The Irresistible Henry House Part 2

"Dr. Gardner, can I help you with something else?" Martha asked, following him.

"No, I just want to see where the baby sleeps."

"Where he sleeps?"

"Sleeps. Plays. Crawls. What have you."

"You want a tour?" Martha asked, still surprised.

"Perhaps the student I just met will do the honors," he said, and it was not a request but a command.

IT WOULD REMAIN UNCLEAR TO MARTHA for weeks what Dr. Gardner had been looking for, but something told her that it would be unwise to question Beatrice too closely about what, if anything, he had asked her. If the president's real purpose had been to confirm either new or old accusations about Martha, then she didn't want her questioning to be construed as insecurity.

Even two hours after the president left, the smell of his cigar hung thickly in the air.

HENRY DIDN'T RECOVER FULLY from his cold until nearly a week later, and it was only then, with an attentive Betty on hand for her second stint in the practice house, that Martha decided it was safe to go into town to do her Christmas errands.

It was a Tuesday morning, still just the second week in December, but Martha hated to fall behind on tasks that could be done in advance.

Wearing rubber boots in case of snow, she walked the red-brick streets from the campus into town. The market had the new Green Stamps catalogue, just in time for the holiday season, and Martha picked one up at the counter, then moved on to the Spring Street church, where the annual manger scene filled the front lawn. Martha paused before it, wondering if the sheep and goats had been repainted, or if they just looked more vibrant because of the bright sun. The gold on the wings of the angel caught the light, and even the Baby Jesus seemed to have a pinker pair of lips. Jesus was nearly as big as Henry, his arms and legs chubby and outstretched, and his eyes wide open and smiling. Martha didn't think any newborn would look like that, but she realized, not for the first time, that she had never seen a newborn. Not any practice house baby. Not even her own.

Around the corner at the post office, Martha bought a page of Christmas Seals. At Hamilton's Hardware, two blocks down, she readjusted her scarf when Arthur Hamilton told her he liked its colors, and she ogled the signs for the latest household wonder: a new Hoover that was said to vacuum up twice the dust in less than half the time. At the toy store, Martha stood by the window, admiring the new train display; it had grown less elaborate with each Christmas of the war, but now, with peace blooming, it was exuberant with fresh cotton snowdrifts, a well-frosted church, and new fir trees. For a moment, Martha tried to imagine what Henry would be like when he was old enough to play with trains like these, and then she thought again of her stillborn child, and then of her lost marriage, and then, banis.h.i.+ng the thoughts from her mind, she needlessly pushed at the vertices between the leather-gloved fingers of first one and then the other hand.

"HE'S GOING TO BE AN ARTIST, I just know it," Betty said as Martha stepped into the kitchen that afternoon.

Henry, his hands covered with applesauce, had smeared large circles onto the tray top of the wooden high chair, and he was now busily smacking the centers of them, as if they were rain puddles.

"An artist!" Martha said, putting her bags on the counter.

"Pica.s.so! Rembrandt! Look at how he uses his hands!"

Martha wanted to pick Henry up. She wanted to nuzzle him, to rock him, to feel the perfect fit, the weird completion, in the moment when Henry's hands found their way to the nape of her neck. Martha wanted to carry him in a perpetual embrace, to have those tiny arms seek and choose her shoulders, her cheeks, her nose. Momentarily frozen by the desire, she stared at Henry, unmoving, until Betty finally looked up and said, "Don't worry. I'll clean him up." Martha nodded. She gathered up her roll of Green Stamps, her new catalogue, and her Christmas Seals. "All six-month-olds use their hands," she said to Betty. "That's the main thing six-month-olds do."

"Ga!" Henry shouted, and Martha forced herself to go upstairs.

IN THE EVENING, she sat at her desk, listened to her tabletop Philco, wrote notes on her Christmas cards, and neatly affixed the Christmas Seals. This year, the seals had a bright blue backdrop framing the image of a lamplighter. They were the perfect match for Perry Como's. .h.i.t about the old lamplighter who leaves the lamps dark for all the courting couples: For he recalls when dreams were new, He loved someone who loved him, too...

Martha's Christmas card list was not terribly long. Other than two cousins in Santa Anita whom she'd only met once, she had no family. Her father had died a decade before, and her mother a decade before that. There were no siblings, no surviving aunts or uncles. The list was mostly made up of Martha's fellow faculty members-her colleagues in the home economics program, her neighbors at the Wilton Nursery School, Irena Stahl at the orphanage, and of course Dean Swift and President Gardner. There were a few former students with whom she'd stayed in touch, but if two years pa.s.sed without them sending cards in return, she would automatically remove their names from her list. Her father had impressed on her years before the sin of wasted effort.

