Part 3 (1/2)

”He cursed at me first,” Betty admitted, wrapping her hands around her teacup as if clasping them in prayer. ”He actually used a swearword. Then he said thank G.o.d my mother was dead, or this would kill her. Then he asked me where the father was, and when I told him I didn't know, he said thank G.o.d I didn't know, or he would kill him.” him.”

”And then?” Martha asked.

”Then he asked if there was any chance Fred would believe the baby was his, and I said no. And then he sent me to the Home.”

Martha sighed. Of course. That was what girls did if they were pregnant and unmarried or in disgrace. They went to stay in maternity homes-in one door secretly, pregnantly; then out the other, welcomed back to resume their lives as if nothing but time had been lost. It was from exactly these homes that orphanages like Irena's-and in turn programs like Martha's-were able to get their babies, and to pa.s.s them on, if all went well, to real families who would want them.

ON THE FIRST MONDAY after Betty's revelation, President Gardner made another unannounced visit to the practice house. This time, Martha felt quite sure that she knew why he had come.

”You've come to see your grandson again?” she asked him softly after Beatrice had taken Henry down the hall.

”We will never call him that,” Dr. Gardner snapped.

The president strode into the living room and took his seat by the fireplace.

”I apologize,” Martha said quickly. ”I didn't realize.”

”I obviously cannot change the fact that Bettina chose to tell you her entire wretched story,” he began without preface. ”But I will say that if you repeat to a single soul even a word of this very personal business, you will be out of a job on the very same day that I hear about it. I will not have the name of this college being dragged through the mud,” he said. ”Do you understand?”

”Of course,” Martha said. ”I would never say anything.”

The president looked around, presumably for somewhere to put his frustration.

”Don't you ever light a fire in here?” he finally asked.

”Well, we do worry a bit with the baby so close to walking,” Martha said, getting to her feet.

”When Bettina was a baby and we still lived in Vermont, we had a potbellied stove, and all our neighbors with children kept their stoves surrounded by wrought-iron gates. Every day, Bettina's mother warned her not to go near ours, and one day she did, and she burned her hand, and she never went near it again.”

Martha paused for a moment, considering how to respond to this pearl of wisdom.

”I don't think I'd get a lot of babies from the orphanage if I sent them back with burnt hands,” she finally said.

”You will go on getting babies from the orphanage as long as I tell the orphanage that we need babies,” Dr. Gardner said.

Martha, expertly wielding the fireplace tongs as if the logs were lumps of sugar, allowed this to sink in. ”Irena Stahl knows about Henry, then?” she asked as she arranged pieces of kindling into a perfectly balanced tower.

”Absolutely not,” Dr. Gardner said.

”Then how did he come to be here?” Martha asked. It was Irena, after all, who had insisted that Martha take Henry, despite his having been only three months old. It couldn't have been a coincidence.

”It's perfectly obvious,” the president said. ”I told Irena I had heard about a baby who needed to be placed. Until we knew what had happened to Fred, Bettina simply refused to give the baby up. Do you see?”

”Yes,” Martha said.

”I know I should have insisted, right from the start, that he be sent far away. I've already regretted that. But Bettina seemed so fragile.”

”Yes,” Martha said again.

Then Dr. Gardner brushed a crumb from the lapel of his jacket, as if he were shaking off the moment. ”Imagine,” he said. ”Thousands upon thousands of girls give these babies up all all the time, and get on with their lives. Not Bettina. She even wanted to keep him with us at my residence. Can you imagine?” the time, and get on with their lives. Not Bettina. She even wanted to keep him with us at my residence. Can you imagine?”

”No,” Martha said, but she could.

The president let out a kind of laugh. ”I told her if we did that, it wouldn't be my residence for long.”

That was true, of course. A college was a place where people expected-and, Martha felt, deserved-to find propriety. Martha took two logs and carefully laid them across the andirons.

”And now? Will Betty keep him?” Martha asked, as gently as possible.

