Mother To Be

by Cheryl Reavis

  Becenti opened the screen door and took the phone, carrying it back through the house and depositing it on Lillian's knees. It was still ringing. She looked up at him, and she had a slight frown when she answered it.

  He didn't want to stand there and eavesdrop, but he didn't have time to wait. Toomey was right to think that a call at this time of night – or morning – might be important, but at the moment, he earnestly wished that the young officer wasn't quite so conscientious.

  "What's wrong?" Lillian said into the receiver, and she was listening intently to whatever the caller was telling her.

  "Lillian – " he said anyway.

  "Hold on," she said into the telephone – or to him. He wasn't quite sure which. She pressed a button on the phone.

  "If you're here when I get back, we'll talk," he said.

  "I have to go back to Santa Fe. Now."

  He looked at her, but he didn't say anything. And he had no doubt who was on the phone. The same person who had called her away the last time they would have spent the night together.

  "I have to, Johnny," she said again.

  "Why? Didn't Stuart get his perciatelli?"

  He had said the wrong thing, and he knew it. He knew Lillian well enough to recognize that it was all she could do to keep from telling him what she thought of his crass remark.

  "Thank you for the cradle board," she said with some effort instead.

  But he couldn't let it go.

  "Don't worry about it," he said. "You more than paid for it."

  She looked at him, in that defiant, challenging way she had. But her eyes filled with tears and her mouth trembled slightly.

  "Nice shot, Johnny," she said. "I didn't even see it coming."

  "You don't understand at all, do you?"

  "Understand? What is there to understand? What do you want from me!"

  "I don't want this. I don't want you to come here and make me think what we have matters to you – and then you go running back to Dennison! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

  "You knew the rules – "

  "To hell with your rules, Lillian. I care about you. I want you and the baby and I'm not going to pretend whatever it is you're doing now is okay with me, because it's not! You're going to have to choose. The situation we're in is hard, but it's not impossible."

  "Maybe not for you," she said, wiping furtively at her eyes.

  "We can try to work something out or we can just let it go. If it's not worth it to you to even try, then leave me alone. Stay in Santa Fe with those people who matter so much to you."

  He stood in the doorway, waiting for her to say something. She didn't. He turned to go.

  "You were right, you know," he said, all his anger spent now. "I did ask you to marry me because I thought I had to do the right thing. We don't have anything to base a marriage on. Maybe you were even right about the other thing, too. Maybe we don't like each other, either. I don't want you to come here again," he said. "I'm too damn old for all this. Stay in Santa Fe. I mean it."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Don't cry, she kept thinking. Just drive. She would give Becenti what he said he wanted. He hadn't asked any more of her than she had of him. Stay where you belong.

  She had heard of people who would walk a mile to get their feelings hurt. None of them could compare to what she was willing to do.

  Nice shot, Johnny.

  Don't think about it and don't cry!

  She tried to concentrate on the radio. Stuart had assured her that the other shoe was about to drop. He had been forewarned that the story of his lucrative land project would be in today's newspaper and on all the television stations. She expected to hear something about it on the radio newscasts, but she didn't. She also expected that she would have to wade through a herd of reporters as soon as she arrived in Santa Fe, and she earnestly hoped that she could get home and change clothes beforehand. At the moment, she looked exactly like what she was – a walking morning-after-the-one-night-stand. It was bound to affect her credibility.

  She stopped paying attention to the radio. She'd been preparing ways to justify this fiasco of Stuart's to the media for months, and if she wasn't ready by now, she never would be. Whether she wanted to think about it or not, she had other, more important things to consider. Like her baby. Like the rest of her life.

  Like Johnny Becenti.

  She and Becenti were very good at hurting each other. In her case, she didn't want to, didn't mean to, but the result was the same as if she'd meticulously planned it. He, on the other hand, had deliberately made his remark about the cradle board. And if she wasn't careful, she was still going to cry about it.

