He’d lifted his shoulders. “She probably just thought it would be helpful.”
I didn’t think he’d blatantly complained about me, but I suspected she’d asked some nosy questions, and Charlie, being the only child and doting son he was, had probably answered honestly.
Most of the time, I didn’t mind being married to Charlie, I really didn’t. I just didn’t like the physical part—and he showered me with physical affection, both in public and in private. He was always reaching for my hand, touching my waist, putting his arm around me in church. I felt... well,smotheredis the only word for it.
He wanted so desperately for me to love him back. And I wanted to, at least intellectually. But part of me—an irrational, emotional part, I guess—resented him for not being Joe. And I felt terrible about it. He couldn’t help who he was.
And Charlie genuinely loved me, I knew he did. Any woman should be glad to be loved like that. But the more desperate he seemed for my affection, the more I withdrew and curled into myself.
We told our families I was pregnant five weeks after the wedding. I’m sure they’d already figured it out. I’d thrown up every morning while staying at Charlie’s parents’ house, and even though I’d tried to be discreet, it only had one bathroom. It helped, I suppose, that I didn’t show early. I’d actually lost weight, but my body was shifting. My waist thickened, and I had to safety-pin my skirts.
Charlie told his biggest-mouthed pal that we’d “gotten close” the night of his return from the army hospital. He wanted people to think we’d made love then, obviously. And I couldn’t really blamehim—heaven only knew people would be counting the months before the baby’s birth—but still, it embarrassed me.
The baby came February 12. If I had conceived on our honeymoon, it would have been born in March, but Rebecca was small—just barely seven pounds—so it was less of a stretch to say she came early.
I went into labor in the night. I’d felt achy all day, and in the middle of the night, I awoke with sharp cramps. My water broke when I got up to go to the bathroom.
Charlie drove me to the parish hospital. I was afraid I was going to have the baby right there in his car, but I needn’t have worried. Rebecca wasn’t born until nearly seven in the morning.
My memory of the hospital is fuzzy. I remember being wheeled down the hall and hearing a woman screaming and cussing her husband. I was very upset that she was carrying on so. They used an anesthetic back then called twilight sleep. I remember—vaguely—being strapped down, and then the next thing I knew, I was in a room with another new mother, and a white-uniformed nurse was bringing me a pink-blanketed bundle.
Charlie seemed delighted. He handed out cigars and smiled broadly, but he was more concerned about me than the baby. Maybe I should have found that touching—“I swear, I’ve never seen a man dote so much on his wife!” a nurse remarked—but it worried me. I wanted him to bond with the baby, and he was reluctant to hold her.
At first I worried it was because she didn’t look like him. She had light hair, and Charlie’s was dark. But I think he was afraid of hurting her—and it’s no wonder; she was so small, so fragile.
He came around when his mother held her. His parents—and my parents, too, of course—were over the moon, just swooning with delight to have a grandbaby.
I stayed in the hospital for a week. When I went home, my mother and Charlie’s mother and friends took turns coming over, bringing meals and helping out.
Becky had colic and cried round the clock. She had a raw, gnawing, shrieky cry that just wore on everyone’s last nerve. I remember being exhausted—just beyond exhausted. Charlie was irked and impatient. I had trouble fixing dinner or keeping things tidy or being able to sit and talk with him about his day. It was a tough time.
I dedicated myself to being a good mother. I loved that baby more than life itself. I poured all the love I’d had for Joe into her. I think, on some level, Charlie sensed that, and that was the beginning of our really bad problems, although they didn’t manifest until later.
I did my best to make a home for the baby and for Charlie. I wanted to give Rebecca everything she could possibly want or need.
Once the colic subsided, things improved immensely. Fatherhood seemed to give Charlie confidence. He took on a larger role at the lumberyard, and talked his father into supplying other stores in other towns. His foot healed, but he walked with a limp, and he occasionally needed to use a cane.
He grew less clingy and cloying with me, and our private married life improved. The three of us had a couple of good years. We socialized with our family and friends, and I resumed taking photographs. My favorite subject, of course, was Rebecca.
During those early years, we were probably as happy as any other young married couple. Things were looking up, for us and for the country. We were thrilled when the war ended. The whole town poured into the streets and celebrated on V-E Day, then again at the surrender of Japan. We had a bonfire and a picnic and a spontaneous parade down Main Street. Oh, it was glorious!
When Rebecca wasn’t quite three years old, I got pregnant again. Charlie was delighted—just thrilled to pieces. I was happy about it, too, certain that this would put to rest any lingering jealousies or insecurities in Charlie’s mind.
And then one afternoon—I remember it was a warm day in November; Becky was down for her nap, and I was putting a Thanksgiving centerpiece on the table and wearing a sleevelessyellow cotton housedress—I heard a knock on the door. I thought it was my neighbor; Eunice was always popping over for a cup of sugar or something. I opened it, then literally fell to my knees.
•••
“Why?” Hope asked.
Hope’s voice pulled me back to the present. I stopped my rocker. “It wasn’t Eunice.”
“Who was it?”
“Joe.” I opened my eyes and looked at her. “It was Joe.”
26
adelaide
