“I felt bloated,” she said, and sat at her vanity table. “The doctor says I’m eating too much salt. Why are you home so early, anyway, Preston?”
“Why am I home so early?”
He stared at her. In her mirror, she saw the strange smile on his face, and then she remembered.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh? Is that all you can say? It’s just the most important dinner of the year for me. Mr. Cauthers and his wife are taking us out, and everyone at the firm knows when Mr. Cauthers takes you out to dinner with just his wife and himself, it’s to tell you that he and the other partners have decided to give you a partnership. I think after seven hard years of proving myself, I deserve it, of course, but I won’t take anything for granted these days.”
He squinted at her.
“I thought you were just as excited about this as I was. At least, you indicated that when I first told you about the invitation. Hell, you were the one who suggested the restaurant, Nat. How could it slip your mind?”
He looked frustrated, disappointed. Preston was such a good-looking man, with his dazzling dark eyes, Roman nose, and strong mouth. All of his features were perfect, in fact, and he had the self-confidence of someone who knew he was good-looking and impressive. That demeanor had served him well.
“It didn’t slip my mind, exactly. I am excited. I just lost track of time, Preston.”
“Doing what? Living in one of your fantasy stories?”
She spun on her seat and glared at him. “Just because I spend most of my day writing romance novels, it doesn’t mean I’m not involved in other things, too. Besides, I make good money for us, don’t I? I thought you respected what I do. I thought you believed there was a role for entertainment, too. Or was that just hot air, Preston? Have you been humoring me all this time?”
Put him on the defensive, she thought. It always worked.
“No, of course not. I just…oh, forget it,” he said. “I’m taking a shower. Which do you think is better tonight, the blue suit or the brown?”
“I like the three-piece for a dinner like this, especially with the Cautherses.”
“Gray, but…all right, I’ll wear that one,” he said, and went into the bathroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
She was gaining more and more weight. She could see it in her chin. Soon she would have to resort to the same type of girdle her mother had worn. Like her mother, she wasn’t really going to show until she was well into the sixth month, probably, but that was well along. People had premature babies in the sixth month, babies that survived. She could give birth without Preston even knowing she had been pregnant!
What would she do?
She could still go underground and find an abortion doctor. She’d go far enough away and remain anonymous, of course. Preston would never find out if she did it soon.
Or she could do what she had finally discovered her mother had done.
With her husband’s blessing, she could go into hiding and have it.
Visions of the baby inside her returned. She could have her very own child, a child who was truly hers and Preston’s. Wouldn’t he be happy? Couldn’t she make him see how wonderful it would be?
A baby who was really all that they were.
The thought made her heart beat faster. She saw a flush come into her cheeks.
She had really begun to make the decision by getting those prenatal vitamins, even though she had told herself she was just keeping the option open.
She gazed at herself in the mirror again, a different, sterner, and more sensible Natalie Ross looking back at her.
Be careful, the image in the mirror warned. You’re tiptoeing over very thin ice.
You could ruin everything.
Just as in most communities, there was always a nagging rumor in Sandburg that there was a young woman capable of becoming pregnant. Perhaps because of Sandburg’s perfect record, its standing in the nation, and its subsequent fame, residents were more paranoid. Stories about Hattie and her squad were infamous. They actually checked a suspect’s garbage, looking for evidence of black market products. There was even the story about a young woman they followed for days until they finally planted a pregnancy test in her toilet. Some of the stories were exaggerated, but it was enough to keep most women a little nervous, because even those who knew they couldn’t get pregnant feared the fallout of a false accusation. People would always look at them with some distrust even if they were exonerated.
Critical students of history made comparisons to the witch hunts of colonial times or to the red-baiting paranoia about Communists during the 1950s, more than a century ago. An accusation was as damaging as a conviction in all cases. From time to time, such a strong rumor about a woman stirred the day-to-day commerce of the small upstate New York village and disrupted the even flow of courteous intercourse among the inhabitants. The turmoil and the rage wouldn’t stop until it was proven beyond a doubt that the alleged suspect was indeed innocent.
However, just about everyone was grateful for Hattie and her baby squad, as they had come to be known. Every businessman and woman working and living in Sandburg applauded their vigilant enforcement of the national decree that had been established once perfect progeny could be created in the nation’s maternity laboratories and once the human genome had been perfected. It wasn’t simply a law so much as a proclamation, a national desire, its enforcement left up to the local communities, but its encouragement came from rewards in the way of grants and subsidies to those communities with perfect or near-perfect records. Everyone in Sandburg was quite aware of what had happened in Centerville, the next village to the north, when three pregnant teenage girls were discovered.
Three! How could such a thing happen in this day and age and right under the eyes and noses of the adults and parents around them? The town became a pariah, the stores and businesspeople either had to move or simply had to close, and every citizen and business lost the special government subsidy.
Enforcement of the decrees actually had become a national obsession, and most felt rightly so. Gone forever were all the old childhood diseases, deformed and retarded infants, inherited physical and mental illnesses, cancers, diabetes, multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s, nearly every known malady tied to defective DNA.
