Pregnant in Pennsylvania

by Jasinda Wilder

  He buckles up, fishes his gas station aviator sunglasses out of a front pocket of his backpack, and slides them on his face.

  “Ready to go, Maverick?” I ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “Maverick? Who’s Maverick?”

  “Only the coolest fighter pilot ever!” I say. “Although, you may be a little young for Top Gun references.”

  “I feel the need—!” Cora starts, as she backs out of my driveway.

  “The need for speed!” I finish, as she guns the throttle enough to bark the tires.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Aiden asks.

  “It’s a movie, bud,” I tell him, as Cora navigates our way out of my subdivision—safely, and within the speed limit, I might add—toward my parents’ house which is five miles away. “We’ll watch it when you’re older.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because there are bad words in it.”

  “So? Tommy MacMillan says dammit all the time.”

  “He shouldn’t,” I say. “And neither should you.”

  “I won’t. I promise!”

  Cora eyes me over the top of her sunglasses. “You know, we watched that movie when we were around his age.”

  “Yeah, and we got in trouble for quoting it at school.” I lift an eyebrow pointedly. “Or rather, you got in trouble for telling Isaiah Roberts to take you to bed or lose you forever.”

  “I was nine and I didn’t know what it meant,” she says. “You sang ‘I’ve Lost That Loving Feeling’ all day every day for a week and a half, until Mrs. Thompson threatened you with a week’s worth of extra homework if you didn’t stop.” Cora laughs. “And babe, you can’t sing.”

  “Then why you do make me do karaoke?”

  “Because it’s hysterical! You’re so serious about it! Like, give you three or four glasses of cab sav and you think you’re Whitney Houston or something. I love it.”

  “See if I let you drag me out to karaoke night ever again,” I grouse.

  She snorts. “You’re helpless to resist me. I have the Force.”

  Uh-oh—a Star Wars reference…Aiden is off and running now, babbling breathlessly about Han and Luke and Chewie and lightsabers and that one scene where—

  I laugh at Cora, who used that reference on purpose, because her favorite pastime is winding Aiden up on his favorite subjects and watching him go.

  We get to my parents’ place after a short drive and pull into their long, winding driveway—they live outside town on a few acres of tree-shaded rolling hills: paradise for an energetic eight-year-old. Mom is on their covered front porch cross-stitching when we arrive, a glass of iced tea on the floor beside her rocking chair. She stands up as Cora parks her Mini Cooper, then ambles down the front steps, squatting down to welcome Aiden’s full-sprint hug.

  “My favorite grandson!” Mom says, peppering him with kisses until Aiden squirms away.

  “I’m your only grandson, Grandma, so I’d better be your favorite,” Aiden says, wiping Grandma-kisses away with the back of his hand.

  “Oh. I suppose that’s true. Well, how about you’re my favorite…eight-year-old!”

  Aiden tilts his head to one side. “Hmmm. How many other eight-year-olds do you know?”

  Mom laughs, ruffling his hair. “Oh my, lots and lots.”

  “Oh yeah?” Aiden challenges. “Who?”

  Mom leads him up the steps to the screen door. “I used to teach second and third grade, remember?”

  Aiden nods slowly. “Oh yeah. Before you retired.” He glances at me, recalling our conversation. “Mr. Mackey retired, and now we’re gonna have a new principal.”

  Mom looks at me. “I didn’t know Terry was retiring.”

  I nod. “It was kind of sudden, I guess. He was planning on another year or two, but after Linda’s health scare earlier this summer, I guess they decided he was just not going back. It was only announced a month and a half ago, and they already had a new guy going through the interview process when they announced Terry’s retirement.”

  “You know anything about the new principal?” Mom asks, as we watch Aiden head straight through the house to the backyard, chasing Bobber, Mom and Dad’s King Charles Cavalier Spaniel.

