by Beau North
“What is it? The baby? Are you okay?”
She grinned, her bright blue eyes shining up at him. “He’s kicking like a rodeo horse,” she said, taking his hand and putting it on the tight drum of her swollen belly. A moment later, he felt it, a little thump against his palm. That’s my kid. He knew that it was, but he felt no connection, nothing to tether him.
“Well, how about that,” he said, letting his hand drop. The feeling of that kick had somehow unsettled him.
“We’ve been talking, me and Anne.” Charlotte took his hand, holding it in both of hers. “We want the baby to have your name. Fitzwilliam, I mean. If you’re comfortable with that.”
Richard’s mind flashed back to a summer day in 1945, standing on a fishing pier with the grim and gleeful thought that his father would be the last Fitzwilliam. But that hadn’t been true then, and it wasn’t true now. The baby currently dancing the Lindy Hop in Charlotte’s belly…that was the last Fitzwilliam. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, and on impulse, her lips.
He knew it was a mistake. But it was New Year’s Eve, and he was lonely, and she was so beautiful and full of life in that moment. She froze for a moment before pulling away.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I got a little overwhelmed just then. It’s no excuse, I know.”
“I’m not angry. Maybe a little flattered that anyone would want to kiss me when I look like a carnival sideshow.”
“Hush, you’re beautiful. And don’t think I didn’t see you and Annie canoodling in the studio earlier today.”
She blushed and looked down at her hands, still holding his. “Well, I’m not mad is what I meant.”
“About the name,” he said, pulling out of her grasp.
“Yes?”
“I’d be honored, of course. What were you thinking for first names?”
“Well, if it’s a boy, I want to name him Bennet.” She watched this news hit him, gauging his reaction. Richard liked the idea. After all, it hadn’t been him that had saved Charlotte from her rampaging husband or her diabolical mother. It had been the Bennets.
“Bennet James, for your brother,” she said. He felt his face break into a smile. James. The happiness was bittersweet as James would never get to be this child’s uncle.
“I love it. What about for a girl?”
“Well, I like Stella. Stella Elizabeth.”
He reached up and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s fitting. I like both.”
She seemed relieved by this. Somewhere in the house, Anne called for them to come join the countdown.
“You’d better go,” he said to her. “You don’t want to miss your midnight kiss.”
She laughed again before coming up on her tiptoes to kiss him, on the cheek this time. “Happy New Year, Richard.”
He watched her go, thinking of all the changes that the new year would bring. Part of him wanted to go with her, to slip his arm around her waist and join the chorus of the hopeful. But she wasn’t his, and that wasn’t his future. He turned back to the window, resigned to watching the snow fall.
“Happy New Year,” he said, to no one in particular.
29
March 17, 1955
Sloane Presbyterian Hospital
New York, NY
“Sit down, Richie. You’re making me dizzy.”
Richard looked down at his cousin Anne, his dearest friend, and saw how pale and anxious she looked. Her hands were clasped so tightly together he could see her fingers turning white. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug her or sock her in the arm for getting them all into this mess.
Give Charlotte some credit for knowing her own mind.
He took a seat next to Anne, putting an arm around her slim shoulders.
“How long do these things take, anyway?” he asked. A sound halfway between a laugh and sob spilled out of Anne.
“How the hell should I know?”
Richard lit two cigarettes, handing one to Anne, who took it with a look of gratitude. They smoked in silence, surrounded by other tense, silent people. In the corner, an old woman sat saying the rosary with her eyes closed, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Occasionally a nurse would come in and deliver a whispered update or quietly escort someone out. Richard noticed that a few men sat reading the newspaper as though they were sitting at the breakfast table, not a care or worry apparent on their faces.
Richard didn’t know how anyone could sit calmly reading while their wives were giving birth. Didn’t they know? He remembered the baby he’d help deliver, in a dusty hut outside Manp’ojin. He’d only assisted their company medic in the delivery, but what he’d seen of that experience had left him shaking and feeling slightly sick.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
A nurse was leaning down to speak to him. Where the hell had she come from?
“How is she?” Anne asked, jumping to her feet. The nurse gave her a hard stare before looking back to Richard.
“You can go on back now.”
He stood to follow, grinding his cigarette out in one of the many ashtrays. When the nurse saw that Anne meant to follow she stopped. “I’m afraid it’s immediate family only.”
Richard scowled, putting his arm around Anne. “She is family. I’m the child’s father and I want her there.”
“Sir, we have a policy.”
“I don’t give a damn if you have laws carved in stone or written in blood. I give an unholy amount of money to this hospital every year, so if you’d care to report this up the chain, make sure you spell the name right. It’s F-I-T-Z—”
“Richard. It’s all right.” Anne put a hand on his arm. “Go on back. Give her my love.”
“Absolutely not, Annie. You’re coming with me.”
“Please. Don’t make a scene.”
It was then that he felt her trembling, whether with rage or frustration or fear, he knew not. Probably a mishmash of all three. When your love meant breaking laws written in ignorance…. Richard had never considered how aware of themselves Anne and Charlotte had to be at all times. How carefully they had to move through public spaces as not to attract unwanted attention. Feeling very protective of her all the sudden, Richard leaned down and kissed Anne’s cheek.
