Mendocino and Other Stories (16 page)

He jerked awake. Relieved, he reached for Julia, but she wasn't there. He got out of bed and headed down the stairs. The kitchen light shone, throwing a band of white across the dark wood floor of the hallway.

He heard Julia saying, “Try not to, honey.” Then a sniff. He stopped on the bottom step.

“It won't be the same after this,” Sylvie said through sobs. “He'll go back to McCluskey's garage and those guys.”

“How can you be sure? I'm sure he misses you, too.”

“Then why doesn't he write? He
promised.
”

“He's probably confused,” Julia said. “This is hard on him, too, don't you suppose?”

“I guess.” Sylvie sniffed again, then blew her nose.

Henry moved into the doorway. “He's probably afraid you'll be different,” Julia said; she was facing him but she hadn't seen him yet.

“I will be,” Sylvie said.

Julia shut her eyes, and her face seemed to close down in pain. Henry took a quick step back, out of the doorway. He didn't know what he'd do if she cried. He'd seen her cry only once before,
when his father died. They got the news over the phone, from Henry's brother, and while Julia stood at the kitchen sink with her face in her hands, Henry stood beside her, afraid to touch her for fear that she would look up and see that his eyes were dry, and, without saying a word, reproach him somehow. She surprised him, though: after several minutes, without warning, she straightened up, wiped her face with the back of her hands, blew her nose, drank a glass of water, put her hand on his shoulder for a moment—and then turned back to the stove and finished sautéing the chicken breasts they were having for dinner.

Now Henry heard the sound of a chair scraping back. Julia said, “I'm going to make you some decaffeinated tea,” in an even, controlled voice, and he felt his body relax. Of course Julia wouldn't cry; it would make Sylvie feel worse, and that was one of Julia's talents: never making anyone feel worse, or even bad. If Julia were pregnant, he wouldn't find her crying in the kitchen at three
A.M
. Although who could say? As Henry headed back up the stairs, he realized that he'd never actually imagined Julia pregnant, her face blotchy, her hipbones lost to flesh; she'd have hated wearing clothes like the big denim jumper Sylvie seemed to wear every other day. At least she wasn't going to have to endure all of that; he hoped she could see it that way, too.

JULIA LEANED AGAINST
the door, a three-quarters turn away from him. They were in a taxi on their way home from a party. It had gotten awkward, seeing their friends: walking into their hosts' bedroom with Julia's coat at the beginning of the evening, Henry had felt a shadow behind him and had not even turned around—the sense of an extra presence in his life had become that familiar. But someone really was there, it turned out: Mona, his hostess, dressed in white clothing that looked like paper, her whole body
narrowed into an expression of solicitude. He'd greeted her perhaps too exuberantly, and now, in the cab, he imagined the conversation about them that was taking place back at the party—her concerned report of his false cheer. He thought of telling Julia about meeting Mona in the bedroom but realized he couldn't: he might say too much.

“She asked me if we'd picked names yet,” Julia said, turning to face him.

“Right,” Henry said. “It's not that she wants to
pressure
us or
pry
, it's just, well, don't we want to
talk
about it?”

“What are you talking about, Henry? She's not like that.”

“Are you kidding? You should have heard her in the bedroom when I was getting rid of your coat.”

“No, no, no, not Mona.
Sylvie
asked me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Henry said. He licked his lips. “What did you say?”

“That we hadn't, of course. We haven't.”

“I guess we should start thinking.”

“I've been thinking. Haven't you?”

“I guess not. Not about that, anyway.”

She sighed and looked out the window. “What, then?” she said.

“What?”

“What have you been thinking about?”

He tried to focus on something outside the cab, but his eyes kept returning to the back of her head; part of her hair was caught in her collar, and he wanted to reach a finger in and flip it out.

She faced him. “I mean it,” she said. “Are you in on this?”

What if he said no? What then? But he
was.
It was all just so strange. “Yes,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Sweetie,” he said, touching her leg.

After a moment, she settled back into the seat. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned her head into his neck and
he reached his other hand up and touched her hair—but there, there it was again: the tightness in his chest.

