The Stolen Marriage

by Diane Chamberlain

  “No, no.” He waved an arm through the air. “Only the girl can come.”

  I looked at Gina in a panic. “She has to come with me!” I said.

  “Keep your voice down,” the man snarled, although we were the only people on this sad-looking street.

  Gina took my arm. “Look at me,” she demanded, and I tried to focus on her blue eyes. “It’s going to be fine.” She glanced around us at the decrepit old buildings. “I’ll wait for you right here and we’ll find a cab to take us home.”

  “You can’t wait here,” I said. “This is a terrible area.”

  “Look.” The man’s eyes were buggy, magnified by his thick glasses. “Do you want to do this or not?”

  “I’ll wait on this stoop.” Gina motioned toward the dirty gray granite stoop of the building behind us. “I have a book in my handbag to read. I’ll be fine. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  The man frowned at Gina, his bushy gray eyebrows knitting together. “Anyone ask you what you’re doing waiting here, you make something up, all right?”

  “Of course.” She smiled, but the quivery tone was back in her voice and that scared me. I was completely dependent on Gina’s calm.

  The man looked at me. “You got the money?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Get in, then.” He strode toward the sedan and opened the passenger door for me.

  I mustered all my courage and slid into the seat. The car smelled of tobacco and something else. Some food smell I couldn’t place but that turned my stomach. He got into the driver’s seat and handed me a black blindfold. “Put this on,” he said, “but give me the money first.”

  I fumbled in my handbag for the ten twenty-dollar bills, my fingers trembling, and handed them to him.

  He counted them, folded the bills in half and stuck them in his inside coat pocket. He watched as I wordlessly put on the blindfold. I heard him start the car and we were off.

  * * *

  “Hello, dear.” An old woman greeted me with a smile as I took off the blindfold. I’d been led up a short flight of stairs and now saw that we were in the tiny foyer of a house or apartment building. I couldn’t be sure, since I hadn’t been able to see the building from the outside. All I knew was that my teeth were chattering and my knees trembled. The woman reached out to hold my gloved hands. “Tess, is it?” she asked.

  I nodded. She looked like someone’s grandmother, her dull gray hair pulled back in a bun. Her legs were as thick as posts and her black shoes big and solid. She wore a bibbed pink floral apron over her blue dress as though she was about to bake a batch of cookies. I felt both reassured by her kind manner as well as anxious, because she looked like the last person on earth who could perform a medical procedure.

  “I’ll be working in the shed,” the man said, and he disappeared down a long hallway carpeted with a ratty-looking brown rug.

  “I’m Edna,” the woman said. I wondered if that was her real name. “Let me take your coat.”

  I slipped off my coat and scarf, my gloves and hat. She took everything from me, laying it all on top of a large wooden chair in the corner.

  “Let’s go in here.” She gestured toward a room off the foyer and I followed her in. A heavy wooden table stood in the middle of the room covered with a sheet. A pillow rested on one end of the table, and a kitchen chair was set on the floor at the opposite end. The carved wooden table legs exposed beneath the sheet looked somehow obscene. On a wheeled tray next to the table lay a basin, a speculum, a long, thin metal rod, and a few other items I didn’t recognize. I’d heard about botched abortions done with coat hangers and was relieved that none were in sight.

  “Take off your panties,” Edna said. “You can just unhook your stockings.”

  “No coat hanger.” I smiled nervously, gesturing toward the wheeled tray.

  “Oh, good heavens, no,” she said. “I’ve found this works perfectly.” She picked up the metal rod. “A bicycle spoke,” she said. “Does the job every time.”

  A bicycle spoke. Good Lord. Had it been sterilized since the last time it was used? Shivering, I slipped off my shoes and panties, and she helped me climb onto the table, rock hard beneath the sheet. I tried to ignore the small brown stain on the pillowcase as I lay back on the table. It was cool in the room and my body trembled almost spasmodically.

  “This will be over in a jiffy,” Edna said. “Now open your legs for me.” She sat down at the foot of the table as I bent my knees and spread my legs, my eyes on the stained plaster of the ceiling.