If Dean Swift and President Gardner had not welcomed her back, Martha thought, how many Christmas cards would she be sending out now? And from what tiny, barren rented room would she be addressing the envelopes? She tried to calm herself by remembering that at forty-eight, she was still not too old to seek a new job. Wilton College, however, was the only place where she'd ever worked.

The house was so quiet tonight that she could hear Betty turning the pages of her book in the bedroom below. And once, she heard Henry let out a sound, like a laugh, in his sleep. Still at her desk, Martha moved on to the trading stamps, using a sponge to wet them and then pasting them tidily into a book. "Would you throw money away?" she had often asked her students when they grumbled about having to paste in the stamps. She would point proudly to the practice house toaster, the new electric coffeepot, and the bra.s.s-tipped fireplace tools by way of showing them what a little time spent pasting could buy.

Martha paused to look around her room. The wood floor, with its wide, warm boards the color of a cello; the tall windows that framed the campus's tall trees; the wainscoting on the walls; and the photos, and the mementos-these last, it was true, would come with her if she was ever forced to go. But how-and where-would she ever find any new ones?

Sometimes-in the rare moments when she had Henry all to her-self-she would let him put his arms around her neck, and she would whisper to him, "Hold tight." Now, sensing change like a scent in the air, she heard the words in her own mind, just as clearly and firmly as if she were talking to him. Hold tight. Hold tight.

CHRISTMAS FELL ON a Wednesday. All the girls would be going home for the holiday. So on the Sat.u.r.day before they took off, they gathered at the practice house for their own practice Christmas.

Martha gave Henry a red fire truck, her standard gift for practice house boys. Beatrice had knitted him a stocking with an H H that sagged dramatically across the top. Ruby had crocheted him a bright red sweater using yarn that had been sheared and dyed on her parents' farm. The rest of the girls gave presents that suggested their own expectations of Henry, or perhaps their own views of themselves. Betty gave him a set of finger paints and a box of crayons. Connie gave him books. Ethel gave him a silly pull-toy dog on a little string leash. And Grace, who had the most money, gave him a miniature white piano that even Mozart would have been years away from being able to play. that sagged dramatically across the top. Ruby had crocheted him a bright red sweater using yarn that had been sheared and dyed on her parents' farm. The rest of the girls gave presents that suggested their own expectations of Henry, or perhaps their own views of themselves. Betty gave him a set of finger paints and a box of crayons. Connie gave him books. Ethel gave him a silly pull-toy dog on a little string leash. And Grace, who had the most money, gave him a miniature white piano that even Mozart would have been years away from being able to play.

When they had all opened their gifts for him, Henry sat on the rug next to the Christmas tree and, ignoring each of the actual presents, chewed merrily on the plastic lid of a box that had held Christmas cookie sprinkles. After a while, Grace sat beside him on the rug and plinked out "White Christmas" on the little piano, and Henry grinned, allowing a mouthful of saliva to drop onto the rug.

Surrounded by his seven mothers, only one of whom had tried to conceal the wish that her gift-and her arms-would be chosen above all others, Henry sat in his red sweater, plump and pa.s.sionate, like a tiny Santa Claus himself, and looked from one to another of them, as if trying to figure out what he should give to whom.

4.

Give Me the Baby, Dear

Two weeks later, Martha heard the news from Ruby-that Betty had finally received a letter. From the somber tone in Ruby's voice, Martha could only a.s.sume that this would have to be the the letter. letter.

"When did it come?" Martha asked Ruby.

Henry was in the nursery, taking his nap, and Ruby was helping Martha take down the Christmas tree ornaments.

"I think it was just this morning," Ruby said.

"Did you see Betty yourself?"

"No. I saw Beatrice in town on our walk," Ruby said.

Martha knew it was unkind, but she couldn't help feeling angry that her whole routine and the house's routine-and the whole routine of the college, for that matter-would be thrown off by the inevitable bustle and sadness over Betty's husband's death. There would be a memorial service, of course. And compulsory condolence visits to Dr. Gardner's house. Maybe even a plaque or portrait at some point. And there would be Betty herself, whose needs would now come before anyone else's.

