by T. Greenwood
I threw open the passenger door as soon as Frankie pulled the car into our driveway and hollered across the street. “Pink or blue?”
“What’s that?” she hollered back.
“Girl or a boy?” I shouted again, feeling foolish.
“Why don’t you go across the goddamned street instead of making such a goddamned scene!” Frankie said, opening the trunk and pulling out our suitcases.
I ran across the street, overwhelmed by a need to touch her, to confirm that she wasn’t just some figment of my imagination. I put my left arm around her and squeezed, and with my right I touched the top of the baby’s pink bonnet.
“This is Rose,” she said.
“She’s beautiful.” I peered down at her small face. “May I hold her?”
“Please,” she said, and carefully handed her to me. I didn’t remember my own children being this small. She felt no heavier than a whisper in my arms. Her eyes were closed shut, her cheeks the blotchy pink of a newborn’s. “She’s wonderful,” I said, feeling that empty place inside me open wide.
Eva nodded, smiling. Now that I was closer to her, I could see the fatigue in her face, the exhaustion that deepened the shadows beneath her eyes. While my own skin was freckled brown from the summer sun, Eva was pale: not sickly, exactly, but her complexion was one of someone who has been stuck inside and out of the light.
“Tell me about Vermont,” she said, squeezing my hand tightly. “I got your postcard. It looks so beautiful there. I told Teddy I want to go visit you next summer. Even if it’s just for a week. I thought Donna and Sally would go mad without your girls here.”
It had worked! The postcard picture of the lake reflecting the fiery autumn leaves of the trees surrounding it had done its job. I was glad suddenly I hadn’t opted for one with a covered bridge or a cow.
Frankie was glad to have us home, and on his best behavior that first night back. He barely drank with supper, and he even helped dry the dishes afterward. He played six games of Chinese checkers with the girls before shooing them upstairs for their baths. And then after they were tucked into bed, he raised his eyebrow and cocked his head. “Miss me?” Frankie was the eternal optimist, all his glasses half full, even this one.
And so I led the way upstairs to our room, and turned out the lights before slipping off my clothes. I hurried into the bed, and waited for him to undress as well. Under the covers, in the darkness, I felt the familiar angles of his bones, the eagerness of his hands and mouth. I tried to make him feel wanted, to return his affections with equal fervor, but I couldn’t focus. My thoughts were, as always, elsewhere. I tried, God how I tried, to simply be present, to be near, but the moment Frankie touched me I felt myself slipping away. Hovering at the edges of things. So I did what I knew would hasten things, pulled out all the old familiar tricks. And like magic, they worked (they always worked), and then Frankie was rolling onto his back, sweating and breathless, staring at the ceiling. “Good to have you home, Billie.”
From somewhere came the distant sound of an infant crying and for one confused moment, my heart lurched. I had put the lost baby in a closed, quiet place in my mind, a wooden box where I kept all the dangerous secrets, all the lost things. But now, the hinges of the box screeched open, and I felt my chest expand with fear and grief.
“Goddamn, that kid is loud,” Frankie muttered, rolling onto his stomach.
And then I realized the cries were coming from the Wilsons’ house.
The new baby had colic. Basically, this meant that unless she was sleeping, she was crying. And it was not the gentle fuss most babies use to let you know that she needs to have her diaper changed or that she wants a bottle, but rather relentless and piercing screams. Screams that could make even the best mother feel helpless, useless, even angry at her child.
I could hear her all the way across the street. Even with the door closed. I could hear her when I worked in the garden, when I canned blueberries in the kitchen, when Frankie and I lay down to sleep at night. I imagined that no one in the Wilson house must be getting any sleep. I certainly wasn’t.
After the kids went back to school that fall, it started to rain. For the first two weeks of September there wasn’t a single day that it wasn’t raining. It rained all night and it rained all day. The rain barrels were overflowing. Stuck without a car, I didn’t have much to do besides putter around the house, which was quiet now without the girls. I thought about visiting Eva, but I worried that ringing the doorbell, or even just knocking, might wake the baby. I had told Eva to call me if she needed anything, even if she just needed a break, but she later told me she felt uncomfortable asking for my help. As though Rose would be a cruel reminder of everything I’d lost that summer.
I pleaded with Frankie to take the train in to work so that I could have the car, but he insisted he needed it in case he “found anything.” Frankie was always happening upon discarded treasures and bringing them home. Our solid mahogany dining table had been abandoned outside an apartment building in Brookline. It had a broken leg and, as though it were a wounded animal, Frankie brought it home and tended to its injury, nursing it back to life. A large, framed mirror; an oak vanity; a treadle sewing machine; and a tricycle (though both of our girls were too big for it) had all made their way from the streets of Boston and into our little house. He felt about these salvaged items the same way he felt about the stamps he sold; every damaged piece of furniture, every antique he brought home, had a story behind it. Restoration was about keeping that history alive.
And so each morning he and Ted took off to work in their respective cars, leaving Eva and me behind. Stranded.
The Hollyville library was a mile away, which wasn’t far unless it was raining. But after five days, I decided to go ahead and bundle up in my slicker and plastic bonnet and just make my way. Chessy needed a book on Marie Curie for a report, and I thought I’d look for The Wind in the Willows for Mouse. I’d run out of things to read as well.
