“Lucky me,” Joe said, at which I cried some more. “So,” he said when I’d finished, “what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” He told his mother, “We went for a walk because Marguerite wanted to talk something over.”
“Oh,” I said, and squeezed my handkerchief more tightly. “It’s—it’s …” I stopped.
“You’ve never been anything but strong,” Joe said. “Whatever it is—tell me. We’ll get through it together.”
How could I help but love this man? I said, “The doctor says I am to have a child.”
Joe stared. His mother gasped. Joe said, “But that’s— That’s great! But how?”
I knew I was turning pink. This wasn’t a proper subject to discuss before Joe’s mother, but here we were. I said, “On New Year’s Eve, I think. After the party. We’d had rather a lot of champagne, if you remember, and …”
“And we got carried away.” Joe was grinning like a man who hadnotbeen nearly killed by a mountain lion. “Yes, I seem to recall that. And you’re worried.”
I said, “Yes. I am.” And was overtaken by another rush of emotion. “I know the time is wrong to say this, but I believe I must. My mother was pregnant again after me. After my brothers died. She and my father—they asked Dr. Becker to help. She was very delicate, you know, and it was most dangerous for her to have another child. And the death of the boys …” I had to stop for a moment. “It was very hard. A very hard choice. I heard this first from the servants—I overheard, you know, as one does when one is young—and later, I asked Dr. Becker. He looked very grave, and said, ‘Yes, I helped them. Losing a child is the most difficult thing one can face, and losing two is unimaginable. And your father was very afraid for your mother. You mustn’t judge them too harshly. It was an impossible choice.’”
Joe had gone, if anything, paler. His grip tightened on my hand. “What are you trying to say?”
“That I want to do this,” I said. “I want to try. I know it’s selfish of me to wish it so much when the child could suffer, and I know we haven’t spoken of it in a long time, but … But if you can’t face it,” I said with the last of my strength, “I’ll understand. It’s a risk.”
“How can you think,” Joe said, “that I’d want anything else?Lifeis a risk. And this is the New World, you know. We’re supposed to be bold over here, and optimistic. We’re supposed to dare to dream. So I’m going to say this right now. We’re going ahead and daring. You and me.”
“And if something happens?” I asked.
“Then it happens,” he said. “And we pick ourselves up and keep going. Together. Just like we did yesterday.” He grinned, suddenly. “A baby. How about that? How about that, Mom?”
“Wonderful,” she said, making more use of the handkerchief. “Just wonderful.”
“I’ll say,” Joe said. “We’re going to have a baby, Marguerite. You and me. And you’re going to be the best mother.”
Oh, did that make me cry! Joe held me as much as he could manage—I may have mostly been on the bed, in fact—and stroked my hair. And when I was finished crying and attempting to put myself to rights again, he said, “Did you really start singing the Army song yesterday, or did I hallucinate that? I have the weirdest memory of staggering down a trail, hardly able to see for blood, and singing about how the caissons go rolling along. With my German wife.”
“Your Germanshiksa,”I said. “Who loves you more than life and wishes only to be with you always.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Look what Uncle Sam gave me, Mom. Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think you are.” And smiled through her tears.
39
A LUCKY STAR
A late September Saturday, and autumn hadn’t begun to touch us yet. I told Joe, as I stood before the fan set next to the open patio doors, “Why doesn’t California have trees that change color? How can one feel time passing if every season is the same?”
He looked up from the legal pad on which he’d been scrawling notes in his messy handwriting. “The bedroom might be cooler. Do you want to lie down in there? I can bring you a cold towel.”
“No,I don’t want to lie down like an invalid!” He looked startled, and I sighed and rubbed the sweaty back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I’m being very unreasonable and not feeling at all stoical. I’m wishing we’d dug out a basement. Imagine how cool. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Earthquakes, mostly,” Joe said.
“Oh. Earthquakes. Yes.” I sat on the couch and flipped through a magazine, then set it down.
“Can I bring you a lemonade?” Joe asked.
“No. Yes.” I sighed again. “No. I’m sorry.” I was wearing exactly three garments: a bra, a pair of panties, and a pinkmaternity smock that made me look like a beach ball. All of them clung damply to my skin.
“Don’t be sorry,” Joe said. “You’re pregnant, and it’s hot. Want to hear some music? Want toplaysome music?”
“Yes,” I decided. “To play it. Please. Bach will annoy me with his precision, though. I require Saint-Saëns, perhaps, and Pachelbel, with a great deal of melody.”
