Her stomach somersaulted again. 6.14. Must have been that fish Teddy cooked last night. No telling what Bertolis was selling nowadays. She listened to the stillness. Teddy wasn’t sick; she would have heard her moving about. 6.20. No use lying around comparing digestive tracts, she decided, but she got up too quickly, felt dizzy, then nauseated and headed straight for the bathroom. She heaved into the toilet once, twice, then leaned against the bathroom wall.
The lav. She recalled one of Ann’s letters. Ann said she was sick like this every day of the voyage to Britain.
‘You OK?’ Teddy called groggily.
‘Yes,’ said Moira. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Sure, but what’s wrong?’
‘Oh, just the fish. It didn’t agree with me.’ Moira considered the maddening thing about Teddy was that she would go back to sleep.
‘We didn’t have fish last night. It was eggs.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Moira. ‘Now go back to sleep.’
Must be losing my marbles as well, Moira thought. And no wonder, worrying about Randy in the middle of the ocean — why had it been so long since the last letter — and Ann in devastated London and Wanda fighting coyotes in the desert. The war had become so real she was afraid to read the papers. When she wasn’t worrying, she was feeling guilty.
Of course you didn’t have to be far away to suffer. Poor Mrs Minelli had died in a flash last month when her four nephews were lost in Europe. Heart attack, explained Mr Minelli, who was supposed to be the sick one. Eggs, sure, Mr Minelli had brought them a carton of eggs from his sister’s farm in Petaluma.
Well, she would get up and walk to Vivian’s. One less stop for the carpool and the air would do her good.
Moira peered out the window through the fog as she pulled on her overalls. Couldn’t see more than 3 feet this morning. Stubborn fastener. She held the pants tighter and accomplished the task. Downstairs she brewed a half pot of precious, rationed coffee. A cup for herself and enough for Teddy. She would skip breakfast. As she left, she grabbed an apple from the sideboard.
Teddy woke again with the slamming of the front door. Moira needed more practice playing elf. Yet, even in her irritation, she felt fond of the girl. Although Teddy missed Wanda and Ann terribly, she was never lonely. Moira filled the house with a great vitality. What was it going to be like when Mr Minelli’s niece from Cleveland arrived? If she arrived. Mr Minelli had asked them to save the room months ago. Of course, it was him losing out on the rent, but sometimes Teddy felt guilty rattling around a big house when there was a housing shortage in San Francisco. She was also enjoying the time alone with Moira.
Teddy could smell the coffee as she reached the first floor. Sweet of Moira to make her some. No dish in the sink. Had she skipped breakfast again? The kid was going to get sick. Not that she looked skinny. The picture of health, Mom would say, all that color in her cheeks and the halo of red vibrating from her hennaed hair. Teddy smiled now, recalling her distress when Moira confessed she colored her hair. She hadn’t exactly confessed. Teddy had found the plastic gloves, stained red, in the bathroom sink and didn’t know what to imagine. Moira had laughed at her horror-stricken face and stood with her back to the window, the low winter sun blazing through her curls. Teddy had to wonder at the difference between them — Moira always one step to adventure and herself standing back, surveying the ground, or the sink or the stove. Moira laced the house with surprise. And Teddy looked forward to coming home, especially with Randy gone. He had been perfectly civil to her during his leave in May. Moira was right — he had grown up in recent months. Still, his presence nettled her. This was probably her fault. It was a terrible thought, wishing the war on someone and in fact she hadn’t wished anything except that he leave the premises. Moira seemed half-missing when he was around — more ladylike, more cautious.
Teddy wiped up the coffee grounds, poured milk over a bowl of Rice Krispies and sat down at the table. She was glad they had cancelled the morning paper because it always made her reluctant to leave the house. She pulled Wanda’s letter from the bread basket, although she had memorized it along with the letters from Virgil and Ann and Angela.
We have better quarters for visitors than when Ann came through. The whole camp is more settled. I still waver every day between believing we’ll be leaving tomorrow and planning life here as an old woman.
