Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

  At least I’m finally looking forward to my baby being born, I decide on the walk home.

  When I reach the house and discover that Deck has not yet returned, I’m too tired to go to sleep. Though the thought of a cocktail is as appetizing as swallowing a raw egg, I crave adult interaction after that terrible run-in with Miss Colivan. I write my own note, slip it under the magnet for Deck to find, pet Slow Henry, and hoof it to Little John’s Pub.

  Time to meet Lilydale’s nightlife.

  CHAPTER 12

  Little John’s reminds me of the 620 Club in Minneapolis, where I first met Deck, minus the perpetually turning plastic turkey on a spit that is the 620’s showcase. Both bars are dim and murky, with thick currents of smoke lending the spaces an underwater feel. My eyes take a moment to adjust, inflating my other senses. I smell Aqua Velva and cigarettes and the sour lick of spilled cocktails. The conversation drops when I step into the bar, and it sounds like I’m being stared at, and then the door closes behind me and my eyes adjust and everyone in the bar is doing what people in bars do.

  Elbows on the counter, talking to one another.

  The click clack of a pair shooting a game of pool.

  Men in shirtsleeves arguing across tables, their drinks sweating.

  A handful of couples, the women coarse, their hair bound under kerchiefs, the men with dirty hands and wide smiles. Someone stands in a dark corner, his back to me. For a crazy second, it looks like he’s licking the wall, but then he turns, a lighter illuminating his face followed by the orange ember of a drawn cigarette, before he returns to shadow.

  Pulse thudding in my wrists, I have a moment to decide between sitting at the bar or a table. Any more time taken and I’ll be making a spectacle of myself.

  I select the bar because it’s the nearest. My legs quiver on the way to the stool. I tell myself it’s nerves. It’s never easy being the new person. I crave an icy-cold Tab and good conversation, but ordering pop in this establishment will surely only call more unwanted attention to me. “Tom Collins, please.”

  The bartender, a small man with a face like a withered apple, studies me for so long that I think he’s going to demand identification. I still occasionally got carded in Minneapolis, but I never imagined it would happen here. The thought, oddly, makes me feel extra small. Like I don’t belong. I mean, I know I’m new to town, but something about the prospect of being carded right now feels like more than my ego can handle.

  When the bartender opens his mouth, I discover it’s even worse.

  “How about lemonade, Mrs. Schmidt?”

  I shrink to the size of a cockroach. “Pardon me?”

  “I could pour you a refreshing glass of lemonade. It’ll be better for you.”

  The bar has gone quiet but for the haunting strains of “Ode to Billie Joe” drifting out of the jukebox.

  Ursula, Libby, and I used to catch Candid Camera together on Sunday nights, but I know I’m not being recorded, not having a prank played on me. The bartender is visibly uncomfortable. I glance down the bar at the men staring back at me, their expressions inscrutable. Honestly, I would have preferred a lemonade, but there’s more at stake.

  “Is everyone else having lemonade?” My voice jelly-wobbles.

  “It’s just, ma’am . . . your condition.”

  The second time today I’ve heard that. A fever starts in my chest and fires up my neck, torching my cheeks. I don’t know who or what my anger would have burned if a woman around my age didn’t pop behind the bar, grab a collins glass, and start mixing a drink as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  Judging by the apron at her waist, it is.

  “I’ve got this, Albert,” she says, smiling at the bartender. Her overbite and dimples give her a playful, childlike appearance. “Ladies waiting on ladies. That’s how it should be, eh?”

  Albert grunts and walks to the other end of the bar. The waitress laughs, a deep chuckle that counterbalances her dimples.

  “I’m Regina.” She offers me her hand.

  Rescue Regina, saving ladies in distress and smelling of verbena.

  I shake her hand, realize my own is trembling.

  She leans in so she can talk without everyone overhearing. “Small towns. Everyone knows your business. What’re you gonna do?”

  Regina suddenly reminds me of my mother so much that my heart twists. I don’t trust myself to hold the drink she’s offering, so I indicate the bar. She sets the Tom Collins in front of me.

  “Are you going to get in trouble for serving me?” I ask, my voice chalky.

