When the Morning Glory Blooms (9781426770777)

by Ruchti, Cynthia

  Gil’s laser-beam look told Becky this might not be the time to reopen that case.

  She glared back. “What? We need to know.” She turned her focus back to their daughter.

  Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe you guys would think that of me.”

  “Kind of an odd statement coming from a seventeen-year-old whose curfew is earlier than her baby’s bedtime.”

  “Mom!”

  “Becky, cool it down.” Gil made a hand motion that looked like a basketball coach trying to slow the pace of the full court press.

  I can’t raise my child to make good choices. I can’t teach her how to be a good mom. And I can’t even confront her correctly when she makes another dumb mistake. “Lauren, we do love you, honey. More than you’ll probably ever know. It’s because we care so much about you that we—” Her throat tightened. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Because we care, we’re concerned about you ruining your future, to say nothing about what it will mean for these babies.”

  “Baby, Mom. One baby.”

  One inconsolable baby to match the other inconsolable people in the room.

  Lauren tilted her head, chin lifted and jaw set in a line so tight her lips turned white. “That’s not mine.” She nodded toward the object of derision on the coffee table.

  “Then whose is it, Lauren?”

  “Brianne’s, okay?” The tears coursing down her face matched her son’s. “But it’s not a problem anymore. She took care of it.”

  A groan started at the edge of the universe, dodged all the black holes in outer space, and rocketed to earth, to the Midwest, to one grotesquely silent family room.

  Jackson laid one hand against Lauren’s damp cheek. Becky knew it weighed little more than a birthmark.

  4

  Ivy—1951

  How could Ivy take him seriously with that dot of toilet paper stuck to his chin knob? It bobbed as he chewed his corn flakes and stared at the nothingness with which he was obsessed. She would have made him a more substantial breakfast if he’d waited until she’d finished getting ready for work. Or if she’d set her alarm to go off a half hour earlier than dawn. He’d succeeded in swelling her guilt without a word.

  “Dad?”

  He picked up the newspaper. The word “Korea” always caught her eye. Promising young Democrat John F. Kennedy from Massachusetts offers views on Korean War armistice talks in Kaesong. Her father waded deeper into the paper. Editorials? Obituaries? Why did she even bother waiting for the courtesy of a “What, honey?”

  “Dad, we’re out of potatoes. It’s Wednesday.”

  Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Canned peas. Fruit cocktail. Like always.

  He put down his cereal spoon and ran the palms of his hands forward and back on the overripe-lemon-yellow Formica tabletop. His wedding ring clinked on the metal edge at the near point of each trip.

  She couldn’t think about the meatloaf—squishing her fingers through the greasy meat and raw egg, globules of chopped cow and bread crumbs stuck under her fingernails.

  Potatoes. “The ad says they’re eighty-eight cents for five pounds this week. I could pick some up at the Piggly Wiggly after work.”

  He nodded. Once. That was something.

  “But . . .”

  Ornell Carrington braced his hands on the aluminum table edging and pushed off, his chair legs scraping like dulled claws on concrete. He shrugged into the faded blue work shirt he’d hung over the back of the chair and she shrugged out of her apron and into a holding pattern. Six buttons later, he dug into the breast pocket—the one embroidered with his name and Goodman’s Hardware, not in that order—and pulled out an overworked dollar bill.

  He held it out to her, gripped between his index and middle fingers like other fathers might hold a cigarette. “Wish I could give you more, Ivy.”

  Me, too, Dad. No matter what the subject, me, too. She swallowed against the recurring thought of raw meatloaf.

  What’s the word halfway between thanks and okay? Ivy needed it but couldn’t retrieve the elusive word from where it hid. She took the bill from his fingers and held it in her left hand while she cleared the table with her right, depositing the bowl, spoon, and gas station juice glass into the once-white, chipped enamel sink.

  “Ivy?”

  She turned at the sound of defeat in his voice.

  He latched the buckles on his coal-black lunch box, tucked it under his arm, and held those same two fingers in the air. “Two months.”