HENRY HAD SPENT
the whole day at the office, even though it was a Saturday, and as he walked the last few blocks home he thought how nice it would be if Julia had a fire going. He'd forgotten his gloves and his fingers were numb; it felt more like February than the beginning of November.

“Hello,” he called as he opened the front door. None of the downstairs lights were on. He turned on the hall light, put down his briefcase, and hung up his coat. He moved through the living room and dining room, turning on lights. “Hello?” he called at the bottom of the stairs.

“We're up here,” Julia called back.

He went into the kitchen and looked through the mail. The newspaper was still on the table and he glanced through it, although he'd read it before leaving the house that morning. He made himself a drink and climbed the stairs.

The light in his and Julia's bedroom was on, and he went in. Sylvie was sitting at Julia's dressing table, and Julia was standing over her, at work on Sylvie's mouth with one of her pencils. The table was littered with small bottles and jars. Julia had Sylvie's chin in her hand, and Sylvie was looking up at her with an expression of wonder and admiration.

“Hi,” he said.

They both looked around at him, and Sylvie blushed. “Hi,” Julia said. “Just a sec.” She tilted Sylvie's face up and finished outlining her lips, then she turned to Henry. “When you're pregnant,” she said, “a little lift on a grey day can make all the difference.” She turned back to Sylvie. “Here's the thing to remember about makeup: the less you want to wear it, the more you should.”

Henry stood still, not knowing what to do.

“You look gorgeous,” Julia said, taking a step backward to look at Sylvie. “Like one of those models wearing a flowing linen dress at some garden party.”

Sylvie pulled her jumper away from her belly. “The only problem is that the dress flows out instead of down.”

Julia laughed and picked up her brush. “I just want to try something with your hair.”

Henry picked up a magazine from his bedside table, held it for a moment, then set it down again.

Julia turned and smiled at him. “I'll be down in a few minutes,” she said.

JULIA HAD TAKEN
Sylvie shopping for something to wear at Thanksgiving.

Henry was sitting at his computer, staring at the calendar. The baby's head was now in proportion to its body, and it had begun to shed its hair. Soon it would start to practice breathing, which would cause it to hiccup. He wondered what that would feel like to Sylvie. Like kicking? Julia had told him that the baby kicked a lot at night, keeping Sylvie awake, and he'd been about to explain to her that most doctors thought it wasn't so much the baby kicking more as it was the mother being more aware. He'd stopped himself just in time; he hadn't told her about the book.

He closed the file, ejected his disc, and left the study to go upstairs. Sylvie's door was closed, and it was with the consciousness that he was trespassing that he opened it and went in. He was expecting a mess, but the room was so still and neat that it looked uninhabited. Where was the tangle of laundry, where the sloppy bed? He thought of Sylvie at the dinner table, her breasts resting on her rounded belly. He thought of her in the easy chair
in front of the TV, her hands crossed on her stomach. She always looked neat, in her huge dresses. It was, he realized guiltily, the mere fact of her pregnancy that made him think of her as slovenly.

He walked around her bed. The only things on her night table were a small lamp and a clock. He pulled open the drawer. It was empty except for a plain white envelope. He picked it up and held it for a moment, then untucked the flap. Inside were several photographs. He took them out and flipped through them, just glancing until he came to a picture of Sylvie sitting on the lap of a skinny teenaged boy.

They were both in cutoffs. The boy wore no shirt and his chest was pale and hairless. He looked defenseless, sitting there with his hand on Sylvie's bare thigh, staring straight ahead. Henry realized he had been imagining someone big, a football player with a chipped tooth. Someone whose child would grow up tall, like he was. But this boy was the father. My child's father, Henry thought.

JULIA HAD FLOWN
to Milwaukee on business, so Henry was taking the morning off to take Sylvie to the doctor. She'd said she would go alone, but Julia had made him promise. “The doctor makes her nervous,” she'd said. “You don't mind, do you?”

It was, he told himself, the least he could do. He wondered whether it was also the most. Sitting next to Sylvie in Julia's doc-tor's very feminine waiting room, he wondered what she thought of him. Across the room there was a man dressed almost exactly as he was—grey suit, blue shirt, striped tie—and Henry thought he was probably no clearer to her than that man was.