  I lean against their kitchen island, idly spinning the Lazy Susan. “Not much. I’ve been too busy preparing for next year to do much sleuthing. I know his name is Mr. Trent, and he’s a younger guy from…Connecticut? Massachusetts? Somewhere around there. I was reading a Facebook thread about him before Cora showed up.” I shrug. “I know they put out a newsletter, and I’m sure I got it, but I figure school is starting in a week and I’ll just meet him then. Those newsletter write-ups don’t really tell you much.”

  Mom nods, laughing as Bobber cuts a tight turn and Aiden, trying to follow, goes rolling across the grass—only to be lick-attacked by Bobber. “Okay, dear, we’re all set here. You don’t worry about a thing. Have a good time, okay?”

  “He announced that he’s going to eat a whole pizza by himself,” I say, quirking an eyebrow. “Don’t let him do that, okay?”

  Mom keeps a straight face. “Why not? He’s a growing boy.” When I start to protest, she waves me off with a laugh. “Of course not! What kind of a grandmother do you take me for?”

  I raise both eyebrows, now. “The kind who sent him home with me after he’d eaten an entire chocolate bar?”

  “That was your father, as a matter of fact. I was on the phone with Nancy and when I got off, they’d polished it off. I said they could only have half to split between them.”

  I laugh. “Which they took to mean, half each.”

  “Right, and your father being your father, accidentally let Aiden have most of his half too.”

  “You know you can’t take your eyes off either one of them for more than two seconds when they’re together,” I tell her.

  Mom sighs. “I know. Your father is reverting to his childhood more and more with every year he’s retired,” she says. “I’m tempted to tell him to go back to work before I go bananas.”

  Cora groans. “Okay, okay—once you two start gabbing, you never quit. I have a fun evening planned and time’s a-wasting.”

  Mom bumps Cora with her hip. “Don’t you be impatient with me, Cora Marie. There’s plenty of time for whatever shenanigans you’re planning.”

  “I do not engage in shenanigans,” Cora says, acting offended. “I am the picture of a proper lady.”

  Mom barks a disbelieving laugh. “If you believe that, then you need to have your memory checked, young lady.”

  Cora grabs me by the arm and hauls me away. “I know better than to fall for that game! You’re trying to get me to play ‘do-you-remember’, and I’m not falling for it!”

  Mom just laughs. “Drat! You saw through my trap!”

  “Bye, Aiden!” I call, loudly enough that he can hear me through the house. “I love you! Be good!”

  “Bye, Mom!” Aiden calls back, and I hear his feet stomping across the hardwood floors, and then the screen door creaks open and slams closed, and he’s leaping from the top step, sprinting across the gravel driveway, and skidding to a stop to hug me. “I can’t let you go without a hug!”

  I kneel, squeezing him until he groans. “Not too many sweets!” I tell him, after at least ten kisses. “Don’t let Grandpa get you guys in trouble.”

  Aiden makes a big show of crossing his fingers and putting them behind his back. “I won’t! Don’t you worry about a thing, Mom! Grandpa and I will have extra veggies and NO chocolate.”

  I laugh, letting him go and head for the car. “Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second. Be good, I love you!”

  “You be good!” he says over his shoulder, running back for the house. “Love you more!”

  Cora shoves me into the passenger seat and slams the door. “Okay, okay, okay—you love him, he loves you, and goodbyes have been said. Let’s go!”

  I buckle up, laughing at Cora. “You are in a godawful hurry, aren’t you?”
>
  She does a three-point turn and heads down my parents’ long driveway and then heads for downtown. “If I don’t drag you away, you’ll linger for an hour, talking to your mom and hovering over Aiden.” She smirks at me. “Plus, I want to make it José’s Cantina for happy hour.”

  “Ohhh dear,” I sigh. “Two-dollar margaritas and three-dollar tacos.”

  “Exactly—two-dollar margaritas,” she says. “But if I slip an extra buck or two in there, Freddy will make ’em top-shelf.”

  “You mean, if you let him stare at your cleavage he’ll make them top-shelf.”

  She shrugs. “And? He’s old enough to be our dad, but he’s a lonely, single old bartender and there’s no harm in letting him look, is there?”

  I just laugh. “You’re ordering them, not me, so you do you, babe.”

