The Virgin Mary’s was a planned pregnancy. Mine was not. I awoke at six-thirty A.M., my mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts, my emotions in the electric blender. I would be unemployed at five tonight. I was to deliver sometime in December a child whom I conceived without the benefit of a husband. My Jeep lay in sections at the garage. I couldn’t pay to fix it and Jackson couldn’t wrangle with Eagle until he was back in the office, full steam. If he was strong enough I should enlighten him about this unexpected event. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him ever, but that seemed cruel. I don’t sleep around. During the sexual revolution I was the only person of my generation not getting any. Now I got more than I bargained for.
Self-pity is the simplest luxury. I nearly surrendered to it, but after a punishing workout and a hot shower I recovered my good sense or what was left of it and considered the pluses. I was healthy. My mother appeared to be supporting me, and for all her bravado and wisecracks, this must be emotionally affecting her. Life wasn’t turning out as she had envisioned it, but does it ever—for anyone? I had two furry souls, Lolly and Pewter, who loved me. Kenny loved me too. I lived on a fine patch of the earth. I was okay. And the more I thought about it the more excited I became. I wanted to be a mother. I was prepared to welcome this little person into the world, planned or unplanned, and do what I could to prepare her/him to survive it and occasionally triumph.
When I was fresh out of college I knew everything. Now I wasn’t certain what I knew. I had surrendered all my beliefs. I wait for the Truth to find me.
I did know that I believed in life and I was joyous, down deep, to be giving life. I wanted a healthy baby. As to the social stigma, could it be any worse than being gay? I’d fight if I had to but I was going to have this baby.
Whistling down the hill in the Chrysler, I beheld the town and it appeared brighter to me. The water tower off the Emmitsburg Pike loomed like an ugly sentinel of the town, but even the tower with SOUTH RUNNY 1988 painted over it looked beautiful to me. The spire of Christ Lutheran, gold and blue, was gleaming, and the darker tone of Saint Rose’s steeple and Saint Paul’s shot up over the rooftops. I loved this place. I wanted my child to love this place. I reckoned someday she or he would climb the water tower, in the depths of the night, and paint her class’s year on it. David Wheeler would sputter and then send a clean-up crew. It’s not as if David didn’t do the same thing in 1970.
May ushered herself in with soft sunshine and little humidity. I pulled the Chrysler around into the parking lot. It was still early. No other cars rolled around the Square. Pewter, Lolly, and I strolled around the entire Square. We took our sweet time.
I thought about being a mother and I thought about Mom. Mothers invent our idea of love. Mother feeds us. Cleans us. Puts us to bed at night. Mine read to me every night until I could read to myself. Mother patches your cuts and bruises. Packs your lunch. Puts your clothes on and teaches you how to tie your shoes. She teaches you how to tell time too. You watch the little hand for the hours and the big hand for the minutes. Mother not only tells you right from wrong, she shows you. One time I stole from the old Bon Ton a yellow yo-yo with a black stripe through the middle; it looked like a bumblebee and I love bumblebees. Mother marched me right back into the store and forced me to return my booty. I was seven. I never stole again. Mother teaches you sympathy for others and responsibility. She scolds, chides, and whacks you when she has to but she’s there. She’s always there. She’s the person who presents you to the world your first day of school. Even as you depend upon her she is teaching you to let go. Dad is beloved and in my case even worshipped but he’s not there the way Mom is. A man grows up and expects to find some of this mother-love in his wife. A woman has to transfer her affections to a man. She doesn’t expect a man to love her as her mother did. Already, we expect less.
I wondered about this with Lolly dancing at my heels and Pewter madly chasing squirrels. Our entire concept of love would shift if men cared for children the way women do. Please, this is not to fault men. They are imprisoned in the workforce. Nobody gives them the choice of working or staying home with the children. They work until they drop or they’ve made enough to retire. And it’s good to work, gives you confidence, but they’re overworked. Their own children all too often are strangers to them as they work to put food in their mouths. Their lives are one big ambush as other men try to take away what they’ve earned, beat them into the ground for a promotion, steal their woman. Is it any surprise that so few men are truly friends with one another? Even when they are supposed to be relaxing they compete.
My dad was smart. He was a fisherman. Dad hated competition, and by other men’s standards, Chessy was not a success. He kept a roof over our heads but Mother had to work, too, and in Dad’s generation that was a bad mark against him. But because he was no threat to anybody, he was loved. And because he wasn’t money-oriented he spent much more time with me than other dads. He taught me about the stars, cars, and wars. He taught me how to fish even though it bored me. I never had the heart to tell him. He taught me the names of trees, countries, and every gadget in his store. He taught me to be a good baseball player. He was my first editor and he said that old man Hunsenmeir, whom I never met, used to tell him that an editor comes down from the hills after the battle and shoots the wounded. After this reminder, he’d read my efforts and make careful suggestions. My father treated me, even as a child, like a thinking person. He never talked down to me and he rarely had to reprimand me, but then he had Mother for that. Truly, I was loved by my father and far more fortunate than my friends whose fathers were more distant, yet even Dad’s love was not the same as Mother’s. Mother was my life force. Dad was her assistant.
