The Twelfth Child Page 20

  The moment Fred opened the door; he called out “She’s here!”

  Judging by the glow on his face, Abigail thought he might be a bit tipsy.

  “You want champagne?” he asked, “Mince pie, maybe? We still got turkey –”

  Abigail hadn’t eaten all day and she was just about to say that some of the turkey sounded pretty good, but Gloria cut in. “Don’t anybody don’t want that left-over stuff,” she laughed, “but we could all use a Coke-cola.”

  Abigail saw something new in her friend’s face – something impossible to put a name to, a softness around the eyes, a half-smile curling the corner of the mouth, an at-peace-with-the-world look of gentleness. Long before the words were said, she knew Gloria was expecting a baby.

  “In June,” Gloria said, “and we want you to be the Godmother.”

  Abigail was so pleased; she told Fred she’d have the champagne, after all.

  With Christmas now seeming just around the corner, Abigail began shopping – she bought her forthcoming godchild three yellow baby buntings and a rocking horse and she took to telephoning Gloria most every day to check on how she was feeling. “Do you have any cravings?” she’d ask, “Want some ice cream? Pickles, maybe?”

  Gloria would usually laugh and say that Fred was taking very good care of her. “Oh,” Abigail would answer, with a tinge of jealousy because she wanted to be more than a Godmother, she wanted a part in the pregnancy.

  The more Abigail thought about Gloria’s baby, the more she longed to become John’s wife and grow fat with her own child. She went to Blumgarten’s, the finest men’s shop in all of Richmond and bought John a pair of leather slippers lined with fleece, the kind of slipper any man would look forward to at the end of a hard day. She also bought him a fine briarwood pipe, even though she’d never known him to smoke. She wrapped both gifts in Santa Claus paper and fixed a sprig of holly atop the packages. On Christmas Day she planned to feed him a hearty dinner, and then insist that he sit in the easy chair to relax with his pipe and slippers. That, she thought, would be the right time to drop a subtle hint about marriage.

  On Christmas Eve John called, at a time when she’d already slipped a roast of beef into the oven and was expecting him to be knocking on the door. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m tied up with some emergency inspections in Philadelphia and won’t be able to get there for another week.”

  “It’s Christmas,” Abigail moaned.

  “I know,” he sighed, “But, what can I do?”

  “I’ve already started dinner.”

  “Could you maybe invite some friends over?”

  “On Christmas Eve?” she sniffled.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Abigail heard the contrition in his voice and ached to feel his arms around her no matter the cost. “I’ll come to Philadelphia,” she offered.

  “Oh no,” he answered almost a little too quickly, “I couldn’t let you do that. I’m out at the site all day, every day. It’s terrible. Muddy. Cold. Dangerous even.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “These are industrial buildings, steel scaffolding and such. Way too dangerous for a woman to walk around.” As Abigail sat there crying into the telephone, he went on to say he missed her just as much as she missed him and that he’d see her as soon as he could finish up and get to Richmond. Then he hung up.

  Abigail threw herself across the bed and cried for three hours, completely forgetting about the roast beef in the oven until a curl of black smoke wafted through the apartment. She didn’t eat at all Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day she ate a bologna and cheese sandwich.

  John did not get back to Richmond until the third of January, by which time Abigail had decided that she was going to return the pipe and slippers to Blumgarten’s and ask for her money back.

  “I don’t care much for roses,” she grumbled when he came through the library door carrying a bouquet the size of an oak tree.

  “You’ve always liked them before,” he answered.

  “That was before –”

  “Before what? Before I disappointed you? Before I ruined Christmas?”

  Abigail mumbled, “Yes.” She looked down at an overdue notice she’d already stamped seven times and didn’t let her eyes meet his.

  “Don’t you think I was disappointed too?”

  She shrugged and whacked the overdue stamp.

  “Damn you,” he shouted, “Look at me!” He reached across the counter and tilted her face to his. “I love you, Abigail! Can’t you understand that I was just as disappointed as you?”

  Abigail was going to tell him that such a thing wasn’t possible, but before she could push the words from her mouth, a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Yell at me, scream at me,” John pleaded, “but, please don’t cry.” With that he leaped across the circulation desk and took her in his arms.

  Before that happened, Abigail was set on saying she wasn’t interested in a boyfriend who bounced around like a rubber ball, but once he started smothering her face with kisses, whatever resolve she had was forgotten. Right there, in full view of library patrons, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. The kissing continued for a full five minutes and may have lasted through the afternoon, were it not for the fact that Gertrude Fishman asked for a book on tropical rain forests.

  That night John took Abigail to dinner in a French restaurant, a romantic place with lights so low, you couldn’t know for sure what you were eating. He ordered a bottle of champagne tucked inside a silver bucket, and every time she took a sip, he quickly refilled her glass. He sat alongside of her, close enough that she could feel the pulse of blood in his veins. He whispered how missing her had driven him wild with desire, then slid his hand over her thigh and drew her closer still. Abigail knew that even if the building suddenly burst into flames, or the sky came tumbling down, she would be helpless to pull herself away.