Teddy promised herself she wouldn’t cancel the Arizona trip again unless Pop’s new tests in the hospital proved serious. She wished Moira would come with her. Moira was always better at social situations. And they would have a lark riding the bus together. But Moi insisted on staying home, in case she missed a letter from Randy. Anyway, it was better to have someone here to keep an eye on Mr Minelli and Mr Rose. Teddy checked her watch, then washed her breakfast dishes with Moira’s coffee cup.
The rain poured as Moira trudged uphill to the doctor’s office. One of those freak summer storms, spoiling the well-being of July. Of course she had no raincoat or umbrella. Unprepared. How can you be prepared for an assault? She thought of Randy, shellfire bursting from behind tropical bushes. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …’ she dredged up the old prayers for him, distracting herself from the hill. Moira could feel herself sweating; sweating in the rain. Just as Daddy complained: San Francisco seemed built on a 90° angle. She was overcome with claustrophobia, queasy and tired. Maybe Teddy could warm up some chicken soup. If she had the flu, this rain would not help. Brushing wet hair from her forehead, she slopped on. For a week now, she had been postponing this visit. A nurse was closing the door as she approached. Moira delivered one of her best Loretta Young entreaties. The woman waved her into the office.
‘Some afternoon,’ commiserated the grey-haired nurse. Moira noticed how clean her white coat was, except for some blue scratches by the pocket where she kept her pen.
‘Yes,’ said Moira shaking rain from her hair and then thinking better of it.
The woman sat behind a desk. She looked so much like Sister Lawrence. Moira twisted her ring, moving the birthstone toward the palm and summoned confidence. ‘The test.’ She tried to forget Sister Lawrence. ‘I came for the result of the test I-I-I took last week.’
‘Yes,’ the woman’s face softened. ‘And the name? Mrs … ?’
‘Girard,’ Moira said to the doctor ten minutes later. ‘Girard,’ she was aware of the hard, abrupt edges of that name compared to the music of Finlayson. Finlayson. Finlayson.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Girard,’ Moira raised her voice, irritated with herself for mumbling.
‘I mean,’ the doctor spoke carefully, ‘the answer is “yes”.’ He pointed to a box on the blue form. ‘You’re going to have a baby, my dear.’
Moira’s face was flushed and wet. ‘Damn rain,’ she said.
‘Would you like to lie down?’
‘No,’ Moira looked at him as if he were mad. ‘No time. Thank you.’ She made her way to the door, breathing deeply to keep from collapsing.
‘Good-bye, then.’
When Moira walked outside, it was July again, warm and sunny, her favorite month. Two thoughts collided as she hiked down to the bus stop: this explains the french fries; and it isn’t fair. He was wearing a sheath. She had watched him peel it off each time. She had suspected something for a month, not because of her period. That was never regular. But because of the french fries. Lately, she was eating massive amounts of french fries doused in vinegar. She used to hate how Mother and Daddy poured disgusting malt vinegar on their chips. Yet for weeks now, she had not been able to sate her appetite for the concoction.
The bus stop was crowded. Vaguely, she recalled Mother’s stories of being pregnant and having to stand on the bus — almost fainting from the smell of someone’s perfume. Until now, she had suspected such stories were manufactured to induce guilt. Overcome with exhaustion, she leaned on a tel
ephone pole. A young Chinese woman, younger than she, held the hand of a little boy. Next to them, an old Italian couple stood solidly with, yet apart from, each other. To the left, a blond woman, in overalls like herself, held a squirming infant. Moira forced her eyes away from the woman’s ring finger. Several more people arrived at the bus top. Christ, this was different from the orderly queues Ann described in London. Here people milled restlessly. Would she get a seat? What was the priority — old people? Women with children? Inside or outside the belly? She was a woman with a child. It wasn’t possible. It was entirely possible.
