Great With Child

by Sonia Taitz

  “Daddy,” she turned, warm and cozy. “When did you land?

  “Just now. I’m comin’ straight from the airport.”

  “You look tired. Go to Annie’s and get some rest.”

  “I’m right as rain. How’re you feelin’, peppercorn?” This was one of his pet names for her. Abigail hadn’t heard it in years. She couldn’t remember her father being so—well, motherly. Perhaps when she’d been very, very little. In her cradle, perhaps, before much had been expected of her. Before he’d taken over the masculine order of things, the passing on of toughness and of mastery. But now that her mother was gone, Abigail needed this side of her dad.

  “I’m doing OK.”

  “Bit knackered of course?”

  “Not so tired I can’t greet you like a human being.” She tried to rise up to a sitting position, straight back and all.

  “Hey, settle down. I know you’re not fakin’.”

  “I am knackered, actually,” she laughed. Was this the man who used to pour drops of cold water on her forehead on school mornings, even when she’d felt sick?

  “And how’s the little one?”

  “She’s little, all right. But she’s a strong, determined one. Anytime she gets the bottle she guzzles away. Try to get it from her!”

  “She has your drive, bless her,” he said, and Abigail’s eyes had filled. She was a softie when it came to her dad. And when he was proud of her, she melted. Not that she could cry outright in his presence. He wouldn’t like that. She held that back.

  “I hope so,” she said, finally.

  “She’ll do us all proud,” he said, smiling. “And you’d better come to Annie’s next week and tuck into some turkey, or there’ll be me to answer to.”

  “I’ll be there for all of that,” she said.

  “Good then.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And I’ll get strong again soon, and I promise—I’ll be back at work in a flash.”

  “Good girlie,” he said, standing up. He paused at the doorway and looked at her once more. “But you rest now. You’ve done a job.”

  “Have I?” she mumbled, falling back asleep. She had not slept so well in months and months.

  21

  After lengthy consideration, Abigail decided to call her daughter Chloe: a combination, she fancied, of her parents’ names, Clara and Owen. Now, at the Thanksgiving table, surrounded by her father, her sister, her brother-in-law, two nephews, two nieces, and Darlene, she asked her family what they thought of the name.

  “Haven’t heard it too much,” said Owen, chewing. “‘Glowy,’ did you say?” He had a way of making things sound Welsh.

  “Shine little glowworm, glimmer, glimmer,” sang Jared, and Jesse laughed uproariously. Annie smiled at her boys.

  “They each have a toy glowworm that lights up when you squeeze it.”

  “Chloe,” said Abigail. “Not glowy. No G.”

  “With a K, then?” asked Annie’s husband, the dentist. Wayne was large and manly; Annie had made steak for him as a special order. He hated turkey.

  “No, not a K, a C. It’s properly spelled C-h-l-o-e.” She wished her big sister, Elizabeth, would get here already. Sophisticated Liz knew how to spell chic names, whether from the classical period, the Continent, or the English peerage. Not only had all Liz’s friends already had babies, but she liked to look in the baby names book and choose one for the future, when she would settle down and adopt. (Annika was in the running for a girl, Asher for a boy. That last one was Hebraic—also currently acceptable.)

  Owen persisted as though the name were as rare as Rumplestiltskin, “How d’ya say you spell it? C-l-o-e?”

  “You forgot the h, Dad. It starts with C-h.”

  “Ch-loe?” he said tentatively, pronouncing the ch like a Scotsman saying “loch,” or a Yiddish yenta saying “yech.”

  “No, dear, it’s French,” said Darlene, delicately picking some corn from a back molar. “Clo-ay? Right? Je parlay Cloay? All French names have just that particular sound, don’t they?”

  “That they do, Darlene,” said Owen agreeably.

  “Tim says it’s actually Greek,” said Abigail. “Some people put two dots over the e to pronounce it separately.”

  “Ah, Tim—that’s your special friend, I suppose,” said Owen, suddenly seeming dark-spirited. “Annie’s told me he’ll be here later. Tim wants it to be Greek, with two dots, does he?” He looked over at Darlene and she gave him a compassionate shrug.