  Later that evening, at her apartment, they celebrated their own Christmas, despite the fact that Abigail had already taken down the small pine tree in the parlor and ripped the Santa Claus paper from John’s presents. “I’m sorry this isn’t wrapped,” she murmured handing him the shoe box. He claimed it didn’t matter, then removed his shoes and slid his feet into the slippers.

  John opened the suitcase he’d carted up to the apartment and pulled out a small box wrapped in silver paper. “This is for you,” he told Abigail.

  When Abigail peeled back the paper she found a solid gold watch sprinkled with diamonds, a watch so delicate a person would have to squint to actually see the time on the face, a watch so perfect, it could only come from a man in love. “It’s beautiful,” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck so enthusiastically that they both toppled over. She then leaned into his chest and covered John’s face with kisses.

  When he was finally able to catch his breath, he handed her a second box – pearl earrings. After that it was a bottle of lavender bath salts. The last gift was a large box from Macy’s Herald Square. “This came all the way from New York?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  Abigail knew she’d been wrong about John not caring. Obviously, he was every bit as much in love with her as she was with him.

  Inside of the box was a pink satin nightgown with thin straps tied at the shoulder, beneath the nightgown was a matching robe – the most beautiful lingerie set she’d ever seen, elegant enough perhaps to be considered an evening gown, something that a movie star or debutante would wear, something that could only come from New York City or maybe, Paris, France.

  “Try it on,” he said.

  “A nightgown?”

  “Wear the robe overtop, that’s perfectly decent.” When Abigail seemed as though she might be considering the thought, he added, “You ought to make sure it fits.”

  She hesitated a moment then moved into the bedroom; when she came back she was wearing the nightgown. The romantic sound of ballroom music
was coming from the radio and John was pouring a second glass of champagne.

  “You’re a vision,” he said and gave a long low whistle.

  Never before had Abigail known herself to be the object of so much admiration, it was an aphrodisiac that seeped through her skin and settled into her bones.

  “A beautiful woman should always have beautiful things,” he whispered; then swept her into his arms and started swaying to the strains of Beautiful Dreamer. The room was tiny, crowded with furniture, too small to do a waltz or fox trot even, but Abigail closed her eyes and imagined that they were at the Rainbow Room, high above the world. She hardly noticed when the music stopped and an announcer started telling listeners that Duz is the detergent that does everything.

  “Merry Christmas,” John said, and handed her the glass of champagne.

  Although December twenty-fifth was long gone and the calendar hanging on her kitchen wall had already been switched over to 1938, it was the best Christmas Abigail had ever experienced, so when John wrapped his arms around her and pressed his body to hers, she offered no resistance. Nor, did she object when he slid his hand beneath the robe. When he whispered, “I love you,” and cupped her breast in his hand, Abigail was long past remembering that she’d planned to bring up the subject of marriage.

  Only once, when John untied the shoulder straps of her gown and watched it drop to the floor, did she feel afraid of what was happening, but as she offered up the feeblest of protests, he worked his way into her body.

  That night she dreamed of Preacher Broody pounding on the pulpit and hammering home the message that an adulteress will forever burn in Hell’s pit of fire. Abigail could see herself standing naked in front of the congregation, her body and her sins exposed. But when she woke in the morning and found herself wrapped in John’s embrace, the dream was quickly forgotten.

  That January John remained in Richmond for eight days, surreptitiously slipping in and out of the apartment building’s side door to save Abigail’s reputation, but it was she who ultimately gave rise to rumors of romance. A rosy glow settled onto her skin like summer sunburn, she’d arrive at the library late and leave early, she’d find herself wearing one black shoe and the other brown, she’d be scribbling page after page of the name Abigail Langley and forget about the patrons standing in line to check out a book.

  “Isn’t your name Lannigan?” Melissa Cooper asked, after she’d been waiting for a full fifteen minutes.

  “It’s going to change,” Abigail answered with a smile.

  Pretty soon, the word around town was that the librarian was in love and about to be married, but to whom people asked each other.

  Abigail figured it was only a question of time until John proposed, so she set about demonstrating the kind wife she would be. She’d lock the library door on the dot of three and rush home to bake pork chops, or set a beef stew to simmering. The moment he walked through the door, she’d bring his slippers and the day’s newspaper. “Sit in the easy chair and relax,” she’d say, then start massaging his neck so he’d be certain to do so. After dinner they made love, and she held back nothing.

  On January eleventh, as he was packing his things into the suitcase, she brought up the subject of his traveling.

  “That’s my business,” he answered with a grin. “Traveling. I’ve got to go where buildings are being built. The bank depends on me.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, making her disappointment obvious.

  “Don’t frown,” he said, tracing his finger along the slope of her nose, “you’ll get wrinkles on that pretty forehead.” He turned and walked out, promising only that he’d be back at the end of the month.

  John had been there for only eight days, but once he was gone the apartment seemed so empty that Abigail was forced to walk from room to room making certain the furniture had not also disappeared. Everything was as it had always been, except for the pair of slippers left alongside the living room chair.

