I FELT THE VIBRATION of footsteps on the pier before I saw them walking toward me. The three of them had the same red-gold hair. The father, the son, and their dog. Together, they appeared like a vision of glowing riches. As happy as I was to see my son, I couldn’t stop feeling that his presence was interrupting something important. I stood and walked toward them, leaving my empty bowl to weigh down Nonna’s notebook.
“Sammy. Look at you. And this cast? You have a green, alien arm. Oh, I missed you.” I hugged my son who returned the gesture with half his strength.
“I missed you, too, Mommy.”
“Hello, Bryce.” I turned to my soon-to-be-ex-husband. “You’re early. How did you know where to find me?”
“Actually Jules led the way. Your car was still in the driveway. Your neighbor said he saw you walking toward the lake. We needed to stretch our legs anyway, so we took a chance.”
I picked up my shoes and the rest of my belongings, then joined them for the return walk. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather, their trip east. As we got closer to the house, Bryce touched my shoulder lightly with his left hand. He did not move his arm until we maneuvered through the back door of the house.
♦ 45 ♦
KAREN HAD BEEN WRONG about Sam. He did not move shyly through the house and my life. He was full of life and energy. When he discovered the new bedroom waiting for him, he pulled Bryce up the stairs to show him.
“This is even cooler than my bedroom at home.” Those words splintered through me. I looked away as Bryce delicately explained to Sam that this was his home now. “Remember what we discussed, buddy?”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam said. “Let’s go see your room now, Daddy.”
I was not sure that Sam understood. They walked down the hall, and I followed with Jules at my heels. Bryce would be sleeping in the room next to mine. I had arranged towels on the bed, and put a flower in a vase on the bedside table. I had not added these touches to be homey reminders, but rather the opposite. I was making a statement that Bryce was a guest in my house, a guest who was not allowed the privilege of rummaging through closets. The room also had a fresh coat of paint and a new toile bedspread on the double bed.
“You didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me,” Bryce said.
“I want you to be welcome here.” I had practiced those words, but my voice cracked when I said them. “You are still Sam’s father.”
Bryce backed out of the room and turned to look around the corner into my room.
“And this is your room?”
“Uh, yeah.”
The bed was unmade, the bedding in a heap where I left it. I had planned to strip the bed later that morning and wash the sheets. I had not counted on Sam and Bryce’s arrival that morning. The rumpled sheets were a reminder of the night I had spent with Travis. I blushed at the evidence.
I took a step closer toward the memory and closed the door to my room. “I didn’t get a chance to straighten up in there.” If Bryce suspected another man’s presence he said nothing, but his gaze was hard as he studied the closed door. I could not help but conjure the image of a dog marking his territory.
I continued giving Bryce the rest of the tour. He’d only been to Nonna’s house once during the course of our marriage, and that was some years ago. I concluded the tour with a show of my studio space.
“Wow,” he said, “this is a much better setup than the one in Michigan. I can see you working here. Are you working on anything now?”
His interest in my work surprised me, and I realized that somehow, during the last few weeks, he had released me. We didn’t need to hurt each other any more.
“As a matter of fact, I just finished my pieces for the alumni show, and I am about to break the mold, so to speak, and take my work in some different directions. I guess you could say that the last couple of months have been rather liberating.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” I was not sure, but I thought I noticed an edge to Bryce voice and a slight frown on his face. I had to be imagining things. He was experiencing the liberation, too, wasn’t he? I showed Bryce my latest sketches.
“That is a departure for you,” Bryce commented. “I am used to your figures, but this is exciting, too. These seem more like constructions.”
I was surprised by Bryce’s perception. I had never thought that he had given my artwork much thought. Now he was admiring my new projects and making astute comparisons with my past work.
“Um, yeah,” was all I could stammer before I slid my sketches back into my portfolio. Suddenly the room seemed small and the hot air of August too tight to breathe.
