Morning (8 page)

Chapter Three

Sara had always thought of Thanksgiving as a formal occasion, involving polished silver, the best china, and a flower-embellished table. As a child, she had been expected to make an attempt at good manners and solemnity as soon as she was old enough to hold a fork. It was boring, but there had been the triumph of knowing that her younger or more boisterous cousins were relegated to the playroom with a sitter.

This Thanksgiving had all the formality of a football stadium during a Super Bowl. Mick had brought in his contribution: a case of Michelob and his color TV, which he set up in the living room next to the Clarks’ TV, so the men could watch two football games at the same time. While the women put steaming bowls and the burnished turkey on the dining room table, Jeremy Clark and Blaise Bennett, both three, ran under the table and underfoot, throwing a tiny football and tackling each other, while two-year-old Heather Bennett toddled after them, screaming at the top of her lungs, waving her chubby arms, tripping over her own feet, already a great little cheerleader. Dinner was served buffet style, and for a few brief moments relative silence reigned while the men ate, but now they had finished dessert and had settled down to serious TV watching, which seemed to necessitate clapping, cursing, and yelling. The women hissed and booed at the men for a while, then gathered in the kitchen with the door shut, ostensibly to do the dishes, but really to get down to some good gossip.

Sara leaned against the kitchen door. Annie Danforth had put an Irish coffee in her hands, and in the heat and the laughter and the informality of the kitchen, Sara began to feel at home.

“I don’t know what to do. Alison Wellington hasn’t paid me for babysitting her kids for four months now,” Mary said. She was seated at the kitchen table, covering dishes with foil.

“Don’t babysit her kids anymore till she pays you,” Carole Clark said. She was drying the glasses Jamie Jones was washing.

“What can I do, lock my door against her? She works, you know,” Mary protested.

“She was
always
that way, always!” Annie Danforth said. “Remember in Girl
Scouts? Even in Brownies, for heaven’s sake! She
never
paid her dues.
Never
.”

“Well, she says it’s not her fault,” Mary said. “She says her husband takes her paycheck and keeps it and doles money out to her.”

“Yeah, and if you believe that, let me sell you a used car,” Carole said. “Mary, remember when our senior class went on the trip to Washington, D.C.? And she said she lost her wallet and we all had to chip in so she’d have spending money?”

Leaning against the door, Sara watched, fascinated by the gossip about the legendarily skinflint Alison Wellington, envious of the other women’s shared history and the ease with which they worked together. She wished there was something she could do to help—she didn’t want them saying later, “Did you see the way Sara Kendall just stood there, not lifting a finger, like she thought she was some kind of queen?” But she didn’t know what to do. The women seemed as organized as a hive of bees; she didn’t know where to jump in.

Then from the living room came the sound of a crying baby. Jamie Jones, who was struggling with a crusted scalloped potatoes pan, looked over her shoulder.

“Damn!” Jamie said. “She always does that. Just when my hands are wet. I’ve got to feed her. I know that cry, and it’s been four hours. Would someone get her for me while I finish this pan?”

It was only natural for Sara, the only woman doing nothing, to say, casually, “I’ll get her, Jamie.” No one fainted from shock, so she turned from the kitchen, her heart racing. She had really had so little to do with babies before. She wasn’t even sure how to carry one.

But Sheldon handed his daughter over to Sara at once. “She’s soaking,” he said, his eyes fixed on the television—it was first and goal—“you’ll have to change her.”

“Um,” Sara began, slightly alarmed.

“The diaper bag’s in the guest bedroom upstairs,” Sheldon said. Then, as his team scored,
“All right!”
he yelled, and left her to her fate.

The baby cradled carefully in her arms, Sara left the living room full of yelling, clapping, stomping men, and made her way through marauding children up the stairs. The little girl wailed and thrashed her legs and arms determinedly, hitting Sara in the chin and chest. Sara was amazed at the strength of this six-month-old, at the difficulty she was having holding her as she twisted in her arms.

“Sssh, sssh, there, there,” she said. “You’re okay, sweetie,” she said, looking
down at the baby, who had a pink ribbon tied around a whale’s spout of dark hair. She gave the baby a big smile.

