Hope Street Part 22

He slid a book of matches from where he'd wedged it inside the cellophane wrapper of the cigarette pack. "You okay?" he asked.

"Have you got a minute?"

"Five minutes at least," he said, gesturing toward a memorial bench near the tree. She sat on it and propped her purse in her lap. It was a patchwork fabric sack with velvet drawstrings, and she'd told him some time ago that she'd designed and sewn it herself. Bobby was in awe of her talent.

He wondered if she'd traveled here straight from school. She was enrolled in cla.s.ses at the community college, trying to make something of herself. She had so much going for her-brains, school, a rich boyfriend at Dartmouth and all that gorgeous blond hair-while Bobby cut gra.s.s and counted the days until he got s.h.i.+pped overseas. He would have thought that by now she'd have become friendly with her college cla.s.smates. She had no reason to hang out with him anymore.

Yet she did. No matter that she was on the path to bigger and better things; she clearly valued their friends.h.i.+p. Just one more reason he loved her.

He lit the cigarette while he waited for her to speak. "I need a favor," she finally said, gazing at the ornately carved headstone of Abigail Charney, who'd died in 1914 and was spending eternity in a grave a few feet from the bench.

"Sure."

She glanced at him, then turned back to stare at the gravestone. "Can you drive me to Cincinnati?"

He almost laughed-that was such a small thing to ask. He'd been expecting something a lot more demanding, given her obvious distress. "You can't borrow your mother's car?"

"No." She shook her head, just in case he hadn't understood her answer. "I could take the bus, but I-" Her voice broke.

h.e.l.l. Just as he'd predicted, she started to cry. He pulled the blue bandanna from the hip pocket of his jeans and handed it to her, glad that it wasn't too sweaty. "Screw the bus," he said. "I'll drive you down. When do you have to go?"

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with his bandanna. "It has to be a weekday. I'm sorry. That probably messes up your work schedule."

"Big deal. I'll call in sick." For Joelle, he'd call in dead.

"It's just that..." She swallowed hard. "I have to see a doctor."

Despite the afternoon's heat, fear rippled like ice down his back. Holmdell had doctors. She must be seriously ill if she had to travel all the way to Cincinnati to meet with one. A specialist, maybe. At one of the big hospitals.

He eased closer to her on the bench and bent so he could peer into her downturned face. "What's wrong, Jo?"

She lifted her chin and gazed at him, her eyes puffy and her cheeks streaked with tears. "I'm pregnant."

SHE COULDN'T BELIEVE THIS had happened to her.

Of course, she could believe it. This sort of thing happened to girls all the time. And in her case, it was clear Drew hadn't known what he was doing with that d.a.m.n condom. She remembered the humiliation of having him pry it out of her with his fingers, how nauseating the entire experience had been.

Little had she known then how much worse it would become.

Fresh tears spilled out of her eyes and she squeezed them shut. When the nurse at the college clinic had told her the results of her pregnancy test, she'd managed to hold back her tears until she was outside the building. Then she'd collapsed onto a bench and wept, and thought: I have to talk to Bobby. Not her mother, who would immediately view this ghastly mistake as a way to capture Drew. Not even Drew.

Bobby was her friend. They were honest with each other. They trusted each other. In a crisis, he was the one she wanted by her side.

Once she'd calmed down, though, she'd realized she had to tell Drew first. She'd phoned him at his dormitory and forced out the words: "I'm pregnant, Drew. I'm sorry. I'm pregnant."

"Okay. Don't panic, Joelle. I can't talk now," he'd said, though he hadn't explained exactly why he couldn't, what pressing matter he had to deal with that was more important than his girlfriend's pregnancy. "I'll get back to you soon, though. Don't worry, okay? We'll deal with this."

He'd gotten back to her, all right. The creep.

Now, belatedly, she'd approached Bobby. She prayed that he would live up to her trust and help her do what had to be done. She could get through this disaster alone if she had to-at least, she hoped she could. But if Bobby could help, if he could hold her hand through the ordeal and offer her a shoulder to lean on...Maybe it wouldn't be quite so bad.

Seated next to her on the bench, he leaned back and dragged on his cigarette. Gray smoke streamed between his lips as he sighed. "What kind of doctor are we talking about?"

"You know what kind," she said, her voice hoa.r.s.e from her tears.

"s.h.i.+t, Jo. You don't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"It's against the law."