Martha had seen Betty's husband only once-about two years before-the week he had come back on leave, when he and Betty had stopped to see her father briefly just before he s.h.i.+pped out again. To Martha, he had looked odd then, like an undernourished Popeye, with a goofy, slightly uneven face. He was still young enough to be wearing-like tiny badges-bits of tissue on the places where he'd cut himself shaving.

Martha sighed as she took a wrapped ornament from Ruby and tucked it into a corner of the hatbox in which she kept the most delicate of the Christmas decorations. She wondered why it was that her own husband couldn't have died valiantly, guaranteeing not only his martyrdom but hers as well. "Poor Martha," people would have said, the way they had already spent the year saying "Poor Betty." And everything she did, or tried, would have been construed as courageous. Yes, Betty had lost her young husband. But at least she would have good wishes, sad smiles, and all of her future before her. And she would have her father's help and protection. That couldn't hurt much, either.

The real courage, Martha was starting to believe, was going on when no one cared if you went on or not.

"Mrs. Gaines?" Ruby was asking from her perch at the top of the stepladder. She was trying to liberate a string of cranberries from the highest branches of the Christmas tree, and the challenge was clearly unnerving her. "Can you give me a hand, Mrs. Gaines?" Ruby asked.

"We throw the cranberries out with the tree," Martha said abruptly, her anger surprising them both. "You've been studying home economics for more than three months now, Ruby. Surely you would have learned that if you keep berries in a hatbox for a year you can expect them to rot."

Stung by Martha's tone, Ruby let go of the strand and looked down from her tangled heights. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Gaines. I was just trying to-"

"Yes," Martha said, and, distracted, walked into the kitchen, still carrying a striped crystal bell.

In the kitchen, she stood by the stove, looked down at the green and white checked linoleum tiles, and tried to govern her feelings. Then, unexpectedly, Betty was at the back door, her face slick with tears and hurt, which made her look even younger than usual.

"Is he still asleep?" she asked as she barged into the kitchen and jostled Martha. The bell in Martha's hand dropped and broke, melodically, on the pristine floor.

With barely a glance at the ground, Betty was already heading down the corridor to Henry's room, the soles of her brown and white saddle shoes squeaking on the warped wooden floor.

"Betty!" Martha shouted after her.

"What was that?" Ruby called.

"Betty!" Martha repeated, stepping over the broken gla.s.s.

In the nursery, Betty had already picked Henry up and lifted him onto her shoulder, so that his face fit neatly against the pale curve of her neck. She was crying, but soundlessly, and her eyes were shut, as if she was praying.

"I'm sorry," Betty said.

"What?"

"I'm sorry I made you drop that. What was it?"

"Only an ornament. Let me take the baby, dear," Martha said.

Betty shook her head as fiercely as having a sleeping baby crooked into her neck would allow.

"I know you must be devastated," Martha said. "Believe me. You have all my sympathy. But really, you know. The baby shouldn't be held so much."

Betty shook her head again and seemed to hold Henry even tighter.

"Would you like me to call your father?" Martha asked, as gently as possible.

"No."

"I think you should give me the baby now," Martha said. She had the illusion that she was talking to a jumper who had already decided that nothing made more sense than jumping. But it was not exactly worry for the baby that was making Martha nervous. It was not worry for Betty, either. It was actually the premonition that something was going to be physically ripped away from her.

"Come," Martha said one last time, and then she took a step closer to Betty.

"Let us alone," Betty said, her neck and head bent over Henry's head, like a third, protective arm.

"Dear, I'm so sorry about your husband," Martha said. "Here. Give me the baby, dear. Let me get you a tissue."

Martha grabbed three tissues from the box she always kept on the dresser, beside Henry's little blue plastic brush and comb. She fought the impulse to wipe Betty's face the same way she cleaned Henry's. Instead she thrust the tissues into Betty's hands, essentially forcing a trade, and finally Betty handed the baby to Martha and started to wipe her eyes.

"Do you know how Fred died?" Martha asked gently.

Betty shook her head again, and then began to sob. Every gasp showed the girl's tiny ribs and perfect waist. It was hard to believe that a vessel this small could hold such enormous pain.

Finally, with what seemed a mythic effort of will, Betty stopped crying and put her hands at right angles to her body, as if trying to push down her feelings, or at least the air around her.

"With any luck it was quick, and he didn't have to suffer," Martha said.

"No," Betty said, gesturing again to hold down the air. "It's not like that. Fred isn't dead. He's alive." And she burst into tears again.

