Today in Salem: No one has ever heard the beggar Sarah Good cry. They’ve heard her snarl, curse, and complain, and even when she’s quiet her eyes look angry. But today her eyes are wet and her breath is strangled as she looks down at her baby, impossibly still, lifeless since last night.
“Hand the baby to me,” the jail keeper says, and holds his arms out. But Sarah just looks away and pulls the thin bundle of blankets close. For three months now Sarah has held the baby’s head against her neck so they could sleep, to her breast for suckling what little she could, and in the crook of her arm for comfort. She’s held her baby every minute that she’s been in jail, every minute of every day, and she’s not about to stop now.
Sarah’s four-year-old daughter Dorcas crouches behind her and stares with saucer eyes at the jail keeper.
“Right now,” he says, and motions with his hands. His voice is firm but not unkind. “Give it to me.”
“Mercy,” Sarah says, and looks up. “Her name is Mercy.”
The jail keeper leans down and reaches for the baby, but when Sarah twists away, the healer Ann Pudeator steps between them. She may be elderly and wretched from her own imprisonment, but she’s midwifed more than a few women, and she knows her way around a mother’s pain.
Ann glares at the jail keeper until he steps back, then sits on the floor in front of Sarah. She puts her hands on Sarah’s shoulders and leans in.
“Mercy is with God now,” Ann says quietly, and caresses Sarah’s arms. “Let me hold her for a moment. Just for a moment,” Ann says, and moves her hand from Sarah’s arm to the blanket. Sarah begins to sob and rock, but Ann just keeps her hand on the blanket and waits quietly. A long minute goes by before Sarah kisses the top of the baby’s head and looks up. It takes many tiny movements, but she finally hands the baby to Ann, who slowly stands up while Sarah keens, her arms bent inward as they’ve been for all of Mercy’s short life.
