It wasn’t his baby, he knew—although he treated Francine like she was—and I got pregnant, his baby, his child—he made sure I didn’t drink, said it wasn’t good for the baby. Baby Francine, she was a mistake, not sure whose she was, went to confession for it, did a hundred hail Marys—God forgive me—Jesus forgive me …
Batch told me to sleep it off. Can’t sleep, can’t sleep—
Goddamn, why is my hand shaking? I need a drink. Someone get me a drink around here! I bang on the door. “Batch! Batch! I’ll be good I’ll be good I promise I’ll be good! Please just one drink, one—Batch, open the door!” Nobody’s listening to me nobody—
I can’t stop shaking—I’m being punished for all my sins—Francine isn’t his baby, he knows that, I’m being punished for Francine—it was one of those men—I don’t know who—one of them.
“Batch! Just a little one, a little one!” I bang again, he’s at the door! “Please, baby, I’m in an awful way, a terrible way right now, please!”
“Darling, it’s not good for the baby. Now calm down, sweetheart, and go to bed.”
“Baby? Baby? Lloyd is dead, Henry, do you hear me, baby Lloyd is dead!”
“Shhh … shhh, it’s okay, Deliah. Darling, go to sleep. It’s late.” He switches the light off.
“No, Batch, no, no!”
Where am I? Mama’s kitchen, she’s peeling potatoes, and Papa’s there—sing me a song, Papa …
Please, Papa, sing me a song.
He found me on the floor in the morning drenched in sweat. I tried to stop drinking for his baby, baby Frances, I tried, but every so often, I’d sneak some, just a little.