The bus wheezed to a stop in front of them, packed to the gills. Did babies have gills? How did they breathe inside your stomach? People squeezed aboard the bus. They all stood, save for the little boy who charmed his way on to a woman’s lap. Moira found herself between the old couple. She offered to change places, so they might stand together, but they both shook their heads resolutely. Were they Russian, she reconsidered. Ann said the buses in London were always crowded — when they came. The little boy was sucking a dried fig. Would it be a boy — lively and tough like Randy? The bus jolted. Tighter, she gripped the handrail. God, she was glad it was Teddy’s turn to cook supper tonight. How could she have mistaken her eggs for Teddy’s fish? What would she fix this evening? What on earth would she say about this … well, she didn’t have to tell Teddy quite yet. She still had Vivian’s contingency plan.
The aroma of pigs’ feet slapped Moira in the face as she opened the front door. That’s right, Teddy, trying to be inventive with the rations, had promised a real down-home meal tonight. She hung up her sweater, wondering what to do. The very smell made her reach for the arm of the couch. She heard Teddy’s voice from the kitchen.
‘That you, Moi?’
Closer, ‘Moira?’
Alarmed, ‘Hey, Moi, you OK?’
Suddenly she felt Teddy lifting her to the couch.
‘That’s it; easy girl.’
What had happened? Moira yawned. Had she fainted? Not hardy Moira. Crazy. Crazy. She had imagined the entire afternoon. She wasn’t carrying a baby. She was a baby. A crazy baby. Teddy’s face swam in and out of focus. She wondered again about the gills.
‘I warned you that you’ve been running yourself ragged. I said you’d get sick.’
Mother’s words. Teddy’s voice. Ragged. Tramp. Was she a tramp? Did the woman in the bus line have a ring?
‘I’ll bring tea.’ Teddy gently settled Moira back against the couch.
She had tried to get up. Tried to face the pigs’ feet. It was the trying that counted. A sin is a knowing offense. She had tried not to get pregnant. Did trying not to count as much as trying to? Probably not.
‘So what’s up?’ Teddy was sitting on the floor beside the couch, her long legs folded to the side of her slim, upright frame. She had set Moira’s tea on the coffee table.
‘I’m just a little woozy. Maybe a touch of flu.’ Moira considered Teddy closely. What did she know? She needed to talk with Vivian. As soon as possible.
‘Heard you heaving this morning. You shouldn’ta gone to the shipyard.’
‘I think it’s a walking flu,’ said Moira, blanching. ‘Only hits at odd hours.’ What would Mother say?
‘Odd, I’ll say odd.’ Teddy regarded her quizzically. ‘It’s a pity, just when I’m about to serve “Porcine Supreme”.’
Moira held her mouth shut.
‘Oh, sorry, hon.’ Teddy’s face grew still. ‘I’ll bring you some toast — and maybe a little cottage cheese?’
Moira nodded gratefully.
‘Here, this should cheer you up.’ Teddy tossed a letter on Moira’s lap. Moira kept her eyes on Teddy. ‘Post card from Angela and a letter from Ann. Came this morning.’
She waited until Teddy had closed the kitchen door against the horrible odor. She skimmed the card about Angela and her friend Mabel doing the town. Then she pulled out Ann’s letter which Teddy had replaced fastidiously in the envelope. At least she no longer waited ceremoniously for them to open the mail together.
Dear Ladies,
I’m on my yearly ‘holiday’ as they say here. One day in the country. Gloriously sunny, reminding me of legends about California and of you. Thanks for your …
Moira skipped ahead to the news.
Spirits are still remarkably high. Reuben is certain Germany will be crushed in six months. Papa keeps trying to pull me home. But since the end is so near …
Moira winced, remembering that she hadn’t called Mr Rose for two weeks. She was staring at the telephone when Teddy entered with a pretty tray of toast and cheese.
‘So what do you think of the letter?’ Teddy stood stiffly.
‘She sounds worn out, but OK.’
‘And about him?’ Teddy settled on the floor beside Moira.
‘Like she says,’ Moira shrugged, biting into the toast and pleased with her appetite, ‘she’ll come back to him at the end of the war. He’s had a tough time, but …’
‘Not Papa,’ Teddy interrupted. ‘The man. Reuben. Do you think she’s in love?’
Moira was puzzled. ‘Reuben?’
Teddy grew aware of the urgency in her voice. She glanced through the front curtains and shrugged. She remembered Angela sitting in the window seat and laughing at Teddy’s sentimentality.
