by T. Greenwood
Spin.
She thought about the fact that in just a few hours, she should be rising from her bed in Dover and readying her son for his first day of school. They had purchased his school uniform earlier that summer. She’d washed and ironed the tiny little button-down shirt, the pleated slacks. She’d thought the tiny suit jacket with the school’s crest emblazoned on the breast pocket was a bit overkill, but Ab had waxed nostalgic about his own first uniform. He looked exactly like a miniature Ab in his uniform, like a miniature lawyer headed to work. They’d bought him a new lunch pail, a domed tin box that looked like a red barn, the Thermos imprinted to look like a silo. He had a pencil box and a box of fat crayons. They’d even purchased a desk for his room, though she was pretty sure that first grade didn’t require homework. There was a part of her that had felt so sad about him being old enough for first grade now. Not a baby anymore.
Spin.
And there she was, back at the first offering. Marsha was going to have a baby. Ginny’s mind spun in furious circles, settling on nothing at all, as she tried to think about how she might broach the subject with her.
The room was warm, a little too warm, and each time she’d start to drift off to sleep, something would wake her: a sigh from Peyton or a snore from Marsha in the next bed. Or the rasp of Lucy’s breath.
She tried to imagine what Ab was doing right now and couldn’t. She had been gone less than a week, but that life, her life, felt far away as the moon. A waning moon, slipping into a dark sky.
She glanced at the glowing clock on the nightstand. It was nearly 5 A.M., and she hadn’t slept more than a scattered handful of minutes. It had been twelve hours since she was supposed to return Lucy to Willowridge. How long had the school waited before they called Ab? An hour, two? How long would they wait before they called the police? When he got the call, would Ab have put them off somehow or would he have been angry enough, vindictive enough, to allow them to go after her? What made her chest ache was that she knew it wasn’t up to Ab at all. That it was her father-in-law who was likely calling the shots. He was the one, in the end, who would decide if she was a good mother or a criminal. She’d watched him steamroll over Ab for the last seven years. She’d seen Ab try and fail to assert himself against his father. She’d felt both shame and rage at the way Ab kowtowed to him, by the obsequious puddle he became in his father’s presence.
Though she was expecting it, when the alarm went off, it rattled her to the core. Because she knew the only choice she had now was to run. To run and keep on running until she couldn’t run anymore.
Twenty
Summer 1964
Ginny had known she was pregnant long before the doctor confirmed her suspicions. Her already large breasts were even more swollen and tender. She was exhausted, fighting sleep all day at the library (catnapping in a hidden carrel during her breaks), and battling nausea the rest of the time, feeling perpetually like she’d just stepped off a Tilt-a-Whirl ride. It was July, and Ab was oblivious. With so many changes in his life, the change in Ginny’s bust size simply hadn’t registered.
Abbott Senior had been so furious when Ab decided to forgo law school in favor of the IVS, he and Sylvia didn’t even attend Ab’s graduation from Amherst. They cut off all financial support as well, so he’d rented a room in nearby Northhampton and took a job working for a produce delivery company. But Ab, ever the optimist, told Ginny he loved the mindlessness of it.
“It gives me time to think! I haven’t had time for my own thoughts the last four years,” he said. “How ironic is that?”
He said he envied her quiet hours at the library, but that bouncing along the back roads, which connected the local farms to the larger towns, offered a similar quietude for rumination. He also loved interacting with the kitchen staffs at the local restaurants, pulling the truck into the back alleys before the sun came up. Carrying flats of berries or bins of leafy lettuce into the walk-in coolers while chatting with the cooks and bakers, sharing a cup of coffee or being offered a muffin fresh from the oven to sustain him for the next several hours as he made his way from Amherst to Holyoke to Springfield. He drove with the windows down and the music up.
But the best part of the job was that because he started before dawn, he was also finished just after lunch, and he had all afternoon to read or wander as he waited for Ginny to get out of work. He spent much of his free time exploring the woods behind his rooming house. He read voraciously, Ginny greeting him with stacks and stacks of books when he came to pick her up from the library each afternoon.