  Regina rests one hand on the bar, the other on her hip. Now that she’s in front of me, I can see that she’s in her midtwenties, a few years younger than my twenty-eight. “Maybe. There’s worse trouble to come if we don’t stand up for each other, though. Since when does someone else get to decide what you drink?”

  “I’m pregnant.” Here it feels like admitting to leprosy, or murder. My mouth is dry, but I can’t bring my lips to the straw to drink.

  “I’m Canadian,” Regina says.

  It takes the joke a moment to settle. It’s not particularly funny, but Regina’s effort relaxes me enough that I can finally take a sip. The crisp bite of gin unlocks my jaw. “How’d you end up here?”

  “I was on the road with my boyfriend. Boyfiend, I now call him. We traveled as far south as Lilydale. We ran short on scratch, so the ding-a-ling ditched me. I got a gig here, an apartment.” She points to the ceiling. “Upstairs from my job. Convenient. It’s as good a place as any until I figure out my next move.” She plants her elbows on the bar and drops her chin into her hands. “If you ever want to stop by and hang, I work nearly every day, and your money’s good with me.”

  I smile as it dawns on me that I’m looking at the first thing about Lilydale that Ursula would approve of. I won’t have any more of my drink—I didn’t want it in the first place—but I’ll be damned if I’ll let my discomfort push me out.

  CHAPTER 13

  Which is how I wake up Saturday morning with a job, a friend, and an orange-and-white-striped ball of fur purring on my chest. “Slow Henry, you know you’re not supposed to be in bed.”

  He pretends not to hear. I scratch him in the sweet spot behind his ear.

  “Small-town life suits you,” I say. “Maybe we can grow fat and glossy together.”

  I slip my hand under my nightgown, sliding it along my warm belly. The sip of last night’s Tom Collins doesn’t seem to have harmed anything, other than giving me a case of near-immediate heartburn. I’m four days shy of five months pregnant, and my pants still fit.

  Soon they won’t, though. The thought turns my throat greasy.

  Morning sickness?

  No, it’s something else, one of the attacks that started at Mom’s funeral. The first one, I thought I was dying but was too embarrassed to tell anyone, so I ran into the bathroom to hide until it passed. I recognize them now by the way they make the air go thick and slanted, until I can’t seem to fit it down my throat. It’s like I’m being buried alive and I need to run or hide or jump out of my own skin, but I can’t escape them no matter what I do.

  I shove the quilt off, Slow Henry with it.

  He howls.

  I feel terrible, but if I don’t get some fresh air immediately, I’m going to vomit.

  I race to the window, scrabbling at the wood. I must crack it. Now. I need air or I’ll die. The window is stuck. In my desperation, I peel back two fingernails trying to pry it open. The pain is breathtaking.

  “Joanie? Let me help you with that.”

  I spin, plastering myself to the wall.

  Deck sets a tray down on the bed. He strolls over to the window. Unlocks it. Slides it open. The rush of morning-cool May air kisses my skin. Warbling birdsong and the distant thrum of cars drift inside. My heartbeat is no longer the loudest sound in the room.

  Deck studies me, his expression perplexed. “Are you okay, honey?”

  I nod. Swallow. Point
at the tray. “You made breakfast?”

  Deck smiles, runs his hand through his thick, dark hair. He’s so damn good-looking. “Your favorite. French toast and bacon. Coffee with whitener.”

  I push sweaty hair out of my eyes. Smooth the front of my nightgown. Swallow again. The nausea has passed. “Thank you. Do I have to eat it here?” My lips catch on my teeth. “Because I don’t want to mess up the sheets.”

  It’s uncharitable, I know. He obviously wanted to bring me breakfast in bed. I need to escape this room, though, and some animal part of me understands I must do it calmly, to not alert Deck to the depth of the discomfort I’ve just experienced. I haven’t told him about the attacks. I don’t want him to think I’m losing my mind.