Outside, I peered at the Wilsons’ house and considered checking to see if Eva would like to bring Johnny and Rose along, but I knew that taking a baby and a rambunctious four-year-old out in the pouring rain was the last thing I’d want to do if I were her. However, when I got to the library, it seemed that every other mother with young children in Hollyville had decided to brave the storm; outside there were nearly a dozen cumbersome carriages and strollers lined up underneath the narrow awning. And stepping into the children’s room was like stepping into a scene from Lord of the Flies. Babies and toddlers, frazzled mothers, and one very harried librarian were not what I had hoped for. So I quickly located the books for the girls and then escaped to the reading annex. I found Doctor Zhivago still sitting on the New Fiction shelf, and as the rain pounded against the tall glass windows near my overstuffed chair, I lost myself inside the pages. When I finally looked up at the clock, it was two o’clock. That would get me home just in time for me to meet the girls after the bus dropped them off.
I gathered my things and headed to the circulation desk with my books, but something in the stacks caught my eye. Sitting alone on the floor was a woman, crying softly into her hands.
I stepped back, out of her line of vision, heart pounding, and tried to process what I had just seen. I slowly peeked around the corner again and sure enough, it was Eva. Eva completely alone, weeping into a book.
“Eva?” I said softly, stepping between the stacks.
She looked up, startled. “Billie,” she said, sounding strangely relieved. There were deep circles under her eyes, and her hair was disheveled. She was dressed in a faded house dress and a pair of worn ballet flats.
“Are you okay?”
She looked at me silently and nodded, though I could tell something was amiss.
I sat down across from her on one of the step stools used to get the books from the high shelves. “What are you reading?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes, sheepishly. Embarrassed. “Just a trashy novel. Peyton Place,” she said,
showing me her book as evidence, and then wiped her runny nose on a hankie she was clutching in her hand.
“Where are Johnny and Rose?” I asked, figuring they were in the city with Ted’s family. Perhaps somebody had finally given her a break.
She looked up at me, her small nose bright red, her eyes bloodshot, and I suddenly knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. “I had to get out of that house. I just wanted to sit and read a book. I just wanted a little peace and quiet. She won’t stop crying.”
“Johnny and Rose are alone at the house?” I asked, starting to panic.
“No, Donna is home sick today. She’s watching them.”
I tried to imagine the sort of mischief Johnny might get into unattended. Donna, while older, was still only nine. Images of matchsticks and flames flickered in my head.
It was as though Eva were suddenly waking from a dream. “Oh, God, you must think I’m just awful.”
“Did you walk here?” I asked.
She nodded, and I noticed her drenched overcoat in a wet pile next to her. “I’m a terrible mother,” she said. “A terrible, terrible mother.”
“No,” I said. “You’re just exhausted. It’s absolutely understandable. But let’s get you home,” I said, reaching out a hand to help her up. Trying not to sound panicked, I said, “You can use my umbrella.”
We made it back to our street in only twenty minutes or so, but we were both soaked, and bone cold. I cannot even explain the relief I felt when the Wilsons’ house came into sight and there were no plumes of smoke, no charred ruins.
Inside, Donna had made peanut butter sandwiches and she and Johnny were sitting on the floor watching television with plates in front of them. Rose was asleep on the couch, covered in a blanket.
“Now let’s get you dried off,” I said, and started to help Eva off with her coat.
Suddenly her mood changed. The despondency I’d seen in the library and felt in every heavy breath on our way home disappeared. She pulled the blanket up over Rose’s exposed arm and playfully scolded the kids. “Well, that’s not a proper lunch! Let me make some tomato soup. Grilled cheese sandwiches? And Billie,” she said, smiling. “We absolutely need to get together if this god-awful rain ever stops.”
Taken aback by this sudden shift, I simply nodded in agreement and made my way to the door.
“Have a nice afternoon,” she said, her face fixed in that strange smile. But then when we were alone again on the porch, she grabbed my arm. “And thank you.” Her eyes were wide and imploring. “Now you have one of my secrets to keep.”
“Of course,” I said.
We were conspirators from the outset, keepers of each other’s darkest truths.
“It sounds like air raid sirens,” Frankie said on Halloween night when the baby had been crying for hours. We were in the kitchen; I was helping the girls put the final touches on their Halloween costumes. At first I thought it was just one of the many children dressed up as a ghost, the ghoulish screams echoing in the night. But as I sent the girls off to gather the Wilson children before heading out trick-or-treating, masks affixed and candy bags at the ready, I realized it was Rose.
I left Frankie to hand out candy to the trick-or-treaters and went over to see what I could do to help.
“Where’s Ted?” I asked Eva. His car hadn’t been in the driveway all night.
“Business trip,” she said, shrugging. In a tired housedress and tattered slippers, I barely recognized her. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her hair was a mess.
“How long will he be gone?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Probably until the baby stops crying,” she said, smiling sadly.