‘Hey, why the long face?’ Moira lifted Teddy’s chin with her thumb. ‘I’m sure she won’t make any rash decisions.’
Teddy got to her feet, shaking away her agitation. ‘More for m’lady?’
‘No thanks, hon. I think I’ll go up and rest now.’
Teddy watched her wobble to the stairs. What could have hit her so violently? She watched until Moira reached the top and turned into her room. Teddy hoped she would recover in the next couple of days. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be right to leave on that visit to Wanda. She bent down, to collect the tray — and Ann’s letter which Moira had left scattered around the couch.
About 10 o’clock that night, Teddy checked on Moira to find her snoring loudly, the light burning by her bed. She tiptoed into the room, switched off the lamp and closed the door quietly. She went to her own room, crawled into bed with her mystery and was suddenly startled by a brilliant glare from the far window. Japanese planes — that was her first thought. But when the fiery light was not followed by sirens or other unusual sounds, Teddy returned to her book and wondered if she had simply imagined the glare.
The next morning they learned that an ammunitions ship had blown up in Port Chicago, 35 miles away, killing hundreds of men, most of them Negroes. Sandra, Teddy remembered, Sandra worked not far from Port Chicago.
Moira came home to dark silence the following night. Frightened to be alone, she switched on the lights as she walked from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen. It took a minute to remember Teddy was visiting her father in the hospital. Ever the dutiful daughter. Moira’s own parents would love almost everything about Teddy.
‘Moira,’ read the note on the yellow table. ‘Dawn finally got through to Sandra. She’s fine. But a lot of people died, over 300. See you later tonight. Love, Teddy.’
Sandra, Moira remonstrated with herself, she had completely forgotten about Sandra this horrible day. Well, at least she was safe. Safer than herself at this point. Moira looked vaguely around the kitchen. No, she wasn’t hungry. She had come here for the Scotch, the ‘national beverage’ as Daddy called it. Despite the warm day, she was chilly and she knew this would ease her into the evening. She thought back to her talk with Vivian in the locker room.
‘How far along?’ Vivian seemed irritated and sympathetic. Maybe, as usual, just resigned.
‘Don’t know. My periods are never predictable.’ Moira looked around for the third time to ensure they were alone. The narrow, dingy room was as vacant as a block of convent cells at rosary hour. She and Vivian sat alone amid the l
ockers which held the spirits of women they worked with, the lipstick and perfume and scarves and earrings which they abandoned for the serviceable gear of the shipyard. She often felt jailed when she heard the heavy clank of her locker and the quick click of the padlock.
‘Well, like I told you, this stuff worked for the last two times.’ Vivian dug into her purse. ‘Just take the bottle tonight and …’
‘The whole thing?’ Moira’s eyes widened.
‘It ain’t for cocktail hour, you know.’
Moira was petrified. Had her grandmother tried something like this before they laid her out on the kitchen table? She felt a terrible longing to phone Mother, but of course she couldn’t. She would have to go back so far, untangle so many lies. You can’t summon trust in emergencies.
‘Listen, if you don’t want the stuff, I’m not forcing it on you.’ Vivian began to sound nervous.
‘No, I didn’t say that.’ Moira figured she could accept the bottle now and decide later.
‘I’ll give you a call about 10 p.m. Hey, you’re not going to be alone tonight? Your room-mate’s going to be in?’
‘Yes,’ Moira lied. She had no intention of burdening Teddy with this. ‘You say it, it just comes out in the toilet?’ Quivering, she held on to her locker.
‘You’ll be fine.’ Vivian put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m not giving you anything I wouldn’t take myself.’
The door swung open, followed by a roar of voices.
Settling in her bedroom, Moira put out the bottle of Scotch, a glass and Vivian’s bottle. She couldn’t possibly have a baby now. Lying on the bed, she ran through the argument once more before touching the Scotch. Yes, she wanted a baby — babies, yes, three or four — some day after the war. She rolled over and thought about making love with Randy the last time, at the end of his leave.
All Good Women Page 26
