Mother To Be

by Cheryl Reavis

  "You made a fine cradle board," the old man finally said.

  Becenti made no comment, because none was required. Given the level of his carpentry skills, he supposed that it was adequate, if not precisely "fine."

  "But you took it to Santa Fe too soon," Winston added.

  "Yes," Becenti said.

  Much too soon.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "I don't know," he said.

  Winston looked at him. They sat in silence.

  "Joe Bill Toomey's youngest boy – he goes to Santa Fe to see his relatives a lot," Winston said. "When he's not being the policeman. You know the one I mean?"

  Becenti knew exactly the one Winston meant.

  "I'm thinking you could trust him."

  "For what?" Becenti asked.

  "If a man wants to marry a woman, he ought to be giving her gifts," Winston said. He paused significantly.

  Becenti had no idea where this conversation was going. He had sent Lillian a small gift with Sloan the last time she went to see her – but he wasn't about to own up to it. His feeble efforts at courting a woman who didn't care were not something Winston needed to know about.

  "You ain't got no business going to Santa Fe right now," Winston said. "Your harmony is still bad, and you got death on you from those drowned ones. The way you are now, you couldn't help but make things worse between you and Lillian. But it might be you could keep Lillian thinking about you if you was to send her something now and then – let Toomey's boy take it for you."

  "I never said I wanted to marry her."

  "No, but she's got your baby coming, and you're too damn miserable not to be wanting to," Winston said. "Lucas suffered like this when he was trying to marry Sloan. And Jack, too, when he wanted to get married to Meggie. First thing he could think of to do was go dancing with another woman – right where Meggie could see him, too. He made Meggie cry, when he would of rather died than do that. And Lucas and both her brothers were ready to kill him. A man can't think straight when he wants a woman he thinks don't want him back. That's the truth and you know it."

  Becenti gave a quiet sigh. Yes. He did know it.

  "We got to get you ready," Winston said. "You come out to the mission house to the sweat lodge. Maybe you'll need Will and Eddie Nez to do a ceremony for you, too – a long one – if you got enough money. But we got to do first things first. You understand what I'm telling you? You got any questions?"

  Becenti smiled slightly. He had to think about that. Did he have any questions?

  "You ever say things you don't mean?" Becenti finally asked the old man.

  "Used to," Winston said. "Don't now."

  "Why not?"

  "Ain't got no woman now, that's why not," the old man said matter-of-factly.

  They looked at each other in mutual understanding, and Becenti smiled again, regardless of how little he felt like it.

  But the smile quickly faded.

  This is crazy, he thought. He was crazy to even think there could be a possible solution to his problem. The situation with Lillian was hopeless. He knew that because he'd done his best to make it that way.

  "You got to be patient," the old man said. "If you are, I think you can find out what you want."

  But Becenti already knew what he wanted. He wanted Lillian Singer. And in lieu of that, he wanted his child beyond the influence of people like Stuart Dennison. He wanted his child raised Navajo.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If Lillian had been the younger, more contentious version of herself, her pride would have gotten the best of her. She would have had to go out of her way to show Becenti that he meant absolutely nothing to her. She would have had to show Stuart what she thought of his "taking care of her" all these years. And she would have had to show them both in a way that left no doubt in their minds about how little she valued either of them. She would have had to close her office and go someplace else and start over, even if she went bankrupt or starved in the process. She would have had to prove once and for all that Lillian Singer didn't have to depend on anyone.

  But she wasn't younger, and vindicating herself no longer mattered to her. She was alone and pregnant. She couldn't afford to give in to her hurt feelings or try to maintain any high-minded principles. The only thing that really mattered to her was her baby.

  And her baby's father.

  She had no idea what to do – because there was nothing to be done, as long as she and Becenti were at such an impasse. And it was one thing for her to want him to stay away, and something altogether different when he returned the favor.

  She took several days off to get herself together, and she did a piecemeal job of it at best. She wasn't sleeping. She had to keep busy, or worry herself sick. If she couldn't shut down her practice, then the other alternative was to earn the loyalty of the clients Stuart had deigned to send her. She began working to that end immediately. She expected him to call any day to tell her he'd found himself another lawyer. She knew now that he held little regard for her legal skills, and she suspected that he or Mary Ellen or Sam must have thought that having a Native American woman defend him in a crooked land deal would put a more positive spin on the situation. She knew, too, that, in spite of his illness, she wasn't going to make it easy for him and ask to be replaced. He had a choice. Let him worry about her pregnancy-induced lack of concentration or let him fire her.

  She kept her doctor's appointments, tried to eat what she was supposed to eat and not forget to take her prenatal vitamins. And she tried not to think about Becenti. But some days she still entertained the idea that he might come to Santa Fe to see her, regardless of what he'd said. The rest of the time she knew better.