"Don't lay that on me." She heard the anger in her voice and immediately felt contrite. Bobby didn't deserve her anger. He was only saying what she'd been thinking about nonstop ever since she'd received Drew's letter. "I have the name of a doctor who does this. He's supposed to be safe."

Bobby scrutinized her, squinting as if he thought that would bring her into clearer focus. Please, she begged silently, please don't judge me. Please don't hate me for doing what I have to do. "Who gave you the doctor's name?" he asked, and she understood his disapproval then. It was aimed at Drew, not her.

He'd obviously guessed, but she answered his question anyway. "I called Drew," she said. "I reached him at his dormitory and told him. He said he'd get back to me, and he did." Her breath hitched from all her crying and she fidgeted with the ties of her purse. "I got a letter from him today. He sent me the name of a doctor and some money. Enough to pay for everything. The doctor and transportation, too."

"I'm not going charge you car fare," Bobby muttered. He rubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his boot. "How much did he send?"

"A thousand dollars."

Bobby flinched. "A thousand dollars? What-is he buying you off?"

She had to admit that possibility had crossed her mind, too. "I have no idea what these kinds of doctors charge. Drew sent me a check. I can't cash it in town. Everyone would know. I guess there would be a bank branch in Cincinnati, or somewhere along the way..."

Bobby shook his head and cursed again. "Do you want to do this? Is this your choice, or are you just doing it to make Foster happy?"

"What else can I do?" Her voice began to wobble again. "I can't spend nine months pregnant and then give my baby away. I just couldn't do that. And I can't raise the baby myself. I know what that's like, Bobby. It's the story of my life."

She'd told Bobby years ago about the father who'd briefly, mysteriously drifted through her life. Dale Webber had been a cross-country trucker who used to detour off the highway to avoid weigh stations. He'd met Joelle's mother during one of those detours and they'd gotten involved, enough that every time he was pa.s.sing through Ohio he'd stop in Holmdell to spend time with Wanda, the cute waitress at the Bank Street Diner. During one of those stops, he'd knocked her up.

Joelle had vague memories of Dale's visiting and bringing her a coloring book and a shabby little doll when she was a toddler. But after a while the visits ended, and when Joelle was about five, her mother had received a letter from a woman who claimed to be Dale's sister in California. The woman reported that Dale had been killed in a highway accident, and she'd enclosed some money from an insurance settlement and they'd never seen Dale again.

Joelle's mother had used the money to buy a car. A Rambler. "It seems appropriate," Wanda had said. "Your dad was a rambling man."

Whether her dad had married her mother, Joelle couldn't say for sure. But one day in fourth grade, Tommy Travers had called her a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child. She hadn't even known what that meant, but she'd denied it. She'd stood up to that sniveling bully and told him she wasn't a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child, because she understood innately that a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child was not a good thing to be.

"I don't want a life like my mother's," she told Bobby now. "And I don't want my child to grow up the way I did."

"So Foster mails you a check and tells you to deal with the problem? He can't even come back and get you through it?"

"He's in college," she pointed out. It was no excuse, but she'd rather defend Drew than admit that he'd given her money with the hope that she'd deal with her problem and disappear from his life.

Bobby pulled another cigarette from his pocket and a book of matches. She watched him bend a match inside its cardboard folder with his thumb and sc.r.a.pe its tip against the flint. It flared into flame and he lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. "What about adoption?" he asked.

"I can't do that," she said. "Like I said, I can't spend nine months with this baby inside me and then give it away. I just couldn't do that."

He smoked in silence, staring at the sunlight-dappled gravestone in front of them, though his eyes seemed focused somewhere else. He said nothing until his cigarette was gone and he'd stubbed it out. Then he turned to her. "I'll marry you."

She gaped at him, too shocked to speak.

"I'll be your baby's father," he elaborated.

Was he nuts? He would take responsibility for her and a baby that wasn't even his? When she'd screwed up so royally, when she'd pretty much ruined her life with her own stupidity? When she'd told him all summer long that she dreamed of marrying Drew? Bobby was her best friend in the world, but what he was offering went way beyond what anyone should do for a friend. It was crazy.

She couldn't insult him by saying so. Instead she said, "You're about to leave for basic training."

"That's what'll make it work, Jo. It's not like we'd have to live with each other or anything. I'd be away, you'd be my wife, you'd have your baby and then when I got home, we could figure out where we stood."

"Bobby." He couldn't be that generous. Not to her. She didn't deserve such kindness, such a sacrifice on his part.

"If something happens to me in Vietnam," he continued, sounding calm and logical, "there are widow's benefits. You could use those to support yourself and the kid."

