Hidden Places (18 page)

‘‘Promise you won’t laugh?’’

He considered it for a minute, then grinned. ‘‘No, I can’t promise. Suppose you told me you wanted to be a Hindu snake charmer or the captain of a whaling ship—I’m sorry, but I’d have to laugh.’’

I knew that my dreams were very safe with Walter. I smiled in return and told him. ‘‘I want to be a writer. That’s what I was doing, in fact, the day we met. I used to dream of being a stunt reporter like Nellie Bly.’’

‘‘I’ve met her.’’

‘‘You haven’t!’’

‘‘Yes, Nellie Bly sat across from me at a dinner once in New York. My father is a good friend of her boss, Joseph Pulitzer.’’

‘‘What’s she like?’’

‘‘Actually...very much like you,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘Except you’re easier to talk to, more thoughtful and articulate.’’ I looked away. He tugged on my hand until I looked back. ‘‘Seriously, Betsy. I would be glad to talk to Mr. Pulitzer on your behalf if you want me to. I could help you find an apartment in New York.’’

I was tempted—oh, so tempted—but I knew that it was impossible. ‘‘I can’t,’’ I said sorrowfully. ‘‘My father has his heart set on this marriage.’’

Walter closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. ‘‘I under-stand. I really do. My father is Howard Knowles Gibson, remember?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ I waited for our eyes to meet, then asked, ‘‘What are your dreams, Walter?’’

He smiled his lopsided grin. ‘‘To be a Hindu snake charmer and the captain of a whaling ship.’’ Eventually his smile faded and he shook his head. ‘‘I really don’t know. For as far back as I can recall my father has always told me what I would be. I’m his heir, I’ll take over for him one day...and I’ve always struggled to face up to that. It’s not just the work, it’s everything that goes along with it—the extravagant lifestyle, the whole social scene, the politicking and dirty-dealing. I may not know what I want, but I know what I don’t want.’’ He sighed and shook his head again.

‘‘After I finished college I begged my father for two months off to travel a bit before taking my place in the company. He reluctantly agreed—and I ran off for three years. I explored the world. The jungles of Borneo, the Ivory Coast of Africa, the rain forests of Brazil...Ieven panned for gold in Alaska. I had to pack a lifetime of living into a very short time, you see.’’

‘‘That’s all the time I have, too—two months.’’

He released my hand and paged through the book he had been reading when I arrived, searching for something. I saw the title—
Walden Pond
.

‘‘Listen to this, Betsy. Thoreau writes, ‘Let everyone mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made. Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.’ ’’

I watched a wild mallard fishing on the pond in the fading light, his head dipping down suddenly, his tail feathers pointing to the darkening sky. ‘‘I don’t think either one of us can even hear our own music anymore,’’ I said at last.

‘‘No, I suppose not,’’ Walter said with a sigh. ‘‘But there is one choice we are both still free to make. You will have children someday, Betsy, and so will I. We can allow them to step to the beat of their own drummer.’’

I wrote Walter’s words in my notebook that night so I would always remember them. Then I closed it and tucked it deep inside my dresser drawer. I was quite sure they were the last words I would ever write.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
hortly after my engagement to Frank Wyatt, Lydia fell sick with a terrible case of food poisoning. When she woke up vomiting in the chamber pot for the third morning in a row, I begged her to go see a doctor.

‘‘No, I’ll be all right,’’ she said with a groan. ‘‘Now move. I have to go to work.’’

‘‘I’ll ride into town and tell them you’re sick. Lydia, you’ll never get well if you don’t stay in bed.’’

‘‘Horse feathers. I don’t want to stay in bed.’’ She pulled off her nightgown and began dressing. I followed her around the tiny room, pleading with her to stay home and rest and recover.

‘‘What if it’s influenza? You might spread it to all your customers!’’

‘‘Betsy...’’ she finally said, stopping so abruptly I bumped into her, ‘‘it isn’t food poisoning or the flu. It’s something much, much worse.’’

‘‘You’re dying? No, Lydia, I won’t let you die, I won’t! You can’t die!’’

She smiled slightly at my histrionics, then took me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake. ‘‘I’m not dying, either. I’m...I’m in the family way.’’