Most nights, they had dinner with her mother, though on the weekends (finances permitting), he took her out. They went to double features or out dancing. Afterward they’d drive around aimlessly looking for places that offered privacy for more amorous endeavors. He wasn’t allowed visitors at his room, so their more intimate moments were relegated to the backseat of his car, in the dark shadows of the movie theater, or (weather permitting) some outdoor venue. Still, they managed, though more than once she had to pluck a twig from her hair, mistaking it for a misplaced bobby pin.
Whenever Ginny expressed guilt about their premarital rendezvous, he said, “We’re engaged, Gin. Practically man and wife.”
They had planned to move in together as soon as he returned from Vietnam, as soon as they were married, and so each week they both socked away nearly every penny that they made. They lived on the leftovers her mother procured from the dining hall and the bruised fruits and wilted vegetables he brought home.
“Someday when we’re old, we’ll recall these as our Stone Soup years,” he said as Ginny stirred a pot full of broth and potatoes she’d had to gore to salvage.
“I’m late,” she said without fanfare and without looking up from that steaming, starchy broth. She’d been waiting for the right moment ever since she’d confirmed her suspicions with her doctor earlier that week. Now was as good a time as any, she figured.
“For what?”
She looked up, and her mouth twitched. “Actually, I’m not late, my aunt is late. For her visit.”
“Bonnie?” Ab said. “Doesn’t she live down the street?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, Ab. My aunt Flo. She usually comes every month?”
Really, for such a brilliant mind, he could be so very, very dense.
He jolted from his seat at the little table in her mother’s kitchen, tipping over the weak cup of coffee he’d been drinking. He ran to her and scooped her up in his arms and planted several wet kisses on her cheeks. Her mother, who had been in the other room, watching I Love Lucy, came in, hand pressed to her chest, shaking her head. “Jeez Louise, I thought the house was on fire.”
“No, ma’am,” Ab said, releasing Ginny and turning to her mother, whom he embraced and lifted off her feet. She let out a small squeak, like a rubber toy in the grip of a Doberman’s jaw. “How do you feel about being a grandmother?”
Ginny’s mother pressed both of her hands against Ab’s chest, pushing him back so she could study his face for signs of deception. There were none.
“A baby?” she said, still studying his face. She turned to Ginny, and Ginny shrugged.
Ginny would have been angry at his sharing the news before they’d had even a moment to discuss what it meant, but his wild enthusiasm as he danced her mother across the kitchen floor somehow made her frustration seem silly. Petty, even.
Plus. A baby. She’d known for nearly a week but until this moment hadn’t allowed herself to ponder the actual implications of this fact. A baby. A living, breathing, kicking, screaming baby!
Her mother was so overwhelmed, she had to go lie down to stop her heart from leaping out of her chest.
“What about the IVS? Vietnam?” Ginny said when they were alone again. “The baby is due before you’re scheduled to come home.”
“I won’t go,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
“I think you should go,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll be home right after the baby comes. Wives o
f soldiers do this sort of thing all the time.”
“I’m not a soldier,” he said.
“But you’ve been talking about this for months. You’ve sacrificed so much already. This isn’t the plan.”
Ab shrugged. “Sometimes plans change.”
That night, after Ab heartily ate three helpings of her pathetic chowder (she couldn’t even stomach the thought of a mouthful), and after her mother retired to her room and she sat down, more exhausted than she had ever been in her entire life, Ab sank to his knees at her feet and pressed her hand to her stomach.
“What will your parents say?” she said. “They don’t even know we’re engaged.”
Ab took a deep breath. “I want them to know,” he said finally, absently stroking her belly, which revealed no evidence of its new resident. “Because then they’ll know I’m in this for the long haul. That this is forever. Maybe then . . .” he trailed off. But she didn’t need his words to complete the sentence. Maybe then they’d welcome her into their family. But she knew they’d no sooner accept her than they’d accept the presence of a cancerous tumor. In their eyes, she was the reason Ab had jumped from the moving train that had been his destiny.