  We make it to happy hour at José’s, and I watch from our booth as Cora flirts shamelessly with Freddy—who is a fixture in our little town. She returns with two giant, overflowing, top-shelf margaritas, which I’m sure will also be mostly tequila: part of the reason Freddy is a fixture is that he’s notoriously liberal in the way he pours liquor, especially if you’re a female and willing to play along with his heavy-handed but harmless flirtation.

  Cora, of course, draws the gazes of every male in the joint as she carries our drinks to our table—she’s wearing tight black skinny jeans that show off her toned legs and generous booty, paired with three-inch stilettos that work wonders for her already-wondrous backside. She’s got on a sequined silver sleeveless top with a plunging neckline, lots of glittery bangles on her wrists and ridiculous huge eighties hoop earrings. Classic Cora style: over the top, but it just somehow works for her.

  She relishes the attention, glancing slyly this way and that as she flounces across the bar, scoping out the scene. When she finally sits down across from me, I take a sip of my margarita.

  “Wow—I mean…wow.” I make a face—the drink is pretty much 95 percent tequila with a faint coloring of margarita mix. “You are so shameless, you know that?”

  She preens. “Yep. I’ve got it down to an art.” She rolls her eyes at me. “You know as well as I do that Freddy is totally harmless. He just likes to have fun and flirt with pretty women.”

  “I’m referring to your little prance across the bar, actually,” I say. “Could you be any more obvious?”

  She just snorts, sipping her drink and sighing in bliss. “A real Freddy Special. Mmmm.” She waves me off. “They’re all old married coots. Not a single guy in the joint.”

  “Because Lewis is, very literally, the only single guy in town,” I point out.

  We live in Clayton, a tiny little hamlet in south central Pennsylvania, the kind of village you have to take rural highways to get to, a place where everyone knows everyone, and everyone’s business is the topic of conversation all day long. I was born and raised here, went to the elementary school Aiden goes to—Terry Mackey was my principal, and my mom was my third-grade teacher—and I graduated from the high school where I’m now a guidance counselor. I’ve been to the weddings of every male between the ages of eighteen and fifty in town, and the whole town was abuzz with gossip when my marriage was dissolving. Everyone knows Lewis Calhoun has had a crush on me since fourth grade, and that I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, as good-looking and funny as he may be…mostly because I know for a fact what really happened with him and Jenny Renfield in tenth grade. His little pot-selling operation is the most well-known secret in town. His uncle is a county sheriff deputy, but he looks the other way.

  Cora sighs. “What is it with you and Lewis, for real? His pot business is harmless. He only sells to, like, eight or nine people, and they’re all people who should get medical but can’t or won’t. He doesn’t sell to kids, and he’s discreet. It’s not like he’s out behind the gym forcing crack on the freshmen.”

  “I know.” I shrug. “I’m just not interested, and never have been.” I eye her. “What is it with you and Lewis, for real?” I counter.

  She echoes my shrug. “When was the last time you had a conversation with him? He’s a really good guy, once you get to know him.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I say, and then frown at her. “Wait…when have you had conversations with Lewis Calhoun?”

  Cora shrugs, a picture of studied innocence. “Oh, you know just…here and there.”

  My frown deepens. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Is it suddenly illegal for me to have perfectly innocent conversations with people?”

  “No,” I say. “But if you’ve been talking to Lewis, you’d think I’d know about it.”

  She sighs, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head. “I sat next to him at a township meeting a few weeks ago, if you must know.”

  “Do you remember the thing with Jenny in tenth grade?” I remind her.

  Cora raspberries at me. “Oh, let that go, Elyse. That was, what…fifteen years ago? They were kids, and it’s not like Jenny was innocent in the whole fiasco either, remember? She was just more vocal about making sure everyone knew her side of the story, and Lewis just let everyone believe what they wanted, since he was already the black sheep of not just the school but the whole town.”

  “Let me guess, that’s what you guys talked about at the meeting,” I venture.

  She shrugs. “Among other things.”