  Raw eggs. Crawling up her esophagus.

  “Two more months. Then you’re on your own.”

  He took a step toward the door, paused, then resumed walking away from where she stood.

  A dot of toilet paper stained with a drop of dried blood floated to the speckled green linoleum in his wake.

  She felt his every footfall as he descended the concrete stairs from the apartment units on their floor to the street level. For such a slight man, he walked heavy.

  Ivy pulled the apartment door shut behind her and tested the lock. The cloying smell of dry-cleaning fluids and steamed wool filled the stairwell and short hall, closing its fingers around her throat. Living above a dry cleaner had its advantages in the winter with rising heat that kept their floors warm and their radiators relaxed. Now, with Minnesota summer humidity thick enough to make a decent soup, the location lacked benefits.

  From the top of the stairs she could see daylight beckoning through the open doorway. He had left the door open. He’d known she’d soon follow.

  He’d turned left, toward the center of town. At the bottom of the stairs, she would turn right for the six-block walk to the old folks’ home.

  Her feet were damp already in her rubber-soled shoes. But they thumped softly in her rapid descent, cushioning the spots where her father had clumped.

  She turned sideways to allow Helene from apartment C to skirt past her heading up. Helene’s youngest straddled his mom’s hip. Mothers must develop a permanent hitch in their spines, carrying toddlers.

  Ivy pressed against the wall, stiffening at the ammonia smell. How long had that child been in that diaper and those rubber pants?

  Children should be seen and not smelled.

  Ivy lurched out the doorway and onto the sidewalk. Half a block and half a thought later, she leaned over the low bushes at the edge of the empty lot and threw up.

  Ivy cupped her hand over her mouth, blew a puff of air, then took a breath. More spearmint than the other. The chewing gum was working. Her stomach settled from tidal wave to rough seas, but the heat didn’t help. She passed the red soft-drink cooler outside Farraday’s Rexall Drugs and considered spending a nickel for the benefit of something cold to press against her forehead, the back of her neck, to tuck in her brassiere, crowded as it now was in there.

  The walk to work seemed longer every day. She looked down. Her feet conquered one square of cement sidewalk after another, crossed at one corner after another. The cement was not wet and heavy, as it felt.

  The downtown became neighborhoods, the kind that wagged their fannies as Ivy passed, reminding her she’d never have a yard like that, a regular house, a whitewalled DeSoto in the carport, kids riding bicycles with playing cards clothes-pinned to the spokes of the wheels and rainbow streamers flying from the handlebars, kids with skates strapped onto their Keds.

  People like her lived in sweaty apartments with hollow, crusty stairwells and rutted linoleum. People like her got evicted at twenty-one by their own fathers.

  People like me should stop coveting porches and be grateful for a saggy iron bed and a closet door, even if it doesn’t shut all the way. Where would she be in two months?

  A breeze teased the once-tight, now-limp curl of her bangs, but abruptly died out. Hope did that, too. Showed a little promise, then evaporated before she could enjoy it.

  Drew came into her life. Korea took him away.

  On a quiet street just a block from work, for no known reason, she smelled bus fumes like those from th
e wheeled monster that took him from her on the first of April. April Fools’ Day. Miserable irony. She’d clung to his drab-green wool lapels, buried her face in his army-issued shoulder, marked the spot with her tears. He’d dampened her hair with his own. Then he’d pulled away, threw his shoulders back like a good soldier, and—as if she could live without him—climbed the stairs into the belly of the monster.

  She’d pressed her white gloved hands over her mouth to keep her heart from clawing its way out as the bus belched and growled and overcame longing’s inertia. Drew kept his gaze riveted to the arched ceiling of the vehicle, or somewhere beyond its roof, so Ivy’s last view of him was his profile only, as if she’d already lost eye contact forever.

  Three months ago.

  She could still smell the bus fumes.

  The idling bus had coughed noxious fumes in their faces as Ivy Carrington and Drew Lambert clung to each other and to their last few moments together.

