Becca's Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  But looking at her now, he knew it didn’t matter what he believed. What mattered was what she believed about herself.

  That thought hit him squarely in the gut. She was right. He did need the time, just as she did. To figure out what he believed about himself. What he wanted. Who he was underneath the roles he played. He owed it to her, to himself, to their child.

  They deserved to have all of him. Anything less wasn’t enough.

  “A while ago you said that maybe we each have to decide what we want out of life, and I agree with you,” she murmured.

  He stared at her, sick at heart, and nodded.

  “I don’t think we can do that living together. You can’t break a habit if you’re living it.”

  “I’ll look for a place tomorrow.”

  Becca stood up laboriously, the effort leaving her short of breath. “Randi’s hoping you’ll stay at her place. At least until she’s ready to move back. It’ll give you time to find something you really want.”

  Time to find something permanent, he read into her words.

  This was worse than he’d thought.

  With a sick feeling in his gut, Will nodded. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BECCA LEARNED very quickly what Martha had been talking about when she’d said that Shelter Valley helped her through the initial breakup with Todd. Will wasn’t even out of the house before the calls started coming. Randi had told a couple of people at work that she could be reached at Becca’s house, and that was all it took for word to spread, like a raging fire, all over town.

  But in spite of all the support, she missed Will desperately. That first night she didn’t even try to go to bed. Just sat in his recliner in the family room and hoped she’d fall asleep without realizing it. Probably because she was almost eight months pregnant, she did.

  The second night, she lay down on the couch, wondering if she could again trick herself into sleep. And found that if she kept the television on, she could.

  By the third night, she’d pulled bedding out to the family room.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” Randi asked, jumping up to take the blankets and pillow from Becca. “The couch back helps support you, maybe?”

  “Maybe.” Becca hadn’t really thought about it, but yes, she supposed it did. Now that she didn’t have Will’s back to prop her belly against.

  Randi spread a sheet on the oversize leather couch, tucking it around the cushions. “Are you having pains? Should we call the doctor?”

  “No.” Becca handed Randi one end of the blanket.

  “Not unless you think she could treat pains of the heart.”

  Randi stopped, blanket held in midair. “You’re missing Will that much?”

  Nodding, Becca bent to smooth the blanket over the sheet, trying to hide evidence of the ready tears. “I’ve never slept in our bed without him at night.”

  “Never?” Randi asked, shocked. “What about the time he went to Washington to receive that commendation… Oh wait, you went with him, of course.” She smoothed her end of the blanket. “What about that conference he went to in Omaha? You stayed here to run the huge second-hand sale in the town square to raise money for the new clinic.”

  “I stayed with Sari,” Becca said. “Bob was out of town then, too, at a swim meet with Tanya, and we had a couple of girls’ nights out.”

  Randi plopped down on the makeshift bed, pulling a pillow onto her lap. “You’ve never slept in your bed without him?”

  Smiling through teary eyes, Becca shook her head. “Never.”

  “Have you talked to him?” Randi asked hesitantly.

  Becca nodded. “He calls every day to make sure I’m okay.”

  “He does?” Randi perked up. “So you guys are talking.”

  “No.” Becca wished they were. She badly needed to know what Will was thinking, to share with him the discoveries she was making. She wasn’t happy, but she was still sane. That had to count for something. “His calls are always quick,” she told Randi.

  “Just asks if I’m okay and says he has to go.”

  School would be starting soon. She knew he was busy. But too busy to talk to his wife?

  “So,” Randi said slowly, “you planning to sleep on the couch for the rest of your life?”

  Becca lowered herself beside her sister-in-law, unhappier than she’d ever been, but determined to hold on. “If I have to.”

  “You, uh, think this is permanent, then?” Randi asked, picking at the pillow.

  Becca heard the sorrow in Randi’s voice. Felt an answering pain in her own heart. “I don’t know.”

  EXHAUSTED AND FEELING every day of his forty-two years, Will dragged his aching body in from a game of racquetball. It was his first Saturday afternoon of living alone, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for…well, forever, maybe. He should never have challenged the head of the Math Department to a game. The man was ten years younger than he was.

  But what had hurt worse than the killing he’d taken on the court had been the pitying glances the other man had sent his way when he thought Will wasn’t looking. God, he hated pity.

  Almost as much as he hated living in Randi’s house.

  The answering-machine light was blinking as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. Pushing the button out of duty—he owed it to Randi to get her messages to her—he listened with half an ear as he filled a tall glass with ice from the bag in the freezer, then topped it with water from the jug in his sister’s refrigerator.

  Good thing he wasn’t hungry. Water and ice were about all Randi had plenty of. Unless you counted the wheaty, grainy bar things his sister seemed to live on. She had a whole cupboardful of those. And fifteen boxes of cereal. His sister was a nut.

  Four messages later Will was sitting at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair, the water almost gone. He was going to have to get up and get some more. Eventually. When his thirst won out over his exhaustion.

  “Will? It’s Becca.”

  He sat up straight. Set his glass on the table. She’d introduced herself. He knew her voice, dammit.

