Corrine’s response to this was to duck her head and shrug. “He’s cute.” Then her chin came up. “I like him.”
“Oh, I can see that.” Belinda watched Corrine put dishes in the small dishwasher.
“I’m not even eight years younger than he is,” Corrine said, raising her chin higher. She had the neck of a swan and the eyes of a woman already.
“That’s not anythin’,” replied Belinda.
Corrine then said, “But he thinks I’m just a kid.”
“Oh, sugar, his lips may say that, but his eyes do not.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, yeah. And time flies. You’ll be catchin’ him in two years. Eighteen and then twenty comes pretty fast. You are a young woman gettin’ older all the time.”
“I just hope he waits.” The girl’s eyes looked at some distant point.
“Oh, he’ll wait, or he’ll be goin’ through a divorce,” said Belinda in a manner so certain that Corrine took it as a pronouncement of her good future to come.
The next instant Belinda grabbed her rather large purse. “Now, I’m off early to the bank, and then I gotta run up to Lawton for an appointment. I’m leavin’ you to close up tonight. You have any trouble, you just call on Oran, or you can call my cell phone, but you may have to leave a message.”
“I can handle it, Miss Belinda.”
“I know you can, sugar.”
Again the woman spoke with such breezy confidence that Corrine felt fully capable of anything that might come her way. In fact, she went around to the magazine shelves and told the tough senior-class boys there to stop their loitering and made them pay for the magazines they had crumpled, then she moved on to the makeup rack and told the girls to stop shop-lifting and made them pay for packages they had pried open. All the teens complied quite readily, and at least two said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Returning behind the soda fountain counter, Corrine made herself a cherry Coca-Cola, with two real cocktail cherries. She then scooted her little fanny up on Miss Belinda’s stool to sip her drink through a straw while dreaming of how she and Larry Joe were going to get engaged. In the ten days that she had worked for Belinda Blaine, she had learned that the woman had eyes in the back of her head, as Aunt Marilee would have said, and was rarely wrong about anything.
Belinda would have laughed at that description of herself. Right then, as she drove, with eyes shielded by large dark sunglasses, she felt wrong all the way around. In fact, she was so preoccupied by feeling wrong that she did not see anything. She drove completely on automatic pilot, and by the time she arrived at her destination, her head was about to explode.
When she pulled into a parking space in the lot of a small but modern building and found herself gazing at the sign—Women’s Health Care—she could not remember making the trip. How long she gazed at the sign, she did not know, but suddenly she blinked, looked at her watch and got out of her car, straightened her suit in a nervous manner, then walked slowly into the building.
Dr. Desirée Zwolle, Gynecologist, was the last of the three names printed on the glass door. Belinda took a deep breath and entered.
The receptionist handed over a clipboard with about a million forms that Belinda filled out in a less than diligent manner, then returned the forms to the receptionist, who took them without looking up.
Belinda sat back down, this time choosing what appeared to be a more comfortable large wingback chair. She looked around the room and found herself impressed. It was very tastefully, femininely decorated.
There were only four other occupants in the waiting area. A very tired-looking mother with a rambunctious toddler sat on the couch. The woman closed her eyes intermittently. Belinda thought she looked the sort who probably had at least five more children at home.
A young couple sat in adjoining chairs. The girl had long straight blond hair and cheerleader makeup. The boy looked like a toothpaste advertisement. They were going through a book of baby names and speaking the names aloud to try them out. Their last name was apparently Oxley. “Aiden Oxley…Bethany Oxley… Caleb Oxley…” Listening to them wore Belinda out.
When the tired-looking mother was called back to the exam rooms, she passed the young couple and said, “You might want to make sure you pick a name now. After you’ve been in labor for thirty-six hours, you come up with something like Cyrano…Cyrano Schultz. That’s what I named my third one.”
The younger woman’s eyes widened and swung anxiously to her husband. Thirty-six hours, she mouthed.
The young man looked totally helpless; then he took to the baby name book like a life raft and began reading more names aloud.
Belinda’s cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse and looked at the small screen. Unknown Caller. But Belinda knew, in that way that is without doubt, that the caller was her mother. That was how things worked between them.
She turned the phone off and tucked it back into her purse, and attempted to make her mind a blank so that her mother could not read it all the way from France.
Finally Belinda was escorted back to an exam room. The nurse, who introduced herself as Betty, was an older woman with a competent manner. She looked over Belinda’s chart, saying things like, “So you are pregnant…well, mostly those home tests are accurate… First time? I see you are thirty-eight…get a lot of older mothers these days…” She was quite friendly, until, “You have not seen a doctor in over seven years.”
Her gaze shot over the top of her glasses, demanding an explanation.
“I rarely get sick,” Belinda offered. She felt absurdly lacking.
“Well, honey, how do you know? Pap smears and mammograms are to catch things early.”
Nurse Betty took Belinda’s blood pressure and shook her head. Belinda, who had been feeling more wrong and more alarmed by the minute, watched the woman pull items out of a drawer and plop them onto the tray near the examination table that Belinda had been trying not to look at.