  “I’ll write you every day, Ivy.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I will. I swear it.”

  Ivy loosened her grip on Drew’s uniform lapels, fearful of wrinkling the coarse wool, but more afraid of losing her grip on him.

  “Don’t swear it, Drew. You can’t write every day. The war?” Ivy’s sarcasm twisted the tourniquet of an already tense scene.

  “Conflict. The government frowns on our calling it a war.” His eyes teased.

  If he wanted to lighten the mood, it wasn’t working.

  Ivy’s reply gathered speed and volume as it readied itself in her throat. “Tanks and helicopters and guns and minefields and H-bombs—”

  He tucked her hands tighter in his. “There won’t be another H-bomb, Ivy.”

  “And men dying on both sides. What would you call it?” She regretted the harsh edge to her voice. This isn’t how she wanted him to remember her.

  “I’d call it . . .” His coy smile faded as he trolled for an answer. “I’d call it the only thing that could come between us.”

  She fought to pinch back tears, her efforts as futile as a facial tissue against an open hydrant. No, Drew. The war isn’t the only thing that could drive a wedge between us. She carried the other possibility deep within her.

  Within weeks of Drew’s unit’s departure for the alternating dust and damp of the hills of South Korea, Ivy Carrington’s “possibility” became a certainty. She mourned not having told Drew her suspicions. Now it was too late. How could she put news like that into a letter?

  Ivy couldn’t risk it. She might as well paint a bull’s-eye on his uniform, as vulnerable as he’d be if distracted by her bomb of information and its consequences. Staying alive. That was his focus. She’d have to keep quiet and deal with it alone.

  And that meant leaving town and moving in with her father. She couldn’t risk running into one of Drew’s friends from the paper mill or his gossip-glutton mother or sisters. The only thing worse than Drew’s finding out would be his hearing it from someone other than Ivy.

  The deception repulsed her. Like castor oil—a necessary evil.

  So many eventualities might eliminate her need to tell him . . . ever. She hadn’t ruled out the idea of “disposal.” Illegal, but not out of the question. She could find a way. Not an option that gave her any peace. But then, maybe peace was too much to hope for.

  If the baby died on its own, if she miscarried . . .

  What kind of person saw that as an answer? A dead baby? Why couldn’t she think straight? Nothing made sense anymore. It was the baby’s fault. No. It was her own fault for letting the passion of a moment override her common sense.

  Ivy knew Drew would blame himself. All the more reason not to tell him. He’d already apologized a dozen times for that night. It wasn’t fair for him to bear the weight of responsibility. She was a willing partner. A few minutes of what she thought was happiness. And it would cost her a lifetime of regret.

  Half a continent, an ocean, and thousands of rice paddies separated them now. But the secret created the greater distance.

  She stared at what she’d written, cringing at the omissions and half-truths that stared back at her. Inventive by necessity, Ivy’s airmail letters to Drew lacked the risk of vulnerability.

  Dearest Drew,

  I moved! I’ve been so lonely since you left that I thought a change of pace might do me good. So I’m on an adventure. I found a job as a nursing assistant at a really nice old folks’ home in Clairmont. My supervisor has rental properties all over town and gave me a good price on a small apartment above the dry cleaner (note my new return address). It’s warm most of the time, from the steam and the mangle (that’s the machine for pressing the clothes, in case you didn’t know). I’ll appreciate the steam more midwinter. It’ll cut down on my heating bill.

  You’ll like Clairmont. There’s a great diner just a couple of blocks from my apartment. I eat supper there on days I work late. Only ninety-five cents for the special. Depends on the day. Monday’s usually spaghetti. Tuesday’s pork chops. Wednesday’s meatloaf. Thursday can be chicken chow mein (looks disgusting but tastes pretty good) or sometimes Swedish meatballs, depending on the cook’s mood. Friday is always fish . . . for the Catholics, but I like it, too. I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned the food, being as you’re probably choking down cold beans and canned meat every meal.