  “We’ve left it pretty late for childbirth classes, but we can still get into one if we start this week. There’s an opening at the clinic here. Call me if you’re interested.” Click.

  In two seconds flat, Will had speed-dialed his home number. He paced the kitchen floor as the phone rang, stomach tense. He was only slightly disappointed when he got his own answering machine. Maybe that was best for now. He and Becca using machines to do their conversing.

  He agreed to her suggestion and hung up.

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY Martha called to invite Becca to attend the Little League state championships being held right there in Shelter Valley. For the fourth year in a row Shelter Valley’s preteens had made it to the final rounds. Martha’s youngest son, Tim, was pitching for his team of nine-and ten-year-olds.

  Still recuperating from her first childbirth class two evenings before, Becca wasn’t inclined to accept. She was exhausted, physically, but spiritually, too. She’d thought the classes would bring her and Will closer. That being there with him would rekindle the silent closeness they’d shared all summer. Instead, they’d been like strangers. Polite. Distant.

  Aside from the conversation necessitated by what they were doing, they didn’t speak at all.

  By the time she’d been asked to lie down, her big belly almost reaching Will’s shoulder when he sat on the floor beside her, she’d been wallowing in humiliation.

  “The game starts at five-thirty. How about if I pick you up at five?” Martha said. “We can get a hot dog before play starts.”

  Catching a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror as she walked past, mobile phone in hand, Becca reconsidered her decision. Her hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, she wore no makeup and had on a pair of her husband’s sweats, cut off into shorts, with a balloon of a T-shirt on top. The colors didn’t even match.

  �
�I’ll be ready,” she told her well-meaning friend.

  Martha knew what she was going through. Had probably even guessed that ever since Randi left that morning, Becca had been wandering listlessly around the house, wondering where she’d gone wrong. She’d spent the greater part of the morning in her bedroom, lying on her bed, wetting Will’s pillow with tears she’d promised herself she wouldn’t shed.

  BECCA RAN INTO Phyllis Langford at the Little League game. She’d spent no small amount of time with Phyllis over the past couple of weeks, since it was a traditional responsibility of the president’s wife to help introduce new hires and their families into Shelter Valley life. And regardless of whether she and Will were living in the same house, she was still his wife.

  Due to Becca’s precarious situation, she and Phyllis had grown close more quickly than would ordinarily have happened. Whether it was her training or simply a natural sensitivity, Phyllis was a good listener. A caring, objective, sensible listener.

  She, too, was still aching for her ex-husband and could understand Becca’s own circumstances without being told too much about them.

  “Phyllis! What are you doing here?” Becca asked as the woman opened a lawn chair next to Becca and Martha’s. Martha was currently making a run for more bottled water for the team, but would be returning shortly. Her oldest daughter, Ellen, was manning the snack truck, and her two other kids, both girls, were at an end-of-summer swim and slumber party.

  “You can’t go anywhere this week without hearing about Shelter Valley’s chances in the playoffs,” Phyllis was saying. “I figured, what better way to jump into town life? I grew up watching my brothers play Little League. I’ve always loved it. Besides,” she added in an undertone, “I love the little house you helped me find, but the walls don’t make great company. I can’t wait until Christine arrives.”

  Phyllis’s gentle humor was a relief, considering Becca’s current state of mind. “I’m glad you’re here,” Becca told her. “You can explain this darn game to me.”

  “Sure. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  Martha came back then, and Becca had an uneasy moment when she realized just who Phyllis was in Martha’s life—her soon-to-be ex-husband’s replacement at the university—but the two women had already met earlier in the month, and Martha smiled a welcome.

  “It’s good to see you,” she told Phyllis, followed by an apologetic grin at Becca. “Remember my cousin Jenny? She used to visit for a week every summer when we were little.”

  “The one from Nantucket?” Becca asked.

  Martha nodded. “Yeah. She just called on my cell while I was at the store. Her husband’s in Phoenix on business. She heard about my breakup with Todd, and they rented a car and are on their way out to see me this evening. I’ll have to be home by seven.”

  Sensing her friend’s need to have some time with her family, Becca turned to Phyllis. “Okay, I’ve been ditched. Would you mind giving an old pregnant woman a lift home?”

  “I can take you,” Martha insisted.

  “Forget it! You go visit with your family. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll be glad to drive her home,” Phyllis told Martha.

  After another five minutes of arguing—five minutes during which Martha stopped at least three times to turn toward the field and yell at the top of her lungs—she finally gave in. Becca and Phyllis were going to go hijack Sari, since Bob was at a Rotary Club meeting that evening, and go out for dessert after the game. Phyllis would then take Becca home.

  Satisfied that Becca would be doing something other than hanging around at home, Martha finally sat down. But was soon on her feet again. First to swear at the ump, who, in Martha’s opinion, wasn’t smart enough to have graduated from kindergarten, then to tell her son to keep his eye on the ball, and the third time to make sure the boy on third base knew to run into home. In spite of the fact that his little legs were carrying him as fast as they could—and making damn good time—Martha’s words were on his behind the whole way in.

  “I guess when you’re a parent you have to play the game, too,” Phyllis said, grinning.

