Robby slowly opened his eyes, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. Something woke him. Now, he knew what it was. Three pairs of eyes were glaring down at him.

"Leave me alone, you guys." He rolled away from his three brothers. "I'm sick."

"Did you hear that?" Caleb scoffed. "The baby is sick."

"Stop it, Caleb," Robby said defensively.

"Sick, my ass," Jacob mumbled.

"Don't let Mum hear you talkin' like that, Jacob." Luke, the younger of the three, warned. "You'll be makin' a trip to the cellar."

"Cellar, schmeller," Jacob said. "I'm getting too big for that."

"Says who?" Mum's voice carried from the kitchen.

Robby sat up and turned around on the couch. One look told him that she had been in the fruit cellar all afternoon. The glow about her shined from the inside out.

"Is the bread ready yet, Mum?" he asked.

She smiled. "Yes, it's ready. But you have to wait until your father gets home before you can have some with your dinner. You've slept the whole day away."

"But, Mum...”

"No buts. Your father will be home soon, and I'm not going to listen to an argument at the supper table tonight. You three," She flicked the dish towel she had in her hands at his brothers. "Change your clothes and finish your chores. Your homework can wait until after supper."

"Ah, Mum," they objected in unison.

"Now!" she said, and they scattered.

"You want me to do anything for you, Mum?" Robby asked in a quiet voice.

"And what do you think you could do for me in the position you're in?"

"But, Mum, I'd do anything for some of that bread."

His mother's serious expression softened. "I can see that. Well, if you think you can be fast and quiet, then follow me. I surely don't want your brothers finding out."

He scampered behind her as quickly as his fever would allow. She put a finger to her lips as she took the clean kitchen towel from the top of the loaves on the still-warm oven. She cut an extra-large piece from one loaf, smeared it with butter, then handed it to him.

Robby sniffed the melting butter, rolled his eyes, and smacked his lips. 

 "You hurry up now," she whispered. "We don't want to get caught."

"Thanks, Mum. I've been waiting all day for this."

"I'm sure you have.”

"I have. I was even dreaming about it. I could smell it baking, and it just made me dream I was eating it."

His mother shook her head, took him by the shoulders, and whirled him toward the living room. She smacked him lightly on the behind.

"Go on, get out of here. I don't want you in the kitchen when your father gets home. In fact, get your pillow and go to your room."

He nodded solemnly, then crammed the rest of the bread into his mouth, grabbed his pillow, and headed to his bedroom.

He grabbed his pillow from the couch and proceeded slowly up the stairs. His brothers were making their way down. Robby couldn't resist and opened his mouth wide to show his brothers the already chewed-up mess.

"Oh, God!" Caleb howled.

"Don't be taking the Lord's name in vain," Robby mumbled. "I'll tell Mum."

"Go right ahead," Caleb said. "But I'll tell Dad you were eating bread before supper."

The smile left Robby's face, and he lowered his head. He stepped aside to let his brothers pass, and they each, in turn, poked a finger into his chest.

"Friggin' sissy," Jacob murmured as he went by. "You always get what you want, don'tcha?"

"Come on, guys," Robby said. "I was just funnin' with ya."

They ignored him and disappeared down the stairs and out of sight.

Robby retreated to the bedroom that he shared with Luke. Being the eldest, Caleb and Jacob shared a room. Robby didn't know what would happen if the new baby was a girl. There were no more bedrooms for a girl. He supposed Luke would get to move into the big boys’ room, and he would be stuck sharing a room with his sister.

He waited until he could smell the roast, along with the sounds of dishes being placed on the table, before leaving his room. Slowly, he descended the stairs, watching for his father. With any luck, his dad would be in the front room, cozied up to the fireplace, a bottle of beer close at hand.  He was always a little bit happier and a lot more tolerable with a beer and a musical instrument in his lap.

 He discovered his dad, along with his three brothers, in the living room. Dad was playing the guitar, and Caleb was at the piano. The boys practiced their harmonies every night, and every time one of them went off-key, they would be greeted with a smack to the back of their heads.

Robby tiptoed to the kitchen. Mum was pulling the roast from the oven. He quietly watched her.

Except for the protruding belly that harbored his baby sister (or brother, Robby detested the thought of yet another brother), she was fragile and pale. She wore her brown hair pinned up on her head, the loose strands she pushed out of her—faint streaks of silver through her once silky mane.