  I don’t have a problem walking to work. It’s only six blocks. I sold my car—poor, sad thing—to pay for the first month’s rent, since I won’t get a paycheck until I’ve been at the home for two weeks. I don’t miss the car much, except on rainy days. I might change my mind come winter. Maybe I’ll take the bus then. Seems silly, since it’s such a short distance. We’ll see.

  She’d filled two pages of onion-skin stationery and successfully avoided the one subject that occupied almost every waking moment. No mention of the fact that the smell of dry cleaning chemicals made her nauseous or that she’d moved in with her dad. Or that writing the word meatloaf gagged her. Or that the six blocks to work sometimes caused her ankles to swell, even this early in her pregnancy.

  Have you decided yet what you want to do when you’re discharged, Drew?

  What were the odds his response would be, “Start a family”?

  I hope you’ll be able to finish college, like you planned. Clairmont isn’t far from the Minnesota State Teachers College. You could commute. I bet my supervisor would have something for you to rent. She owns a couple of apartment buildings—one here and one in Westbrook. Do you want me to ask her about it? No commitment or anything. Just for information?

  It’s probably hard for you to think about the future while you’re over there. I think about it a lot. I miss you. I pray for you every day.

  She had no confidence that God was interested in her prayers but trusted He cared about a young soldier willing to lay his life on the line for his country.

  I have to get to work. I’ll tell you more about that in the next letter. I like the old folks’ home better than waitressing, even though my waitressing is what brought us together. Remember how clumsy I was when I served you that first time? You had me so flustered, I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other.

  Your letters keep me going, Drew. I miss you so much!

  All my love,

  Ivy

  How different Ivy’s letters sounded compared to Drew’s! Sticking to safe subjects made her letters more like a round-robin written by a cousin dispensing family news and weather reports. Drew seemed to dip his pen in his heart to find the ink with which to write.

  My darling Ivy,

  I woke this morning with a pain in my chest. Our company medic examined me thoroughly and came to the same conclusion I’d drawn. Missing you has eaten a hole in my heart! There is no cure for me until I see you again.

  I’ll always regret our not having gotten married before I shipped out. I don’t know why that would make any difference to me right now, but it would. I want you to be my wife, Ivy. My wife!

&
nbsp; You said you didn’t need a big, fancy wedding to satisfy you, even though I know you’ve probably been dreaming about one since you were a little girl. I wish I’d listened to you. When I got called up, I couldn’t imagine our just running off to a justice of the peace in our street clothes with no ring, no plans, no reception, no family around us. Now those things seem like small concerns. I just want you to be mine . . . forever.

  We haven’t always done things right. I mean, the way we should have. But when I get back to the States, I swear the first thing I’m going to do is get you the biggest ring I can afford. When you see me, I’ll be down on one knee.

  Ivy moaned. Don’t swear it, Drew. You don’t know the whole story.

  The thought of putting my arms around you again makes me a better soldier. Honest! I want to push the North Koreans and the Chinese back where they belong and end this thing so I can come home to you. Did you hear there are rumors of peace talks? Hurry up, Truman!

  Every night I fall asleep with your picture pressed to my heart. Your face shows up in all my dreams. That sounds sappy, but it’s true. Some of the other guys in my platoon complain they can’t sleep for my calling out your name in the night.

  When the Greyhound pulled up in front of the diner the day I left, the jukebox played “Moon River,” remember? There’s a sorry-looking river in my line of sight where we’re dug in. As muddy as that worthless piece of water is in the daytime, it glowed when the moon-light hit it tonight while I was on watch. That’s what you’ve done to me, Ivy. My life was pretty dull before it felt the light of your love.

  Yours forever and a day,

  Drew

  She refolded the letter and swallowed hard. His tenderness should have thrilled her. Instead it made her uncomfortable. How would the fragile web of his love hold up under the anvil weight of what she couldn’t bring herself to tell him? How would his dark eyes—coffee, no cream—respond if she could tell him face-to-face? With disappointment? Anger? One thing she knew. They wouldn’t register gratitude. A baby was the last thing he needed right now.