The Persian Pickle Club by Sandra Dallas

turned to me. “You tell her be careful. I heard a bird peck at the window three times last night. That’s bad luck for sure.”
    I didn’t hold with such things, even though Nettie and Forest Ann swore they were true, but I shivered, anyway. Grover took the basket out of my hands and said, “Go on, Queenie. You can run to the Ritter place ‘cross fields faster than we can go home for the car. I’ll take the dinner basket on back to the house and be along as soon as I can. Tom’ll need somebody with him. Run, Queenie.” He gave me a little shove.
    “Tell ‘em to put a knife under the bed,” Zepha said as I started off. When I paused to ask what she meant, she called, “A sharp knife under the bed cuts the pain.” I hurried as fast as I could, stopping only to take off my shoes and stockings. Then I ran like a field hand all the way to the Ritter farm, while Zepha called, “Don’t you forget that knife!”
    Half the Persian Pickle Club was already there ahead of me. After she’d come for me, Agnes T. Ritter went back home and called Ada June’s, and all up and down the party line, women picked up the phone and listened in, including the members of the Persian Pickle, who knew they were needed.
    As I ran across the Putter’s barnyard, I saw Ada June’s Hudson and Forest Ann’s old Dodge truck. The dust in the air behind Mrs. Judd’s Packard hadn’t even settled yet. She stood next to the car with a paper sack in her hand, talking to Tom, and when I came up, I heard her say, “It’s not going to do you a bit of harm, and a little nip might relax you. I knew your dad wouldn’t have any, so I brought you a bottle of Prosper’s. You put it where Howard Ritter won’t see it and take a swallow when you feel the need. I don’t hold with drunkenness, being a good member of the WCTU. But the Lord has His reasons for everything He puts on this earth. Shut your mouth, Queenie Bean. I keep it around for fruitcake.”
    Tom looked relieved when he saw me. “I’m glad you’re here, Queenie. We tried to call you everywhere. Then Agnes thought your hired man might know where you were, so she drove down there.”
    I put my arms around Tom and hugged him. “Is she all right?”
    Tom’s eyes went wild for a minute, and he shook a little. Then he got ahold of himself and said, “I don’t know. The pain hit her all of a sudden. The doctor’s in there now, along with Mom and Agnes. She’s only seven months.”
    “Seven months,” Mrs. Judd said. “Seven months is plenty of time, boy. The fact is, a smaller baby means an easier birthing. Rita won’t get tore up so bad. Why, you’ve got nothing to worry about, Tom.”
    “Grover’s coming as fast as he can,” I said.
    “You share that bottle with him. Just don’t tell Howard where it came from, and you don’t need to mention it to Nettie and them, either, since Prosper won’t take his business to Tyrone. He says Tyrone’s tangleleg tastes like Esso gasoline. Queenie, you go on inside. Rita would rather see your pretty face than mine.” I started for the porch, then glanced back and saw Mrs. Judd with the bottle halfway to her mouth.
    The members of the Persian Pickle Club had taken over the Ritter kitchen, which still had the spicy smell of plum butter that Mrs. Ritter had been making the day before. Nettie’s butterscotch pie was on the table next to Ada June’s bread pudding, and Velma, Nettie’s daughter, was slicing tomatoes. Ada June built up the fire while Nettie filled the kettle. You’d have thought we were getting ready for a church supper if it hadn’t been for Mr. Ritter, who was walking back and forth, muttering and bumping into everyone.
    Finally, Nettie said, “Howard, would it trouble you too much to chop some wood for the stove? We might need us a whole tree by the time this is over.” He nodded, looking glad that somebody had given him a job to do. He went outside, and before anyone thought to stop him, he’d chopped enough wood