Hello Loved Ones (10 page)

But before she could tell Richard she was pregnant, he got drunk and came home railing about some bartender at one of his haunts.

“He knows damn well what I drink, but he always does this stupid ‘what’ll you have?’ routine. Every other guy gets the nod. ‘The usual?’ Not me.
Me
he treats like a fucking stranger passing through. Like I’m not welcome in my own hometown.”

“Really, Richard,” she said. “You’re overreacting.”

He whirled on her and struck her in the face. “Don’t patronize me!”

She fell back, stunned. He’d never hit her before. All the times he had stumbled in, dead drunk, and she had forced coffee down his throat, undressed him, shoved him under the shower, put him in bed. All the times she had listened to him mumble and complain and act like an overgrown baby, a royal pain in the ass. Where did this come from? Why now? It was almost as if he
knew
.

“Talk to me like that again and I’ll fucking punch your lights out,” he screamed.

She ran to the bedroom and locked the door. It was her fault! She should have told him right away. He never would have hit her if he knew she was pregnant.

She had to get out! She would call Phillip. This changed everything. Richard’s drinking was one thing, his beating her was another. She wasn’t safe, for God’s sake! Phillip had to care about that.

If only she weren’t pregnant! Then she could leave Richard, maybe move in with her parents for a while. Wait things out. A year, that’s all. She and Phillip could start dating. Do it the right way, out in the open.

She never called Phillip. And by the time she went to the doctor, Richard had come after her again. It wasn’t bad, just some bruises on her arm. But she didn’t know what to do. What did women in this situation do? Where did they go? She couldn’t tell her parents. They didn’t believe in divorce under any circumstances. Prayer. That was their answer for everything. Prudy couldn’t stand the humiliation of telling her older sister Bunny. Bunny had a wonderful husband, a brand new farmhouse, a pair of adorable twins. Her younger sister Flookie would understand, but she wasn’t capable of giving any practical advice. Maybe another pastor could help, if she could find one. The thought made her cringe, remembering Phillip hiding under her sheets, laughing, giddy as a ten-year-old.
Oh Pruuu-dy, where
are
you?

When she undressed in the doctor’s examination room, she made sure to hide her bra and underwear under her clothes. Maybe some women would just fold them neatly and lay them on top. That made sense, since they were the last things to come off. But hearing the doctor’s step outside the door made Prudy want to shove the white cotton under her dress, as if it was a kind of surrender flag and what she was giving up was her good reputation. Showing her soft side was something she couldn’t afford to do. Not with marks on her arm and a bastard baby in her belly.

Unless he asked. If she said a prayer, this was it.
Please ask.

The doctor glanced at the bruises. He cleared his throat and asked how she was feeling
overall
, stressing the word like it was some kind of code.

“Terrible,” she said.

“Well.” He patted her arm. “It’ll pass. Get plenty of rest. And congratulations.”

She started to cry. He gave her a sympathetic smile, his hand already on the doorknob. “You can get dressed now.”

She stopped. This was how it was going to be. No one would help her. No one cared. People liked things neat and tidy, by the book. They liked to go about their business. Making sales. Writing prescriptions. Having affairs. Saving souls.

It was up to her to make things right.

When she picked up a knitting needle, she made herself think of her condition in terms of a parasite, or an illness. Once she was better, she would be able to set things in motion. Contact a lawyer. Prepare the children. Besides, as she tentatively placed the knitting needle between her legs, God would ultimately decide whether it would work or not. She wasn’t going to act foolishly. One gentle poke was all.

The next morning she started to bleed.

The things she remembered about that time were brief but sharp, like the pains in her belly. Nell, five years old, pushing open the bathroom door, seeing Prudy on her hands and knees, blood on the tiles.
Want me to bring you a Kotex?
Two strange men in white. A towel behind her head. An IV in her arm. Phillip’s face, slick and red, his hair a mess.
Prudy! Are you okay?
Her voice, so strange.
It’s better this way.
Talk of blood type. The stranger holding the knitting needle. Hadn’t she hid it!? His whistle,
looky here!
Phillip’s gasp.
How could you?
Someone stern.
Why don’t you remove the girl?
And the shame. Oh, a flood of it! The thundering voice inside.
What have you done?

Prudy didn’t know if it was miracle or curse, but the baby was fine. It was everything else that died. In the hospital she saw it immediately. Phillip could barely look her in the eye. When he said her name, his jaw jumped in a nervous spasm. Later she heard her sister Flookie pacing the hall, whispering with him. Heard him.
I don’t know what possessed her.
Heard Flookie slap his face.
Get out!

He would never forgive her.

Not that she deserved it. Still, it was hard to bear, those first few months. She was just home from the hospital when Nell—dear, capable, overly responsible Nell, who had called the ambulance and then, inexplicably, called
Phillip!
—Nell said to her, “Do you love Pastor Voss?” Stunned, Prudy stared at her. She pulled her bathrobe close around her throat.

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“The way he talks to you is…strange. He calls you Prudy.”

Prudy tried to smile. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“But he’s over here a lot. He’s your friend.”

“He’s not going to be coming over anymore,” Prudy said finally.

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I understand lots of hard stuff. Mrs. Bareman always says so.”

“I know you’re the smartest girl in your class. But this is different.”

“Different how?”

“Nell please! Stop badgering me. I can’t stand it!”

Nell looked at her a long moment. “The Lord was watching over you, wasn’t he, Mom?”

With this, Prudy burst into tears. Nell went to the counter and got a Kleenex. When she held it out, Prudy grabbed her arm. “You love me, don’t you, Nellie? No matter what?” How she’d sobbed in the strong arms of that child!

