The Nine Month Plan

by Wendy Markham

  The choir begins singing. As the joyous processional of robed priests and altar boys move toward the altar, Father Tom holds a statuette of the baby Jesus high above his head.

  The baby will be placed, as always, in the empty manger at the life-­sized creche beside the pulpit.

  Nina has seen the ritual countless times. Once, when she was a little girl and jealous of her newest sibling, she suggested to her mother that they volunteer baby Rosalee to stand in for the baby Jesus in the manger.

  “But then she’d have to stay here at church until the epiphany in January,” Mommy said.

  “She would be fine. Father Hugh would keep an eye on her and we could visit her on Sundays,” Nina replied, much to her mother’s amusement.

  How she misses the joyous sound of Mommy’s laughter. She’d give anything to hear it again, just one more time.

  Watching the priest lay the Christ Child in the humble bed of straw, Nina realizes that her eyes have blurred with tears. Before she can reach into her pocket for a tissue, Joe is handing her one.

  “Thanks,” she whispers, swiftly dabbing at her eyes.

  He pats her arm, saying softly, “It’s hard at Christmas. I know how much you must miss her.”

  She sniffles, glancing at Dominic, and Rosalee beyond him, to see if either of them is struggling with their emotions. Dom is facing forward, his jaw set stoically. Rosalee is whispering in Timmy’s ear.

  Nina doesn’t dare turn to look at Pop and Ralphie, seated in the pew behind.

  “Always face forward in church, Nina,” Mommy’s voice echoes in her head. “Sit still, and don’t kick the pew in front of you.”

  It can’t possibly have been thirty years since she was a small child snuggled safely at her mother’s side at midnight mass. Nor can it have been almost seventeen years since Mommy died. Not when Nina’s grief is as raw as the rain-­driven December wind rattling the stained-­glass windows.

  The organ and the choir have given way to silence marred only by a sobbing infant somewhere in the back. Taking the pulpit, Father Tom begins to speak.

  Nina half-­listens, wondering where she’ll be next Christmas Eve.

  She feels a familiar little quiver of excitement just imagining what it will be like, not to know in advance exactly where you’re going to be and what you’ll be doing on any given day of the year. Perhaps she’ll spend next Christmas Eve in Bethlehem. Or at the Vatican. Or maybe skiing in an alpine village. The possibilities are endless.

  One thing is certain: she won’t be here, thank goodness.

  The others will be, though. Joey will probably have a sleeping baby on his shoulder.

  And one day, a few years from now, he’ll be the one whispering, “Always face forward in church. Sit still, and don’t kick the pew in front of you.”

  Yes, one day, his child will be sitting at his side as Nina is now. Will that little boy or girl be wondering about its mother, missing her, just as Nina is?

  Perhaps.

  Only I won’t have left because I didn’t have a choice, as Mommy did. I’ll have left because I’m selfish. Because I want a life of my own. Because I don’t want to be anybody’s mother.

  Not even yours, she tells the baby who lies motionless deep within her womb. I just . . . I can’t. Please forgive me.

  “Nina . . . here.” Joe presses another clean tissue into her hand.

  She realizes that a fresh flood of tears is falling freely down her cheeks.

  Bowing her head, she quickly wipes them away.

  IF CHRISTMAS WAS difficult, juggling both Joe’s own family and Nina’s while keeping up the pretense of being madly in love—­and trying to find the privacy to indulge their incessant desire when his parents are under his roof and the entire Chickalini family is under hers—­Joe figures New Year’s Eve will be worse.

  Not only will they have both families and all their friends around them, but pretty much the whole neighborhood as well.

  Joe has spent almost every New Year’s Eve of his adult life at the Most Precious Mother church hall. It’s a tradition, and one he isn’t willing to give up—­not even, last year, for Amanda.

  Things weren’t so rosy by that stage in their relationship, and they spent most of the evening arguing. She had wanted to attend an elegant private party at the Puck Building, and looked down her nose at the whole parish party scene. It was a wonder she even stuck around long enough to kiss him at midnight.