  She still saw Sloan every weekend, but Sloan had very little to report regarding Becenti's comings and goings. He was as strict as ever and he was underfoot a lot more than Mary Skeets and the rest of the officers would have liked. And he'd had another argument with Lucas. Lucas had blatantly remarked that the worst mistake he'd ever made was sending his sister to talk Becenti out of that hogan. Becenti hadn't realized that Lucas had had a hand in that, and he did not appreciate it.

  Lillian could understand Becenti's need to stay busy, if not the rest of the male posturing. Work had always been her salvation; perhaps it was his, as well. She won most of her court cases. She even acquired a few new clients, ones she knew didn't come from Stuart. The days slipped into a kind of predictable sameness, broken only by the visits from Sloan and by two weekends of cat-sitting Fred so Gracie could go see her newest grandchild. Lillian had to put the cradle board into a closet to keep Fred from using it as a combination scratching post and cat perch. But she forgave him for presuming; he was much too good a listener for her not to. Fred, the cat, knew more about her true feelings for Johnny Becenti than any other creature on this earth.

  As her pregnancy became more and more obvious, she finally announced her condition to Gracie. And once Gracie's amazement subsided and she quit saying, "But you're so old" Lillian's longtime right hand was ecstatic. Genuinely so, it seemed. Gracie's enthusiasm did wonders for Lillian's unhappy mood. Sometimes Gracie insisted that the two of them go baby shopping during their lunch hour. She had had five children of her own and had made a good start on the grandchildren. She was a wealth of information as to what babies required. With Gracie's help, Lillian began to see this event as something considerably less than the end of the world.

  Even so, Lillian realized one Saturday afternoon in mid-September that the summer was nearly gone – and she'd missed it. She'd paid no attention whatsoever to anything associated with the change of seasons. Nothing about it had caught her attention. She had been marking time by her gestation and nothing more. She had three more months of her pregnancy to go, and then her life would be changed forever. She'd had a sonogram – several sonograms, as they tried to pinpoint an elusive delivery date – but she wouldn't let them tell her the baby's sex. As modern as she pretended to be, there were some things better left
to the old ways.

  On a beautiful Friday afternoon in mid-October, as she walked – waddled – back from the courthouse, she thought she saw Becenti in a passing vehicle. The car was white like the ones used by the Navajo Tribal Police, but she couldn't see the emblem on the door. She didn't take the time to see it, actually. Her only concern was the man who looked like Johnny Becenti, the one who drove right by her, oblivious to her presence.

  She stared after him. If it was Becenti, he could be here for any number of legitimate reasons, none of which had anything to do with her. But she still waited on the corner to give him time to circle the block – in case it was him. In case she wasn't too pregnant for him to recognize. In case he did want to see her.

  The vehicle didn't come back again.

  By the time she got home that evening, she had convinced herself that she had no reason to think Becenti even wanted to see her. He had clearly abandoned her. And yet she still hoped to find his car parked in the drive when she got there, hoped to find him on the porch later, hoped that before she went to sleep he would at least call.

  But there was nothing. And, if he could come to Santa Fe and make no attempt to see her or talk to her, then she had no hope at all.

  She went to bed finally, but she slept very little, because she was too pregnant now to ever really rest. Her life seemed to consist entirely of sitting with her feet propped up or looking for a bathroom. She lay in the dark, restlessly turning this way and that, willing herself not to look and see what time it was, willing herself not to think about Johnny Becenti.

  But she missed him so much. She wanted to see him – just see him. That's all. She didn't have to talk to him.

  She fell asleep shortly before dawn, just in time to be wakened by the telephone. She fumbled to answer it, putting the receiver to her ear, too sleepy to say hello.

  "Lillian?" the male voice said.

  She opened her eyes.

  "Lillian, I need you."

  But it wasn't Becenti, and disappointment washed over her. It was Stuart, disclosed at last.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stuart held his press conference early, when his own energy level was at its peak.

  "They're going to ask you why you've got a lawyer with you," Lillian whispered as they were about to be led to the slaughter. "Do not say I'm just here for moral support or I'm just a friend. You say that in public and the lawyer-client privilege is out the window."

  "I know that, Lillian," he said tiredly.

  "Are you up to this?" she asked.

  "Are you?" he countered.

  They stared at each other.

  "Thank you for coming. I...really didn't think you'd be here for me," he said.

  She didn't want to be here, and they both knew it. The time when she would put her hand in the fire for him was long gone.

  "You've paid my retainer," she said. "I can behave professionally – regardless of what you may think. Our personal differences aren't part of the equation. If you'd rather get somebody else – "

  "No," he said. "Let's do it."

  She stepped back and let him walk up to the battery of microphones. He stood for a moment, calling up his hail-fellow-well-met politician's persona. He was good, easily remembering the different reporters' names, fielding their questions with all the skill he'd learned from so many years in public office.

  The questions and answers dragged on. She began to notice an uncomfortable twinge in her right side, one that slowly spread to her middle and met an equally uncomfortable twinge that had originated from the left. She shifted her position. It didn't help.

  She took a deep breath and tried to discreetly press her hand to her belly where it hurt the worst. And it did hurt now. The sensation was well past "uncomfortable."