He turned to her. “How are you feeling?” he said.

“Fine, thanks.”

“I mean, I was wondering how you were feeling these days. In general.” According to the book, the last few weeks were very hard.

“OK,” she said, smiling at him. “Fine.”

“Good,” he said. He continued to look at her, until he realized he wasn't going to think of anything else to say. Finally the nurse came for her and he sank back into his chair.

“Your first?” The man across the room was staring at him intently. They were alone.

“Yes,” Henry said.

The man nodded. “Your wife seems so calm, is why I asked. My wife is pretty nervous. She's got four more weeks and she's already got the little suitcase packed.” He laughed, his eyes still on Henry. “Hell,” he said, “I'm nervous.” He paged through a magazine, threw it back onto the table. “In fact,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I'm scared to death.” He grinned, as if challenging Henry to better him.

“It'll be OK,” Henry said. He lifted his briefcase onto his lap and popped open the clasps. Sifting through papers, his head ducked low, he was afraid that the man would still be there when Sylvie came out. But after a few minutes the man's wife appeared and they left together, holding hands.

Whatever was happening, it was taking forever. Henry did a little work, scanned an article in
Parents
magazine about working mothers who wanted to breastfeed. The waiting room filled: two women, three, four, five—all hugely pregnant. He was the only man. He used the phone on the table beside him to call his office for messages. He closed his eyes for a little catnap. Suddenly his leg cramped, a quick, painful knot in his thigh. He shot out of his chair to shake it out, and all the women looked up at him at once, as if they had been just waiting for him to disturb the peace.

Sitting down again, he was afraid he might start laughing. He thought of Julia, saw her walking through an anonymous airport, so elegant, so composed; he waited for the ache of missing her to fill him. Then he remembered sitting with her in this room—how
many times?—holding her cold hand. First the nervous hope, then the clutching fear, then the little pellet of shame he'd had to swallow and try to forget. He closed his eyes and felt the sag in his cheeks and mouth.

THE FORECAST WAS
for snow, a white Thanksgiving, but in the night the air had warmed, and Henry, waking as Julia got out of bed, heard the steady slide of a rain that would continue for hours. He rolled onto her side of the bed, gathered her pillow into his arms, and drifted toward sleep. He heard her come out of the bathroom, waited for her to move in next to him, instead felt her skirt the bed. He got up to shower.

In the kitchen he found her scraping potatoes at the sink, wrapped in his old plaid bathrobe. There was the familiar aroma of coffee and, just below that, the fat, uncooked smell of the turkey beginning to roast.

“It's raining,” Henry said. “Reminds me of my childhood, my mother in the kitchen baking pies, the smell of cinnamon in the air.”

She smiled and held her hand out for him; he kissed her. “Your mother never baked a pie in her life,” she said.

He laughed. “Did I ever tell you about the Thanksgiving she had catered by the local Chinese restaurant? This was in the days of chop suey and chow mein, mind you.”

“Come on,” Julia said. “I'm sure that's only half the story. You were probably begging for Chinese food every other day that year and she was trying to please you.”

“Apple pie would have pleased me.”

She took his face in her hands. “Poor big baby,” she crooned. She slapped him lightly.

“Are we having apple pie?”

“Of course. Sylvie and I made it yesterday afternoon, before you got home. She has a recipe where you put a little cider in the crust.”

“I like your crust,” he said.

“Henry,” she said, “it was a tablespoon.”

He turned away, got a mug from the cabinet and filled it with coffee. He sat at the table. Julia was still looking at him.

“We should make sure she gets a chance to call home today,” he said.

She nodded. “After we eat.”

“How can I help?” he asked. “Set the table?”

She bit her lip. “I told Sylvie she could. She insisted on doing something and I didn't think she should be on her feet in this hot kitchen all morning.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'll lay a fire.”

The fireplace was in his study. He took his coffee with him. When he emerged nearly two hours later the rest of the house seemed to be humming with preparations. In the dining room, white linen and silver covered the table; looking more closely, he saw that Sylvie had folded the napkins into elaborate pockets and tucked the forks inside them. He wondered whether Julia had been tempted to ask her to do it over.