As she stood now in the stifling August heat beside Pastor Voss on this strange sad-happy occasion of Lenny’s birthday, she knew she’d never stop paying for what she did. She had accepted that. It was the pretending that had grown so tiresome.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” she said quietly.

Pastor Voss didn’t respond. She began to think he hadn’t heard her. She glanced at him and saw that he was fixated on a spot somewhere above the neighbor’s roof.

“I can,” he said, nodding. “And you can too.”

She turned to face him. “I won’t.”

He smiled calmly, but not before she saw it: he steeled himself. He must have prepared for this a very long time ago.

“You obviously have something to say,” he said.

As if she could explain sixteen years of disappointment! He’d never understand all the mornings she’d laid in bed alone, imagining Mrs. Rozema next door in her spanking new green kitchen, wrapped in a silky floral robe with her face already applied, smiling across the table at her husband, who sat with rolled-up sleeves, enjoying one of those expensive toaster pastries that came individually wrapped in silver foil. He’d wipe his mouth appreciatively and come around to his wife’s side of the table to wrap his thick arms around her neck, pressing his cheek against hers, whispering
I love you
in her ear.

Or her other neighbor, Mrs. Beyer, up at 5 a.m. every day, breakfast dishes already dried and put away, the picture of efficiency. And Mr. Beyer, before he died, rocking on the front porch for hours, placing a loving hand on his wife’s arm when she came out to drape a blanket over his knees.

It should have been Prudy, past, present and future. Oh, the hopes she used to have! She’d never told Phillip about the time she was sixteen and competed in the Miss Clover Honey competition at the Allegan County Fair, how she’d stood on a wooden platform waving to the crowd while a matronly woman pinned delicate wings to the shoulders of her dress. She didn’t get the little silver crown with a honey bee and clover embossed on the front. That went to Cissy Vorquist, along with a $300 scholarship and a chance to travel all over Michigan handing out samples of Clover Honey in tiny plastic spoons. Prudy was first runner up and all she got was a 32 oz. jar of Clover Honey that had already crystallized on the bottom. No, Prudy never mentioned this to Phillip. Considering Mrs. Voss’ untimely death, the bee connection seemed too cruel and ironic. But it played in her head like a nursery rhyme, or a radio jingle.
The bee that stung Mrs. Voss, that caused her death, that made her husband sad, that sent him to Prudy, that made them sin, that started a baby. My, what a bee! A Clover Honey bee!

It was too late to talk about the two of them. But Sally, that was different.

“I’ve been thinking about the banquet,” she said. “Sally’s 16 now. She wants to go.”

“Oh God, Prudy. I know where you’re going with this, but we agreed!”

“Sixteen years ago! Do you even realize, Phillip? Sixteen
years
have gone by. Your daughter is almost grown.”

“I knew it was a mistake to come here. You’re ambushing me.”

“Oh,
please
. You had to know this would come up now. You’re responsible for the Father-Daughter banquet. Hasn’t that been bothering you?”

“Of course it bothers me, but we decided—”

“
You
decided.”

“We
both
decided that it would be best if she never knows about us.”

“She badgers me constantly about Richard, asking where is he? What’s he like? I can’t take it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take her to the banquet. Spend some time with her, for Pete’s sake. Make her feel like she’s not missing out.”

He shook his head furiously. “It’s playing with fire, if you ask me. Because we decided…”

“Stop saying that, would you! You’re like a broken record. People make mistakes. I’m telling you—”

“Come and get it!” Nell, beaming, flushed, called them to the table. Well. It was probably better left unsaid. Because he wouldn’t like what she had in mind. The Reverend Phillip Voss was going to take poor, fatherless Sally Van Sloeten to the Father-Daughter banquet. Then he was going to tell her that the reason she was poor and fatherless was because he was too big of a coward to claim her as his natural daughter. Only then would Prudy find out if she was doing the right thing. She hardly knew what the words meant anymore.

Nell

The Van Sloetens rented the first floor of a green wood frame house that was a ten minute walk from the church. Nell made it home in five. Pastor Voss was coming for dinner on account of Lenny’s birthday, and she wanted everything to be just right. Forget the usual potato-cabbage casserole. She’d prepared a new dish called Impossible Cheeseburger Pie that was featured in the latest issue of The Ladies’ Home Journal.
This tasty twist on an old favorite makes a pleasing lunch when served with a crisp green salad and tall glasses of chocolate milk
, read the caption. She had decided against the chocolate milk and went with lemonade instead. She’d brought in some daisies from the yard, and rearranged the living room to create an inviting
tableau
. That was a French word that conveyed the mood she tried to achieve in each of her arrangements. Her mother told her she was wasting her time, that they’d rather eat outdoors, but Nell had listened to the weather report and knew there was a sixty percent chance of rain.

Nell couldn’t remember the last time the pastor had been to their house. It bothered her, his never coming. That’s why today was so important. Nell filled three pages of her diary planning for his visit, list after list—possible outfits, menu ideas, topics of conversation. She might say something literary.
Oh! Let me just get my copy of War and Peace out of your way.
Or perhaps something in French.
C’est la vie!
Or philosophical.
One never knows, does one?

Maybe it wasn’t right, the way she thought of him. It might even be sinful. She’d known the pastor since she was a kid, but lately she was thinking of him in a more
mature
way. As in he was a man. She was a woman. At first, she was ashamed.
Dear God take these lustful thoughts from me
, she wrote in her diary.
Or at least direct them toward someone my own age
. Then she read the novel Jane Eyre and discovered she wasn’t the first person to fall for an older man. If Jane was allowed to love Mr. Rochester, couldn’t she love Pastor Voss? He couldn’t be more than 40, and she was 21. The two of them
ensemble
wasn’t out of the question.