No. She'd been an idiot. She'd gotten pregnant, like some careless, dim-witted s.l.u.t. Bobby DiFranco was too good-hearted, too decent, to be stuck cleaning up her messes. "Bobby, I-"

"To tell you the truth, having a wife and baby waiting for me back home would help me. It would, you know-keep my spirits up."

That brought her up short. Maybe he wasn't offering to marry her strictly out of charity. He saw something in it for him, too. A wife waiting at home for him. A wife who would write to him, who would send him home-baked cookies and dry socks and reminders of all the good things he'd be returning to once he finished his service. She'd be at home, praying every day for his safety. That might be enough to get him through his year in 'Nam.

"I'd have something to come back to," he explained. "I need that, Jo."

"What about Margie?" she asked. "Aren't you going to come back to her?"

He snorted. "There's nothing there," he said. "We're just...You want to know the truth? We're both just waiting for me to leave so we can break up without going through the fights and the hurt feelings. She thinks she's doing her patriotic duty, going out with me until I leave for basic."

"I'm sure she loves you," Joelle argued, even though she had no basis for that a.s.sertion.

He shook his head. "We're already history. Just waiting for Uncle Sam to make it official." He gazed at Joelle's hands, folded tensely atop her purse and then at her face. "I could give your baby a name, Jo," he said quietly. "And then, if I got home and we decided this wasn't what we wanted, we could get a divorce. But your baby would have a name."

Without thinking, she moved her hands to her stomach and pressed. So flat, so smooth. A baby she couldn't even feel was in there, and Bobby was willing to give it his name. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. "Wouldn't it bother you, knowing that the baby..."

"Was Foster's?" He turned back to stare at the gravestone again. "If we do this, the baby is mine. Your baby would be a DiFranco. Could you live with that?"

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Tears beaded along her lashes and blurred her vision. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve him. But as stupid as she'd been two months ago, in the backseat of Drew's father's Cadillac, she wasn't stupid enough to reject what Bobby was offering her.

Had she thought a radio was the best gift she'd ever received? No. This was. Bobby's help. His friends.h.i.+p. His hand and his name.

"I would consider it an honor if my baby was a DiFranco," she said.

FIVE DAYS LATER, SHE STOOD in her cramped bedroom at the back of the first-floor flat on Third Street one final time. She felt a little queasy, but that was from the pregnancy, not from panic or doubt about what she was doing.

She was running away with Bobby, her best friend, the most trustworthy guy she'd ever known. She was sad, she was grieving over the fact that her life wasn't turning out the way she'd planned-but she had no regrets. For as long as she lived, she would do whatever she could to make sure Bobby never had any regrets, either.

Yesterday morning, she'd mustered her courage and visited the local branch bank. She'd told the teller she was planning to move her account to a bank closer to campus, an explanation the teller had accepted without question. She'd let Joelle empty her account, then cashed Drew's check and counted fifty twenty-dollar bills into Joelle's palm. Joelle had stuffed the money into an envelope, which was now zipped inside an inner pocket of her suitcase.

She'd packed most of her clothing, even though she understood that within a month or two it would no longer fit her. After the baby was born, she hoped she'd get her figure back quickly. If not, maybe she could sell the clothes. The money would come in handy.

She left her prom dress behind, even though she loved it. She left her radio behind because it reminded her of Drew.

One stupid time. She'd given herself to him one stupid, stupid time, and he'd told her it would seal their love. Had he always been such a liar? Had she been dumb enough to love him?

That's the past, she reminded herself. If she looked backward, she'd trip and fall. She had to look forward, to the future, to her baby. Her baby and Bobby DiFranco.

Since she didn't have any cla.s.ses at the college that day, her mother had taken the car to work. Wanda's absence simplified Joelle's departure. If Wanda hadn't had a s.h.i.+ft at the diner, Joelle and Bobby would have had to wait until nighttime to leave, and Joelle would have had to climb out her window-not that difficult, but walking out the front door was a heck of a lot easier.

Still, she lifted her suitcase over the sill and behind the yews that grew beneath her window and then hoisted out the carton of stuff she was sure she couldn't live without-her hairbrush and rollers, her makeup, the polished marble egg Bobby had given her for Christmas, her sewing-pattern books, the teddy bear she'd had as a baby, her flashlight, her jewelry box, which had a built-in music box that played "Edelweiss" when the lid was raised and her college textbooks, which had cost a fortune and might prove handy if she could find a school to attend near wherever she and Bobby wound up.