  “There’s a good girl,” Edna said. “Now hold very still.”

  I held my breath, waiting for the cramping to begin. On the plaster ceiling, as if by magic, I saw the image of my tiny, helpless, baby. He—I was certain it was a boy—was nestled inside my body—the body that was supposed to protect it and nurture it, not allow it to be pierced by a bicycle spoke. Gasping, I sat up quickly, pulling away from Edna and her tools. She was wide-eyed, her mouth a small, surprised O.

  “I haven’t even touched you yet,” she said.

  “I can’t do this,” I said, my hand on my flat belly. “I just can’t!” I was suddenly crying.

  Edna stood up with a heavy sigh. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she said. “You won’t get your money back, you know.” Her sweet grandmotherly demeanor had suddenly disappeared.

  “I don’t care.” I didn’t look at her as I climbed awkwardly from the table, my stomach turning at the sight of the basin. The spoke. How could I have thought I could go through with this? “I can’t do it.” In spite of the fact that I knew I was ruining my life for good, forever, I felt weak with relief. Yes, this spelled the end of my engagement. Yes, it was the end of my future with Vincent. But I had not harmed my child.

  Edna stared at me as I looked around the room, unable to remember where I’d put my panties. “Meet me in the foyer when you’re dressed,” she said after a moment.

  I found my panties beneath the table and pulled them on. I could hear Edna talking to the driver—most likely her brother—but couldn’t make out their words. Both of them met me in the foyer.

  “You can find your own way back to your friend,” the man said. He was drinking a beer.

  “You have my money,” I said, lifting my coat from the chair in the corner and putting it on. I’d stopped shaking. Stopped crying. I felt suddenly strong. “You owe me a ride back,” I said to him.

  “Take her,” Edna said.

  With a sour look, he handed her his beer, opened a closet near the front door, and grudgingly got into his coat.

  Once settled in the passenger seat of the car, I slipped my hand inside my coat to rest on my belly. I would not have this baby only for it to be put up for adoption. This was my child. My son or daughter. I’d saved its life and I was going to be with it, always. I would have to move away from Baltimore. Someplace where no one knew me. Someplace where I wouldn’t be the object of scorn and shame or have to worry about bumping into Vincent or his family. I would start a fresh life. I would tell people my husband was overseas. No one would be any the wiser. The only thing standing in my way was my lack of money. I had a hundred and seventy dollars in my bank account that I’d earned when I’d worked at the grocer’s to make money for school. Hardly enough to start a new life.

  I thought of Henry Kraft and his well-tailored suit. He owned a furniture factory and had government contracts. He would have to give me money. I hoped it would be out of a sense of responsibility, but at that moment, when I felt I could move heaven and earth to protect the life inside me, I was not above threatening to tell everyone he knew that he’d impregnated me and then left me high and dry. I would do whatever it took to protect my baby.

  Henry Kraft. I whispered the name to myself. Hickory, North Carolina. Wherever that was.

  9

  The grueling journey from Baltimore to Hickory involved three packed trains and one miserable night. I sat up all that night, my head knocking against the window each time
I drifted into an uneasy sleep. At least I’d had a seat. A few soldiers had to stand the entire time.

  The third train, a short trip from Salisbury to Hickory, was the worst. I was beyond exhaustion by that point. The heat wasn’t working properly and I couldn’t stop shivering as my anxiety mounted with each passing mile. In spite of the chill, my palms were sweating and the hankie I clutched for most of the trip was damp. I’d told my mother I was visiting a friend from nursing school who was ill. She’d asked many questions about my friend, expressing concern, and my lies mounted as I invented this girl and her troubles. I couldn’t look my mother in the eye as I talked to her. I didn’t like the dishonest, calculating person I’d become.

  Gina thought I’d lost my mind. She cried when I told her my plan. “You’re going to move away?” she asked, incredulous. “Please don’t! I don’t think I can stand it if both you and Mac are gone.” She promised me she wouldn’t breathe a word about my plan, though, and even offered to skip work and go with me to Hickory. I told her no. This was something I needed to do on my own.

