Part 21 (2/2)

”What about Tom Hogan? He had three daft children. And Mrs. Kelly had a blind boy,” said Nettie.

”If you'd say a prayer for your sister instead of finding fault with her, you might do some good with your tongue, Bridget O'Reilley, for once in your life,” said Kathleen.

”If she'd of listened to me, she wouldn't be needing so many prayers,” said Bridget.

”G.o.d forgive you, we all need prayers,” said Kathleen, crossing herself.

”What's the weather in Delaware?” said Nettie.

”Damp,” said Bridget. ”Rainy.”

”They live right on the estate,” said Kathleen. ”They eat the same food as Mr. du Pont himself.”

”Yes, only not at the same table,” said Bridget. ”Downstairs is where the servants eat. I'd rather eat plain food at my own table than rich food at a servant's board.”

”Will we not write to her, then?” said Nettie, to Kathleen mainly.

”Not if she's not written first. There must be some reason,” said Kathleen.

”It's her made the first move away,” said Bridget.

”If something was wrong, we'd hear. You always hear the bad. She must be all wrapped up. Probably the du Ponts have made a pet of her,” said Kathleen.

Nora remembered that lohn Taylor had said that on Mrs. du Pont's birthday there was a cake in the shape of a swan. And ices with real strawberries in them, although it was the middle of November. And the ladies wore feathers and looked like peac.o.c.ks, Delia had said. ”They're beautiful, the ladies,” lohn Taylor had said. ”You should know, tucking the lap robes under them,” Delia had said, standing on one foot like a bird. ”G.o.d knows where you'd of been if I hadn't come along to rescue you in good time.” ”You've saved me from ruin,” lohn Taylor had said, twirling an imaginary mustache.

Nora remembered how they had laughed together. lohn and Delia were the only ones she knew who laughed like that and were married.

”Do you think we'll never see Delia and lohn again?” said Nora to her mother.

”Never say never, it's bad luck,” her mother said. She put her hand to her back. The baby made her back ache, she said. Soon, she told Nora, she would have to go to bed for the baby.

”And then you must mind your aunt Bridget and keep your tongue in your head.”

”Yes, ma'am,” said Nora. But her mother knew she always minded; she never answered back. Only that once, about Delia, had she answered back.

When Nora's mother went to bed to have the baby, the younger children went to Nettie's, but Nora stayed home. ”Keep your father company,” her mother had said. ”At least if he sees you it'll keep him from feeling in a house full of strangers entirely.”

But even with her there, Nora's father walked in the house shyly, silently, as if he was afraid of disturbing something. He took her every evening, since it was warm, to the corner for an ice cream. She saw him so rarely that they had little to say to one another. She knew him in his tempers and in his fatigue. He would walk her home with a gallantry that puzzled her, and he went to sleep while it was still light. He woke in the morning before her, and he went away before she rose.

Bridget made Nora stay outside all day when her mother went into labor. She sat on the front steps, afraid to leave the area of the house, afraid to miss the first cry or the news of an emergency. Children would come past her, but she hushed them until they grew tired of trying to entice her away. She looked at her hands; she looked down at her white shoes, one of which was bigger than the other, her mother had said, because G.o.d had something special in mind for her. What could He have in mind? Did G.o.d change His mind? Did He realize He had been mistaken? She counted the small pink pebbles in the concrete banister. She could hear her mother crying out. Everyone on the block could, she thought, with the windows open. She swept the sand on the middle step with the outside of her hand.

Then in front of her were a man's brown shoes. First she was frightened, but a second later, she recognized them. She did not have to look up at the face. They were John Taylor's shoes; they were the most beautiful shoes she had ever seen.

”h.e.l.lo, Nora,” he said, as if she should not be surprised to see him.

”h.e.l.lo,” she said, trying not to sound surprised, since she knew he did not want her to.

”Is your mother in?”

”She's upstairs in bed.”

”Not sick, I hope.”

”No. She's having another baby.”

John Taylor sucked breath, as if he had changed his mind about something. The air around him was brilliant as gla.s.s. He looked around him, wanting to get away.

”How is Delia?” said Nora, thinking that was what her mother would have said.

”She died,” said John, looking over his shoulder.

”And the baby? Is it a boy or a girl?”

”Dead. Born dead.”

”Do you still drive a car for that man?” she said, trying to understand what he had told her. Born dead. It did not sound possible. And Delia dead. She heard her mother's voice from the window.

”I'm on holiday,” said lohn, reaching into his pocket.

She was trying to think of a way to make him stay. If she could think of the right thing, he would take her for a walk, he would tell her about the cars and the gardens.

”How've you been, then?” she said.

”Fine,” said lohn Taylor.

But he did not say it as he would have to an adult, she knew. He did not say it as if he were going to stay.

”Nora,” he said, bending down to her. ”Can we have a little secret? Can I give you a little present?”

”Yes,” she said. He was going away. She could not keep him. She wanted something from him. She would keep his secret; he would give her a gift.

He reached into his pocket and took out a silver dollar. He put it in her hand and he closed her hand around it.

”Don't tell anyone I was here. Or what I said. About Delia, or about the baby.”

It was very queer. He had come to tell them, and now she must not tell anyone, she thought. Perhaps he had come this way only to tell her. That was it: he had come from Delaware to tell her a secret, to give her a gift.

”I won't say anything,” she said. She looked into his eyes; she had never looked into the eyes of an adult before. She felt an itching on the soles of her feet from the excitement of it.

”I'll count on you, then,” he said, and walked quickly down the street, looking over his shoulder.

She went into the house. Upstairs, she could hear Bridget's voice, and her mother's voice in pain, but not yet the voice of the baby. She lifted her skirt. She put the silver dollar behind the elastic of her drawers. First it was cold against her stomach, but then it became warm from the heat of her body.

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