  "I don't need this," she said aloud. She'd done more crying in the last few months than she had in her entire life.

  He just didn't – or wouldn't – understand that she hadn't wanted to go back to Santa Fe. But then she hadn't wanted to explain herself, either. She wanted the same courtesy he would expect from her. She wanted him to accept that, when it came to her profession, she did whatever she did with good reason – whether it seemed so at the time or not – even when it involved Stuart Dennison. She shouldn't have to explain that her business with Stuart was just that, business.

  She made good time driving, but she was feeling the lack of sleep by the time she reached home. The kitchen hadn't been cleaned up. All the physical and emotional debris from the night before was very much in evidence. The cradle board still sat propped up in the easy chair.

  She showered and changed clothes, but she also needed a big breakfast and a long nap. She didn't take time for either. She went directly to Stuart's house. She tried calling him on the cellular phone several times on the way to tell him she was coming, but she kept getting a busy signal.

  He wasn't at home when she arrived, and there were no reporters encamped in his driveway. His housekeeper said he had left for his office around seven. Lillian went there, expecting to find him and his handlers in an early-morning strategy session. The door was locked.

  Puzzled, she had no choice but to go back home. She bought a newspaper first. There was absolutely no mention of Stuart Dennison. She took a nap after all, ignoring the dirty dishes and the wilted sweetheart roses. She slept deeply, in spite of her agitation, finally waking when someone rang the front doorbell. She hurried to answer it, ashamed of how much she was hoping that Becenti had changed his mind and come to Santa Fe. But Stuart stood waiting on the porch.

  “Where have you been?'' she asked without prelude, and she made no attempt to hide her annoyance. "I thought the story about the land deal was breaking."

  He stepped inside, and he didn't answer her. It took what little self-control she had left, but she was determined to stay civil – for the baby if nothing else. She'd had enough emotional upset of late.

  "I made a mistake," he said. "No story."

  "You made a mistake," she repeated.

  "Right," he said, and he didn't quite meet her eyes.

  "I don't believe you," she said.

  "C'est la vie," he said, grinning.

  "You called me in the middle of the night to tell me I had to get back here and it was a mistake?"

  "That's about the size of it. But you'll thank me later. So," he said lightly. "Did you finish whatever you were doing with Becenti?"

  "None of your business," she said. "And suppose you tell me what that means – I'll thank you later."

  "It means that you've let your judgment become completely clouded."

  "About what?"

  "About Becenti, Lillian. A clearer head had to prevail."

  "Yours, you mean."

  "Of course, mine. Who knows you better than I do? If I've learned one thing from being ill, it's that you can't waste time standing on the sidelines. You have to get in there and do. All you need is a little breathing space so you can come to your senses, and I arranged for you to have it. You had no business trying to deal with Becenti when you were in the emotional state you were in last night.
He was playing you like a violin – it really wasn't a pretty sight, Lily. And, as I said, you'll thank me for getting you out of that situation – "

  "Stuart! Who do you think you are!"

  "I think I'm the man who's taken care of you all these years."

  "Taken care of me? I'm not a child. I'm not J. B. Greenleigh. I have my own law practice. Since when have you taken care of me?"

  "Who taught you all those fine points about the law, Lillian? I did. And who do you think sends all those upscale clients your way? I do. What is it with you and Becenti, anyway? It would be different if there was any real attachment there – but it's obvious that the two of you don't get along."

  "What do you mean you send clients my way!" she cried, but he wasn't listening to her.

  "The man is rude and overbearing, Lillian. He's obviously not your equal, and he does nothing but upset you. I don't see why you put up with him."

  "Because, Stuart, he's the father of my baby!"

  There was a stunned silence. She had his attention now. Becenti would certainly appreciate the irony of her timing. She couldn't tell people that Johnny Becenti had made her a cradle board, but she had no problem saying he'd made her a child.

  "He's what?" Stuart said, completely astounded.

  "You heard me."

  "You're pregnant?"