“A
aaaaaaaah
!” the baby screamed, her face contorted.

In the bedroom, things only got worse. Sara had never changed a baby before, but would rather die than admit that to any of the other women. And surely she could do it, she was not an idiot, it was not that hard.

But the baby girl was enraged now because she was hungry and wet, because she didn’t know this stranger, because this woman was handling her with clumsiness instead of the rapid efficiency she was used to from her mother. Sara gently put the baby down on the bed and unsnapped her terry-cloth jumper. She pulled at the tape holding the wet diaper together, then stood a moment wondering what to do with the diaper. She couldn’t put it down on the bed, it was so wet it would soil the quilt, she couldn’t leave the baby to cross the room and put the diaper in the wastebasket. Her hesitation made the little girl furious. The baby kicked her fat bare thighs as if she were in a bike race, and her cries became frantic screams. Sara might as well have been pinching her.

Sara bent over the baby, her face growing hot with shame and frustration—and to her absolute horror, with anger: how
could
this baby embarrass her this way? She was doing her best.

“Sssh. Sssh. You’re all right, little Rosemary. I know you want your dinner. Let’s change your diaper. Just give me one more minute, please,” she whispered at the screaming child.

But little Rosemary flailed her arms and legs and twisted her body, turning over, so that Sara had to get hold of the chubby little creature and turn her back over on top of the dry diaper. This made the baby even madder, and her screams would have drowned out a fire engine’s. Sara’s heart was thudding and her hands moved like great clumsy wooden sticks.

Suddenly, flashing across the room, an angel of mercy to the rescue of a tortured child, came The Virgin, Mary. She grabbed up the distressed baby and held her against her chest, whispering in her ear. She stroked the back of her head. The baby’s bare bottom hung down over her arm.

Sara hoped the baby would shit on Mary’s sweater.

But of course Rosemary didn’t. Instead, leaning back and looking up, she saw a face she recognized—Mary babysat for Rosemary—and, comforted, her cries began to
ease.

“Poor baby, poor wittle ba,” Mary said. “Aren’t you a foolish ba?” She jiggled the baby, smiled at her. As the baby calmed, Mary looked at Sara. “It sounded like you were sticking pins in her,” she said to Sara, grinning.

“I don’t think she likes having her diaper changed,” Sara said, although that was not what she thought—she thought that there was something so unnatural about her, so
unmotherly
about her, that the baby had instinctively reacted with fear. Was that possible? She wouldn’t ask The Virgin.

Now Mary ignored Sara. “But we have to have our diaper changed if we want our bobble,” she said, lowering the baby back onto the bed. She reached out—it was as if Mary had eyes on the side of her head, for she managed to keep both eyes on the baby’s, smiling, and at the same time see and grasp a rattle, which she presented to the baby with a flourish. “Now oo just play with this, little ba, and Mary will get Rosemary all bootiful so oo can have oor din-din.”

Oh, dear, am I going to have to talk that way if I have a child?
Sara wondered. Then, heart sinking, she thought:
Maybe I
can’t
have a child simply because I’m not capable of talking that way. I just don’t have the right instincts
.

Faster than a speeding bullet, Mary diapered the child and whisked her out of the room, saying not another word to Sara.

Sara followed Mary down the stairs and into the kitchen, searching for just the right words to explain what had happened. The words wouldn’t come. Her mind was a blank.
I’m so glad I’m an editor
, Sara thought wryly,
it’s such a help in my life
.

Jamie was seated at the round oak kitchen table. She reached for Rosemary, brought the baby to her unbuttoned blouse, and watched for a few seconds while the baby began to nurse greedily. She looked back up at Sara, smiling. “I’m sorry she gave you such a bad time,” she said. “She’s at that shitty stage they call ‘making strange.’ She sees a new face and freaks. It’s so fucking embarrassing. Sheldon’s parents came over last week to visit and she screamed at them every time they came near her. I wanted to kill the little monster. Great for keeping pleasant relationships.”

“I remember when Jeremy was that way,” Carole said, leaning against the refrigerator. “I couldn’t get through the grocery store with him. Every time some little old lady coochie-cooed at him he yelled his head off. I had to leave him at home just to get the shopping done. And it went on for
weeks
,” she added ominously.