  As for Nina . . .

  Well, Nina was here, but she certainly didn’t kiss Joe at midnight. She kissed his friend, Ned. On the cheek. Which wasn’t celebratory enough for the champagne-­swilling Ned, apparently, because he grabbed her and kissed her on the mouth.

  After Nina extracted herself from his embrace, she pulled Joe aside and hissed, “You are sooo gonna pay for setting me up with this guy, Materi.”

  What a difference twelve months can make.

  Joe and Nina will still be spending New Year’s Eve in each other’s company—­sans dates, of course. Ned and Amanda are ancient history, and for all anyone knows, Joe and Nina are embarking on happily ever after together.

  So here they are, hanging their coats in the crowded cloakroom adjacent to the church hall that doubles as the school gym and auditorium. It smells of wet wool and too much perfume, same as always.

  “Don’t lose my gloves, Joey,” Nina calls above the din. “I know they cost you a fortune.”

  She’s right about that. He checks to make sure the soft leather gloves are still tucked into the pocket of the cashmere maternity coat he gave her, along with the gloves, for Christmas.

  “Aren’t you going to give her an engagement ring?” his mother said, when he told her about it.

  “Nah, Nina’s not an engagement ring type.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Joey. Every woman wants an engagement ring.”

  Joe takes Nina’s ringless left hand and they make their way back into the main room. The basketball hoops have been festooned with red and green crepe paper. The long rows of tables that are usually used for Saturday night Bingo have been covered in white paper tablecloths. On the stage at the far end of the hall, a gray-­haired band plays the opening strains of “The Summer Wind.”

  “I bet they’ll play ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ next. Or ‘Volare.’ ” Nina sighs. “Same band every year. Same songs. Isn’t anyone tired of it?”

  “Maybe you can talk to the committee about reserving a ­couple of gangsta rappers for next year.”

  “I’m not going to be here next year, thank God.”

  Oh.

  Right.

  Joe spots his parents on the dance floor, and Aunt Theresa and Uncle Vince as well. Anthony Chickalini is sitting at a table, chatting with the ancient Monsignor Russo. Rather, trying to chat. Everybody knows the Monsignor is all but deaf.

  “Want to go sit with your dad?” he asks Nina. “Looks like he could use a little help.”

  “What about Danny and Barb?”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll find us.” They lost track of their friends before the four of them could even make it to the cloakroom.

  Joe stops to let a trio of elderly women pass, all carrying trays of homemade Italian pastries covered in plastic wrap.

  “You want me to snag a ­couple of cannoli for us, Nina?”

  “No, it’s okay. But I could use a drink.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? Merlot. That’s what I want. But I’ll settle for cranberry juice with a splash of seltzer.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll have one, too.”

  “You don’t have to be on the wagon with me, Joey.”

  “I don’t mind. My nose has been tingling all day. I might be coming down with a cold or something.”

  “You should get orange juice. And take zinc lozenges. I’ve got
some at home from when Ralphie had that awful cold. I’ll give it to you later.”

  “Thanks, Nina.”

  What a terrific mother she’s been to her siblings. What a terrific mother she would be to—­

  Stop it. That’s not going to happen.

  He watches her make her way toward Nino’s table. Monsignor Russo, who might be deaf but is still incredibly light on his feet, has been recruited for a rousing version of the Tarantella on the dance floor.

  Nina’s father takes a handful of peanuts from the plastic bowl on the table and glances at the circle of clapping, joyful dancers. He looks lonely.

  That’ll be me next year, Joe realizes. I’ll be here all by myself, eating peanuts, watching everybody else have fun.

  Wait a minute. That’s not necessarily true.

  After all, Nino’s an elderly widower. Joe is young. Just because Nina is leaving . . .

  Well, his life isn’t going to be over. Maybe he’ll have a new girlfriend by next New Year’s Eve. Possibly even a fiancée . . . or a wife.