But what was even more valued now was the government licensing of all potential parents. One no longer simply got married and had a family. Parenting was recognized as an art, a skill, work that required intelligence and a real understanding of childhood mental and physical development. No one got married because the woman was pregnant anymore. No one resented the children they had and failed therefore to give them the proper care and upbringing. Consequently, teenage crime as it once had been known and feared was practically nonexistent.
The last violent incident of any national note in a public school involving a young person occurred twenty years after the passage of the laws requiring all females to be inoculated against pregnancy. They were given the dosage of NL1 just after birth. Natural childbirth was quickly becoming ancient history, at least for the middle and upper classes of society.
Literally everywhere, in every public place, were posters depicting pregnant women in the most unattractive ways possible: their faces distorted, their bellies exaggerated, their lips writhing in pain and agony, and often one could find a graphic poster of a deformed child with the words: “Born Naturally. Who wants it?”
Oddly enough, young people such as Lois Marlowe had what Hattie Scranton called “a sick fascination” for natural childbirth despite all the propaganda and enforcement against it. At the moment, having gone through an embarrassing examination administered by Dr. Morris, Lois wasn’t feeling fascinated with anything remotely associated with the condition. Part of the physical exam was really unnecessary, such as the vaginal and breast examination conducted with the entire baby squad watching, but Hattie wanted Lois to feel as uncomfortable as possible. Let it be a lesson to her.
; Lois was sitting in the waiting room while her mother, the doctor, and Hattie Scranton’s baby squad conferred in the office. Her face was still stinging from the blush of embarrassment and fear.
The door opened, and she looked up sharply.
“Come in here, Lois,” her mother ordered.
She rose slowly, her heart thumping.
“I’m not pregnant, Mama.” She was terrified of some mistaken diagnosis. There were all sorts of horror stories about something like that. Even after months and months went by and the woman showed no signs of pregnancy, people still believed she could have been and could have had an abortion. Go and try to live in the community after something like that was spread.
“I know. Come on,” Jennie Marlowe said. She looked emotionally exhausted, her hair falling, her face still pale.
Lois stepped through the doorway and gazed at the women who glared at her with such rage she couldn’t keep her eyes from sinking to the floor and lowering her head.
“We want to know where you got those pills, Lois,” Hattie said.
“I traded for them,” she replied in little more than a whisper.
“We heard that. With whom?” Hattie said.
Lois raised her gaze. They wanted her to turn someone in. How would she face the others?
“Why?”
“It’s illegal drugs,” Dr. Morris said. “You know better than that, Lois.”
“It was just for fun, a curiosity. No one did anything with them or had any reason to want them other than that,” she argued.
The women simply stared.
“Someone is usually pregnant when she has such a pill in her possession,” Hattie said.
“No, no one’s pregnant.”
“Who gave you the pills?” Hattie repeated, a word at a time, each one pronounced with venom.
“You’ll have to tell them, dear,” Jennie said.
Lois shook her head. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. Everyone will hate me.”
Hattie and the others wouldn’t be satisfied with just knowing that. They’d want to know why she traded for the pills, what they were doing with them, and all the other things. The other girls would be afraid that she would name those who had participated in the pregnancy games, for sure. Hattie would want to know who they were. She would have to name names.
“Please, Lois. I’d like to get out of here and go finish my shopping. Just tell them,” she added firmly.
Lois shook her head, tears streaming down her face now, each one a little drop of fire.
“If you don’t tell us, we’ll turn this over to Chief McCalester, and he’ll give it to the district attorney, who will get an indictment and have you arrested for possession of an illegal drug. You’ll go to jail,” Hattie threatened.
Lois’s heart was pounding so hard she thought she would faint, but she just shook her head and through her clenched teeth muttered, “I can’t. They’ll hate me.”
“Very well. You had your chance,” Hattie Scranton said.
“Give me some time with her,” Jennie pleaded.
Hattie glared and then softened a little. “You have twenty-four hours,” she said. She stepped toward Lois. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people today. What can possibly be fascinating about something as painful and disgusting as natural pregnancy and birth? Do you know what happens to our bodies, how distorted we get, our faces and legs swollen, our breasts with the sensitive nipples, the morning sickness, all of it, all of that horror?”
Lois nodded.
Of course she knew. Besides the posters, she had seen the illegal photographs and had seen an old medical book with illustrations. She didn’t feel it was as disgusting as they all did. What would they do if they learned about those pregnancy parties where she and some of her girlfriends pretended to be pregnant, stuffed their skirts, and paraded about as if they were six, seven, eight, and nine months pregnant?
“You’re simply an ungrateful, spoiled bunch, and you’ll all be punished for it, believe me,” Hattie vowed, convincing Lois that once she told she would be opening the floodgates. She imagined all of them being marched down to Mr. Sullivan’s office, all the disgrace and all the anger her friends would rain down upon her.
Hattie spun on Jennie. “Twenty-four hours and no more,” she fired at her.
Jennie nodded, reached out to turn Lois toward the door, and marched her out ahead of herself. She didn’t speak until they stepped into the street.