I gaped at her, not comprehending. ‘‘But that’s impossible! You aren’t married!’’

Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘‘Oh, my sweet, innocent Betsy. You don’t have to be married to make a baby. I love Ted, and when you love someone...you’ll do anything for them.’’

When I realized what she meant, I covered my face and wept. Lydia pulled me into her arms. ‘‘Please don’t hate me, Betsy. If you turn your back on me now it will be the worst punishment of all.’’

‘‘I could never hate you.’’ I took her hand in mine and linked our pinkie fingers. ‘‘I’ll stand by you no matter what. Just don’t forget, you promised that I could be your maid of honor when you marry Ted, remember?’’

‘‘Ted doesn’t know about the baby yet,’’ she said. I could see that she was worried about telling him. ‘‘I’m meeting him tonight after work. That’s why I have to go.’’

Lydia left without eating breakfast. When she hadn’t come home by midnight, I was certain that she and Ted had eloped. What on earth would I tell Father? Neither of us had even met Ted Bartlett. Should I tell Father about the baby or not? I paced in the front hallway in the dark, rehearsing what I would say to Father, when the front door opened a crack and Lydia crept inside. I expected the hallway to light up with her beautiful smile, but her tear-streaked face was pale with shock and despair.

‘‘Lydia, what’s wrong? What happened?’’ The only thing I could imagine was that there had been a terrible train wreck and Ted Bartlett was dead.

‘‘It’s Ted...he’s...Oh, Betsy, what am I going to
do
?’’

She fell into my arms, sobbing. ‘‘Is he dead?’’ I whispered.

‘‘Worse—he’s
married
!’’

‘‘Married! But he can’t be! He—’’

‘‘He already has a wife and two children,’’ she said between sobs. ‘‘He showed me their pictures. He’s been lying to me all this time, Betsy.
Lying!
And now my life is over. I’ve ruined my life and I don’t know what to do!’’

I wrapped my arm around Lydia’s waist and helped her up the stairs to our room so we wouldn’t wake up Father. Lydia’s problem was my problem. We had vowed to take care of each other, and I wracked my brain for a solution.

‘‘Can’t he get a divorce?’’ I asked.

‘‘He refused. Ted’s father-in-law owns the notions company he works for.’’

I would have cheerfully loaded Father’s shotgun and murdered Ted Bartlett if I thought it would help.

‘‘Listen,’’ I said, seating Lydia beside me on the bed, ‘‘I just remembered something. When I was in school I heard about a girl who had...you know...The same problem. And later on I heard that she went to a special home to have the baby. I can find out where that home is and you can just go away for a while until your baby’s born. Someone will adopt it, Lydia. When Nellie Bly investigated the baby-buying trade, she found out there are dozens of nice Christian families who are willing to legally adopt babies. Everything is going to be all right, I promise you.’’

Lydia didn’t go to work for three days. She lay in bed crying, convinced that she had ruined her life. As soon as I could get away, I drove to the school and discreetly asked Mr. Herman if he knew about the special home for unwed mothers. When I re-turned, I told Lydia what I’d learned, hoping it would cheer her.

‘‘No one will be able to tell that you’re expecting for a while, so you’ll only have to be away for four or five months. They’ll let you live right there in the home and you can have your baby there, too. When you come back home we’ll tell everyone you had rheumatic fever or that you went to stay with a dying aunt. No one will ever know the truth.’’

‘‘But how can I give my own baby away and never see him again?’’ she asked, rubbing her still-flat tummy. ‘‘He’s mine...mine and Ted’s.’’

‘‘You have to, Lydia. It’s the only way. Trust me, the baby will grow up in a good Christian home, and you’ll have a brand-new start in life. You’ll meet someone else in no time at all. There will always be dozens of boys lining up to marry you.’’

‘‘Not if I’m tarnished goods.’’

‘‘I’ll make sure they never know,’’ I said, holding up my little finger. ‘‘I promise.’’

After that, Lydia seemed resigned to her fate. She went back to the dry goods store the next day but came straight home from work every night, too exhausted from her pregnancy to run around. She didn’t even date on the weekends.

