Up until then, I’d refused to sleep with him. I’d told him if I hadto pretend to be pregnant, he had to pretend so, too, and if I were having a difficult pregnancy, the doctor would forbid relations. But in those last couple of weeks, we were almost like honeymooners. Maybe it was the freedom of not having to wear the padding in the house when it was just the two of us; maybe it was the shared secret that bonded us. For whatever reason, I felt happier in my marriage than I ever had. I felt optimistic for the future.
On September 24—I’ll never forget the date; it haunts me every year—I knew something was wrong. I’d been restless all day, like a cat about to birth her kittens, then Charlie didn’t come home for dinner. That, in and of itself, was unusual. He’d become solicitous and caring. He’d started bringing me flowers and dancing with me to the radio and treating me like a woman he was trying to woo.
Charlie swore he wasn’t seeing the other woman, but I knew he stayed in touch somehow to see how the pregnancy was progressing. I wasn’t jealous of her, which might be a little odd, but I knew he didn’t love her. I felt sorry for her, actually. To have a baby, then give it up... My womb ached just thinking about it. I’d been faced with the choice and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it. I worried that this woman wouldn’t be able to, either, but Charlie said she absolutely didn’t want a baby, that she would have aborted it if he hadn’t talked her out of it.
I’d pestered him about her, wanting to know more about her, but there was a stubborn streak in Charlie—a part that wouldn’t give in. I have to admit, I admired that part of him. I just wished he’d used that stubbornness in a better way.
That night, the night of September 24, it got to be nine, then ten o’clock. A thunderstorm rolled in, and the rain poured down in torrents. I grew anxious. Was the baby coming? I inventoried all the baby’s things I had on hand—a bassinet, blankets, baby formula, a layette, bottles, diapers... I touched each item, longing to put it to use.
Was Charlie at that woman’s house, waiting to bring the baby home to me? Back then, men didn’t take part in delivery, but maybe he washanging around if the baby was on the way. If that were the case, though, why didn’t he call and tell me? I picked up the phone three times and asked the party line operator if it was working. I would have picked it up again, but I was too embarrassed. Instead, I paced the floor until it was a wonder I didn’t wear a path in the linoleum.
As the night stretched on, another scenario formed in my mind—a scenario more likely than a baby on the way and no call from Charlie. Chances were, Charlie was just back to being his old drunken self. He was probably at a bar, leaving me stuck alone in the storm, unable to leave the house without wearing the oppressive padding because we’d led all the neighbors and townsfolk to think I was in the family way.
The more I thought about it, the more indignant I became. Why, I had half a mind to call my folks to come get me.
And say what?Mother, Father, I was lying to you about being pregnant? I sank onto the old floral sofa with a hard sigh, feeling the springs dig into my backside. The width and breadth of the lies I’d told made confession impossible. For a girl who couldn’t lie well, I’d sure come up with some doozies. It was like being halfway across a swamp, surrounded on all sides by alligators. There was no way out but through.
I finally dozed off on that beaten-up sofa, then jerked awake to see Charlie limping through the door, looking like he’d been through a battle. I glanced at the clock in the kitchen; it was a few minutes before five in the morning.
Backlit by the porch light, his hair and clothes glistened with rain. A puddle formed on the floor around him. Good Lord, he was soaked to the bone. His face was pale, and his mouth was set in a tight line.
He reeked of cheap bourbon. My heart clutched in my chest.
“It’s over,” he said, closing the door. A hint of light through the window kept the room from being totally black.
“What do you mean?”
“The baby. It’s all done.”
I pushed up on my elbows, my legs still stretched out on the sofa, my heart pounding with excitement. “It’s born?”
“Yeah.”
Anticipation flooded me, but stopped short of joy. Charlie didn’t look like a man celebrating the birth of a child. And that whiskey smell—it always came with trouble. “Where is it?”
He wavered, like a man with a ship rolling under his feet. “Dead.”
I couldn’t breathe. “What?”
“Something wrong with your hearing?”
Oh, dear God. His voice was cold, dangerous, knifelike. Whoever had called it “Demon Rum” was right. When Charlie was drinking, he was like a man possessed.
I swung my feet off the sofa and turned on the lamp on the side table. That’s when I saw he had blood on his shirt—lots of it. I put my hand to my throat. My pulse fluttered under my palm like hummingbird wings. “Was it stillborn?”
“Might as well have been.”
“What does that mean?”
“Same as I said.” He sank into a vinyl chair in the breakfast alcove, next to the living room.
A sick, sour taste filled my throat. My eyes fixed on his shirt, my mind spinning, my stomach tight with fear. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. “Did you help deliver it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you all bloody?”
“Don’t ask questions.”