“They’ll be glad I’m not going overseas,” he said.
He was right, though she suspected they’d hardly be thrilled by this alternative.
Twenty-One
September 1971
Marsha gassed up at a station in Roanoke, and Ginny went into the little store and bought them each a sugary cider doughnut, and a cup of black coffee for Marsha. She asked the cashier to break a ten so that she could give Marsha some more money to help cover the expense of the gas.
Marsha kept insisting Ginny shouldn’t worry about money, but she did. She had the dwindling roll of bills that Ab had given her the week before. Each Monday he gave her an allowance upon which he expected her to run the household. Because she didn’t drive, she walked to the market every couple of days and picked up the items she would need to make their meals. If she needed to make purchases for the home, she’d price the items out and then ask Ab for a little extra that week. Once a season, she took the train into the city and purchased clothes for herself and for Peyton or called in an order to the Spiegel catalog. Ab paid the bills, balanced the accounts, and told her not to worry. That all she needed to do was ask if she wanted or needed anything at all.
But now what was she to do? She could hardly call Ab and ask him for a little extra cash to help Marsha pay for gas as they fled down the East Coast. Ginny’s name wasn’t even on the bank accounts, as far as she knew. Ab had always been so generous with her; she hadn’t thought twice about it before. She flipped through her wallet, quietly counting the bills, when she suddenly remembered the Master Charge card he’d given her, told her not to use unless it was an absolute emergency. She’d tucked it in the back of her wallet and forgotten about it. Credit cards mystified her, scared her a little, even. The idea of essentially having a line of credit at your fingertips seemed dangerous. She wasn’t even sure how much money was available to spend. She’d never used it, not even once. Perhaps it wasn’t valid anymore? She wasn’t even sure how it worked exactly.
Once they were on the road again, she handed Marsha the hot cup of coffee and said, “Is this crazy?”
“A little?” Marsha said, taking the cup and blowing across the steaming surface.
“We haven’t even thought about what will happen when we get there. How long we’ll be gone. About money. And what if Ab won’t help me?”
“Then we’ll stay,” Marsha said, gripping the wheel tightly.
“Stay? In Florida?” she scoffed.
“Sure.” Marsha shrugged. “Why not?”
“What about your job?”
Marsha turned to her. “I really, really hate the ER. Besides, I’ve been talking about this for years. Maybe it’s a sign that it’s finally time.”
“What about Gabe?” Ginny asked, thinking of her conversation with Pepper. Thinking about the baby.
Marsha flicked her hand as though dismissing an unpleasant thought.
“He’ll get over me,” she said and winked, but it seemed like forced cheer.
“I thought things were getting serious,” Ginny said, though she stopped short of asking her about the pregnancy. Marsha was wearing a red bandanna-print halter top and a worn pair of hip-hugger bell-bottoms, her flat, tanned tummy exposed. She couldn’t be more than a few weeks along.
“Men are like ants. They’re everywhere. Even Florida.”
Clearly, she did not want to talk about Gabe. And there was definitely not going to be any discussion of a baby.
“What would I do for work? If we stayed, I mean?” Ginny hadn’t had a job since the library. Her skills were limited to alphabetizing, smiling, and stamping due dates.
“You’re so pretty, maybe you could be a mermaid.”
“Ha! Maybe more like a beluga whale.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Doughnut?” Ginny asked, reaching into the paper bag.
Marsha rolled her eyes and made a puke-y face.
“I think I’m pregnant,” Marsha said. Just like that, there it was.
“What will you do?” Ginny asked, though she was afraid of the answer, any answer that Marsha might give.
“My plan right now is to get us to Weeki Wachee,” she said, signaling this was the end of the discussion. For now, anyway. But in the dim light of the dash, Ginny could see tears filling Marsha’s eyes.