  She couldn't stand still, and she realized suddenly that Stuart had said something to her or at her. She had no idea if she was expected to make a comment or not. She sailed, and tried to stifle the pain.

  "See?" Stuart said, precipitating a round of laughter and getting back the questions.

  She could feel the perspiration beading on her forehead. She abruptly turned to leave, but she was hemmed in by the crush of reporters who had been freed up for the event by a slow news day.

  The pain was increasing steadily. She had to get put of here.

  "Lillian," someone said, pulling at her arm.

  She looked around. J. B. Greenleigh stood behind her.

  "Telephone, Lillian," she said pointedly – apparently for the benefit of the people around them. "It's important."

  "Telephone?" Lillian said, still not understanding.

  "This way," J.B. said, taking her by the arm and leading her through the crowd. She didn't stop until they reached the outside hall. Then she led her briskly into Stuart's office.

  "Sit down," she said, pulling around a chair. "Before you fall down. I could see you from the back of the room. What's the matter?"

  Lillian sat. The pain shot through her midsection like a knife. "I – don't know," she whispered.

  "Where does it hurt?"

  "Everywhere," Lillian said, bending lower.

  "You're not bleeding or anything?"

  "No. It just – Oh! It really hurts"

  J.B. put her hand on Lillian's forehead. "You feel like you've got a fever. What's your doctor's name?"

  Lillian told her, and J.B. was immediately on the telephone, giving someone in his office the particulars.

  "They want you to come to the office right now," she said when she hung up. "Is this your purse? I'll drive you."

  J.B. took Lillian by the arm again, and she hurt too much to object. Stuart's press conference had apparently ended. He met them in the hallway just as they were coming out.

  "What's wrong?" he asked. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm taking Lillian to the doctor," J.B. said. "She's in pain."

  "Damn it, I knew this would happen when I needed you – "

  "Stuart! This is not about you and that stupid mess you've gotten yourself into. This is about Lillian's baby. Now get out of the way!"

  "You – certainly – handled that," Lillian told her as they made their way outside.

  "I get so mad at him," J.B. said. "It's crazy. The way you can love a man to death and get so mad at him."

  Tell me about it, Lillian thought.

  She let J.B. help her into the car – and she earnestly wanted to tell her to stop talking and pay attention to her driving, but she sat huddled against the door instead and tried to endure.

  "I heard about the indictment on the morning news and I came straight down here," J.B. said. "I thought I should be around in case Stuart needed me – then I was all hurt because there you were – right where I ought to be. It's a good thing I didn't get all huffy and leave, huh? I was about to, and then I realized something was wrong with you." She sighed. "I wish I didn't like you, Lillian. It certainly does complicate things."

  "I wish – I didn't – like you – too," Lillian managed. It was the truth. She had been mistaken about J. B. Greenleigh. The woman had seen that Lillian needed help and she'd taken it upon herself to do something about it. She was clear-thinking and levelheaded. She just wasn't a very good driver.

  "Stuart underestimated you," Lillian said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just that. He needs a good – talking to – Oh!" Lillian said, but it was more their near sideswiping of a parked car than the pain.

  "Easy," J.B. soothed her. "We're almost there."

  Lillian was whisked right in, and then sent to the obstetrical floor at the nearby hospital for observation.

  "They'll monitor you this afternoon, and if nothing develops, you can go home," her doctor said. "I'm pretty sure a urinary-tract infection is all we're dealing with here – your cervix is still closed – but I want to make sure. We have to be careful because you're – "

  "I know, I know," Lillian said, holding up her hand. “I’m old"

  "Old-er, Lillian. I was going to
say old-er."'

  "Yeah, right," she said. "I don't know how you expect us mature pregnant women to come out of this joint with a shred of vanity left. This has been a very humbling experience."

  He laughed. "Somehow, I think you're going to be all right. Gorgeous woman like you?"

  "Too late with the – 'gorgeous,' Doctor," she assured him around another wave of pain.

  The obstetrical floor was quiet. Not a single person in labor, one of the nurses told her. Lillian lay in an airy, pastel pink-and-blue room, hooked up to a fetal monitor, listening to the sound of her baby's heartbeat – essentially abandoned, except for J.B.

  She came in shortly after lunchtime with the latest newspapers and an announcement that she had called Window Rock.

  "J.B., I didn't want you to do that!" Lillian said.

  "Well, tough," she countered. "You're having a problem with the pregnancy. Becenti should know – "

  "Becenti – not Becenti" Lillian said in exasperation.

  "He wasn't there, so I asked the receptionist – Mary Something – where I could get in touch with him. She didn't know. She said he was making a lot of stops – but he could be in at any time. And she asked what it was about. I said I needed to talk to him about Lillian Singer. She said your brother was there. So I talked to him. And he was very glad I called."

  "Only because he wants an excuse to punch Becenti in the nose," Lillian said.

  "Oh," J.B said. "Well, he didn't sound like he was going to punch anybody. Really, he didn't."

  Lillian was not reassured.