  And Nina will be making her way to the other side of the world, rather than the other side of the room.

  But he doesn’t want to think about that. Not tonight.

  At the makeshift bar that’s been set up in the doorway to the locker room, Joe orders Nina’s drink and an orange juice for himself.

  As he waits for the drinks, he hears somebody say, “Hey, Joey, congratulations!”

  He turns to see Minnie’s cousin Eddie Scaturro and his pudgy, pretty red-­headed wife, Kathleen.

  “I heard you and Nina are expecting,” Eddie says. “That’s great!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nina looks beautiful,” Kathleen says. “I saw you walk in with her. She’s glowing.”

  “Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” He smiles. Nina does look especially beautiful tonight. Her hair is done up on top of her head, and she’s wearing a simple black maternity cocktail dress that clings nicely to her newly rounded figure.

  “Does this mean you won’t be coaching Little League this spring?” Kathleen wants to know. “Little Eddie was counting on being on your team again this year.”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Joe admits, as the bartender slides two plastic juice glasses toward him.

  “What about the wedding? Have you set a date yet? I’ll bet Nina’s got her hands full planning Rosalee’s for June.”

  He offers Kathleen a tight smile. “Yeah, she is pretty busy with that.”

  “Take my advice,” Eddie says. “Just get it over with. Elope.”

  “Eddie . . . that’s not a nice thing to say.”

  “Why isn’t it nice?”

  “Because . . . who wants to elope?”

  “Joey might.” Eddie turns to Joe. “Hell, I would, if I were you, especially after what Minnie pulled on you.”

  “Don’t say that word in here, Eddie!” Kathleen swats him on the arm.

  “What? Minnie? What better place to talk about a nun than in a church hall?”

  “Not Minnie . . .”

  “Wedding?”

  “You know which word.”

  “Well, nice seeing you. Have fun.” Joe takes his drinks and beats a hasty retreat. He finds his way back to Nina, who is seated in the chair her father vacated.

  “Where’s Nino?” Joe asks, handing her the drink.

  “He went back to the kitchen to tell them not to overheat the ziti. Hey, I saw you talking to Eddie and Kathleen. What did they have to say?”

  “Congratulations on the baby, and that we should elope.”

  “Kathleen said we should elope?”

  “Nope, Eddie said it. You know, that I shouldn’t take any chances after being left at the altar by Minnie.”

  “That reminds me . . . I wrote to her about the baby, Joey,” Nina says.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her the truth. That I’m carrying this baby for you, and that you’re going to raise it.”

  “Oh.”

  “I couldn’t lie. Not to Minnie.”

  “I know.”

  “Besides, I’m seeing her in July. I don’t want her to think I’m not still planning on coming.”

  “Oh. Right.” He looks around, tapping his fingertips on the paper tablecloth. “You wanna dance, Neens?”

  “To this?” The band is playing Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood,” and the dentures and receding hairline crowd is loving it.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Golly gee, I don’t know, Joey . . . Sounds swell, but I haven’t jitterbugged since I blew all my ration stamps on a pair of seamed silk stockings.”

  “Come on, toots. Let’s dance.” He pulls her to her feet and leads her out onto the dance floor.

  “Are you going to throw me around like that?” Nina asks, pointing at a spry sixty-­ish ­couple nearby. The man is swinging the woman’s legs from one side of his hip to the other, then sends her skimming the floor between his legs.

  “Sure, let’s go for it,” Joe says.

  “Since I weigh more than you do at this point, I’ll do the fancy lifts.”

  “Too late . . . the song’s over,” Joe says, as the swing music changes pace and the band slips into an old Connie Francis ballad.

  “All right, fuggeddaboudit.” Relieved, Nina turns back toward the table, but Joe pulls her back.

  “Come on, let’s dance. This is more my speed anyway.”

  Joe holds Nina close, feeling her head on his shoulder and her silky hair brushing his chin.

  “The baby’s kicking,” she says softly, lifting her head to smile at him.