  His expression slips. He turns from me, picking up the tray and walking out the door. “Let’s eat in the nook you like so much,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I glance around the room, clenching and then releasing my hands to get blood circulating. I toss the quilt back on the bed, plump the pillows. Then I drop on my knees and peek under the bed. Slow Henry is hiding there, pouting and licking his paw, glaring at me. I stretch to pet him.

  “Sorry, buddy. A momentary lapse of reason.”

  When I pad downstairs, I see Deck has a tablecloth—a sheet, actually; we don’t own tablecloths—spread across the kitchen’s built-in breakfast table. I’ve been begging him to eat there since we moved, but he hasn’t wanted to. He was fine doing it in our Minneapolis apartment, but not in his childhood home. His mother taught him that meals involve family, and with only two seats, the nook doesn’t have enough room.

  I beam. Eating in the cozy alcove is the perfect antidote to what just happened upstairs. “You sure?”

  Deck pats the bench next to him. “Yeah. It was unreasonable not to use this space. You were right. It’s comfy.”

  I scooch next to him and sniff the food. It’s gone cold and so doesn’t have much scent. I see he’s left all the dirty dishes on the counter, the ingredients he used to make the breakfast out and open. “This looks delicious.”

  He rubs my back while I douse the french toast in amber-colored syrup.

  “You’re not having any?” I ask.

  “I already ate.” He hadn’t been home when I returned from Little John’s last night. I assume his meeting was a success.

  “I have so much to catch you up on,” I say after I swallow my first bite. “I was at the school last night. Covering the music concert for the paper.”

  He nods.

  “My first article, Deck! It was wonderful.” I take a sip of my watery coffee. “Mostly wonderful. I met Miss Colivan.”

  Deck’s mouth quirks. “And?”

  “And do you remember her? Because she sure remembers you.” I open my mouth for another bite. A lapel pin on the table catches my eye as the rubbery french toast passes my lips. I point at it and talk around the mouthful. “What’s that?”

  Deck’s still rubbing my back. With his free hand, he picks up the pin. It’s the size of a quarter, flower-shaped—the exact shape of Dorothy Lily’s locket—a white background with a red embossed capital M on its face. I lean closer. That’s not exactly right. The two top points of the M extend longer than they should.

  “It’s a capital V,” Deck is saying, “on top of a small capital M. That’s what I was told, anyhow.”

  “What’s it stand for?”

  “Something in Latin, I think. The group is called the Fathers and Mothers. What’s Latin for that?”

  Something slide-bumps inside my rib cage. “Pater and Mater, I think? Like paternity and maternity?”

  “That’s not it, then.” Deck rubs his thumb over the insignia. Exactly like I rubbed the pineapple brooch when I first pocketed it. “Doesn’t really matter. What’s important is that the Fathers and Mothers is the in-group in town. I bet I landed a dozen new clients at last night’s meeting.”

  “Deck, that’s great!” My happiness is real. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be that much new business in a place this size. Everyone would already have insurance, you know? I should probably join the Fathers and Mothers myself, now that I’m working for the newspaper. When’s the next meeting?”

  He sets the pin down. “You’re not going to like this.”

  Slide-bump.

  “The Fathers is for men. No women allowed. But men aren’t admitted in the Mothers, either, so it all evens out.”

  “What?”

  He pulls his hand from my back, turns so he’s facing rather than touching me. “It’s a small town. What’re you gonna do? The good news is that they host monthly mingles where all the men and women get together.”

  “The women cook, I suppose?”

  He laughs. “Probably. Don’t worry, darling. I’ll do the cooking. Just like I did for you this morning. We’ll shake them up from the inside.”

  His laugh is warm and inviting. I’m not ready to give in yet, though. “What if you lose business by ‘shaking things up’? If they run this town, they’re not going to like change.”

  “Nobody likes change, not at first. May I?”

  He hovers his hand near my belly. I nod. He cups the curve just visible through my nightgown. “I see where they get the saying ‘a bun in the oven.’”

  “Deck!” I swat him, but playfully. “You’re supposed to tell me I’ve never been more beautiful.”

  “You haven’t,” he says, suddenly serious. He traces my cheek with the back of his finger. “Joanie, don’t think I don’t see what you’ve given up to move here with me, to keep me out of the war. To start a new life where you don’t know anyone. To have my baby. Gawd . . .”