  Although I’d brought a book with me to study for my licensing exam while on the trains, I never even cracked it open. Instead, I rehearsed what I would say to Henry Kraft, smoking the occasional cigarette to calm my nerves. I had no intention of milking Henry dry. I only wanted enough money to support myself and a child in a modest lifestyle. I worried he might react with anger instead of civility or that he might not believe that the baby was his. I’d left my engagement ring in my top dresser drawer, hoping Henry wouldn’t recall that I was engaged. I didn’t want him to guess the baby might be Vincent’s. I couldn’t turn off my worries and they mounted steadily as the third train traveled through North Carolina and I smoked the last of my cigarettes.

  It wasn’t until we were close to Hickory that I began to think about how I would find Henry Kraft’s furniture factory. I didn’t know the name of it. I knew Hickory was a small town, though. I would also have to find a place to spend the night. The first train I could take out of Hickory wasn’t until the following afternoon.

  When I got off the train with my handbag and small suitcase, my legs were wobbly from nerves and exhaustion. The cold air was numbing and I wished I had a more substantial hat than my little tricorner beret. The wind cut through my coat and I tugged it tighter around me as I walked out to the curb where a cab was parked. The driver waved me over as if he’d been expecting me.

  “Lookin’ for a ride, young lady?” he asked as I walked toward him. He reminded me of the abortionist’s brother, round and bespectacled. I didn’t want to remember that man or anything else about that day. It was behind me. I needed to move on.

  “Well, I have to figure out where I’m going first,” I said, offering him a tired smile. “Is there a phone booth around here?”

  “Ain’t a big town,” he said. “What are you lookin’ for?”

  “A furniture factory.”

  “We got plenty of them,” he said. “Hickory Chair. Kraft Furniture.”

  “That one!” I said. “Kraft Furniture. Can you take me there?”

  “Ain’t far.” He looked me up and down. “You look like you need to go to a hotel first, though, miss. With that suitcase and all? Want me to take you to one?”

  “No, thank you. I need to see someone who works at the factory first.”

  “Ain’t none of my business,” he said with a shrug. He took the suitcase from me and put it in the taxi’s trunk and I got into the backseat.

  We rode along the railroad tracks for a while before turning onto a side street. After a short distance, I saw a long, two-story redbrick building that took up at least half a block. Tall white letters painted above the front door read KRAFT FINE FURNITURE. I drew in a long breath, trying to get my courage up. The driver parked in front of the building and I fumbled with my purse as he lifted my suitcase from the trunk. I handed him a bill, thanked him, and headed toward the front door of the building. This is really happening, I told myself, but my idea suddenly seemed poorly thought out. Henry Kraft could be up in Washington right now, for all I knew. He could be anywhere other than in this building.

  I walked through the main entrance and found myself in a small, square foyer. The walls were covered with framed articles about the history of Kraft Furniture, but I barely noticed them. The black-and-white tiles on the floor blurred in my sleep-deprived eyes, and although the foyer was separated from the rest of the building by a set of double doors, a strong chemical smell nearly overwhelmed me. Varnish, maybe. Paint. Glue. Somewhere beyond those doors, machinery whirred and thumped and clicked. I wondered how the workers stood the assault on all their senses.

  There was no directory on the wall, but as I took a step toward the double doors, a woman stepped through them. She wore a hairnet and a leather apron and she looked surprised to see me. I suppose I looked completely out of place in my coat, hat, and gloves, carrying a suitcase.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Can you tell me where I can find Henry Kraft?”

  “Upstairs.” She pointed to a door I hadn’t noticed until that moment. “His office is at the top of the stairs,” she said. “Can’t miss it.”

  I thanked her and opened the door to the stairwell. At the top of the stairs, I found another set of double doors. I pushed one of them open and saw a door directly in front of me, the name HENRY KRAFT painted on the wood. The sounds of the factory were muted up here, no more than a distant hum. I walked up to the door and could hear laughter coming from inside the room. Taking off my gloves, I lifted my hand to knock.