”Keep him! A b.a.s.t.a.r.d?” Dr. Gardner intoned. ”A b.a.s.t.a.r.d?” b.a.s.t.a.r.d?” His eyes flashed at Martha. ”Bettina's place is with her husband. She His eyes flashed at Martha. ”Bettina's place is with her husband. She will will be going to Australia, and I can promise you she will not be showing up there with some other man's child.” From the nursery, the sound of Henry's laughter emerged, like an unexpected song. Somewhat more gently, the president added: ”And in time, she and Fred can have children of their own.” be going to Australia, and I can promise you she will not be showing up there with some other man's child.” From the nursery, the sound of Henry's laughter emerged, like an unexpected song. Somewhat more gently, the president added: ”And in time, she and Fred can have children of their own.”

BUT BETTY DIDN'T LEAVE right away. Over the months that followed, she twirled the practice house into a constantly moving, ever-more-powerful, Betty-centered vortex. She was nearly always the subject of conversation, even though she had told no one but Martha that she was Henry's mother. Instead, all the girls-and most of the campus-knew only that Fred had deserted the Army. They believed the reason Betty was always in tears had to do with the shame of being married to a deserter, and the sadness of having to leave her home and her family in order to be with him.

The girls-Connie and Grace particularly, who were closest in upbringing if not experience-complained about Betty's frequent pop-in visits, which they attributed to her position not only as daughter of the president but also as resident diva.

”Why doesn't she just go, already?” Connie asked.

”I suppose she's not sure she wants to live in Australia as the wife of some guy who could be court-martialed any minute,” Grace answered.

”So she'd rather leave her husband when he needs her most,” Connie said.

”And stay with Daddy? Why not?”

And Martha, though tempted, offered no answer to that question.

OVER TIME, HOWEVER, it became abundantly clear to Martha that, despite the agonized (and frequently confided) vacillations of Betty's heart, there was no way that she would or could stay at Wilton. Staying would mean ending her marriage, outraging her father, bringing scandal to the college, and, apparently, raising a child without any financial support. In 1947, what was unusual about Betty's situation was not that she would give up the baby but that she had managed to stay in his proximity for so long.

By March, Betty began to make plans to join Fred in Australia, and by May, she had begun showing up less and less often at the practice house.

SHE LEFT FOR AUSTRALIA three days after Henry's first birthday. She was thin and pale and sick and cried-out. Henry, too, seemed not himself that day-or perhaps that was simply Martha's imagination, or a new phase of his development. It was typical, Martha felt, for one-year-olds to be withdrawn. At least that had been her experience. Certainly Henry could have no sense of what he was losing. No one around him did.

What Martha would remember most about the day was what Henry did when Betty walked out the door. Though he had just started standing up, he crawled onto the living room rug and into a trapezoid of sunlight, toppled over onto his side, and-despite the bandage that was supposed to deter him-put his thumb in his mouth. For a long while, Henry stayed there, like a puppy in the sun, the trapezoid perfectly framing him, as if he were trapped in a weird, warped viewfinder.

Then Ruby ran back inside and told Martha that Betty needed to tell her one more thing, and Martha walked out to the front yard. Amid the lushness of the new green summer, Betty looked down at the ground, where two bees chased each other past a fallen rose. She whispered, ”Take care of him for me.”

Martha nodded firmly, deciding at that moment not to ask Betty for how long. for how long. If she didn't ask, she could always believe that Betty had meant forever. If she didn't ask, she could always believe that Betty had meant forever.

6.

You Know More Than You Think You Do

With Betty gone, the practice mother rotation would need to be s.h.i.+fted, at least until September, when there would be new students hoping to join the program for the second year. The night Betty left, Martha sat at her desk and weighed the pros and cons of subst.i.tuting herself for Betty in the coming weeks. On the one hand, it would be setting a new and possibly unwieldy precedent; on the other, it would relieve the girls, who had already scheduled their summer trips home and would otherwise have to revise their plans. Martha imagined strolling with Henry in the summer evenings, or letting him splash in the kiddie pool when the days got long and sultry.

But just a few days after Betty's departure, an official envelope appeared in the practice house mailbox, a letter from Dean Swift suggesting that Martha attend the Matson College Conference on Child Care in July.