Bittersweet by Nevada Barr

it.
    “Hey!” More pounding. “Hey, in there! My boy here bred himself up a son yet?” Laughter and another crash. Imogene jerked open the door and Darrel Aiken all but fell into the room.
    “Drunk.” Imogene’s teeth clenched on the word.
    Darrel clung to the doorframe. “My baby sister made me an uncle? Where’s that goddamn midwife I got?” Leaning dangerously, he narrowed his eyes and squinted into the room, then shouted over his shoulder to the shadow of another man standing in the dark, “No nigger woman for my sister!”
    “No nigger!” the shadow echoed.
    Darrel noticed Imogene for the first time. “We’ve been celebrating.” Recognition crept into his eyes. “Jesus Christ! If it ain’t Miss Grelznik. Im-o-gene Grelznik.” He sobered up a little and his lips curled back from his teeth. “I ought to kill you. Sneakin’ in here to make love to my sister when her man—man, goddamn it, not you, layin’ on her like you was her man—that got a son on her’s out celebratin’. You better not’ve had your hands on her. If you’ve so much as laid a finger on her, there’ll be hell to pay.” He peered drunkenly into the darkness over her shoulder and raised his voice. “You’ll get the beating of your life! You hear me, Mary Beth?”
    “Mary Beth is dead.” Imogene pushed him away from the bedroom door and pulled it close behind her. “Please leave.”
    “Ramsey!” Darrel shouted. “This is your house or ain’t it?”
    Kevin Ramsey stood stock-still, his arms loose at his sides. “Dead?” he asked dully.
    “Ramsey,” Darrel growled.
    Kevin Ramsey started to sob, huge gasping cries squeezing out of him. He sank to the floor and, supporting himself on his hands and knees, vomited, permeating the room with the stink of regurgitated whiskey. Imogene grabbed Darrel by the arm, taking him off balance, and escorted him to the front door. He lurched helplessly along beside her, flailing. She let go and he lost his footing, tumbling down the steps. The door slammed behind him and the bolt shot into place.
    Darrel pushed himself to his feet, staggering back several paces. “Whore!” he cried, “You goddamn bitch. I ain’t lettin’ you off easy this time. You ain’t fit to live with decent folk. You can’t run so far but I’ll find you and warn God-fearin’ folk against you.” He stumbled in the rutted street and fell to his knees, cursing savagely. Crying out like a wounded animal, he pressed his palms to his ears. “My baby sister’s dead.” He groped about in the dirt and, taking up a stone, hurled it at the dark house.
     
    The week after Mary Beth’s funeral, the Utterbacks took Imogene back to the train station. Surrounded by the crates of mended books, Imogene took her leave of them, and as the train puffed into view she pulled out her purse and snapped it open.
    “Could you give this to Kevin Ramsey for the baby?” She pressed a five-dollar bill into Mrs. Utterback’s hand. “And please…don’t tell him who it’s from. I’ll send more when I can.”
    “I think he should know. He’ll want the address to write and thank thee. He’s a good man—it’s just that he’s so taken in by Mr. Aiken.”
    “You must never tell him my address!” She startled Mrs. Utterback with her urgency. Racketing wheels poured a flood of noise over the platform, washing away all other sounds. Mrs. Utterback kissed her again and William took her hand.
    “Thee must come again soon,” he shouted.
    “I will,” she promised, and boarded the train.

9
    MAM LOOKED UP FROM HER BREAD DOUGH, HER FACE FLUSHED AND hot. She pushed her hair back with her forearm. “Gracie, that your pa?” Gracie was sitting on the front porch with Lizbeth, peeling potatoes. The wagon Margaret had heard came around the barn and into view.
    “It’s Pa,” Gracie hollered back. She threw a half-peeled potato into her sister’s sack and ran out, banging the door against the porch post as the wagon creaked into