“Your father is going to be inconsolable, Lois. You haven’t begun to see the full brunt of what’s about to fall on your head. Turn around, go back there, and tell them who gave you the pills,” she pleaded.
Lois shook her head.
I’ll be like Joan of Arc, she thought. I’ll be burned at the stake and become a saint.
Her mother had no idea how courageous she could be.
She would never tell.
Never.
Kasey-Lady growled and barked and lifted herself up, practically garroting herself with the choke collar and chain. Percy sat arrogantly on a rock just a few feet beyond Kasey-Lady’s run, sunning himself. The stray cat was a fighter, strutting with a chip on his shoulder. The truth was, if Kasey-Lady, a purebred golden retriever, did break loose, she would be the worse for it, not Percy.
Stocker Robinson watched from the pantry screen door and smiled to herself. Ever since her mother had found Percy down at the lake and brought him home, Kasey-Lady had been out of sorts. She wanted to be at that cat so much, she cried and whimpered. What filled her with so much hate and aggression? Stocker wondered. She wished she had some of it. Being the chubbiest girl in her senior class at school made her the object of ridicule almost daily. The others spread rumors about her, claiming she wasn’t a Natal, that her mother had given birth to her in the garage or some such ridiculous place, grunting and squeezing her out like a tumor, bathing her in blood. They even drew nasty pictures and wrote things on the toilet stall walls about her.
Most of the time, she didn’t have the courage to stand up to them. Instead, she looked for ways to ingratiate herself, ways to buy friends.
“I’m going to town, Stocker,” her mother called from the kitchen. “You wanna come along?”
“No,” she called back. What was she, five years old and supposed to be excited about a ride to town with her mother?
“If Daddy calls while I’m gone, tell him I’m making the pot roast tonight.”
“Okay,” she called back.
She continued to stand there and watch Kasey-Lady rage. When her mother came out, she chastised the dog, who then lowered her head and retreated until her mother got into the car and drove away. As soon as she had, the dog went back to its barking. Percy yawned and spread out on the rock.
Stocker was suddenly taken with an impish impulse. She went out and knelt down beside Kasey-Lady, who stopped barking and waited patiently for her to pet her and talk to her. She licked Stocker’s hand and then glared at Percy, who didn’t even show a bit of interest.
“What are you going to do to him, Kasey-Lady? Eat him up?”
The dog seemed to nod.
Stocker smiled.
Then she undid the dog’s collar and chain. Once the animal felt her freedom, she charged ahead. Percy stood up quickly, arching his back. The dog growled and circled, snapping at the cat, who lifted his paw and held it poised. Kasey-Lady moved her snoot in and out, snapping, each time just escaping Percy’s claws. Then, without warning, the cat leaped from the rock and landed on the dog’s back. He tore and tore, and the dog spun and yelped, throwing the cat off. He landed on his feet, hissed, and ran into the brush.
Kasey-Lady whined in pain.
“You a wuss,” Stocker cried at her. “Get back here,” she ordered. The dog did so and lowered her head as Stocker reattached the chain to her collar. She saw streaks of blood on the dog’s coat.
The thing of it was that despite this outcome, the dog would bark and threaten again, and if she were turned loose, she’d
do the same thing until she got lucky or maybe lost an eye. Her innate hate either blinded her to reason or filled her with extraordinary courage. It was all how you looked at it, Stocker thought.
The ringing of the phone pulled her attention to the house. Was that Daddy?
She hurried in and picked up the receiver in the kitchen.
“Hello.”
“Stocker, it’s Betsy.”
“What?” she asked. Betsy never called her. She was the only other girl in the class who was as desperate for friends, and it was like admitting she was one rung lower than Stocker if she was the one to call all the time.
“Did you hear about Lois Marlowe?”
“No.”
“They found prenatal vitamin pills in her locker and took her to the doctor for a checkup. Now they want to know how she got them.”
Stocker felt her throat tighten. “Did she tell?”
“I don’t know. Do you know how she got them?” Besty asked with an underlying note of suspicion.
“No. How the hell would I know?” Stocker replied quickly.
“There’s going to be an investigation, I bet. Everyone will be called down to Mr. Sullivan’s office. I bet whoever knows is going to tell.”
“Who cares?” Stocker said.
“I don’t know. Somebody,” she sang.
“Well, not me,” Stocker said, and slapped the phone back onto its cradle.
She sat there a moment, fuming. Kasey-Lady started barking again.
“Shut up!” she screamed, charging back to the screen door. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
She felt her throat scratch.
Betsy’s words echoed. Whoever knows is going to tell. The words rang like an alarm bell in her head.
The tears of pure red rage came on the heels of her marching fear.
Natalie loved the Cherry Hill. First, it was off on its own on a side road no one would normally take, Porter Road. There were very few homes between Sandburg and Route 52 via Porter Road, so the county highway department did little to maintain it. Occasionally, when a pothole grew deep enough to present a potential of car damage, the road superintendent would bring out a crew and patch it. Otherwise, it was as bumpy and cracked as the surface of Mars. After a particularly heavy rain, part of the road would wash away and often flood in low areas.
The Baby Squad Page 2