  Hearing her, Martha turned around, made a face and went right back to yelling. Apparently the ump had made another bad call.

  Listening to Martha’s hoarse yelling, Becca thought about Phyllis’s words. Parents lined both sides of the ball field. Very few were sitting calmly in their seats. Some were coaching, as Martha was. Some just cheering. Some were drying children’s tears, helping Ellen at the concession, keeping score, planning after-the-game celebrations. They were all actively engaged. Martha was the oldest one there.

  As a parent you had to play the game.

  Becca would be fifty-two when her child was ten. Ten years older than Martha was right now.

  Fifty-two and playing Little League.

  IN TOWN SATURDAY EVENING, looking for something besides grainy bars to eat, Will grabbed a take-out burger at the diner and then, munching as he drove, stopped off at the grocery store. He hit the frozen-food section first.

  “I was so sorry to hear about you and Becca, William. Perhaps you should just do whatever she wants you to do so you can go home. Whatever’s making her objectionable probably won’t last, anyway. It’s her condition, you know.”

  Turning from the case, with an armload of frozen pizzas, Will saw Mrs. Huckaby, his old Sunday-school teacher, behind him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, turning back. The old biddy. A whole lot she knew. He had done what Becca said. Which was why he was living at his sister’s little house, rather than the spacious home he’d had built a few years ago.

  Wheeling the cart quickly down the aisles, he came to a halt and backed up when he passed the water. There was still a lot of it in Randi’s pantry, but he should replace what he was using.

  “Will! I was so sorry to hear about you and Becca.”

  The voice was feminine again—and behind him. But it wasn’t his Sunday-school teacher.

  “Thanks, Thelma,” he said brusquely. He might be baching it, but he didn’t need help from the town tramp.

  “I’d love to have you over for dinner,” she crooned, noticing the forty frozen dinners he’d stacked in the cart.

  “Thanks, Thelma, but I already have plans.”

  “I can see that,” she said, taking the hint with a smile as she looked again, pointedly, at his cart.

  “Well, if you ever decide to find out what a real woman’s like…”

  “I may just take you up on that,” he said as she walked away, knowing he wouldn’t consider it for a second. Thelma was well-known in town, and basically harmless. She was too obvious to do any real damage.

  Several ten-gallon water jugs heavier, the cart was a little harder to push, but Will was determined not to repeat this experience anytime soon. He intended to load up, get out and not come back.

  He had only one more stop to make before he was done. Potato chips. And beer. He’d run into an old buddy from high school, Duane Konch, at a comedy club in Phoenix the night before. Duane was a lawyer, divorced, but doing quite well in Phoenix. He was driving out to Shelter Valley with a couple of buddies for a poker game with Will.

  Something Will would never have done at home with Becca. And yet, something he was looking forward to.

  He didn’t make it as far as the potato chips before he was accosted again. But this time, at least, it was with only a pitying glance—not words. He didn’t actually have to stop. Or respond.

  One of the sociology professors. Damn. School was starting soon. Could he look forward to pitying glances all day there, too? Did everyone have to know everything? Couldn’t his life just fall apart in peace?

  He could just imagine what would have happened if he’d brought home one of the women who’d come on to him at the comedy club the night before.

  There would’ve been a race to his front door to tell Becca the news.

  Picking up two bags of the chips Becca usually bought, Will paused befo
re putting them in his cart. She usually bought some of that dip stuff to go with the chips. Looking around the aisle, Will didn’t see any dip. Or any signs to tell him where the stuff might be. Besides, dip was a women’s thing. Men didn’t dip.

  He started to put the chips in the basket a second time, then changed his mind again. The chips were a bit bland without dip, as annoying as the stuff was. Looking around one more time, he saw a display of chips that were sour cream and onion. Just what he needed. The dip already in the bag. Must’ve been made for men whose wives had kicked them out. Picking up four of them, he headed, eyes downcast, to the checkout.

  He couldn’t take another well-meant condolence, spoken or otherwise. He didn’t want somebody to stop him and ask him what he was doing with chips and so much beer, either. Didn’t want to answer any more questions, period.

  He didn’t want anything to get back to Becca.

  He wasn’t doing anything to hurt her.

  But she’d told him to figure out what he wanted. She’d told him to find a home of his own that he really liked.

  She expected him to be gone long enough to need a home of his own.

  Will grabbed another bag of chips from an end-rack display on his way to the checkout.

  Enjoying bachelorhood was what this separation was all about. Wasn’t it?

  “YOU SHOULD MOVE to Phoenix,” Duane told him later that evening as he laid down his cards to Will’s winning hand again. They’d been discussing Will’s trip to the grocery. “It’s the only way to get away from the gossip. The people in this town will remember everything about you till the day you die.”

  Will knew that. He just wasn’t sure moving to Phoenix would be any improvement. Shelter Valley was home. Not just “home” as a place to live but “home” as something more fundamental—part of his very nature. What kind of man was he to turn his back on it the minute it got ugly, lost its youthful sheen? Or was he the one who’d lost the sheen? He, who was finally seeing the cracks in the sidewalk?