For a moment Bryce looked as if he had something important to say, but he just tapped his fingers lightly on my workbench. “Is that the end of the tour?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“It’s just that it has been a long drive. Would you mind terribly if I went for a run to get the kinks out of my legs?”
“No problem. I think I’ll sit outside and let Sam run around, too. Maybe later we can go for a late lunch. I didn’t get to the grocery store quite yet. It was on my list of things to do today.”
“Yeah, I know how much you like to go to the grocery store,” Bryce said with a laugh. He looked as though he was going to lean down and kiss me, but he stopped himself. The funny thing was that I felt it, too. In spite of the divorce and my new romance with Travis, I wanted that kiss. Old habits die hard. Would we ever be comfortable around each other again? Would we ever get used to this new way of being together, this new dance that was no longer a dance?
♦ 46 ♦
“NO MONKEY BARS, SAM.” I said. “We have to wait until the alien doctor transfigures your arm back into human form.”
Sam ignored me as he and Hayden climbed backward up the slide to reach the playhouse. I settled myself on the stoop. I guessed that Bryce would be gone for the better part of an hour with his run—enough time to read some more pages in Nonna’s notebook. While I wanted to read what I could, I had a hard time turning the page. I distracted myself with my son’s play, but the breeze caught the notebook and fanned its pages. I could not ignore the story I knew I must read.
June 10, 1991
I have tried to sit down and finish my story for many weeks now, but I have been procrastinating. I know why. Who wants to look into the mirror when they are sick or drunk or ashamed of their actions? Shame is a powerful thing. I know I must sit here until I finish or it will win. I have opened to a new page and filled my bowl with coffee.
Remember the speaker at Barbara Jean’s commencement, talking of a life lived with truth? I know I must write this for me. I must put a face on my demons and a name to my sins. I have never been a particularly religious person, but there is something to be said about the power of cleansing one’s soul.
The Ancient Greeks believed in the power of the theater to elicit catharsis. I agree; the theater is a holy place. I met your father there, and spent a good deal of my time at the movies, trying to escape my life. The war itself blurs in my recollection of it, but I remember the movies that came later: Casablanca, The Longest Day, The Sound of Music. It was not so with my personal life. I remember each of my transgressions and the authority with which I committed them. Movies could not absolve me of them; I can only hope that the telling will.
Spring of 1942, the weather was erratic, and so were my emotions. I missed my Charlie, and I missed my friend Lena, but with every day came a new sign that my intuition was correct. I was going to have a baby. I hid my condition from my parents. I wanted Charlie to be the first to get the news.
Every night I wrote to him. With Lena’s help I had begun to correct my more glaring grammar errors. Without her, my letters still held hints of my ignorance with the written language, but I was getting better. I studied newspapers at night with a dictionary by my side. I cut out any article that described the happenings in the area of the Pacific where I knew that Charlie was stationed.
My parents tried to
distract me with family card games, and I volunteered at the Red Cross two evenings a week. I kept busy. Often, I was tired. Never before had I taken such luxury in naps. On slow days at the bakery (the days were never slow, but everything is relative), I asked Mama if I could leave early. She never questioned me. I think she was afraid to say anything because the rent of my farm helped to float us financially.
One afternoon when I was home resting, I started to feel a strange sensation in my abdomen. It was too soon for me to feel the baby moving. I felt something warm and wet between my legs, and when I checked, I was bleeding.
How could I tell my parents of the miscarriage when they didn’t even know I was expecting? The times were different then. These things were not discussed like they are today. How could I tell Charlie? How could he hear this news in a letter? I touched the dark blood. I know that sounds morbid, needing to touch it as it spilled from my body, but I wanted some tangible evidence of my loss. It was like the opposite of baptism. I was not receiving Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I was losing husband, friend, and first-born child.
