by Maxine Clair
Cora was a wife. A wife with a husband two hundred miles away. October gave up on convincing her that the other woman was not always to blame. Enough that Cora wished her well. Enough that Cora said, “We’ll see.”
And when Mrs. Pemberton, too, put in a word about what kind of women lived in her house, making it clear that loose women didn’t, October decided that discretion had some merit. What went on between her and James wasn’t anybody’s business.
She got busy introducing herself anew to James, discovered the un-flawed look of Pan-Cake makeup. Straightened her hair even though, in the sweat of lovemaking it went back. Spent all her free time sewing dresses to delight him whenever his eyes wandered in her direction. She was Toomer’s cotton flower: Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear/Beauty so sudden for that lime of year.
And she saw that James, too, had gotten busy being new: new shirts (one with cuff links), new pants without pleats (she cuffed them for him), show-off meals he could cook, of chicken livers and tuna surprise, no work clothes, new haircut.
Saturday nights, October ran the bath and bathed him. They did it in the bathtub. He hid little presents in her shoes, pockets, cereal bowls. She learned to keep quiet when he complained about the money that he didn’t have, or worried aloud about his daughter. Patience is a virtue. October did her part, favoring Irene in little ways at school.
One morning, a couple of months into their special Sundays, October noticed that although James was chattering about a football game that he wished he could listen to, he had the daydreaming look on his face again, and hadn’t bothered to finish his pancakes.
Because she was learning to love him, she poked around the edges. “Want to see what’s playing at the Lincoln? We could go to the three o’clock show.”
“Nah,” he said. “There’s something I need to do.”
And because her love was fearless, she tuned in to every nuance and understood that the “something” involved his old life. She could figure out where he was going and didn’t mind. She just wanted to know why.
“I need to spend some time with Irene,” he said.
What better thing? She thought how comfortable she herself would be with James and Irene on a Sunday afternoon. Someday.
“I need to do some things around the house while I’m there,” he said.
Made sense. It was what he did. Build things, fix them.
She told him, “Guess I’ll just listen to your football game. When do you think you’ll be back?”
He didn’t know. “You can stay here if you want but it’ll take a few hours.” He hesitated. “Or I could drop you by the house.”
She couldn’t fathom saying good-bye to Sunday with him when it wasn’t even noon yet. She told him she would wait, and he said okay. No, she changed her mind. Late Sunday afternoon was the usual time School Boy came to exchange dirty laundry for clean, check his mail and check on the state of James’s relationship with her. She didn’t want to be there alone when he came.
“I didn’t bring any schoolwork with me,” she said. “I think I’ll go on back to the house.”
And when he dropped her off she said, “I’m missing you already,” surprised by the tears at the back of her throat.
“Me, too,” he told her.
The fact that James wasn’t constantly talking about divorce didn’t trouble her. Obviously they were in love. It would take time to finalize things—time and money. If she were James, she would give her mate time to get used to the idea—after all, they had Irene to think about. Divorce was inevitable, and from what she could tell, James was making plans. He had dropped hints—this and that about what his buddies said. But she knew James to be honorable. It would take time.
Cora didn’t give October too much trouble, because she had been putting all her extra energy into moving to Ed’s old apartment (she didn’t care what the Board said—they needed more privacy). But whenever October shared woman-to-woman with her, Cora pushed caution.
“You’re a mess, girl,” she told her. “I would tell you to be careful, but who am I to talk? Everybody deserves to be happy. Maybe you needed this. Maybe he did, too.”
When the first wave of nausea hit, October remembered the onions in the potato salad she had eaten the night before, and maybe the fish had been a little tainted. Another wave another time, and she thought the milk had been a little sour. Over the next days she thought, I need to drink more water in the morning, and I need to trade the Colgate for Pepsodent. Eat later. Eat less. She never thought blue booties, umbilical, trimester. On the second week that she had gotten up earlier than anyone else to hog the bathroom with her nervous stomach, it came like a blow. She was pregnant.
Her next thought was not about her condition but what James would say. She worried that he was already too worried over how to get the divorce right, how to handle his daughter. The timing wasn’t so good. But on the other hand, they had each other, and that counted for a lot. She remembered him whispering into those red earmuffs. He liked children. And who knew? Maybe a baby coming would speed things up.
When should she tell him? This wasn’t a good thing, but not a bad thing either. She would tell him on the weekend. She would tell him, he would be upset, or he could just as easily laugh and swing her around.
This was the end of March. How long before she would be showing? She and James would have to do some serious planning. It wasn’t written that she had to tell anybody anything yet. Surely she wouldn’t be showing before the end of school. Maybe they could marry quietly before the baby came. Probably not. Once she was showing though, they could at least get a place together. He’d have to get the divorce really soon.
What about her job? Better not to muddy the teaching waters just yet. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Something like that.