  “Yes?” a voice prompted.

  Tentatively, I pulled the door open and poked my head inside. Henry Kraft sat behind a large, elaborately carved desk, leaning back in his chair. Smoke rose from the pipe on his desk and the scent of tobacco seemed to erase all chemical smells from the air. A light-skinned colored man sat in a chair opposite Henry, holding a broom upright at his side. He’d been smiling, I could tell. Both men still had laughter in their eyes. The colored man got to his feet when I entered, though Henry remained seated.

  “Yes?” Henry said again. He glanced at my suitcase, then back at my face. I could tell he didn’t recognize me.

  “I wondered if I might speak with you?” I asked.

  “And you’re…?”

  “Tess DeMello,” I said.

  I saw the recognition flash across his face. He stood up, his expression giving nothing away to the other man, who hadn’t budged from his stance by the chair.

  “Come in.” He motioned me toward the desk, then turned to the colored man. “That will be all, Zeke,” he said.

  The man began walking toward the door. “Miss,” he said, tipping an invisible hat to me as he passed. He had a limp, I noticed, and remarkably long, thick black lashes above his dark eyes.

  “Shut the door on your way out,” Henry said to him. His gaze never left my face. I could tell he was not pleased to see me. His outside world was suddenly colliding with his home turf.

  “I’m sorry to just barge in this way,” I said.

  “Don’t you live in Baltimore?” he asked, and I nodded. At least he remembered that much about me. “How did you get here?”

  “I took the train,” I said. “I needed to talk to you and it was something I didn’t want to discuss over the phone.”

  His eyebrows shot up for a second before falling into a frown. “Oh no,” he said, and I knew he already understood the purpose of my visit. “You’re…?”

  I nodded and lowered my voice on the chance someone might be listening. “About two and a half months,” I said.

  For a charged moment, he said nothing and I stood up straighter. I would not let him wheedle his way out of his responsibility. Finally, he motioned toward the chair the other man had vacated. “Please,” he said. “Sit down. You look exhausted. That’s a terrible train ride. You had a roomette, I hope?”

  “No, unfortunately,” I said. I could barely
afford the train ticket, much less the cost of a roomette. I put down my suitcase and crossed the room to sit on the very edge of the chair. I could imagine how I looked. The little bit of makeup I’d put on the day before had to have worn off by now. My hair probably looked a sight beneath my hat and I surely had bags under my eyes. “I didn’t sleep well on the train,” I said. It was warm in the room and I was beginning to perspire beneath my coat. I folded my hands in my lap. “I don’t want to make things difficult for you,” I said. “I only—”

  He held up a hand to stop me, then sat down and pulled open one of the top drawers of his beautiful desk. “I’ll give you a check for you to have it taken care of,” he said, pulling out a checkbook.

  I was taken aback. “I’ve decided to have it,” I said quickly. Firmly. “The baby. I tried, but I couldn’t go through with … getting rid of it.”

  His face clouded, his hand frozen on the checkbook. “What do you want from me, then?”

  I licked my lips, preparing my speech. “I’ll have to move away from my … from where I live. I can’t have a baby out of wedlock where everyone knows me. I thought I’d move somewhere else and say my husband is in the army. But I need money to be able to do that. I’m sorry to ask.” I cringed at my apologetic tone. I hadn’t meant to grovel. This situation wasn’t entirely my fault. “It’s a terrible dilemma, but—”

  “How much do you think you’ll need?” He interrupted again. He wanted to be done with me, I could tell. He was not a patient man, but it was clear he would help me, if only to shut me up. To get me out of his office. Out of his life.

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I said. “Enough to rent an apartment and support myself and a baby until I can find work, I guess. I have a nursing degree, but I probably won’t be able to work until he or she’s old enough to leave with a sitter. And then I’ll need to pay the sitter. And of course I’ll need to be able to pay for—”