For one week I stayed home from the bakery. I told my parents that I had wrenched my back. They brought me hot water bottles, and tut-tutted about me being too young for such an injury. I wrote to Charlie, but I did not tell him of the misfortune I had suffered, that we had suffered. I wanted him to hold only joy inside when he read each of my letters. I not only hid the truth from him, I outright lied. In each letter, I wrote of my growing tummy, my nausea, and my exhaustion. I listed names for him to consider: Charles Jr., Nelson, Joseph. For the girls names I wrote down Alice (after his mother), Katherine, and Jane. I, myself, did not lapse into a false reality. The cramps were heavy, and I expelled small, unformed masses into the toilet. There was no way to forget.
I was recuperating alone one morning, when our doorbell rang. The sound of the bell always ignited the terror that was waiting in my heart. Was Charlie all right? I ran to the door, straightening my robe as I went. Though I was not dressed for visitors, I opened the door. Lena was standing there, or a shadow that looked like her.
She was pale and thin. Her lipstick was smudged badly, as if she hadn’t even tried to put it on straight. Beside her were a tiny blue suitcase and a larger brown one.
“I looked for you at the bakery. Your parents told me you would be here.”
“Come in. Did you carry these all the way here?” I asked, lifting the small blue case. It was light.
She walked instinctively to the kitchen where I put on a pot of water for tea.
“I am leaving town. I am going to Washington, D.C., to housesit for my cousin while he is overseas. I realize that I haven’t talked to you in some time, but I wanted to tell you in person. Charlie, he’s okay, isn’t he? Forgive me for not asking sooner.”
“Yes, he’s fine, as far as I know. I jump every time I hear the doorbell. We only have a phone at the bakery, so I don’t get too excited by the sound of the door there.”
“Your mother said you hurt your back.”
“Yes.”
I guess I had been holding back my grief for so long, hiding behind my brave face. The teakettle whistled, and I started to weep. I expected to feel Lena’s arms around me in an act of solace or at least hear some comforting words. The teakettle sang and sang. When it stopped, I stood up and removed the dry pot from the burner. That is when I saw that Lena was crying, too.
I did not get the whole story out of Lena in the kitchen that day. The narrative came later, during our months of seclusion in Washington, D.C. What I got was the headline. On the evening of her birthday party, Lena Lefever succumbed to seduction, or at least that was her allusion, her illusion. I knew that a girl did not succumb to seduction and then call off her wedding in the same night. The only confirmed facts I got were that Lena was pregnant and unmarried.
“Does Hank know?”
“No. Please. You can’t tell him. You can’t even tell Charlie. My parents don’t even know. I will go away to have the baby.”
“I won’t say anything. You have my word.”
“Thank you.” Lena was visibly relieved.
“Your mother, the baby, did she—?”
“Yes, a baby girl, Margot. She’s beautiful, and another reason I cannot stay. I touch her cheek, and I remember the life that is growing inside of me, How can I love my sister and hate what is inside of me?”
Lena started to cry again. I handed her a clean handkerchief. I did not want to upset her by prying further. I would like to say that I did this out of friendship, but I was not that selfless. Before Lena had even finished confiding in me that day, I already had designs on her baby.
When my parents came home that evening, I had my own bags packed and waiting beside the door with Lena’s two. Without going into detail, I explained that Lena needed me. They sensed the urgency. Why else would I abandon their needs when the bakery took so much work? They knew I was not a frivolous girl, and, too, they had prepared themselves for this day.
I kissed them good-bye that night, before we changed our minds. I gave them an address to forward any letters from Charlie. We called a cab, and the driver lifted our bags into the trunk.
“Don’t let her lift any of those suitcases,” my mother said. “My baby has a bad back.”
For the first time, at twenty-five years of age, I was leaving my parents, for a life not entirely my own.