“I will,” he said, giving her shoulders a squeeze before turning back to the stone-faced nurse. “After you,” he said coolly.
She turned her stone-face from him and led him down a corridor, through some double doors that swung open silently, into another, more hushed corridor. She guided him to a large window looking into a room, more softly lit than the others. “Wait here,” she instructed him. Richard stood looking into the room, where rows of tables were fitted snugly with box-like bassinets. There were lots of wriggling little forms in the beds, most of them an angry shade of pink. The nurse emerged behind the glass, wearing a smock over her nurse’s whites and a mask over her mouth. She walked to the third row from the window, second bassinet from the left. She picked up the plump and pink bundle there. He moved closer, seeing the name written on a card attached to the foot of the tiny bed: Baby Boy Fitzwilliam.
Richard’s breath froze in his lungs. The nurse held the boy up so he could see. Richard thought he was incredibly round, the tiny white cap on his head making him look almost egg-shaped. But the face…he thought he could see himself there. His hand came up to touch the glass. I have a son. He wondered if his own father had ever felt this rush of joy, of terror, of the need to reach through the glass and hold his son. His son!
The nurse put the bundle back in its bassinet and came out, pulling the mask from her face. “You can stay as long as you like,” she said, her tone still cool. Richard didn’t care. He was a father and had room in his heart for everyone today.
“Please.” He stopped her before she could turn and walk away. “How is Charlotte?”
The nurse’s lips pursed. “She’s in recovery. You can see her tomorrow.”
“But…she’s okay?”
The nurse looked offended. “Of cour
se!”
Richard nodded and turned back to the glass, back to the sleeping infant that had suddenly and irrevocably become his whole world. His vision wavered with unexpected tears. He looked around to see that he was alone. He tapped the glass and spoke quietly.
“I promise. I promise to be a better father than my own. You hear that, kid?” He grinned, the tears slipped from his eyes, sliding warmly down his cheeks. He stood there watching until he remembered that Anne was still waiting. The pang of guilt was enough to make him tap the glass one more time before turning and walking out, leaving his heart behind as he went.
2 April 1955
Dear, dear Richard,
My heart is full to bursting for you, for Charlotte and Anne, on the arrival of your son. Bennet James Fitzwilliam! Personally, I’m touched that Charlotte chose to name him James, and I’m certain that if he were here today, James would adore his new nephew. Thank you for the photo. He is a beautiful boy. I think I can see your face in all that baby fat!
Sadie and Pansy wanted to send their own cards for “Cousin Ben,” so I’m including their drawings here.
How is Charlotte recovering? Please send her my well wishes and congratulations. Parenthood, I’ve learned, is as rewarding as it is challenging. And make no mistake, it is very, very challenging. But I have no doubt, you’ll both be brilliant at it.
Love to all of you, from me and the girls,
Evie
* * *
Richard smiled at the childish drawings made by Evie’s daughters. Sadie had drawn herself and her sister and baby Ben as stick figures, their bodies long and heads comically large. Pansy’s drawing was just scribbles in crayon. He read the letter again, noticing that nowhere did Evie mention Arthur, and wondered if there was anything the matter. He felt a brotherly need to protect Evie, and the girls, from anything that would hurt them.
Brotherly, sure. He brushed the thought aside and folded the letter, tucking it into his desk drawer with the stacks of others he’d kept over the years. At least these were the letters he could live with other people seeing. In the house in Annapolis, there was desk drawer filled with his secret shame, his weakness. The stacks of unsent, lovesick missives to Elizabeth Bennet. Richard thought if anyone found them, he’d die of shame. He knew he should burn them but found himself strangely reluctant. They were a part of him, a part of his past, a narrative of everything that had led him to this point: the happiest time of his life.
And he was happy. Every day was a heady mix of sleeplessness, joy, outright terror of this new, fragile life that he’d helped bring into the world.
From the nursery down the hall, infant squalling rent through the hush that hung over the townhouse, serving as a very real exclamation mark on the end of that thought. This new, fragile life was either soiled or hungry.
He stood and made his way to the nursery. Ben lay in his crib, his red face and toothless scream, making Richard chuckle as he picked up the squirming bundle. His shirt was immediately soaked through.
“Well, I think I see the problem, champ. Let’s get you cleaned up and changed.” Ben’s little face crinkled in infant anger, making Richard smile.
“That’s right. You have a right to be mad as hell, me leaving you in such an undignified state.”
“Richard, no cursing. We agreed.” Charlotte stood in the door, watching him unpin Ben’s sodden diaper.
“Your mother is right, Benny boy. You can take the man out of the army, but can you take the army out of the man?”
Charlotte smiled, a tired but contented smile. “One would hope.”
Richard cleaned his son, applied the sticky diaper cream, and began the intricate process of folding and pinning the clean diaper.
“Here, let me,” Charlotte said. “I swear I could do it with my eyes closed by now.”
“No, no, I’ve got it. You just take it easy, Mom.”
