Page 39 of In These Hills

“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Carver. This ad—” She held out the piece of paper. “Do you know when it was posted? And whether the position has been filled?”

Mrs. Carver read the ad. “Why yes, ma’am. A teacher was hired a few months back. Ain’t that right, Harold?”

His confirming nod sent Josephine’s hopes crashing.

“Fellow named Weston,” Mr. Carver said. “Come down from Fayetteville way. Lives just up the hill if you need him.”

“No, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.” Josephine tried to phrase her next question without sounding condescending. “Do the ads posted on the board stay up for a certain period of time . . . or indefinitely?”

Mr. Carver set aside the cloth in his hand and offered a patient smile—one she imagined he reserved for confused children. “That there’s a community board, Miss—”

“Dunham. And it’s Mrs.,” she corrected.

“Mrs. Dunham,” he continued. “Folks post what they need or got to sell—jobs, crops, sewing, building. It’s where they see what’s going on in town, too. So we don’t rightly track it when news goes up or is hauled down. We leave that to the one doing the posting. That’s part of what makes it community.”

“I see . . .” Josephine found the notion somewhat charming, though highly inefficient. She noticed Mrs. Carver eyeing her skirt and blouse and hastened to conclude her business. “I’ll return this advertisement to the board. But would you happen to know of any opportunities in town that aren’t posted?”

Mr. Carver shook his head. “Not for womenfolk.”

He returned to his work, while his wife discreetly gestured Josephine to the side.

“There’s things womenfolk only tell me, Mrs. Dunham,” Mrs. Carver said softly, leaning close. “Ol’ Miss Ruby’s down with the arthritis again. She can’t keep pace with her sewing, so she’s needing help. Only, her daughter-in-law can’t be knowing of it. So you’d have to come and go when Erma Dale ain’t home.”

Josephine hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t sew well, Mrs. Carver. I can mend, but it’s none too pretty. I’m a teacher by training.”

“Well . . .” Mrs. Carver sighed wistfully. “That teaching job would’ve fixed you right up then, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, it would have.”

“Can you cook good?” the woman asked, then must have read the answer in Josephine’s face. “Hmmm . . . No cooking either.”

Josephine attempted a pleasant countenance, feeling small and foolish in this woman’s eyes.

“Well Mrs. Dunham, I been through about everything I know. ’Ceptin’. . .” She leaned in again. “Can you wet-nurse?”

Josephine’s eyes widened. “Wet-nurse?”

Mrs. Carver laid a gentle hand on her arm. “That’s when a woman who ain’t done the birthing—”

“I know what it is, Mrs. Carver,” Josephine said quickly. “And no, that is also something I cannot do.”

Mrs. Carver’s voice softened. “So there ain’t been no children yet?”

The simple question sparked emotion Josephine couldn’t name. “No, ma’am, no children.”

“It were the same for me and Harold. Four times I carried, but I couldn’t ever get them to the birthing.” Her voice wavered, and she briefly squeezed Josephine’s hand. “But you’re young yet. And strong looking. You got plenty of years ahead for that.” Her gaze shifted to Josephine’s bruised face. “Your man . . . He the one done this?”

Josephine gave a small nod, as if a gesture didn’t constitute a lie the same as speaking the words aloud.

“I take it he don’t know you’re here?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And you ain’t wanting to go back if’n he does come lookin’?”

Josephine shook her head.

“You still got your folks? Family to help?”