Pa.s.sing her belongings through the window was prudent. She didn't want Mrs. Proski to put down her sherry long enough to peer out her living-room window and catch Joelle marching through the front door with a suitcase and a carton.

Bobby arrived at around ten in the morning. While he carried her things down the alley to his truck, she circled her bedroom one last time. It wasn't as if she'd never come back. Of course she would. Her mother would want to see her and the baby. But when she returned to Holmdell, it would be as Joelle DiFranco. Maybe married, maybe divorced-Bobby had seemed pleased by that escape hatch, and if he wanted to leave her, she'd never do anything to stop him-but one way or another, she'd be home again. This wasn't goodbye forever.

She reread the note she'd written to her mother: Dear Mom, I'm aware that isn't what you hoped for me, but Bobby DiFranco and I have gone to get married. We wanted to do this before he left for Vietnam. I tried to love Drew, but Bobby is the finest man I have ever known. Please be happy for us. I'll call you once we're settled in. Love, Joelle It was funny to think of Bobby as a man. Almost as funny as thinking of him as her husband. Thinking of herself as a wife-a pregnant one-was so funny she started sobbing.

She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and left her bedroom. After propping the note against the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table where her mother wouldn't miss it, she left the apartment, locking the door behind her.

Neither she nor Bobby spoke until they'd crossed the town line. The morning was cloudless, the sky an intense Day-Glo blue. Ahead of them lay acres of pale brown fields, occasionally interrupted by cl.u.s.ters of dried yellow cornstalks left over from the September harvest. Bobby switched on the radio, got static and turned it off.

"You know how to drive a stick, right?" he asked.

"I'll figure it out." You can teach me, she thought, although she doubted he'd have enough time to show her how to drive his truck before he reported for basic training.

"I was going to leave the truck behind for Eddie," he said, "but he's got another year before he can get his license. You'll use it for the year, and then when I get back, we'll see."

We'll see. They would see if they still wanted to be married-if they could even stand to be together in the same room. They'd see if Bobby truly wanted to be a father to someone else's baby. In another year, G.o.d alone knew who they'd be, what they'd want, how they'd feel. The fate of Bobby's truck was the least of it.

They stopped for lunch at a McDonald's east of Columbus. Joelle's hamburger tasted funny, but pretty much everything had tasted funny ever since the nurse at the college clinic had told her her urine test had been positive. Bobby apparently had no trouble wolfing down two burgers and a sack of fries. He paid for lunch, as if the two of them were on a date.

All summer long, she'd had no trouble talking to Bobby while they'd nibbled on fries at the A&W. But now she didn't know what to say, what they were to each other. Seated across from him on a bench at a redwood table with a big plastic umbrella over their heads, she struggled to force down at least half her burger while she stared at him. His thick, dark hair would soon be gone-the very thought of some army barber shearing him like a sheep was enough to make her want to weep. They'd train him to kill and dress him in khaki and then s.h.i.+p him halfway around the world. We'll see, she thought, realizing for the first time that the next twelve months might change him a lot more than they changed her.

What if he was s.h.i.+pped home maimed? What if he came back deranged? The news was full of stories about soldiers coming back to the states crazed or strung out on drugs. What if the Bobby DiFranco who returned to her after a year in Vietnam was someone she couldn't love?

She would love him anyway. That was her vow to him. She hadn't spoken the promise, but she'd st.i.tched it into her heart. Bobby had offered her this chance to be a mother, to keep her baby and give it a home. Whatever he wanted-if she could do it for him, she would.

A group of teenagers drove into the parking lot in a rumbling Camaro. The windows were open and music blasted out of them, Led Zeppelin whining, "Way, way down inside..."

The song made her scowl. The singer whined about giving some woman a whole lotta love, but the loud, thumping music wasn't what love was about-at least, not in her mind.

She peered at Bobby and told herself love was about him, his dark, brooding eyes and his hard jaw and his broad shoulders. She told herself that giving his name to another man's baby was a whole lotta love.

He ate without speaking. She wondered if he was having second thoughts, regretting the whole thing, resenting her. He could have stayed home a few more days, spent a few more nights with Margie...

Unless he'd agreed to marry Joelle to get away from Margie. And his dad.

"Did you tell your father what we're doing?" she asked.

The sound of her voice seemed to startle him. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and lifted his cola. He took a long drink, then shook his head. "I told him I got a call from the draft board asking me to show up earlier for basic."

"I left a note for my mother. She'll be phoning your father soon enough."