One night as we prepared for bed she asked me to read one of my poems to her. ‘‘It’s been ages since you’ve read to me, Betsy, and I know you must have written dozens and dozens of new ones by now.’’ I tried to avoid the truth by mumbling a faint excuse, but she suddenly gripped my arm. ‘‘I know! Will you write a new poem for me? A poem about my baby? I want to give it to him after he’s born so he’ll always know that I loved him even though I had to give him away.’’

I closed my eyes. ‘‘I can’t...Idon’t write poems any more.’’

‘‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’’

‘‘That part of my life is over now that I’m marrying Frank. He’s made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with poems or books or writing of any kind...except for the Bible.’’

‘‘Betsy, no! Don’t listen to him!’’

‘‘He’ll be my husband. I’ll have to listen to him.’’

‘‘It’s none of Frank’s business what you do when he’s not there. You can write during your free time, can’t you? While he’s out running around his stupid orchard?’’

‘‘You don’t understand. It’s not a matter of Frank
letting
me write—I
can’t
write. When I’m with Frank it’s like...It’s like I don’t have any more poems inside me. They’ve all shriveled up, Lydia, like blossoms after a frost.’’

‘‘But you’re a writer! It’s who you are.’’

‘‘Not anymore. I’m not the same person I used to be. Frank makes me feel like someone else...someone he has created. I attend the Women’s Missionary Guild now. I’ve even taken ‘the pledge.’ From now on I have to try to be the wife he wants me to be, the wife he expects me to be or...’’

‘‘Or what, Betsy?’’

‘‘Or he won’t marry me.’’

Her velvety eyes searched mine as if trying to read my heart. ‘‘You don’t love him, do you?’’

‘‘No,’’ I said miserably. I didn’t even have to think about it.

‘‘Not even a tiny bit?’’

‘‘Not even a tiny bit.’’ I sank onto the bed as I confessed my hopeless situation. ‘‘He hates books, Lydia. He won’t allow any in his house. And he never laughs. I’ve never heard him, not even once, not after all this time together. I don’t know how I’m ever going to stand it.’’

She knelt on the floor in front of me. ‘‘It’s not too late to call the whole thing off. Tell him you want to cancel the engagement.’’

‘‘I can’t. Father will be furious. You know how badly he wants this partnership. He’ll be so disappointed with me if I mess things up now, and I couldn’t stand to disappoint him. He even made Frank promise to call it Wyatt & Fowler Orchards. If the deal falls through now, it will kill Father. It will absolutely kill him.’’

Lydia stared past me into the distance and a strange peace gradually came over her. She’d been desolate for the past few days, sunk deep in her own misery, and now, with a strength I’d never seen before, she made me dry my tears and gently nudged me into bed.

‘‘Let’s go to sleep, Betsy. Maybe things will look better for both of us in the morning.’’ At the time I thought it was because we were both emotionally exhausted, but looking back, I realize that Lydia had made up her mind that night. She knew exactly what she needed to do. Drawing strength from her newfound tranquillity, I fell sound asleep.

Later, Lydia told me how easy it had been to follow through on her plan. Frank came for dinner on Sunday, and as he was taking the shortcut home through our orchard, Lydia slipped out of the house and ran after him.

‘‘Frank...Frank, wait! We found a pocket knife on the sofa. Is it yours?’’

He turned to her, rummaging through his pants pockets. ‘‘I don’t think so. Mine is—’’

Suddenly Lydia cried out as she tumbled to the ground. ‘‘Ow! Oh dear, how clumsy of me. I’ve turned my ankle.’’

Frank rushed to her side. ‘‘Lydia, are you all right? Here, let me help you.’’ She allowed her hands to linger on his chest as he lifted her to her feet. ‘‘Is your ankle okay? Can you walk on it?’’

‘‘Yes...Ow! No...no, I don’t think I can.’’ She leaned against him. ‘‘Oh, I feel so silly! How will I get home?’’

‘‘I...Icould carry you.’’

‘‘Oh, would you?’’ Lydia’s velvet eyes gazed up into his and Frank was a goner. Lifting her into his arms, feeling her slender arms around his neck, her body pressed close to his, merely sealed Frank’s fate.