  He chokes on his next words. I’m shocked. I’ve never seen him emotional.

  I toss my arms around him. “I love you, honey,” I say.

  “I love you, too.” He kisses me on the mouth. I’m ashamed of my morning-breakfast breath. He doesn’t seem to mind. The kiss goes deeper, searching, and I feel a pleasant warmth flowing through my blood, pulsing between my legs. We haven’t made love nearly as much since I’ve been pregnant. I miss it.

  He’s pulling back to kiss my neck, a move that electrifies me. I tilt my head to give him access. Instead, he tugs my face back and rests his nose on mine, our eyelashes nearly touching. “I need to ask a favor.”

  “Yeah?” I’ve forgotten about my morning queasiness, the french toast, living in a small town. I just want him.

  He clears his throat, his expression going soft. “I want to make lots of money, enough that we can buy a bigger house. A house that’s all ours. I’m going to shake up the Fathers and the Mothers, I promise you that, but there’s one area they won’t budge on, and that’s pregnant women drinking in public.”

  His words are ice water. I pull back, slowly, my fingers arching into claws.

  “Word reached the meeting last night that you were out at Little John’s.”

  My surge of rage is perfectly counterbalanced by a sense of impotence, leaving me nothing but numb. “But Deck—” I start. He cuts me off before I can tell him that I didn’t even want to drink, barely choked down a sip before the heartburn kicked in.

  “I know what you’re going to say. It’s your body, your choice. I agree with you, and I’ll tell the world that.”

  The conversation is spinning so far away from me I can’t even see where to get in. I didn’t want to drink. I only wanted to socialize.

  But Deck doesn’t notice my struggle. He’s gone back to fingering the lapel pin. “There’s a doctor in town that everyone loves. Dr. Krause. The Mothers say he’s the best. A real ace.”

  The words that finally manage to plop out are ugly, childish. “You said no Mothers were allowed at the meeting.”

  Deck’s eyes flick to me, then return to the pin. “A few Mothers dropped by at the end to clean up. You caused quite a buzz, popping up in Little John’s last night without me. Got the whole town talking.” He chuckles. “The Mothers suggested that you see Dr. Krause, get his opini
on on how a pregnant woman should conduct herself. I figure, if he says drinking while pregnant is fine, then that’ll shut everyone up.”

  I clip every word before I release it. I’m not even sure what I’m fighting for, but I’m desperate to be right about something. “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then we’ll both stop drinking in public. We’ll save it for home, just the two of us.”

  The numbness hasn’t receded.

  “Please, Joanie? It’s only for a few more months.”

  I twitch. He takes it for agreement. He stands, kissing the top of my head. “You’re the best. The absolute bee’s knees. I have to get going. Dad and I are looking at a property south of town. They need home insurance. Could be a big deal. Might go hunting after that.”

  He grabs his wallet and keys and is out the door before I can ask him when he took up hunting.

  CHAPTER 14

  After I shower, I find a handwritten note threaded into my typewriter’s platen.

  Baby, you are the earth, sun, and moon to me.

  It’s the fourth note I’ve discovered since Deck left. One was taped to the milk inside the fridge, another written on a square of toilet paper still on the roll—that one made me smile, grudgingly—a third coiled in the elf’s-shoe twist of our toothpaste. All the notes say the same thing, essentially: Deck loves me and is always thinking of me.

  The edges of my anger melt. I do need to find a doctor in Lilydale, after all. Might as well be one who comes highly recommended. Besides, it’s so silly, how this escalated. I simply wanted to get out of the house last night. I’d be fine never having another drink in my life.

  I make a silent pledge to call Dr. Krause first thing Monday morning.

  That’s also the deadline for the article I’m turning in to Dennis, but I see no reason to wait. I prop up the notebook that I brought to last night’s concert, scanning my neat shorthand. With luck, the camera holds four or five good photos. Personally, I hope Dennis chooses the one featuring the student-made yellow submarine, a painted plywood cutout as large as a car. It had required several kids to wheel it out, and their pride glowed on their faces.