“Dr. Zwolle will be in here in a few minutes,” the nurse said, the words sounding like something of a threat. Then she gestured toward the wall. “There are some pamphlets with information for mothers over thirty-five…and on why we have regular exams. You might want to give those a look.”
She breezed out. The door closed.
Belinda gazed at the door for a moment, then slowly turned to the rack of pamphlets. They were very disorderly. She went over and automatically began straightening them. “We need to keep more order,” she said aloud.
She spied Pregnancy After 35. This one she slowly took down and began to read.
Women over the age of 35 may have trouble conceiving… Ha! Then next: They also have a greater chance of having twins.
Barely realizing that she did so, Belinda sank into a straight-backed chair.
Her eyes returned to the pamphlet in the vague hope that she had misread and then continued in some sort of frantic manner: Increased risk of miscarriage…Down syndrome…gestational diabetes…high blood pressure…
Well, even if she didn’t have any of those things, she was in danger of being scared to death.
“Ms. Blaine?”
“Yes?”
“Did you hear me? I said you can get dressed, and I’ll be back to talk with you.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”
Belinda realized that she was sitting up on the exam table. She slowly stepped down to the floor. As she began to dress, she became aware of having no memory of the exam.
She remembered meeting Dr. Zwolle, who proved to be a surprisingly youthful and beautiful woman, with very good taste in clothes. The doctor was also competent and cordial, and she did not say one word of censure about Belinda not having regular checkups. Obviously the woman had good sense, and kept to what was important and her own business. Belinda had felt reassured. And she had made a point of telling the doctor how much she liked the pleasant waiting room and that the exam room had hooks on the wall for her clothes. She didn’t say anything about the disorder
ly pamphlets.
Belinda remembered being left alone to undress, and then the doctor returning and helping her onto the examination table. After that was all a blank. Except—
She looked upward over the exam table. Yes, there was a poster of a debonair George Clooney fastened onto the ceiling.
The doctor returned again and took the rolling stool. Belinda sat in the straight-backed chair, clutching her purse and her senses. She watched the woman’s face and listened as carefully as possible, although there seemed to be a sort of roaring in her head after the doctor said, “Yes, I agree with that little stick that you are pregnant.”
There was more about necessary blood tests and keeping a watch on her blood pressure, which was a little high. The doctor suggested Belinda get a blood pressure home tester. She also wanted her to watch her sugar and carbohydrate intake, and to get moderate exercise. She gave Belinda several pages of instruction on these matters.
“Do you have any questions?” the doctor asked when she had finished.
“Yes,” said Belinda. She then shifted in her seat and gazed at the doctor so long that the woman leaned forward with a questioning expression.
Finally Belinda forced out the words. “I had an abortion. Twenty…well, nineteen years ago. I’ve read that there can be a higher rate of miscarriage.”
“Ah-huh.” The doctor sat back.
Belinda watched the woman’s face, finding no clue as to her thoughts.
“Well, yes.” The doctor nodded. “A number of studies have indicated higher rates of miscarriage in women who’ve had abortions. And miscarriage rates for women over thirty-five begin to climb, too. What this means for you is that we will monitor you very carefully. We will need to have the results of your blood tests to get a more complete picture. However, I see no problem at this point. You appear a very healthy woman, Ms. Blaine, and you do not indicate any other risk factors. You don’t smoke…drink…take drugs?”
“No!” The thought pricked. “I have sometimes had a glass of wine at dinner or at night…or on special occasions.”
“That small amount is fine, but cut it out for now. You’re in good shape, and we’re going to take good care of you.” The doctor looked intently but not unkindly at Belinda. “You do want this baby, then?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
She had said it now. Aloud. Her ugly secret was out. She had told someone for the first time in nineteen years that she had had an abortion.
She drove along the boulevard. The sun sank in glorious gold to the west. She turned on the headlights and raked a hand through her hair in a careless manner that she normally did not do.
Nineteen years old, she had been at the time. Her second year in college. The first time she had dared to fall in love. Madison Ferguson. It had started by her tutoring him in English. She had not been pretty or popular, but she had been necessary. She could hardly believe when Madison had stayed late with her. It wasn’t until later that she realized they had never been on a date. He had never gone anywhere they might be seen together.
“Stupid fat cow, why weren’t you on the pill?” he said when she told him. Then, “It was just for fun…for laughs…and it might not even be mine.”
She had thought she would die of the pain, shame and humiliation. “Fat cow,” she would hear over and over in memory.
She did not go to her parents, because she had never gone to her parents. She could not remember clearly, but it might have been during one of her parents’ flares of not talking to each other. She had no close friends. She had always done everything on her own. There had been plenty of information about abortion around the university campus. It had seemed the only way.
Since that time she had avoided regular gynecological checkups and doctors in general. She could hardly stand for a doctor to touch her. She avoided children in the same way. She told herself, and rightly so, that she would not make a good mother. And after all, was not Lyle enough of a child for her?
She wanted this baby. She had said that aloud now, too.