“Let me take her,” I said. “Is the carriage in the garage?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know that,” I said. “Now go take a nice, hot bath. Put on some fresh nightclothes. I’ll be back in an hour. And if she’s still crying, I’ll take her out again.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“And when the kids are done trick-or-treating you can send them over to my house. Let Frankie watch them for a little while.”
“You’re the best, Billie.”
I smiled, felt myself blushing.
I put Rose in the carriage, and we must have walked three miles, her wailing at the top of her tiny little lungs the entire way. Luckily, the night was already filled with children’s squeals, the streets thick with ghosts and robots and cowboys and witches. And even with all that noise, there was something beautiful and peaceful about the night. The harvest moon made the entire twilight sky illumine like the jack-o’-lanterns that adorned nearly every stoop. All of the trees had lost their leaves, their skeletal forms casting intricate shadows across the streets. It was remarkably warm for the end of October. And I loved the rhythmic click-clack the carriage wheels made against the sidewalk.
As we made our way up and down the street, in and out of side streets, Rose howled. As I pushed her stroller up and down the curbs, she keened. As I circled the parking lots of the elementary school and the Catholic church, she screeched. But then, finally, just as we were almost home, she stopped. The unexpected silence was so absolute, so complete, I thought I’d suddenly gone deaf.
I peered into the carriage, and sure enough, Rose had simply exhausted herself. I didn’t know what to do now; should I keep moving? Stay still? I peered at the Wilsons’ house and saw that the upstairs bathroom light was on. I imagined, hoped, that Eva had heeded my pleas, that she was neck deep in a hot bath. Maybe some Chet Baker on the hi-fi.
And so I decided to just remain still.
The trick-or-treaters had all disappeared inside their respective homes. I could see the silhouettes of my girls and the Wilson children in our bay window. I had instructed Frankie to give them each a big plate of the spaghetti I’d made for dinner. I left the carriage on the walkway and sat down on Eva’s steps, afraid, even as I moved stealthily to the stoop, that Rose would wake up and begin screaming again. I was only there for about ten minutes before I heard the front door open behind me, and Eva stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the bright hallway lights behind her. I held my finger to my lips, shhh, and motioned for her to join me on the stoop.
She tiptoed across the porch and looked down into the carriage, sighing, relieved. She sat down next to me on the step; her hair was wet and she smelled of White Shoulders. She had put powder on her face, and though she still looked tired, she looked refreshed. She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if she keeps crying like this, Billie.”
“She won’t. I bet she’ll grow out of it in just a couple of months.”
“I don’t think I can take a couple months of this,” she said softly, lifting her head.
“I can help,” I said. “Anytime you need me to.”
Eva nodded. “You know, I missed you when you were in Vermont,” she said, smiling.
I felt myself growing warm. Frankie hadn’t even said he’d missed me. At a sudden and rare loss for words, I studied the sky. “It’s a nice night.”
She looked up at the autumn night sky. “When Teddy and I met, I was going to art school, you know,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. I had tried to imagine their lives in California but had drawn a blank. Art school certainly hadn’t been in any of my imaginings.
“I knew I’d never be an artist, but I thought maybe someday I could teach.” Her eyes were still fixed on something in the distance. “I was pregnant,” she said.
“Well, you certainly aren’t the first couple to get married because of a baby . . .” I started.
“I was pregnant when he met me,” she said, taking a deep breath, waiting for my response.
I was stunned. Speechless.
“The father was my teacher. He was married,” she whispered, though there was no one but me to hear. “It was awful. I met Ted at the restaurant where I was waiting tables. He said he’d marry me and raise the baby as his
own.”
“Donna.” I nodded.
She shook her head. “No. I lost that baby three days after the wedding.” She turned to look at me, smiling sadly. “This isn’t what I’d planned,” she said, gesturing to the empty street before us. “It’s not what I wanted.”
Her admission took my breath away. It was like she’d just confessed to murder instead of simple unhappiness. It was shocking, thrilling.
“Me either,” I said, laughing a little and nodding, admitting this to someone else for the first time in my whole life. It felt liberating. Terrifying. Dangerous.
She reached out and enclosed my hand in hers, which was still warm from her bath. My whole body seemed to relax at her touch, and I hadn’t even realized how tense I had been. I felt calm for the first time in ages. Content. Understood. Then, as if on cue, Rose woke up and started screaming again.
“Well, you can’t unring a bell,” she said, releasing my hand. She stood up, leaned over the carriage and pulled Rose out, pressed her against her chest, and cooed into her hair. “It’s okay, Rosie. It’s okay.”
Later that night, I fell asleep to the distant sound of Rose’s cries, mistaking them for a moment for the loons’ lament. And I was transported, just for a moment, back to Gormlaith, back to Vermont. I had a fitful night’s sleep, half dreaming about Eva. About the married man, about a whole other life: bohemian San Francisco, medicine men. I woke with a start, heart racing, and realized that it was the silence that had woken me. It was five a.m., and Rose had finally stopped crying.
I tell my friend Juan about my trip on Thursday night as I sit at the pub, drinking my solitary stout. Lou was not a drinker, and after all those years with Frankie, I sought peace in sobriety. But now I find comfort in a nightly beer. And in the company I find at the bar.