On a cold Saturday night, they decided to stay in rather than play cards with Ed and Cora—James didn’t play bridge anyway. October sat on the couch with his head in her lap, tweezed ingrown hairs from his chin—a once-lovey ritual that, now that she was pregnant, turned her stomach.
“There is something we need to talk about,” she said to him.
“Um-hmm,” he answered, eyes closed, drowsily allowing himself to be groomed.
“Wake up, honey,” she sang. “You have to hear this.”
“I’m awake,” he said, drowsily, allowing himself to be cajoled.
Her voice couldn’t hold the lilt of music and just spat out, “I’m pregnant.” She hadn’t meant it to sound so bad-news flat.
But James, drowsily allowing himself to be teased, smiled and said, “I don’t play with that baby.”
She would have to say it again. She stopped the tweezing, and he moved her hands altogether from his face.
His eyes opened in a startling, dead stare at her. “What?”
“I am,” she said.
He sat up and stuck his feet into his house slippers, turned his back. “When did you find out?”
“I haven’t talked to a doctor yet, but I know the signs,” she told him.
“Then it’s not a sure thing right?” Over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m pretty sure....” she said, and decided that he was telling her he needed concrete facts to know the lay of the land. She couldn’t yet give him that.
“I thought I’d see a doctor next week,” she said.
James got up and went to the kitchen. She heard him pouring himself a drink. Shaking ice around in the glass, he came back and stood at the end of the couch.
“You haven’t had a test right?”
“No.” She felt like he was scolding her. “I wanted to tell you first,” she said.
“Nothing to tell, then, is it?”
She wanted to say that she didn’t need a test to know this. In a hundred ways her body had convinced her. But he
was acting like he didn’t believe her.
“Maybe this is just you wishing,” he said.
He had never said anything like that to her before. What had she done that he would so suddenly distrust her?
“What are you talking about, James?” she said. “I’m not wishing for anything.”
“You’re a smart lady—you figure it out.” He went to the closet and took out his peacoat and boots.
When she asked him where he was going he gave her the proverbial “Cigarettes” with the proverbial sneer, pulled on his boots, and dusted the dust of being bothered off his hands.
She was too dumbfounded to remember what he had said once about how he could be one way at one time and not feel connected to other ways he could be. All she knew was that he was mad at her and it wasn’t her fault.
She waited until midnight, and when he didn’t return, she went to bed, not to sleep. At first light she heard him come in and let out the studio couch. When she got up later, she made a point of banging around the kitchen until he sat up. She was mad, too.
He sat like a zombie with his elbows on his knees, propping up a heavy head.
She threw out a threat “I’m going home,” she said. When he didn’t register anything she said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Before she went back to the bedroom to pack her overnight bag, she thought she’d give him time to respond in a kinder way.
He merely hopped awake, sprang into action with pants and shoes and shirt, and in less time than it took her to say, “I don’t understand, James,” he was jangling his keys.
No one had anything more to say, but now she was really mad. This was no way to treat her. She stuffed her things into her bag and followed him out to the cold cab of his truck.
On the Sunday-morning streets, people were bundled against the wind but had on their glorious hats and heels anyway—churchgoing families, oblivious of the fact that not everybody lived the same kind of life.
If he wouldn’t talk in the truck, she wouldn’t either. She wouldn’t look at him. She felt him glancing sideways at her.
Finally he said, “I can’t handle this, October. You know my situation. I can’t handle it.”
She was relieved. Last night had been a shock to him, and he was coming around. His face already had a shadow.
“James, I know it’s a shock,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of time to work things out.” And she gave him a bone. “If I am pregnant, I’m not too far along. It’ll be months before I’m showing”
“Go to the doctor, okay?” he said.
“I will,” she promised, though she knew already what the news would be. “I’ll go right away.”
They saw each other only once in the next week. She went to the doctor and waited five days for the predictable results.
All over again, James was impossible to talk to.
“I can’t handle this” was all he could think to say. Couldn’t think of anything reassuring. Didn’t seem to remember that they were in this together.
In the truck going home one more Sunday morning (Sunday afternoons he had to spend time with his daughter), she asked him, “What about me?,” meaning that he should consider her feelings, too. “What do you want me to do?” she asked him.
He was several steps ahead of her. “Whatever you have to do,” he said, “‘cause I can’t handle it.”
They didn’t speak for another week, during which time October charted a course. James would have to get a divorce and it would have to be the first thing. It could be friendly, but she would insist. She would teach until the end of the year; meanwhile they could be looking for an apartment together in Missouri. The baby would come before January, which meant that she wouldn’t have to miss but one semester.
James seemed to be paralyzed, and she could fix that. On Saturday she took a bus to his place. She stopped to pick up cut flowers, two steaks, and hand-packed ice cream. She knew he’d be at home, and she hoped he’d smile when he saw her.
She nearly cried when he did open the door and smile. “Come on in,” he said. “I hoped it would be you.”
The ways he could be. He took her coat and the bag of groceries. “You should let me cook tonight,” he said.