  Abigail, feeling very much in love, floated through January and February. Although a winter storm stacked three inches of snow on the ground, she swore the lilacs were getting ready to bloom. A smile settled onto her face and refused to leave. She’d walk down the street greeting passersby as if they were lifelong friends, or stopping to tickle the chin of a snowsuited baby. John was coming to Richmond every other week, sometimes he’d stay a few days, other times it would be just one night, and then he’d be gone before Abigail could rub the sleep from her eyes. When he was there, her skin itched with the desire for him to touch her, hold her, be inside of her again. Once they’d eaten supper, she’d stretch her arms above her head and start yawning, which was her way of suggesting the need to go to bed early.

  When he wasn’t there, she’d be thinking of when he would be. On Valentine’s Day, forgetting that he wouldn’t be back for another six days, she roasted a large round of beef. That night she claimed to have heard the newspaper rustling in the parlor and John calling for a cold glass of beer, even though he was hundreds of miles away. Night after night she’d fall asleep imagining herself in his arms; but on nights when there was a full moon, she’d wake and start wondering what city he was in at that moment.

  On a March day when the wind was whistling through the window and Abigail was dreamily recounting how John had given her a satin slip with lace sheer as spun glass, Gloria asked, “What about getting married? Has he said anything about that yet?”

  “Not exactly,” Abigail answered.

  “He ought to have asked by now.”

  “He will,” Abigail sighed, “in time, he will.”

  Gloria started shaking her head side to side, “Don’t be too sure,” she grumbled, “some men just ain’t the marrying kind.”

  “John’s not one of those!” Abigail answered indignantly, then she went on to tell about how he’d telephoned her long distance from New York City.

  “Long distance ain’t the same as being there,” Gloria said, and it was a point with which anyone would have had to agree.

  That night it was all but impossible for Abigail to fall asleep because when she tried to picture John lying beside her, the only thing she could see was a carved out indentation he’d left in the sheet.

  The same thing happened the next night and the night after that. After she’d gone without sleep for three straight nights, Abigail found herself walking right by people she’d known for years without giving them so much as a nod. When Bobby Granby inquired about a book of nursery rhymes, she ignored him completely. She tossed Alice Flynn’s eyeglasses into the trash basket instead of the lost and found bin. And when Gloria called to say that she’d decided to call the baby Belinda if it turned out to be a girl, it took Abigail a full minute to remember what baby she was talking about.

  By the time John arrived back in Richmond, Abigail had worked a conversation through her mind, a conversation that would lead him onto the subject of marriage. “Did you miss me?” she asked.

  “Of course!” He pulled her body to his and kissed her so ardently that she almost forgot the thing she was leading up to. After he planted a row of kisses from her mouth down to the valley in her bosom, he asked, “What’s for supper?”

  “Well, actually,” she smiled in what she thought to be a most alluring manner, “I thought we could go out for dinner. Someplace fancy. Maybe that French restaurant, the one with red velvet wallpaper –”

  “Not tonight. I’ve been on the road all day.”

  “But, we haven’t been out in such a long time,” Abigail moaned.

  “I thought you enjoyed cooking for me.”

  “Oh, I do!” she exclaimed. “But someplace romantic would be –”

  “This isn’t romantic?” He came up behind her and brushed his lips across her shoulder. “Me and you, alone together? Nothing to do but make love?” As he spoke he slid his hand beneath her skirt.

  “But,” she sighed, “I thought maybe we could talk.”

  “About what?” His fingers were working their way int
o her panties.

  “A more permanent relationship,” she answered.

  He pulled his hand back like he’d suddenly discovered a patch of poison ivy. “Permanent? I’m here every chance I get. I go miles out of my way. I’m supposed to be in Arlington but I drive to Richmond to be with you. That doesn’t mean anything?”

  “Of course it does, but you’re away so much of the time.”

  “You think I like it?” he growled angrily. “I have to do it! It’s my job. My territory is the entire eastern seaboard – you knew that when we met.”

  “Well, yes –”

  “What did you expect?”

  His voice was hard edged, so cold it caused Abigail to shiver. “I just thought – ”

  “Thought what? That I’d quit my job? Let you take care of me? No!” he said emphatically, “That will never happen! I’ve got my pride!”

  His hurt settled like a stone in Abigail’s heart. “I never meant to infer,” she said tearfully, but by then he’d turned and walked off to the parlor. She swallowed back the rest of the conversation she had planned and went to fix supper.

  When they went to bed that night he turned his back to her and Abigail could sense the falling apart of things. Nothing was going the way she’d planned. Tomorrow morning he’d probably leave and never again come through Richmond. Never again send flowers or whisper about how much he loved her. Abigail reminded herself over and over again that he did indeed love her – he’d told her so a thousand times, maybe ten thousand times. It stood to reason that he’d balk at the thought of giving up his job. A man’s job was the measure of his merit, everyone said so. Fred proposed to Gloria, but then he was an electrician who could still go to work each and every day. In time, she and John would be able to work it out; they’d find a way to be together, people who were in love with each other always found a way. He wouldn’t have to quit traveling, she could move to New York, maybe even ride along in the back seat of his car; but if he left with a wedge of anger stuck in his throat it could be the end of everything. She reached out her hand and touched his shoulder, “John,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”