How much she wanted it was a surprise to her.
Wanting the baby was not a question. Being deserving of a baby was.
Her hand went to her belly.
She was certain the baby was going to be taken from her, as punishment for what she had done. Who she was. Who she would never be.
That sounded crazy. Didn’t she believe in a loving God?
She supposed she did, except for this one point. Maybe she believed God loved everyone else, but that she was a particularly hard and bad case, so He could not love her. What sort of mother would she make? She did not know how to be a mother. Everything she had learned was from her own mother, who had never been exceptionally good at the job. Her mother even admitted this. No women in their family should have children. They messed up the job.
Just then she became aware of something uncomfortable on her arm. It was the bandage on her inner elbow, where she’d had the blood test done. She reached up her sleeve, yanked off the bandage and tossed it out the window. She did not want to risk any questions from Lyle or anyone else.
What if she ended up having a miscarriage? What if God took the baby from her like that? Lyle would be crushed. She would fail him terribly. It was better to wait and see, at least for a time.
She tried not to get herself attached to the idea of being pregnant. That way she would not be too hurt if things went wrong.
When she got home, she poured herself a glass of wine and took it to the bathroom, where she ran hot water for a bath. She was immersed in the water and had drunk half the glass before remembering that the doctor had told her not to have alcohol, and wondering if she should be in the hot water. She hopped out of the tub and poured the wine down the sink. For some reason, afterward she felt compelled to drink a full glass of water as an antidote.
PART TWO
It Takes Faith, Not Expectations
CHAPTER 10
1550 on the Radio Dial
Riding Along on a Carousel
THE EARLY-MORNING WAKE UP HOUR AND WHAT was now the signature reveille were a success.
By the end of the first week, Jim Rainwater had made a recording of Winston, Everett and Willie Lee yelling, “Get up! Get up, you sleepyhead!” complete with the sound effect of the bugle call. All Jim had to do was flip a switch, and the yell went out, first to open the show at 6:00 a.m., then at the half hour, and to close at 7:00 a.m. Once in a while Winston would yell out the refrain at an unexpected moment, just to keep everyone on their toes and to amuse himself.
The second week of the program, a radio station over in Ardmore called and wanted to purchase rights to use the tape. This request resulted in Tate, Everett and attorney Jaydee Mayhall getting in a deep discussion about all manner of property rights and values. Winston listened to the men for a few minutes, and then slipped away to Jim Rainwater’s crowded little office, picked up the telephone on the crowded little desk and called the manager of the Ardmore station. After a brief, friendly discussion, Winston privately conferred with Jim Rainwater and had the young man send over the recording. He informed the others after the fact.
“Got to strike while the fire is hot,” Winston said, and told the men they could now work out their legalities.
This proved to be a fortuitous path of action, because by the end of the week, two more radio stations contacted them. Winston happened to take the second call, which was from a major station in the Oklahoma City market. Winston doubled the asking price and received it readily.
That Winston pretty much called the shots on everything aggravated Everett Northrupt to death. On the air, Winston continued to just spout out anything he wanted to say, while Everett felt that was a poor way to conduct a radio show. He tried writing script after script for them to follow, but Winston never went along.
What bothered Everett the most was that no matter how hard he tried, he was not able to think up clever, witty things like Winston did right on the spot. Sometimes Everett was awake hal
f the night, attempting to think up witty things to say. He would come up with a few that sounded good in those dark hours, but when he tried to say them in the light of day, they came out all twisted.
Further annoying was that Winston told him, “Everett, you just got to loosen up, buddy,” or “Don’t take it so serious, you won’t get off the earth alive.”
Those comments, and many others, drove Everett crazy. He did try to loosen up, but the more he tried, the worse everything seemed to turn out for him and the tighter he got.
Another frustration was that everyone persisted in calling the show Waking Up with Winston. Sometimes people might say Waking Up with Winston and Willie Lee, but no one ever went to the trouble to add Everett’s name. Worse yet, a lot of people just called it Winston’s Early Morning Hour, which would throw Everett into a tizzy. Once Everett had gotten so worked up as to yank off his hat, throw it down and stomp on it, yelling, “It is the Wake Up show—PERIOD! That’s the name, if you want to say it right!”
Yet still and all, as the weeks went on, Everett began to have more success than ever in his relatively short life as a radio-show host. Maybe than ever in his life, period. The call-ins to his Everett in the Morning show doubled, and people actually stopped him on the street and complimented him (or complained, but that counted) on something he had said on the air. He began to see that being second banana, or in some cases third, as he and Willie Lee ran neck and neck, was a lot better than being no banana at all.
Then one day Winston came in with one of those grand ideas of his, and Everett realized something.
“I was cleanin’ out old newspapers,” Winston said into the microphone, “and I found this news item from the Valentine Voice—that’s our hometown newspaper and actual owner of this station, so we should give them a plug, don’t you think?” Winston raised an eyebrow at Everett.
“Yes, we should,” said Everett, conscious of filling airtime. “And what is the news item?”
Little Town, Great Big Life Page 10
