I tell her it has been such a pleasure having her and Timmy over.
“Let’s do it again sometime very soon!” Libby says with her son in her arms and a benevolent smile on her face.
“Yes.” I plaster the same smile on my own face.
I wait until Libby and her child are halfway across the street before I shut the door. I look down at Kat, standing next to me.
“Did you have fun today?”
Kat nods unconvincingly.
“Right. Me, too, love. Let’s clean up.”
As we put away the luncheon things, I decide I don’t need Libby’s friendship if every time we get together she will make me feel as if I am a charity case. I will find a new friend somehow. Maybe at an Anglican church, if I can find one, or maybe one of the other mothers I see in the park. And I won’t tell anyone else ever again about how I met Martin. If people assume Kat is my own flesh and blood, I won’t set them straight. If people ask why Kat doesn’t speak, I’ll tell them she’s merely a quiet soul.
I am not a charity case.
I am not a woman of misfortune who married a man I didn’t know.
I am a wife and mother who lives in a fine house and I wear nice clothes and I sleep in a warm bed.
When the kitchen is clean, Kat and I go into the sitting room to read and I see my wedding portrait in its gilded frame on the mantel.That’s who I am, I say to myself.I am Mrs. Martin Hocking.
•••
April slips into May and with it comes warmer weather. I manage to convince Martin one Sunday afternoon to join Kat and me on an excursion to the ocean side of the peninsula to walk along the beach and then have a picnic lunch in Golden Gate Park. Other families are doing the same thing and I am enamored of how much we look like them.
I am happy that evening, content. As we make our way home after a relaxing day, I look over at my husband. I feel a surge ofdesire for him and I decide I want him in my bed. He is my husband and I want him in my bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted a man to touch me, and I’ve even wondered if I would ever want it again. It’s a scary, thrilling feeling, but a welcome one.
When I retire to my room after Kat is abed, I take extra care with my nighttime preparations. I brush my hair until it glistens, I apply a bit of rosewater to my neck, and I choose the nicest nightdress that I have. And then, just before I slip under the covers, I open my bedroom door wide.
Then I wait for him to come up the stairs. I listen for his footfalls, my heart pounding a little. It seems like a very long time before I hear him on the landing. I sense him pausing at the top. Looking at my open doorway, perhaps? A second later I hear him enter his own room and close the door.
My expectation flutters away. Perhaps he did not see the open door as an invitation. Perhaps it is too soon for him.
Perhaps he doesn’t find me desirable. Perhaps it is a combination of all these things and more.
I roll over onto my side and leave the door open. I am disappointed and hurt. Let him think what he wants about the door being open. I am too tired to get out of bed and close it.
As the weeks roll on after Mrs. Lewis’s visit, I watch Martin with Kat, and I conclude that he is no different from many of the fathers I knew back home in Ireland who didn’t indulge in affection for their children. Some men just didn’t lavish physical attention upon their wee ones. They showed their devotion by how they provided for them.
And while Kat continues to say little when Martin is home, she is saying more and more words when it is just the two of us in the house. With each passing week, everything is settling into itsrightful place, except for the fact that I sleep with my door open every night Martin is home and he hasn’t seemed to notice. I write my mother to assure her that in most every respect all is well, since her return letter to me expressed concern that I’d made a hasty decision in marrying Martin.
Martin is an excellent provider; I’ll give him that much. I don’t have friends per se, but I’m finding I don’t need them. I like the quiet life that Kat and I enjoy.
In June, Kat turns six. Martin was away on the actual day of her birthday, but two days later he comes home with a dollhouse and a shiny red tricycle—both of which I had told him to get for her at the Emporium. The three of us attend the circus at the Mechanics’ Pavilion for her birthday and Kat has her first candy apple. As she watches clowns perform their comic stunts, I see the first true smile on her face.
One night in August after Kat is in bed, I set about making some chamomile tea for myself and Martin. A light rain is falling outside and it taps the windows and gables gently. As I’m pouring the cups, Martin steps into the kitchen.
“I made us some tea,” I say.
“Let’s have it here in the kitchen,” he replies. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
He doesn’t sound angry, but I am concerned nonetheless. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something he doesn’t approve of. I bring our cups to the butler’s table and we sit.
“I have a cousin who lives on my route, some miles from here,” he says. “Belinda is the daughter of the same aunt and uncle who raised me after my parents died. Like me, my cousin wanted nothing to do with her family after she moved west. For a long time Belinda didn’t even want to have contact with me. But I havebeen slowly rebuilding my relationship with her over the last few months.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, much relieved. “I would love to meet her.”