  “He doesn’t ‘want’ it to be Greek; that’s just the name’s origin,” said Abigail. “You can ask him when he gets here.”

  “Greek’s a dead language,” offered Wayne, scornfully.

  “Tim likes it, though?” said Annie. “The name, I mean?”

  “Uh-huh. He loves it. But I picked it myself.” Abigail had wanted to tell what the name meant to her. How it combined Clara and Owen. But she no longer felt the impulse.

  Later, she watched, overwhelmed, as Jaycee was playing the drumsticks on her mother’s head (she was the musical one, Annie explained). Jared and Jesse’s faces were covered with cranberry sauce (they were artistic), and little Todd was projectile vomiting.

  “How do you cope?” she wondered aloud.

  “You mean with Todd?”

  Abigail had meant all of it.

  “He is kind of hard to feed,” said Annie, wiping the table and floor. “It’s not gluten or anything. We’re still trying to figure it out. Poor li’l nugget. He can’t help being the way he is.”

  “That’s what I love, a blanket vindication,” said Tim, waltzing in. Abigail felt a thrill as everyone stared at this handsome young man. His face was flushed from the cold autumn air, and a slight air of drunkenness made him dapper.

  “Come on in,” said Annie, after a moment. “I didn’t even hear the door. Jared, did you let this nice man in? Next time tell Mommy.”

  She cleared a clean space for the new guest. “There’s certainly lots of food.”

  Tim sat himself down next to Abigail with a lot of commotion. Moving the chair outward and back was a prolonged scene in itself. Then he grabbed the nearest wine carafe to fill his glass, unbidden, to the top. While it was understandable, his slight tipsiness annoyed Abigail. “Stayed for a couple of drinks with your mom, huh?” she said, sotto voce.

  “You could say that again, and louder,” Tim affirmed, reaching over to the marshmallow yams and tucking the spoon in deep. “Because if a man can’t spend Thanksgiving with his mom, who can he spend it with?”

  Annie stared as Tim flung a large yam pile on his plate. He was clearly buzzed; his cheeks glowed and his eyes glittered.

  “Would you like some turkey with stuffing?” offered Annie. “That’s the main course, after all.”

  “Did you have any turkey at your mom’s?” said Abigail.

  “No—we had what you’d call the liquid dinner. So I’m famished.”

  “Let me serve you a plate, then,” said the hostess.

  “Yes, please, lots of everything,” said Tim, smiling at her like a hungry little boy.

  “Anyone else want something?” Annie looked around the table.

  “I’ll have a nip of something wet, I reckon,” said Owen. He stared fixedly at Tim, his face twisted into a scowl. Late to the table and eating like a pig, he seemed to be thinking. Darlene pushed her plate away and reached into her handbag. She took out a lipstick and applied it, then pursed her lips.

  “Shall I open another bottle of red then, Daddy?” said Annie.

  “Just a beer would do nicely,” said her father. “Lager, whatever you’ve got, I’m not bothered.”

  “We do have beer, right, Wayne?”

  “Yeah,” said her husband, chewing on his beefsteak. “In the garage fridge. I’ve got those great big bullet ones. Get me one, too, would you, honey?”

  “What about you?” he added to Tim, in a gesture of welcome.

  “Can’t say no,” Tim answered cheerfully, polishing off what was
left of his wine.

  The phone rang, and Annie ran to get it.

  “Well, that was our Lizzie,” she sighed, returning “She says she’s not going to be able to make it at all. Some part of the deal is delayed, I don’t know, anyway, they’ll be at it all night. She didn’t even sound upset,” said Annie, bewildered.

  “She has her duties,” said Owen.

  “But on Thanksgiving, and the whole family here,” continued Annie, half to herself. “And she doesn’t even seem to mind it. Said they’d order in and keep going.”

  “Good on her,” said Owen.

  “I wish you’d told me she was on the phone, Annie,” said Abigail. “I would have told her about the baby’s name. . . .”

  “She was in such a rush, Abigail. And you forget that she’s been an aunt four times before. It’s old hat to Liz. I’m not sure she cares all that much. About names, I mean,” she added.