The destination for that night was Savannah, Georgia. Pepper had suggested they go by way of Charlotte, North Carolina. It wouldn’t be quite so pretty as following the Blue Ridge Mountains to Asheville, but it was more direct. They could get to Savannah before sunset, and then they would only be a half day’s drive to Florida. By Wednesday evening, they’d be in Weeki Wachee. Theresa said she’d procured a place for them to spend at least the first few nights. She lived with a friend whose family owned an orange orchard a half hour drive from the springs; the old migrant farmers’ sleeping quarters were vacant. They were welcome to stay there as long as they needed.
Ginny figured by then Ab would realize the gravity of the situation and would, hopefully, be willing to discuss how best to proceed. This is what her optimistic, logical brain told her. However, if she entertained her deepest fears, Abbott Senior had already sent the police after her. Once she was captured, he’d show no mercy. She’d lose not only Lucy again, but her son as well. She couldn’t allow these thoughts in; she tried to imagine them behind a locked door in her brain, a chair shoved up underneath the knob for extra protection.
Thankfully, there were only a few other cars on the road that morning, and none of them were police cars. They hadn’t seen a single police cruiser since somewhere in southern Virginia. The empty road unfurled in front of them and behind them like a twisted ribbon. The mountains were on the passenger side of the car; it wasn’t until they got onto I-77 that they veered away from their rolling blues.
It was beautiful country: so green and lush. So rural and bucolic. Every time they passed an exit, Ginny thought of the lives of the people in those little towns. One after another after another, like beads on a string. They could conceivably just pull off the interstate into one of these villages and start their new life here. She could change her name. Change her history. Start again with a clean slate. She wondered if anyone had ever done that. Just ditched their life when it became unbearable and started again. She leaned her head against the cool window and closed her eyes, tried to dream herself into another life. Into freedom. She drifted, imagining that brand-new life, that dream life, allowing her eyes to close and her body to rest.
Twenty-Two
September 1971
She heard the sounds before she understood what they meant: something hitting the front of the car, the screech of the brakes, and the screams.
“Shit!” Marsha said as the car came to a stop in a ditch at the side of the road. “What the fuck was that?
”
Ginny had bumped her forehead against the dash and felt dizzy as she whirled around, reaching blindly into the backseat for her children. The children were both crying and crumpled on the floor behind each respective front seat. Peyton was crying the loudest, but Lucy was whimpering as well, a look of terror in her eyes. Ginny couldn’t open the passenger door wide enough to get out, so she crawled into the backseat.
“Everybody okay?” Marsha asked.
Ginny pulled Lucy into her arms and helped Peyton up from the floor. “Where does it hurt, Pey?”
“My arm, Mama!” he cried out.
“Sh-sh-sh,” she said as he eased himself back into the seat and held out his arm for her inspection. Her heart raced like a hot engine idling in her chest. She examined his tiny arm; thankfully, it didn’t appear (at least at first sight) to be broken. No bones protruding through the skin. No swelling. No blood. She studied Lucy next. She, too, showed no immediate signs of distress. She was scared. That was all. Ginny pressed her hand against her own chest as though to still her racing heart, waiting for it to resume its natural rhythm.
Lucy reached out and touched the soft painful bump on Ginny’s forehead, and her little fingers came away with her blood.
“Oh, goodness,” Ginny said and touched her own fingers to the wound.
“I think we hit an animal, Mama,” Peyton said.
Marsha opened the driver’s-side door slowly and got out, looking like someone who had just stumbled out of bed, still half asleep. She wondered if Marsha had bumped her head, too.
“Stay here,” Ginny said, setting Lucy down next to her brother before climbing out of the backseat.
The car had slid down into a small ditch. Marsha was about thirty feet behind the car, standing over something in the road. Ginny walked tentatively toward her and the animal that clearly had been the cause of their crash.