  "Yes. I am.".

  "Lillian, have you lost your mind?"

  "Probably."

  "Well, when is it due, for God's sake?" he said, staring at her belly. "You said you never wanted children."

  "December; – and I didn't."

  "But now all of a sudden you've changed your mind?"

  "Believe me, Stuart. A theoretical pregnancy is a whole lot different from an actual one." He kept looking at her.

  "Does Becenti know? Yes, of course, he knows. That's what the cradle-board thing was about. Well, that certainly didn't go well, did it?" he said with more satisfaction than she cared for. "You're not planning to marry him, I hope."

  "No, I'm not. But what if I was? What's wrong with that?"

  "What's wrong with it? You mean besides the things I've already named? You know perfectly well he's not a suitable choice for a husband. Marrying him would cancel out everything you stand for."

  "I don't stand for anything, Stuart."

  "Well, of course you do. You didn't leave the reservation just because you wanted a better life. You left because you had to prove something."

  "When did I ever say that? Like what?"

  "You wanted to show everybody back in Window Rock and everybody here that you could be successful in the white world and that you didn't have to stay where the government put you. If you let yourself get tangled up with Becenti, you'll end up back on the rez with a bunch of kids to raise and it's all for nothing. For God's sake, Lillian. Look how well you've done."

  "Yes," she said tonelessly. "Look how well – all my clients are people obligated to you. How could you do that? You could have told me you were sending people my way. But no. You let me think I – "She took a deep breath to keep from crying. "Get out, Stuart."

  He actually smiled. "I know you're upset now. But you'll get over it, Lily, and you'll realize I'm right. But," he said, his smile disappearing, "this pregnancy of yours changes everything. I need your undivided attention to get through this land-deal business, and the farther along you get, the more distracted you're going to be – "

  "Get out!" she said. And if he hadn't gone, she thought she would have pushed him bodily from the house. She shut the door behind him – hard – and she locked it. She stood there, head pressed against the wood, trying to stop shaking.

  "Who do you think sends all those clients your way? I do – "

  The tears slid down her face. No matter how much she wanted to call Stuart a liar and rant and rage and throw things, she believed him. He actually thought her involvement with Johnny Becenti would make her life and work in Santa Fe "all for nothing." He was wrong. It was her involvement with him. He had no right to prop up her practice, no right to let her think she was succeeding because of her own reputation and hard work.

  She shook her head and pushed herself away from the door.

  "Take strength from this story," her grandmother would say when she was about to tell some sad tale of long ago. As a little girl, she had loved her grandmother's stories, sad or not, but she hadn't learned from any of them.

  "Take strength from this story, Lillian. Once, a long, long time ago there was a little Navajo girl who thought she could fly. She climbed the highest cliff in the canyon and leaped over the edge. The Wind People were very strong that day, and they lifted her up and up until she was as high as the eagles. 'Look at me!' she cried. 'I really can fly!'

  "But the Wind People only laughed and took themselves far away to another canyon. '''Fly now,' they said....''

  "Don't cry, damn it!" Lillian said aloud. "Take strength from the story." She had to find the strength somewhere. In the last twenty-four hours she'd both jumped and been pushed off that proverbial cliff, and the Wind People hadn't been on hand for either occasion.

  She went into the kitchen and stood looking around at the shambles of the night before. After a moment, she began to clear away the dishes and clutter. She carefully washed and dried each piece of china and each crystal goblet and put them away in the antique mahogany china cabinet she'd saved for months to buy.

  What good are these? she thought. They were nothing but the trappings of the lie she'd been living.

  When she was done and everything in the kitchen was in order again, she stood there in the middle of the room, wondering what to do with herself now. She could see the cradle board through the inside windows, and she abruptly walked into the living room.