  “I guess,” said Abigail. It didn’t seem as real when Annie had had the babies. But for Liz, apparently, it was all the same. Abigail and Annie were now on the same discountable mommy dinghy, bobbing out to sea. And one of their discoveries would be that no one really cared that much about all their domestic details.

  “Don’t forget the suds,” said Wayne.

  “Oh, honey, I almost did!” Annie now trekked out to the garage fridge. She came out with several large silver cans of beer.

  “Everyone all right now?” Annie sat down and cuddled her youngest. Todd drifted off to sleep, his lashes casting shadows on his fat cheeks in the candlelight.

  “I’m more than all right. I’m fine and I’m dandy,” said Owen, drinking determinedly. When he’d finished his can, he crushed it, squeezing it with his hand and laying it out on his plate like a corpse.

  He stood up and spoke. “I’d like to formally introduce myself to you, young man.”

  Tim rose quickly and extended his hand.

  “I am, of course, this young lady’s father. Owen Thomas.”

  “I am, of course, this young lady’s—uh, I’m Timothy Vail. Glad to meet you. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Owen grabbed Tim’s hand and held it in a vise-like grip, which Tim, wincing, attempted to return.

  “What are you thanking me for, now, exactly?”

  “Ouch! Excuse me?” Owen squeezed harder as Tim squealed out, “Do you mind—?”

  “Pardon me. These are working man’s hands,” said Owen.

  “You must have worked really, really hard.”

  “Oh, Tim, yes. I did. I worked very hard. Everything I have, you see, is paid for. Legitimately mine. I’ve got no bills to settle on my own account.”

  “That must be reassuring.”

  “Don’t you talk down to me, lad. One thing’s not settled, understand? It’s not settled, not for me and not for my dear daughter. And I’m getting on in years.”

  “But I’m actually not—”

  “Don’t interrupt your elders. I’ve got a daughter alone in life with a newborn baby. And I’ve got, sittin’ just beside her, at my family table, a young man who frolics and drinks.”

  “What—you mean this beer I was just offered?”

  “And the wine, which you filled to the brim, and whatever came before them in your nightly crawl. Now hear me well, son. I’m no prude. I grew up in South Wales, and I know the interior of a pub, I can tell you that. But holiday or not, don’t be arriving to my family dinner swaying like a young birch tree and smelling like a brewery.”

  “Daddy, Tim isn’t really—”

  “Drrrrunk?” said Owen.

  “No, Abby,” said Tim. “Your father is correct. I am a little buzzed, I’ll be the first to admit it.”

  “You’re not the first. And are you so buzzed you can’t remember she hates that very nickname?”

  “Dad! I don’t really mind it anymore!”

  “So drinks,” said Tim, seemingly oblivious to this sidebar on nicknames. “Mother did put out the martini pitcher at a quarter to five, and you should have seen her when I left! But what does that have to do with—you don’t actually think I’m the father of Abigail’s baby, do you?”

  “I don’t. Annie’s told me outright that you’re not.”

  “I hope I didn’t overstep,” said Annie. “Daddy did ask, and I thought it was OK to share as much as I knew.”

  “Sure,” said Abigail. As long as no one knew about Richard Trubridge, she thought. Because that story would really make her father mad. And just as her mind formed that thought, Owen confirmed it:

  “And it’s a good thing that you’re not the man, for it’s a bigger cad that got her with child.” He took another can of beer, popped it, swilled it, and crushed it flat.

  Abigail cleared her throat. Whatever Richard’s moral flaws, she hoped he’d never have to come face-to-face with her father. Short as he was, Owen Thomas was formidable.

  “But you see, my soused table guest, whoever you are. Check your motives, and do so now. I hope you’re not toying, for don’t you know she needs a husband and a father for that poor baby lying there in hospital?”

  “Oh, god,” said Abigail. “What makes you think he’s toying with me? We have very special feelings for each other.”

  “Oh, I can well imagine those special feelings,” said Owen.

  Tim was too handsome for anyone to think anything but the worst of him, Abigail realized. Being that kind of good-looking was something of a handicap in decent circles. Daddy wasn’t exactly sober now himself; if he got into his primitive man-woman-child thing, the night would be long, if not murderous. Abigail looked over to Annie for help.

