Latchers’?”

“You promise you won’t tell.”

“I promise.”

The whole town already knew Libby was pregnant. What was the use in pretending it was a secret anyway? “Well, there’s this girl, Libby Latcher, and she’s havin’ a baby. Right now.”

“How old is she?”

“Fifteen.”

“Gosh.”

“And they’re tryin’ to keep it quiet. They wouldn’t call a real doctor ‘cause then everybody would know about it. So they asked Gran to come over and birth the baby.”

“Why are they keepin’ it quiet?”

“ ‘Cause she ain’t married.”

“No kiddin’. Who’s the daddy?”

“She ain’t sayin’.”

“Nobody knows?”

“Nobody but Libby.”

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve seen her before, but there’s a bunch of Latchers. I know her brother Percy. He says he’s twelve, but I’m not so sure. Hard to tell ‘cause they don’t go to school.”

“Do you know how girls get pregnant?”

“I reckon not.”

“Then I’d better not tell you.”

That was fine with me. Ricky had tried once to talk about girls, but it was sickening.

Her feet swung faster as she digested this wonderful gossip. “The river ain’t far,” she said.

“ ‘Bout a mile.”

“How far on the other side do they live?”

“Just a little ways down a dirt trail.”

“You ever see a baby birthed, Luke?”

“Nope. Seen cows and dogs but not a real baby.”

“Me neither.”

She dropped to her feet, grabbed my hand, and yanked me off the porch. Her strength was surprising. “Let’s go, Luke. Let’s go see what we can see.” She was dragging me before I could think of anything to say.

“You’re crazy, Tally,” I protested, trying to stop her.

“No, Luke,” she whispered. “It’s an adventure, just like down at the creek the other day. You liked that, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

“Then trust me.”

“What if we get caught?”

“How we gonna get caught? Everybody’s sound asleep around here. Your grandpa just woke up and didn’t think about lookin’ in on you. Come on, don’t be a chicken.”

I suddenly realized I would’ve followed Tally anywhere.

We crept behind the trees, through the ruts where the truck should’ve been, along the short drive, staying as far away from the Spruills as possible. We could hear snoring and the heavy breathing of weary people asleep at last. We made it to the road without a sound. Tally was quick and agile, and she cut through the night. We turned toward the river, and the moon broke free and lit our path. The one-lane road was barely wide enough for two trucks to squeeze past each other, and cotton grew close to its edges. With no moon we had to watch our steps, but with the light we could look up and see ahead. We were both barefoot. There was just enough gravel in the road to keep our steps short and quick, but the soles of our feet were like the leather of my baseball glove.