My child wasn’t going to have a father and I can’t say that I was pleased about that. I wondered whether or not to take Mr. Pierre’s offer. I was born a bastard. Most people have to work at it. However, I didn’t want to inflict that taint of illegitimacy on my child. Yeah, I know movie stars have children out of wedlock and it’s glamorous. Movie stars don’t live in Runnymede and my nose was bloody plenty of times as a kid over this. Some sucker would call me a bastard and the fists would fly. I gave as good as I got.
By the time I’d reached the Clarion, I’d half made up my mind to accept Mr. Pierre’s generous offer. My step faltered as I saw the sunlight slide over the picture window with THE RUNNYMEDE CLARION painted on it. How could this be the last day? I wanted my child to be a copy boy, to know the smell of lead and ink in the back room, the shake, rattle, and roll of the AP machine, the hustle-bustle of reporters and editors all yelling at once. Surely heaven was a newspaper and God was Editor in Chief.
The door opened. Charles, Ann at his side, was packing his office. He suddenly looked old to me, old and broken, but here he was a very rich man. He didn’t glance up when I pushed through the door. Michelle was coming in the opposite way, through the back door. Roger hadn’t arrived yet and John’s desk already had the air of a cold corpse.
The honor of the farewell editorial would go to Charles. It would run tomorrow. I was to write today’s editorial and I’d sat up last night, after my talk with Mom, and penned a silly one. Michelle gave it the headline, ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?, and it was about Washington’s annual survey of hospital emergency rooms and how people got there. Twenty-six thousand people landed in the ER because of dancing. Billiard injuries produce a steady stream of ravaged bodies, due less to the game than to the fights that ensue. Playing a musical instrument keeps the ambulance crews busy, as kids chip their teeth on trumpets, saxophones, and the occasional tuba. One child tried to stuff baby brother into the tuba. Moving pianos produces a variety of broken toes, crushed ribs, and other fractures. Large-scale fun, like amusement parks, provided a bumper crop of injuries, with roller coasters being the prime culprit, Ferris wheels following at a close second, bumper cars trailing at third. Over six thousand people fell off of barstools last year and had to be rushed to the hospital. Fortunately, most of them were so plastered the damage to their persons was not as bad as it could have been. Of all the forms of having fun the least dangerous was fish watching, although there was a case in Portland, Oregon, of a man being bitten by his pet piranha.
Reading that editorial produced the only flicker of a smile Charles allowed himself. When five o’clock arrived we stood together in the front room, deep afternoon shadows falling across the Square and the statues, and Charles bid us goodbye and good luck. Quietly we went our separate ways. I felt as though someone opened the end of a kaleidoscope and the colored bits flew out.
Michelle and I didn’t say goodbye, because she said she’d be seeing me at bingo tonight. I went over to Mojo’s with Pewter and Lolly. Verna was depressed about the end of the Clarion as we’d known it, as Runnymede had known it since 1710. She sat down in the booth with me and consumed chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, biscuits—really fabulous biscuits—broccoli, a salad with ranch dressing, and a stupendously large piece of cherry pie, her favorite. After this gargantuan repast she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said, “If only I could figure out a way to have a supper like this and not get fat.”
“That’s easy,” I replied. “Eat all you want—just don’t swallow it.”
For a minute there she believed me.
I helped her close up the restaurant, then we walked across the Square to Saint Rose’s. Her children would already be there.
“Vern, I’m not playing tonight. Tell Mom and Aunt Wheezie I went home. I feel so bad I’m not fit company.”
“Ah, honey, come on—make you feel better. You might even win the pot.”
“Not tonight. Anyway, I’m going to win next week, the big one.”
“Okay, I’ll tell them. You take care, hear?”
“Thanks.” I watched her bulk disappear down the little sidewalk along the edge of the church property. She turned the corner to go into the back entrance. Fat though she was, she was beautiful to me then. People who care for you inevitably become beautiful.
I drove over to the hospital. The dog and the cat crabbed about being stuck in the car. I left the windows down a bit and told them both to stay. Then I opened the door to the small hospital. The odor of disinfectant assailed my nostrils. I hate hospitals.
Jack, room 418, was reading a book.
“Hi.”
“Nickie!” He put his book down and held out his arms.
I hugged him. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. It wasn’t much of a heart attack. The doctors are making a bigger deal out of it than it has to be but you know, they’re like lawyers—they have to justify their existence.”
“How long do you have to say in here?”
“Tomorrow. I could have gone home yesterday but those bloodsuckers are running every test known to man. Gene says this is what happens when you don’t get checkups. Apparently my cholesterol level is over the moon but the doctor said I’m in great shape. The exercise probably saved me—that and the fact that I’m not a smoker. So-o-o, no butter and no rich fats and yeck.” He made a face.
“How do you feel now?”
“I feel fine. In a way this is my first real vacation, because even when I’d go on vacation I’d call in to the office. I considered myself the indispensable man.”
He patted my hand. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for the flowers. Thanks for everything. You and your mom were wonderful. She came by and brought me this.” He held up an electronic puzzle. “Damned hard too. She said you’d be by.”
“She did, did she?”