  “He is?”

  “Mmm-­hmm.” She rests her head again. Then lifts it abruptly. “You said he, Joey.”

  “I did? I meant it.”

  “You know what? I honestly think it’s a he,” Nina tells him.

  “You do? Based on what?”

  She shrugs. “Instinct. I just get this feeling it’s going to be a little boy, and he’s going to look just like you.”

  “Really? What should I name him?” He wants to say we, but he catches himself. The name isn’t Nina’s decision. It’s his alone.

  Alone.

  Stop it. This is what you wanted.

  “Not Caesar,” Nina says firmly.

  “No, not Caesar. Not Malachy, either.”

  “How about Joseph the third?”

  “The fourth. I’m the third.”

  “Oh. Maybe three Joes are enough in one family, huh?”

  “I think so.”

  They’re silent for a few minutes, swaying to the music.

  “There’s still time, you know,” Joe tells her.

  “Time? For what?”

  “To think of names.”

  “Oh. Yeah, there’s loads of time.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You just did, Joey.”

  “I didn’t say loads. A few months is not loads.”

  “Five months. And five months isn’t a few. In fact, they can’t pass quickly enough, if you ask me.”

  Joey nods, torn between his longing to hold the baby in his arms at last . . . and his dread of letting Nina go.

  Whenever God closes a door, He opens a window.

  Yeah.

  Somehow, that’s not as inspiring as it once was. He’s not ready for any doors to close. Not when it comes to Nina.

  At midnight, as noisemakers blast and confetti rains down and the band plays “Auld Lang Syne,” Joe kisses Nina. Passionately. After all, everyone present thinks they’re engaged, and anyway, he can’t help himself.

  “Happy New Year, Nina,” he whispers, belatedly realizing that he has probably just spread impending cold germs to her and the baby . . .

  And that
tears are glistening in her eyes. “Nina, what—­”

  “Happy New Year, you guys!” It’s Rosalee and Timmy, with Danny and Barb on their heels.

  “Yeah, cheers!” Danny holds up a plastic flute of champagne and slings his arm around Joe’s shoulders. “To babies and weddings.”

  Barb, rosy-­cheeked and happy in her red maternity dress, adds, “and we should drink to Joey and Nina, too, because they get both this year. A baby and a wedding.”

  “To Joey and Nina,” Danny says, “and finding true love at last.”

  True love?

  Joe looks at Nina.

  She’s looking down, at her stomach, or maybe at the confetti-­strewn floor.

  “This is going to be a great year,” Timmy is saying.

  “Are you kidding? Every year’s going to be great for you from here on in, now that you’re marrying me,” Rosalee says with a grin. “It took you long enough to figure that out, though.”

  “What can I say? I had cold feet.”

  “For ten years?”

  “Well, look at Joey,” Timmy tells his fiancée. “It took him almost twenty years to figure out that he belongs with Nina.”

  “Yeah, but now that he knows, they’re not wasting any time on starting a family,” Rosalee points out.

  “Uh-­oh, here we go,” Timmy says, throwing back his head. “Are you going to start bugging me for a baby already?”

  “Hey, trust me, guys, it’s never too soon to start trying,” Barb tells them.

  “Yeah, and it’s never too late, either. Just ask Nina and Joey,” Danny says.

  “What amazes me,” Rosalee says, “is that all this time, Nina thought she wanted to get out of here. And it turns out everything she needs is right here in Astoria after all. Who ever would have guessed it?”

  “Not me,” Nina says brightly, and turns to Joe. “You know what? I’m exhausted. Do you mind if I head home with Pop? He said he was leaving right after midnight.”

  “I’ll go, too.” His throat is starting to feel as though somebody rubbed it with sandpaper.

  “No, that’s okay. I know how much you were looking forward to the dessert buffet. You should stay.”

  “I don’t want to stay without you.”

  “Okay . . .” She yawns behind her hand. “Whatever. I’m too tired to argue.”