AFTER MARTHA HAD SENT RUBY OUT with Henry for his walk, Betty unfolded the letter for Martha to see. Though it had only come that morning, it already had the look of something nervously overhandled, as if with each opening there had been the hope of finding a different message. Stamps with oval faces bordered the top of the gray-blue envelope like guards, and the words BY AIR MAIL were printed across the cover in bold blue capital letters. The message inside was equally forceful, written in capitals too, as if intended as a telegram for which the characters had to be counted. Martha read: NEVER WENT BACK. AWOL ITALY, THEN HID AUSTRALIA. THEN ASHAMED TO EXPLAIN. BUT REALIZE CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOU. COME MEET ME. MELBOURNE P.O. KNOWS ADDRESS. LAST NAME NOW WHAT YOU USED TO CALL ME FOR FUN. SOONEST. DEAREST. NEW LIFE AHEAD.

For several minutes, Martha read and reread the note, trying to figure out what to say. Gingerly, as if she were tucking Henry into bed, Martha put the letter sheet inside the envelope and handed it back to Betty. As she did so, she noticed the tiny, pale blood vessels fanned out across Betty's exhausted eyelids. The teakettle whistled, another cry.

"I know this must be a shock to you," Martha finally ventured, taking down a bag of Lipton to dunk in each of two china cups. "And that you must be a bit confused about the idea of your husband-"

Betty shook her head again.

"What did Dr. Gardner-What did your father say?" Martha asked.

"My father doesn't know yet," Betty said.

"Why not?" Martha asked, nonplussed. But it would be another week before Betty would tell that part of the story. For now, she merely stared at Martha, as if from a roiling ocean.

"But, dear, Fred is is alive," Martha finally said. "I would think that would be more important to you than anything else." alive," Martha finally said. "I would think that would be more important to you than anything else."

Betty poured what must have been five seconds' worth of sugar into her teacup, then stirred it with needless vigor. "Where's Ruby?" she finally asked. "It looks like rain. She should bring him back," she said.

"Betty. It's Ruby's week."

"She doesn't know how to handle him."

"She's learning all the time," Martha said. "You all have your strengths and weaknesses."

"He's mine," Betty said.

"We all feel that way sometimes," Martha said.

"No," Betty said, with surprising strength. "I mean he's mine. I had him this summer. He isn't Fred's. Fred doesn't know," she said. "Henry's my son."

5.

A Puppy in the Sun

The facts were fairly simple, though it took Betty time to admit them all, and she changed them several times before she stuck with one story. The most important fact was that the baby wasn't her husband's.

Henry, it turned out, was the child of a man whose first name was Jerry and whose last name Betty would never know. She had met him in a movie line in Pittsburgh three months after Fred s.h.i.+pped out. She had let Jerry bring her back to the apartment where she and Fred had been living. Unglued by fear, wine, and loneliness, she had let him spend the night. Not even the whole night, actually. Barely the length of the movie they'd seen. Then he had disappeared.

Betty had been eighteen. For nearly three months, telling no one, she'd simply hoped that the baby would go away. She was working at a hat shop, and on her break one afternoon she read an ad in the back of the Pittsburgh Sun Pittsburgh Sun about how to get the problem fixed. For two weeks, she drank a daily concoction of rosemary, bay leaves, pumice, pepper, vinegar, and c.o.ke. When that didn't work, she began to exercise constantly, exhaustingly. She did a hundred sit-ups each night and another hundred each morning. Finally, she summoned the courage to ask a pharmacist if there was someone she could see. The druggist gave her an address. She lost her nerve at the last moment, though, when she overheard some coffee-shop talk about a girl "botched" in a back-alley job. about how to get the problem fixed. For two weeks, she drank a daily concoction of rosemary, bay leaves, pumice, pepper, vinegar, and c.o.ke. When that didn't work, she began to exercise constantly, exhaustingly. She did a hundred sit-ups each night and another hundred each morning. Finally, she summoned the courage to ask a pharmacist if there was someone she could see. The druggist gave her an address. She lost her nerve at the last moment, though, when she overheard some coffee-shop talk about a girl "botched" in a back-alley job.

When, in Betty's sixth month, an old woman gave up a bus seat for her, Betty broke down, called her father from Pittsburgh, told him what had happened, and asked if she could come home.

"And what did he say?" Martha asked Betty over the cup of tea that had become, by the following week, their daily ritual.