“We had a good long talk about you.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t have anyone to talk to about you, and I don’t know, Juts sat down and I started talking. God, I feel so much better. She’s very understanding and she loves you. We both love you.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No.”
“How’s your heart feel right this minute?”
“It feels fine, Nickie. I’m fine.”
I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to have a baby.”
He wrapped his arms around me and held me next to him. He didn’t say anything. He rocked me back and forth, then whispered in my ear: “Are you happy? Because I am.”
“I am happy but I don’t know what I’m going to do next.” I moved a bit away from him so I could see his face. “I’m still in shock. That and the paper.”
“Yeah, I know. Loved your editorial.” He squeezed my hand. “Maybe Regina would divorce me so I could marry you. And you could come live at our house or I could become a Mormon and marry you both.”
I laughed. “I don’t know how she’d take it if she knew, but I think Winston and Randolph wouldn’t be thrilled. They’re at that difficult age.” I picked up Mom’s electronic puzzle. It made beeping tones. ”We can’t get married, Jack, because Mr. Pierre has consented to marry me.”
“Him!”
“It’s a great kindness on his part. The child will not be illegitimate.”
“The child will grow up with a father who wears more makeup than his mother.”
“So—she or he will learn early how the rules of society often violate the rules of the heart. I don’t think it’s so bad. Mr. Pierre is a warmhearted and responsible man.”
“He is that.” Jack chewed his lip. “You’re going to have the baby? You wouldn’t—”
“Never.”
“I’ll provide for the child. I’m not going to leave you in the lurch, especially now.”
“Unemployed and prospects dim.”
“Not dim—undisclosed, to be discovered. I’ll set up a trust fund. Does Mr. Pierre know I’m the father?”
“I’ll tell him.” What I didn’t say was that someday, when the time was right and I was strong enough, I’d tell Regina.
“Think you should?”
“The man is going to give my baby his name. He’s going to try and be as good a father as he can—and without the enjoyment of making the thing, I might add. He deserves to know, but then he knows anyway. He knew we were carrying on. Who else could it be but you? I haven’t formally told him, that’s all.”
“I’ll always be a part of you.”
I looked at him, my eyebrows coming together in concentration. “But you were always a part of me. We grew up together. We’ll grow old together. We belong here.”
“It’s different now. We made something, somebody special, I hope. Hey, she’s got you in her, she’s going to be special.”
“How do you know this baby’s a girl?”
“I have two boys. I want a girl.” He smiled. “I’m as close to you as I can get. We’re bound for life.” He held up his hand to stop me from speaking. “From us comes new life. Think of it as the ultimate heterosexual experience. Those are more your terms. You’ll see me in this baby every day of her life. And when I see her I’ll see you. I hope she’s got the best of us because if she does, she’s off to a hell of a good start.”
These sentiments, unknown to me, rested in my mind. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I heard him. Intellectually I understood him, but I didn’t feel it. Perhaps he was right. In the birth of the child and the raising of it, I would understand emotionally what he was trying to convey to me. “You sound as though you want to be a father and you can’t. That belongs to Mr. Pierre.”
“I’m going to be a very loving uncle.”
“Regina will figure it out, you know.”
“People see what they want to see.” He took a breath. “But I’m going to talk to her. I don’t know when. But I am. I’m happy. I want her to share in that happiness even though according to convention she should be furious at me. Knowing you, I don’t know how she could be.”
Where was Miss Manners when I needed her? She’d have an answer to this. Confusing as the social aspect of my pregnancy was, conflicted as I was about Regina, I felt at peace, happy, excited. I didn’t understand how I could feel that way under the circumstances but I did. In a funny way my feelings reminded me of when I realized I could love a woman. I was fifteen. The world told me it was wrong, but for me I knew it was right, and I was content. I knew I couldn’t be a full person if I didn’t follow my instincts. My instincts were telling me to have this baby and let the chips fall where they may.
We caught up on gossip, but we’d interrupt our gossip to dream about the baby. Jack wanted to know what Mom said and I told him she was worried but essentially happy to be a grandmother.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” I got up to leave.
“Can’t come by?”
“It’s the annual Delta Delta Delta fund-raising horse show.”
“I’m fence crew—” He looked more disappointed than he really was. Jack didn’t like splinters in his hands any more than I did.
“Got a replacement.”
“Diz.”
A flicker of anger crossed his features. “Is he practicing the common touch?”
“No. I called him at his office to congratulate him on his acquisition of the paper and then I hit him with the fence crew. Being as how I was magnanimous in defeat, he graciously agreed to a day of manual labor.”
“I never will like that guy.”
“You’re both bulls with long horns, that’s why.” He started to purse his lips in a question but I continued. “You’re two very masculine men, lots of androgen in those bodies, and you both want to lead the herd. Even if you hadn’t been rivals as children you’d be rivals as adults. It’s chemical.” I closed with a flourish of my hand. I half believed what I’d said and I half didn’t, an interesting predicament.
“Smith’s endocrinic view of the universe.”
“You got a better one?”
“At the moment, no. If anything, my hormones are catching up with me.”
I kissed him on the cheek again. “They sure caught up with me.”