He thought she was too old to be having babies. Once, he heard her comment to Dad that she was thirty-four. That must surely be knocking at death's door. He shuddered at the thought of a life without Mum.

"That sure smells good, Mum.”

She turned.

"Are you sneaking up on me, Robert Starre?" She wiped her hands on a towel and walked over to him. With the palm of her hand, she brushed aside his bangs. She bent and pressed her lips to his forehead. Robby heard her tell many of the ladies in the church that you couldn't judge a fever by your hands since your hands were hot in the first place. "You're still hot. You need to stay in bed."

"But, Mum. The smell of that roast just about picked me up and carried me down the stairs. I gotta have some of that."

"A nice bowl of hot soup would go easier on your stomach.”

"He'll eat what's on the table, Rachel." The voice boomed from the doorway. "Or he'll eat nothing at all."

She glanced up. “He’s sick, Carl," she said.

"You heard me." His dad thrust a finger in her face. "I'll not be having these damn kids getting any special attention just 'cause they're running a fever. You work hard enough around here as it is. He'll eat what's on the table and like it. Now, if it's ready, let's get to it."

His mother nudged him toward the table and turned back to the stove. She worked in silence and with the least amount of clatter as possible.

As was their custom, they waited for Mum to say the blessing before they dug in. They did their best not to squirm while she prayed. Some nights the prayers got wordy, and their dad had to stop her with a harsh word. Tonight, she kept it short, and supper passed without incident.

Robby overate bread earlier, and the meat and potatoes sat heavily on his stomach. Keeping his eyes on his plate, he forced himself to take slow, steady bites. He knew what he would see if he did. His dad was bent forward, elbows on the table, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. He would hold it there, right in front of his face. Every so often, he would tap his fingers against the cup, then take a short sip. But he would never set the cup down. Not until it was empty.

When his father set his cup down, Robby felt his stomach lurch, and the food rose in his throat. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, and he turned wide, frightened eyes toward his mother.

She caught the look and rose from the table, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him to his feet. They didn't quite reach the stairs when Robby vomited. He started to shake. Then he began to cry.

"Hush, now, baby," his mother cooed. She unbuttoned the vomit-drenched shirt and tossed on the mess on the floor. "Come on, let's get you upstairs. We'll get you a nice warm bath and into a clean pair of pajamas, and then you'll feel better."

She led him by the hand up the stairs to the bathroom and flipped on the hot water in the clawfoot bathtub. She let the water run over her hand and adjusted the temperature until it was just right, then she put the stopper in. Robby shivered as he waited for his mother to fill the tub.  Then she helped him out of the rest of his clothes and into the tub.

"Stay here, son," she said softly after easing him into the hot water. "I'll be right back."

"But where are you going?"

"I'm just going downstairs to clean up the floor."

"Please hurry, Mum. I still feel sick."

She stopped at the door and smiled. "I will."

***

When Rachel made it to the bottom of the stairs, stopping in front of her husband. He stood staring at the puddle on the floor, one hand rubbing the whiskers on his chin. He shook his head, then turned and went into the living room.

Rachel breathed a sigh of relief after he left the room. She was too tired to argue. And there was no point. The child was sick. There was nothing to be done about it. Still, the guilt tugged at her. She knew she should have never given him the bread. And she wished she would have been allowed to make him some broth for supper. The heavy meal was just too much for him.

By the time Rachel cleaned up the floor, took the dirty rags to the laundry room, and went back upstairs, Robby had vomited again, this time in the bathwater.

"Oh, son," she said, one hand shoving the strands of hair from her forehead. She was exhausted, and her back ached. She wanted to lie down. But she had to get Robby rinsed off and into bed. The kitchen needed tending. The rags she left on the laundry-room floor still had to be rinsed out and added to a bucket of bleach.

Her pregnancy weighed her down and made her feet swell. Her house shoes didn't fit anymore, and she had to walk around the house barefoot. The cold floor made her feet ache.

Rachel fought the tears back as she pulled the stopper from the. She made Robby stand while she rinsed the vomit from him before she filled the tub again, then went to his bedroom for clean pajamas.

Sometimes, she just wanted to lay down and die.

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