He put on a stack of LPs and in the kitchen set burners blazing and dishes and skillets rattling. She sipped ginger ale and danced with herself. He brought her a batter-fried mushroom on waxed paper to try. Ways he could be. When the food was ready, they stuffed their faces and each other’s, laughed themselves silly. That night, when he held her, anyone would have thought he was afraid, so careful was his touch.
During that week apart, she had not been the only one to use her head. James unfolded his plan the next morning while they took turns in the bathroom. For a few weeks, he would take on extra jobs, make extra money. He would never deny support to a child of his, but he was in no position to handle another responsibility, and wouldn’t be for a while. Maybe someday, but not now.
“Think of the mess,” he said, standing in the bathroom door with his towel. “I’m married. You’re trying to teach school. It’ll never work. In a couple of weeks, I’ll have some money I can give you.”
He seemed convinced that this was the perfect answer, that saying it made it so.
What had last night been about? She was still sitting in the bed, waiting for her turn in the bathroom. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have the baby?”
He came and sat beside her, covered her hands with his.
“October, baby, think about what’s happening. I don’t know what Pearl and me are gonna do. You’ve got a good job, a good reputation ...”
Now, all of a sudden, he was confused about him and Pearl?
“What about us?” she asked.
Too automatically, he squeezed her hands, and it made her snatch away from him.
“You know how I feel about you,” he said. “I always will. But this is a mess that doesn’t have to happen unless you want it to. I’m making a big leap now, thinking that you didn’t set out to make a mess, right? Is this what you want?”
It felt like an actual blow, nearly took her breath away. What she wanted was the life she had thought they were building. What she wanted was to be together, working out things together, helping him with his daughter—that was what she wanted.
She didn’t see that that day would turn out to be their last Sunday together. On Wednesday he phoned to say that he would come by, and although she packed her overnight bag they merely rode four blocks to Manny’s for a magazine. He gave her bills folded to a wad. She accepted the money without protest because she could tell that he was relieved. On the other hand, assuming she had six or seven months, things could change.
“This is the best way,” he said, and by the way, he needed to be alone some.
On the weekend he said that he would be working every night, and the following week he delivered more cash. A ride to Manny’s, a bottle of Vess Cola in the truck.
“Let me know if it’s not enough,” he said. She told him it was all she needed.
By then she saw that he couldn’t meet her eyes, and some part of her recognized that she just might possibly be on her way down a slope more stony than she wanted to think about, and that she might hurt a lot before she got to level ground again. Next week he phoned again. He wouldn’t be by. No face-to-face. He’d just as well tell her on the telephone that his wife needed him, that he couldn’t leave his family stranded like that. That was it.
chapter 7
Talk about a fall from grace.
No one would ever accuse her of being a lackadaisical woman, though she did consider that James may have thought she was and that if he did, he had another thought coming. To her way of thinking, this new set of circumstances gave them more reason to be one, more reason for two minds to dream one dream. She lov
ed him, and the one thing she knew for sure about love she had carried around in a fold of memory since high school and all through college: Love is not love/Which alters when it alteration finds,/Or bends with the remover to remove. She loved him.
It would take a long, long time to grow a baby, and that would give her a long, long time to make things right. James’s first impulse had been to run, but she could live with that. Hadn’t he bought a roomful of permanent furniture? Didn’t he say he loved her that last night before she refused to get rid of the baby? His love for her hadn’t vanished, just ducked underground when things started moving too fast.
No, she was pretty sure that he would never go back to fussing and fighting with a woman he didn’t love. He was just giving himself squirming room.
She went once to see him. Before she got to the door of the apartment, she could hear the hi-fi, and she had to knock four times to get School to stick his head out and put a stop to somebody messing up his love life. “Look, baby,” he said. “Me and my lady don’t want to be disturbed. You’ve got to get a grip. The man is married. That wasn’t no big surprise. So he took a little recess from his wife, okay? He was only out here a couple of months. Go ahead and get yourself somebody and forget him. He’s gone. Next time call before you come.”
James didn’t call. Another week of her patience and her crackers-until-noon diet, and she began to wish Cora still lived across the hall. She needed some advice. James was wearing a hole in her confidence. Sharp rocks in the stony slope. What if?
Cora’s advice was simple. “You just have to pretend that he died.”
But wasn’t Cora, herself, planning to move to St. Louis? Could Cora ever pretend that Ed had died? October didn’t think so.
“Listen, girl, you’re in trouble,” Cora told her. “He isn’t worth it. Your job now is to figure out what you want to do about the baby.”
After a while, Cora admitted that breaking up was hard and in the same breath offered that she knew a certain “doctor.” But if October needed a way to be sure James would return, the baby was it. She told Cora she’d think about it, but deep down she didn’t budge. What if a child—probably a son—turned out to mean everything to James? For the time being she hid herself upstairs in Pemberton House and waited.
