Buffalo Flats

by Martine Leavitt

And then, in a somewhat louder voice, she said, “Sister Fletcher, you mustn’t die. I don’t want you to die, and LaRue doesn’t want you to die, and your husband must like you or you wouldn’t have all these babies. And your boys—well, God doesn’t want you to die, either, that’s all. Why you have fallen into the hands of a light-minded excuse for a girl like myself, I hardly know. It is something with which you might negotiate at the judgment bar. But I am proposing that you delay this talk for a time in the distant future and that you stay in this mortal coil long enough to raise this baby, which will be born strong and healthy. Of course, first you must have it. As soon as Mother gets here, please. Amen.”