Everyone thought that it was Perry and not Ilse who took it hardest. He grew pale and dark circles came out under his eyes after his little daughter died. He confided to Emily that he had trouble sleeping. "I keep thinking of her, under the ground, and how we put here there," he said. "I think that she must be so cold, and lonely--Emily, it's hard."
Emily did not doubt it.
Ilse recovered quite quickly--on the outside at least. Emily knew better. She was laughing and gay--but in a hollow way. She was like a shell of the old Ilse. And at times her true feelings showed. Aunt Ruth came over one day when Aunt Laura and Aunt Elizabeth were away, and took her tea with Ilse and Emily.
"Mrs. George Burns' had another little boy," she said, helping herself to another scone--her third. "It's her seventh child in all, and my, how they run ragged through the town. You'd think she'd give the matter some thought before having another child, the way she seems to care nothing for the others."
"How wonderful," said Ilse, bitterly, before anyone could stop her. "Mrs. George Burns has seven children she neither likes nor can afford, and my little darling girl is asleep forever in the ground. That's good old-fashioned fairness for you. Oh, God, what were You thinking? To she that hath not shall be taken. I understand that Bible verse, now." She stood up jerkily and left the table, but was back in a quarter of an hour with suspiciously red eyes that she tried to cover by smiling and being especially merry. The effect was grotesque.
Perry accepted people's condolences gratefully though exhaustedly, but Ilse would not. She caused a dreadful scene in church, when the visiting reverend tried to offer his sympathies.
"God has called her home," he said, taking Ilse's dead-white hand in his.
"Home!" Ilse snorted. "God didn't give her time to make anywhere else her home. He was greedy--I didn't think God was greedy and jealous, but he is."
The poor reverend, who had only the best intentions, was shocked, and tried to explain to Ilse what he had meant. He meant only that her baby girl had gone to its one, true home--she'd gone to heaven with God, which is every good person's home. Ilse would have none of it. She put her fingers in her ears and yowled to drown out his words. On top of that, Perry had broken down and sobbed like a child. People started to say that the baby's death had unhinged both of them. Neither of them had been seen again since in church.
They would leave the house without much prompting, though Emily and Teddy tried to tempt them with offers of cheery dinners, and outings to the pictures in town. Aunt Elizabeth sent Emily over with a tureen of soup one late winter afternoon. "Perry Miller's skin and bones and Ilse's too distracted with grief to do anything at all," she said. "Those two will starve to death if no one does anything."
"It is too much for children to deal with," said Cousin Jimmy thoughtfully. "That is what they are--children, despite everything. Poor little souls."
"It is too much for anyone to deal with," said Aunt Laura, brimming with tears. "Babies--shouldn't--die."
Emily knocked on the door of the little house, bearing the soup tureen in one hand, and Ilse answered after a long while--it was late in the afternoon but she was still dressed in her peignoir and looked as if she had just woken from sleep. "Oh. Emily. Come in." She opened the door wider.
"Aunt Elizabeth sends her love, and dinner," said Emily, in a ghastly voice that she meant to be cheerful.
She was horrified. The little house was filthy--dishes were stacked on the table with bits of food remaining, and it hadn't been swept in ages. The curtains were drawn and in the slants of sunlight coming from between them, dust motes swirled in the air. Piles of clothes were dumped at intervals throughout the room. Emily had to hold up her skirt as she walked across the kitchen floor, it was so covered in grime.
"Ilse," she said. "Where do you keep your mop--and your cleaning supplies?"
"In the cabinet there," Ilse said dully, and disappeared back up to her bedroom.
Emily cleaned with all of her might. At the end of two frenzied hours she was sweaty and streaked with dirt, but the little house was clean and tidy, if not sparkling. Emily set her hair back into a braid and then marched up the stairs to Ilse's bedroom.
"Get up," she commanded. "It's dinnertime."
"I'm not hungry," Ilse said, struggling.
"That's why we're going on a walk first, to build your appetite. Get up, Ilse, and get dressed."
Something in Emily's voice must have convinced Ilse that she would be taken seriously, this time. Ilse got up and out of bed.
* * *
"Aren't you glad I made you come out?" Emily asked a short while later, as they walked along the Tomorrow Road. "Look, Ilse, at the sky. Have you ever seen anything so blue? I love these crisp winter days when everything seems sharper--and cleaner--and oh, so clear." Ilse walked along listlessly at Emily's side, with her head down.
"Emily, you're having a baby," she said, without preamble. "When were you going to tell me?"
Emily felt the color rush to her cheeks. "I--"
"Don't try to deny it, Emily Kent. I know the signs, you remember. I've known for weeks and been wondering when you would tell me." Ilse tossed her golden curls defiantly.
"We found out--just after--and we didn't want to upset you, Ilse"
"Upset me?" Ilse gave a little laugh. "You couldn't upset me with your happy news. May it turn out better for you than it all did for me. Well, when will it be?"
"Late in the summer--we hope--oh, Ilse."
"Don't take that worried tone with me, Emily," said Ilse. "Why, I'm radiant with happiness for you and Teddy."
She did look radiant--her face was glowing--and her tone was cheerful and light. But Emily knew in her heart of hearts that something had changed--something between them would never be the same again. Ilse leaned forward to drop a kiss on Emily's cheek. Her lips were very cold.