  Our conversation wanders after that, from high school reminiscences to the latest gossip—Alan Peters is definitely sleeping with Amy Andersen, Cora insists, and she’s sure Macy Peters knows but Bill Andersen doesn’t—to the various and endless other tidbits of rumor and news and gossip.

  After about an hour and a half later, and two high-octane Freddy Specials each, Cora decides it’s time to move on. We leave her car in the parking lot at José’s and walk the two blocks down the street to Field’s for karaoke, where she shoves another too-sweet tequila drink in my hands and signs us up to sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” We’re three numbers out, just enough time to finish the first drink and start on the second, which I down a little too fast. I’m tipsy enough to think karaoke will be fun, but not tipsy enough to not get nervous.

  Finally, we’re up. I clutch my sweating glass in one hand and the mic in the other, and Cora and I belt out our song—I lean into her and close my eyes, pretending it’s just her and me in my bedroom, blasting it on my boom box and singing into hairbrushes. When I open my eyes after the song is over and suck down a mouthful of my drink, it’s to scattered applause from the crowded bar.

  And as I look out at the crowd I see a pair of brown eyes watching me rather intently.

  Cora and I step off the little stage and head for our table, and I feel those eyes following me. I take my seat—ripped vinyl cushions at a battered, sticky Formica table, with a metal napkin dispenser, a rocks glass full of tiny pencils, and a stack of request slips. I try to be surreptitious as I shift in my seat so I can scope out the owner of the eyes; he’s sitting a few feet away, alone at a table, sipping Labatt Blue from a bottle.

  He looks like he’s pretty tall, with wavy brown hair swept to one side, wearing a blue polo tucked into a pair of chinos, a brown leather belt, and sensible shoes. Odd outfit to go to a karaoke bar in, but whatever.

  I don’t know him—that’s what’s intriguing.

  His eyes, too, are part of his charm. They are warm, exuding good humor and kindness.

  I kick Cora under the table. “Who’s that?” I ask, cutting a meaningful glance at the newcomer.

  Cora gives him a quick, blatant once-over, and shrugs. “I dunno. Tourist, probably, judging by the nerdy getup.”

  I laugh. “Tourist? Since when do we get tourists in Clayton?”

  “There’s an accountant conference happening in Lancaster,” she suggests. “Maybe he was trying to get there and got lost?”

  I roll my eyes. “Lancaster? If he’s going there, he’s really lost.”

  She glances at him again.
“He is pretty cute. You should go talk to him.”

  Pretty cute? Puppies are pretty cute. Babies and kittens and newborn calves are pretty cute. This guy is…handsome. He doesn’t fit the “hot” bill, because his features are more classically handsome than Hollywood magazine hot. His hair is neatly but casually styled, his clothing is conservative and plain, but fits him well. Another glance at his shoulders and arms tells me he works out, and the midsection of his polo is flat, meaning no belly.

  And he has a five o’clock shadow going on, and those eyes. They’re intelligent, curious. Eager. Inviting.

  Interested.

  “Go talk to him. Get him to buy you a drink.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t need another drink. I need some water.”

  Cora elbows me. “Fine, water and a drink. You can’t poop out now, Elyse.”

  I frown at her. “I’m not pooping out, I’m just drinking intelligently—drinking water to keep from getting dehydrated.”

  Cora shakes her head. “You’ve had, like, five drinks in three hours, and we’re getting a cab home.”

  “A cab? What cab? There are no cabs in Clayton.”

  Cora snickers. “Well, a ride home, at least.”

  I eye her warily. “Cora?”

  “Elyse?”

  “What do you mean by ‘a ride’?”

  “A designated nondrinker to drive us safely, legally, and responsibly home.”

  “Cora.”

  She throws up her hands. “Monty, okay? I have his cell number, and I’m going to text him when we need a ride home, and he’ll swing by in his rig and drive us.”

  “Cora!” I can’t help laughing even as I scold her. “I don’t want to ride home in Monty’s tow truck! It smells like cigarettes and old farts.”

  “It smells like cigarettes and new farts,” she corrects. “And would you rather walk home? Because I have no intention of sobering up enough to drive.”