  She stood staring at the board. It had been lovingly made. She knew that. She reached out blindly for it. Her hands stroked the smooth wood. She sat down with it in her lap, clutching it to her, trying not to cry. She wanted to talk to him – to Johnny. She wanted to sit in his lap and tell him what had happened with Stuart, just as she'd told him about that long-ago afternoon on the rich man's patio. In spite of their ups and downs, she knew he would understand, and she needed someone who understood. She needed him.

  But he was too far away. She could reach him physically, perhaps, but she couldn't reach his heart.

  "Sha'awéé"," she whispered, still clutching the cradle board.

  My baby.

  It was nearly sundown when Becenti returned to his small house in Window Rock. He didn't expect Lillian to still be there, and she wasn't. Still, hope sprang eternal, and he unrealistically looked around the house for a note she might have left him – a fact he would have vehemently denied if anyone had accused him of it.

  He shouldn't have said what he had about the cradle board. He shouldn't have said any of it. He would never forget the way she'd looked at him. How could he want her so badly and yet deliberately say the things he knew would drive her away?

  There was no note, no sign of her at all, except for the fact that the house was so much more empty than when he'd left it. No one would ever have guessed she'd ever been here.

  But he knew. He could tell by the great loneliness that had come to take her place. He was tired and depressed, and restless all at the same time, his harmony completely gone. He opened a can of pork and beans he didn't want and dumped it into a pot to heat. Then he turned on the television and sat down on the couch to stare at nothing. And he tried to think about something besides Lillian. The only thing left in his mind was the three drowned young people – two girls and a boy – who had been too drunk or too drugged, or too ignorant to know the dangers of roaming a wash in the rainy season. He had seen death before – young and old and every age in between. Many times. But it was different now, because he was different. He had a child of his own coming, and for the first time in his long career, his thoughts focused on the parents of these dead ones instead of on the job at hand – that they must be somewhere waiting and wor
rying, and how sad they would be when they were told that their son or daughter wouldn't be coming home again.

  He gave a sharp sigh, annoyed with himself for being so uncharacteristically sentimental. There were plenty of parents who couldn't care less where their children were or what happened to them. He knew that firsthand, too, just as he knew that he had no intention of being one of them.

  Lillian.

  It was clear to him that all thoughts led right back to her. He closed his eyes, remembering. She had never said that she cared about him, much less that she loved him, but she had made him feel it. Last night, when they'd made love, he had felt it – intensely – or thought he had. But now it seemed that he had been totally wrong.

  He didn't understand the bond between her and Dennison, no matter how hard he tried. His mind searched for some reason that would make her drop everything and go whenever he called – a reason other than the obvious one. He refused to accept that it was some kind of jealous delusion on his part that made him think she always deferred to the man. He had seen it – that first time at the hogan, and twice since.

  And yet Lillian had told the woman Dennison was going to marry that there was nothing between them now. J. B. Greenleigh didn't believe her. Incredibly, he did. He knew Lillian to be an honorable and honest person. She wouldn't have been going to bed with Dennison and him both, and she wouldn't have lied to Dennison's ex-fiancée.

  But he didn't understand the situation, and he couldn't ask, because he couldn't get Lillian to stay in one place long enough to answer any questions.

  He looked around at the sound of a vehicle pulling into the yard. Not Lillian's. The motor was too loud and uneven to be her expensive car. Someone Navajo, he thought, someone who gave the occupant of the house time to get ready for visitors instead of coming immediately to the door. He got up to stir the beans and set them off the burner before he stepped outside.

  Winston Tsosie sat in his truck, waiting patiently for Becenti to invite him in. As much as he didn't want visitors, Becenti did so, holding the door open for the old man to come inside, offering him a chair and his choice of television channels, or a glass of water, or anything else he wanted. Then he waited politely for Winston to state his business, a wait that grew and grew until it became completely unwieldly. It suddenly occurred to him that Winston had played a pivotal role in keeping Jack Begaye out of trouble until he could marry Meggie, and that perhaps the old man was now extending his services to Johnny Becenti, regardless of the fact that there was no question of a Becenti-Singer marriage whatsoever.