Once changed, Ben’s screaming quieted, and he lay there looking up with that special, befuddled expression that was particular to infants. Richard tucked the baby into the crook of his arm, smiling down at his chubby, wrinkled perfection.
Charlotte came to stand with them, touching the tuft of corn silk hair on the boy’s round head. She put her arm around Richard’s waist, leaning into him so that she could make faces at Ben, making the baby gurgle and coo. Richard kissed the top of her head, feeling more grateful, more complete than he ever had.
He looked up and caught sight of Anne standing in the doorway, her face like a funeral. A nod and a smile was enough to send her out of the room. He looked back down at his son, small and perfect, thinking he couldn’t imagine what had made her so unhappy. Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.
30
BEN
April 3, 2003
Ambrosia Cafe
Annapolis
She isn’t going to show.
Ben stared into the murky depths of his untouched Americano, feeling nervous enough without the jittery anxiety of too much caffeine. The bell over the door in the trendy little coffee shop had clanged three times already, making him jump every time he heard it.
The fourth time it clanged, it wasn’t some exhausted student or harried assistant getting coffees for the office who walked in but Keisha. He stood and smiled, his heart tripping and skipping at the sight of her. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were cautious.
“Hi,” he bent and gave her a peck on the cheek. God, she smelled good.
“Hey, Ben.”
“Coffee? Tea? What can I get you? It’s on me.”
“Ah…I’ll just have an iced tea, thanks.”
He went to the counter and paid for her drink, carrying it back to his table where she sat waiting. She thanked him and took a long, grateful sip. He wanted to reach over and take her hand, kiss every fingertip. He had to cross his arms to stop the urge.
“So how’ve you been?” he asked.
She gave him a rueful smile, toying with the wrapper from her straw. Her fingernails, he noticed, were clipped short and unpolished.
“To be honest…I miss you more than I thought I could.”
Somewhere deep in his gut, a knot worked its way loose. She misses me.
He tried to speak around his hammering heart. “Well, I’d say the feeling is more than mutual.”
“How is the book coming along?” She switched topics before they could break the fragile thread of mutual longing, but there was a change in her, a slight relaxing of tension about her shoulders, more warmth in her eyes than he’d seen a minute ago. To give himself something to do with his hands, he picked up his coffee and took a sip.
“The book is…well, it’s even bigger now if you can believe it. It’s not just about Dad anymore but Mom and Anne, the Darcys, Aunt Georgie.”
“So an authorized family saga? Sounds intriguing.”
“The family decided that if anyone was going to tell the family story, it should be one of us instead of some Columbia grad trying to make a splash.”
She nodded. Ben wished they could just open their mouths and give name to all the things they were to each other instead of this overly careful waltz of politeness. He wanted to pull her to him, put his arms around her, and whisper the words in her ear. Friend. Companion. Lover. Confessor.
“My therapist gave me the idea,” he blurted. Her eyes widened at the admission. “I’ve gone to four sessions so far.”
She leaned forward, pointing her body toward him like a sunflower turning into the light. “Is it helping?”
He laughed without humor. “I guess in the long run, it’ll help me. In the short term, it hurts like hell.”
She put a hand on his arm and squeezed. “I’m glad you’re trying.”
Tears pricked his eyes. “Keisha. Can we…can we be friends again? I won’t push for more. I just miss you a ridiculous amount.”
She laughed and dashed at her own eyes with her fingertips. “Hell no. I can’t just be friends with you.” She took his hand and wove her fingers through his. “I’m an
all or nothing kind of girl.”
“Thank god,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips the way he’d wanted. Her skin was soft and scented with the cocoa butter lotion she used. He loved it, because it was hers.
She caressed the hair at his temple. “Lord, what have I gotten myself into?”
“Whatever it is, I hope it’ll make you happy.”
“I’ll put my faith in you,” she said. “But you still need to do the work. And I want to take things a bit slower this time around. Do all the cute date stuff people always do early on.”
“I can do that. It’s been a while since I did all of that stuff. Do people still like to go roller skating?”
“I’m fine with anything that isn’t golf or tennis or whatever white people your age like to do.”
He laughed, relieved. Grateful. Determined. I’m going to do it right this time, Pop. Maybe he’d take her sailing, even if it was a very Caucasian pastime.
31
April 17, 1955
Chelsea Arms Apartments
New York City
Richard unfolded himself from the taxi after giving the driver a generous tip for the long ride. He dashed up the stoop and rang the buzzer for a person he never imagined he’d ever visit.
“Hello?” the voice crackled on the intercom.
“It’s Fitzwilliam. I’m looking for Anne.”
The intercom clicked silent and Richard was left standing there, wondering if he was being dismissed, when a second later the door buzzer sounded, letting him know it was unlocked. Inside, the air was thick and close, smelling of dust and spiced meats cooking at the Greek restaurant next door. He climbed the narrow stairs to the fourth floor and knocked on the door to apartment 4C.
The door swung open. Sergeant Kelly stood there in his shirtsleeves and uniform pants, glaring up at him.
“How did you know where I live?” he asked.