  “Dad,” said Annie, picking up the cue. “You’re getting yourself worked up. And my kids are listening to this blather. Come on. Let’s save it for another time.”

  “Are you saying it’s time I married her?” said Tim, leaning forward menacingly.

  “You should, and soon, if you’re serious-minded.”

  Abigail looked at the two of them, shocked. Was she to be part of this discussion or not?

  “Well, what about you and your lady over there?” Tim was saying.

  “I do plan to marry Darlene, thanks for asking. Not at the moment, but presently. She’s not carrying a bastard child, by the way. You’re an impudent newt. And since it’s clear as day you’re naught but a playboy—or you’d have at least proposed to my child before now—promise me you won’t touch her anymore. Because as her dad, I don’t want to see Abigail pregnant with another fatherless babe. Two babies with two different cads don’t add up to an honest life. Modern or ancient, I didn’t raise my girl that way, nor did her poor dead mum.”

  “For god’s sake, Daddy!”

  “Sir, Mr. Thomas—Owen, if I may—I take your daughter very seriously. She’s one of the most interesting and intense girls I’ve ever known,” said Tim. “And she’s extraordinarily modest in her way,” he added. “She didn’t even want me in the birthing room. I mean, it went quickly, and I couldn’t help seeing a few personal things here and there, but my point is—she was prudish. And believe me, it took ages before we—”

  “Tim! Enough! I don’t need you to defend me.”

  “An odd prudery, Abigail, given the circumstances. Knocked up by god-knows-who, and now this man comes to table. . . .”

  “Please, Daddy,” said Abigail, “I was out of town, nervous—”

  “Oh, you’re always nervy, since the day I met ya, scared of yer own shadow. Were you hungry then? Was it war time?”

  “I was out of town in a strange place, and it all seemed so competitive and cutthroat, in a subtle country-club way. You know, Daddy? I wasn’t used to this level of sophistication. I was intimidated. And he—this man—was patient and kind to me—”

  “Yes, I’m sure, very kind to take advantage of your fears,” said Owen, irritably. “Well, why doesn’t this wonderful man marry ya, then?”

  “Yeah,” said Tim loudly. “Why doesn’t he marry ya, then?”

  “This man. OK. He has a name. H
is name is Richard Trubridge. He’s a law partner. And he—Dad, I’m sorry to say that he’s already married.” Abigail just couldn’t keep the secret anymore.

  “Jesus Mary Joseph what a thing!” said Owen. “Married?”

  Now it was Tim who turned to Abigail with a shocked expression. There was a heavy silence, and Abigail hastened to fill it:

  “No, I didn’t know that about Richard at the time—didn’t know he was married. He didn’t seem like that kind of man. He protected me. Taught me a good swing, as a matter of fact. He didn’t seem one bit the playboy, Dad.”

  “I don’t recall the golf game requiring a lie-down,” said Owen.

  “No, it doesn’t, not typically,” Abigail admitted quietly.

  “And what are you teaching her?” said Owen, turning to Tim. “What is your particular ball game?”

  “You know, Daddy, Tim is the most caring, giving person I know. He went to birthing class for me, he came down to Grenada when I had to work there, and—and here he is with us at this table, fielding all these questions.”

  “Well,” said Owen to Tim. “A knight in shining armor then, is it?”

  “I guess I am, a little. Attempting, at least.” He suddenly felt sober.

  “Gainfully employed—or leeching off my girl?”

  “I pay my way, Mr. Thomas,” said Tim, his voice quivering slightly. Abigail felt for him. People often thought he was a gigolo, simply because he was good-looking and never seemed to go to work.

  “He’s an expert computer man, Daddy,” she said. “In the business of information consultations.” Her voice carried a touch of her father’s Welsh lilt now. “To the corporations and all that.”

  “Aw, then you do need your fingers, then, for the keyboard,” said Owen, his manner finally relenting. “Sorry I squashed them together so hard. You know, with the handshake.”

  “I’m beginning to regain some feeling in them, sir,” Tim replied, staring at Owen’s flattened beer cans.

  “Well, that’s great!” said Annie brightly. “Now, who wants some pumpkin pie and who wants some hot deep-dish apple, and who wants both?”