“Aren’t you a terrible little troublemaker,” Jamie said to her daughter, her voice thick with love, her eyes gleaming with pride. The baby suckled happily.

Sara sank down in a chair and listened while the other women talked about babies. At last Annie Danforth started talking about Christmas. Sara relaxed, until the children, exhausted from the celebration, began to fight at high volume and without mercy. Mothers scattered into the dining room to gather up their tired broods; it was time to leave.

Carole Clark slid up against Sara. “Would you guys drive Mick home?” she whispered. “He’s a little on the drunken side.”

In fact Mick was a lot on the drunken side, but he was a jolly, hearty drunk. He was hard at work now trying to get into his overcoat. “The Patriots lost, but what the hell, right?” he yelled.

“What the hell!” Steve yelled back, cuffing his friend. He grinned at Sara. “I’ll go up and get our coats,” he said.

Sara leaned against the wall in the front hall, as Mick replayed the last quarter of the game.

“The referee made the wrong call, but what the hell, right?” Mick asked her.

“Right,” Sara replied. Other couples brushed past, going up the stairs and down again with their arms full of coats, carrying children and foil-covered pans of food out the front door, hugging and calling to one another.

“The Patriots are the number-one team, right?” Mick yelled.

“Right!” Sara yelled back, though by now Mick was pacing the hallway and addressing his remarks to a seemingly large imaginary audience.

“We’re going to go
all the way, right
?” Mick yelled.

“Right!”
Sara yelled back. “I’m going to go see where Steve is, I thought he was getting our coats,” Sara told him in a normal tone of voice. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried up the carpeted stairs.

Steve was in the guest bedroom, their coats in his arms.

Mary Bennett was the only other person there. She was seated on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Her expression was serious. So was Steve’s. When Sara entered the room, there was that quality of silence that indicates the interruption of an intimate moment.

A spark of fantasy exploded in Sara’s mind: she would look with frigid arrogance
at her husband, walk without a word from the room, drive home, pack, leave him forever.

Instead, she said, as normally as possible, “Oh, I thought you couldn’t find the coats. Ready? We’ve got to get Mick home before he passes out.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “I’m ready.”

Sara crossed the room, stood close to her husband, smiled. “Help me?” she asked, and he held her coat for her to slide into. She smiled sweetly at Mary. “Bye,” she said.

“Bye,” Mary replied, her face surly.

Silently, smiling to the death, Sara followed Steve down the stairs. Jamie Jones was at the doorway talking to Carole Clark. “… see you Tuesday night as usual?” Jamie said, sotto voce. She looked guiltily at Sara.

“Sure. I’ll call you,” Carole told her friend, and they hugged. When Carole turned to Sara, it seemed there was an artificial brightness about her smile.

Now what’s going on?
Sara thought.
Am I truly paranoid or did those two not want me to hear their plans?
But the awkwardness of the moment passed as she and Steve guided Mick out the door and into their car.

Mick babbled all the way home about his beloved Patriots, giving Sara plenty of time to stew in her own suspicions.
If I wanted to, I could work up a really good case of self-pity
, she thought. The baby didn’t like her, Jamie and Carole were doing something from which they definitely but guiltily wanted to exclude her—and, worst of all, her husband had just been involved in some sort of heavy-duty discussion with his old girlfriend.
This isn’t Thanksgiving
, Sara told herself,
this is Halloween
.

Steve wrestled Mick out of the car and into his apartment, then got back into their car for the drive home.

“Mick’s really soused this time. He’s going to feel awful in the morning,” Steve said.

“What was your little conference with Mary all about?” Sara asked, trying to keep her voice normal.

“What little conference?” Steve answered innocently.

Sara studied her husband as he drove. He kept his profile to her, concentrating as if he were steering the car through a raging blizzard.

“Oh, come on, Steve,” she said.

Steve was silent for a while. Then he said, “Nothing, really. It was nothing, Sara.”

She waited, her eyes lasering into Steve’s stubborn head. Finally she turned away
and sat in a deadly silence, letting her anger fill the car like a perfume. When they got home, she slammed from the car and into the house and up to their bedroom in one sweep of fury.