Part 2 (2/2)

”Betty!” Martha shouted after her.

”What was that?” Ruby called.

”Betty!” Martha repeated, stepping over the broken gla.s.s.

In the nursery, Betty had already picked Henry up and lifted him onto her shoulder, so that his face fit neatly against the pale curve of her neck. She was crying, but soundlessly, and her eyes were shut, as if she was praying.

”I'm sorry,” Betty said.

”What?”

”I'm sorry I made you drop that. What was it?”

”Only an ornament. Let me take the baby, dear,” Martha said.

Betty shook her head as fiercely as having a sleeping baby crooked into her neck would allow.

”I know you must be devastated,” Martha said. ”Believe me. You have all my sympathy. But really, you know. The baby shouldn't be held so much.”

Betty shook her head again and seemed to hold Henry even tighter.

”Would you like me to call your father?” Martha asked, as gently as possible.

”No.”

”I think you should give me the baby now,” Martha said. She had the illusion that she was talking to a jumper who had already decided that nothing made more sense than jumping. But it was not exactly worry for the baby that was making Martha nervous. It was not worry for Betty, either. It was actually the premonition that something was going to be physically ripped away from her.

”Come,” Martha said one last time, and then she took a step closer to Betty.

”Let us alone,” Betty said, her neck and head bent over Henry's head, like a third, protective arm.

”Dear, I'm so sorry about your husband,” Martha said. ”Here. Give me the baby, dear. Let me get you a tissue.”

Martha grabbed three tissues from the box she always kept on the dresser, beside Henry's little blue plastic brush and comb. She fought the impulse to wipe Betty's face the same way she cleaned Henry's. Instead she thrust the tissues into Betty's hands, essentially forcing a trade, and finally Betty handed the baby to Martha and started to wipe her eyes.

”Do you know how Fred died?” Martha asked gently.

Betty shook her head again, and then began to sob. Every gasp showed the girl's tiny ribs and perfect waist. It was hard to believe that a vessel this small could hold such enormous pain.

Finally, with what seemed a mythic effort of will, Betty stopped crying and put her hands at right angles to her body, as if trying to push down her feelings, or at least the air around her.

”With any luck it was quick, and he didn't have to suffer,” Martha said.

”No,” Betty said, gesturing again to hold down the air. ”It's not like that. Fred isn't dead. He's alive.” And she burst into tears again.

AFTER MARTHA HAD SENT RUBY OUT with Henry for his walk, Betty unfolded the letter for Martha to see. Though it had only come that morning, it already had the look of something nervously overhandled, as if with each opening there had been the hope of finding a different message. Stamps with oval faces bordered the top of the gray-blue envelope like guards, and the words BY AIR MAIL were printed across the cover in bold blue capital letters. The message inside was equally forceful, written in capitals too, as if intended as a telegram for which the characters had to be counted. Martha read: NEVER WENT BACK. AWOL ITALY, THEN HID AUSTRALIA. THEN ASHAMED TO EXPLAIN. BUT REALIZE CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOU. COME MEET ME. MELBOURNE P.O. KNOWS ADDRESS. LAST NAME NOW WHAT YOU USED TO CALL ME FOR FUN. SOONEST. DEAREST. NEW LIFE AHEAD.

For several minutes, Martha read and reread the note, trying to figure out what to say. Gingerly, as if she were tucking Henry into bed, Martha put the letter sheet inside the envelope and handed it back to Betty. As she did so, she noticed the tiny, pale blood vessels fanned out across Betty's exhausted eyelids. The teakettle whistled, another cry.

”I know this must be a shock to you,” Martha finally ventured, taking down a bag of Lipton to dunk in each of two china cups. ”And that you must be a bit confused about the idea of your husband-”

Betty shook her head again.

”What did Dr. Gardner-What did your father say?” Martha asked.

”My father doesn't know yet,” Betty said.

”Why not?” Martha asked, nonplussed. But it would be another week before Betty would tell that part of the story. For now, she merely stared at Martha, as if from a roiling ocean.

”But, dear, Fred is is alive,” Martha finally said. ”I would think that would be more important to you than anything else.” alive,” Martha finally said. ”I would think that would be more important to you than anything else.”

Betty poured what must have been five seconds' worth of sugar into her teacup, then stirred it with needless vigor. ”Where's Ruby?” she finally asked. ”It looks like rain. She should bring him back,” she said.

”Betty. It's Ruby's week.”

”She doesn't know how to handle him.”

”She's learning all the time,” Martha said. ”You all have your strengths and weaknesses.”

”He's mine,” Betty said.

”We all feel that way sometimes,” Martha said.

”No,” Betty said, with surprising strength. ”I mean he's mine. I had him this summer. He isn't Fred's. Fred doesn't know,” she said. ”Henry's my son.”

5.

A Puppy in the Sun

The facts were fairly simple, though it took Betty time to admit them all, and she changed them several times before she stuck with one story. The most important fact was that the baby wasn't her husband's.

Henry, it turned out, was the child of a man whose first name was Jerry and whose last name Betty would never know. She had met him in a movie line in Pittsburgh three months after Fred s.h.i.+pped out. She had let Jerry bring her back to the apartment where she and Fred had been living. Unglued by fear, wine, and loneliness, she had let him spend the night. Not even the whole night, actually. Barely the length of the movie they'd seen. Then he had disappeared.

Betty had been eighteen. For nearly three months, telling no one, she'd simply hoped that the baby would go away. She was working at a hat shop, and on her break one afternoon she read an ad in the back of the Pittsburgh Sun Pittsburgh Sun about how to get the problem fixed. For two weeks, she drank a daily concoction of rosemary, bay leaves, pumice, pepper, vinegar, and c.o.ke. When that didn't work, she began to exercise constantly, exhaustingly. She did a hundred sit-ups each night and another hundred each morning. Finally, she summoned the courage to ask a pharmacist if there was someone she could see. The druggist gave her an address. She lost her nerve at the last moment, though, when she overheard some coffee-shop talk about a girl ”botched” in a back-alley job. about how to get the problem fixed. For two weeks, she drank a daily concoction of rosemary, bay leaves, pumice, pepper, vinegar, and c.o.ke. When that didn't work, she began to exercise constantly, exhaustingly. She did a hundred sit-ups each night and another hundred each morning. Finally, she summoned the courage to ask a pharmacist if there was someone she could see. The druggist gave her an address. She lost her nerve at the last moment, though, when she overheard some coffee-shop talk about a girl ”botched” in a back-alley job.

When, in Betty's sixth month, an old woman gave up a bus seat for her, Betty broke down, called her father from Pittsburgh, told him what had happened, and asked if she could come home.

”And what did he say?” Martha asked Betty over the cup of tea that had become, by the following week, their daily ritual.

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