LENA SHRANK AWAY from the world as it was whizzing by our moving train window. I think she was still experiencing morning sickness. I could not feel sorry for her. I was still enduring cramps. Although they were lighter, I was afraid that they would become a permanent ache. On our trip south, I told Lena about my baby. I told her slowly, in droplets, like a leaky faucet weeping to fill a pail. I wanted her to have silences between my words to come to her decision, the decision I was mentally willing her to make.
She didn’t say anything for the first two days we were setting up house in Washington. On the third day, she spoke with the deliberateness of someone who has taken time to think about her words.
“Anja, when my baby is born, I want you to have it for your own.”
I had prepared myself. When she finally said her words I launched my planned silence, as if I were considering the idea for the first time. The pause went on forever in my head until I could no longer hold the words back.
“Lena, are you sure about this?” I asked her, but inside I was already accepting her offer.
“I have been thinking about this for some time, and it is the best solution. I can’t very well raise it on my own. Maybe you and Charlie don’t want a child that isn’t your own blood, but I just can’t give my baby to a stranger. I can’t do it. Please say you’ll think about it.”
“What if the baby was of our own blood?” I chose my words carefully.
“What do you mean?” Lena asked.
“Charlie doesn’t know I lost the baby. What if he never has to know?”
And with that, I revealed my plan. I acted as though I had just then thought of the solution, but in reality, I had been plotting since Lena first sat across the table from me in my parents’ kitchen. Lena did not appear shocked, but pleased, and we made a pact. It was all settled. Lena would go to a military hospital to deliver her baby, and when she did, she would register as Mrs. Charles Graybill. Charlie would have his baby when he returned home, and I would not have to tell him how I had lost the child he had entrusted me to carry.
At the time, I did not see what a deception I was laying out for my husband. I did not think of the sacrifice of my friend. I only wanted the love of a child, and I was prepared to do whatever it took for me to overcome my own unspeakable loss.
When Lena was well into her fifth month, I shared the good news with my parents. Mama wanted to come down to Washington to see us, but the bakery was busy, as I knew it would be. She would not be able to make the trip. I promised to bring the baby home, as soon as we could travel.
All that was left to do was wai
t. Lena and I spent lots of time playing cards. I taught her all the games my parents had taught me. She had never been allowed to play cards in her house. Her stepfather would not allow it. He was a drinking man, a smoking man, but not a man of cards.
Slowly, card by card, hand by hand, game by game, I came to know Lena’s story. The more I heard, the more I felt that we were doing the right thing, bringing the baby into our family instead of hers.
Lena was born near Pittsburgh. Her father worked in the steel mills, and died in an accident there when Lena was only a toddler. Five years later, her mother went to hear a guest minister at her church. The Reverend Ernest Platz was a bachelor who spoke with such dynamism from the pulpit that all of the single women in the congregation set a course for him. Lena’s mother did not enter the race. She shied away, though she was very interested in this young man, potent with thought and delivery.
A picnic followed the service that day, and the story that is told is that Reverend Platz took a bite of Lydia Lefever’s cherry crumb pie and declared before the entire congregation that he would marry the woman who had succeeded in baking heaven into a crust. Less than a year later, they were married, and Rev. Platz was called to a church in Philadelphia.
Lena was ten when they moved. Knowing nobody, she spent most of her time reading books in her room. It was in her room that Rev. Platz first cornered his prey. At first it was just smoothing her hair and telling her what a beautiful girl she was. Then as he gained her trust (a feat he never quite accomplished), he would unbutton her dress and rub her back. “Sweet thing. Young girls can get themselves into so much trouble when they turn away from God. You love God, don’t you, Lena?”
By the time Lena was twelve, the good Reverend was going to her room every evening to pray with her and read the Bible. He unzipped his pants, and ordered her to caress his flaccid penis. Lena had no choice but to comply. Her new daddy was a man of God. “You want to obey God, don’t you, Lena?”
The Reverend Ernie Platz was nothing without his brimstone. His face turned dark with blood, unlike his genitals, white and limp in Lena’s sweaty palm.
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