Promise Me A Rainbow (39 page)

“Ta-da!” Mary Beth said, presenting Catherine with the form.

Catherine read her name. Her age. The date. The name of the test. And finally, the results.

She looked up at the group of women around her. “I’m pregnant,” she told them quietly. “
I’m pregnant!
”

She threw back her head and laughed, accepting all the hugs and back patting they wanted to give her.

And then she cried.

She was so distant, almost cold. Except for the slight quiver in her voice, he would have believed she meant it.

“What’s wrong, Catherine?”

“Nothing. I have to go now. I have to get to work.”

“I could come by your place after work—”

“No. It’ll be late when I get home. Thanks for calling.”

She hung up.

He sat staring at the receiver. Thanks for calling? What the hell was “Thanks for calling”?

He looked up. Michael was watching.

“Don’t start with me, Michael,” he said, pointing in his brother’s direction with the receiver. “You start with me and it’s all over for you.”

“Did I say anything? Jeez, I didn’t open my mouth. Here, hang up the phone. This is a business, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Joe dropped the receiver back in the cradle.

“So as long as you brought it up—” Michael began.

“I didn’t bring up anything!”

“Sure you did. So, did Catherine—like they used to say in the old days—give you the air? I love that expression ‘give you the air.’”

“No, she didn’t give me the air,” Joe said irritably.

“Uh-
huh
. No air. What, then?”

“Michael, did it ever occur to you that this is none of your business?”

“Not with your kid coming to live at my house every time I turn around, no.”

“Once, Michael. Once.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What do you think? I’m going to go see Catherine. At lunchtime I’m going to go see her.”

“Joey, you do that and Della’s going to move out again.”

“I told Della I still felt the same about Catherine. I told her that before she came back home. And I’m going to go see Catherine.”

“I just hope you know what the hell you’re doing,” Michael said.

Joe hoped he knew what the hell he was doing, too. He certainly felt better, having made the decision to see Catherine again. But the construction business didn’t lend itself well to making plans. It was nearly one o’clock by the time he got to the school. Catherine was probably ready to start her afternoon class.

He took a chance anyway, hoping that he could at least call her out for a minute. He walked down the long hallway to the classroom. Schools all smelled the same to him, regardless of what they were used for. This one. His old grammar school and the schools his children went to now. One he’d stopped at on a secondary road outside Wilmington that was being used as a furniture store.

He kept looking at the building structure as he walked along. It was well built, strong, solid. And it was probably filled with asbestos. He was going to have to say something to Catherine about that. Surely the building had been checked.

He stood outside her classroom door. He could see Catherine’s desk but it was empty. One of her students was fiddling with a television and putting a video into a VCR.

Catherine wasn’t there. She hadn’t been in the front office when he came in. Maybe she’d gone to the toilet. He leaned against the wall and waited, glancing at his watch. If he didn’t get back soon, Michael was going to be fit to be tied.

“Hey, Joe!”

He looked up to find four pregnant girls gathered in the doorway, and it surprised him that they remembered his name.

“Yeah,” he said grinning, “I’m looking for Ms. Holben.”

“We know
that
,” one of them told him. “She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“She went home sick. She’s been sick a lot lately.”

“Sick? I just talked to her.”

“Well, maybe she don’t tell you everything,” another one said.

“What’s
your
name?” he asked her.

“Maria,” she answered, and her tone of voice dared him to make something of it.

He smiled. “Yeah, well, Maria, maybe you’re right. If you see her before I do, tell her I was here.”

“Hey,” Maria called after him as he walked back down the hall. “You Ms. Holben’s boyfriend?”

He turned around but he kept walking. “Yeah!” he called back. “I’m her boyfriend!”

At least he was,
if he had anything to say about it. What was it with Catherine? The crazy way she’d hung up on him this morning, and now she’d gone home sick? Maybe she’d been sick then.

Catherine, what am I going to do with you?

Couldn’t she tell him
anything
?

He made it into the Mayfair without having to show his driver’s license. Mrs. Donovan was at home; he could hear the television. But apparently she wasn’t monitoring the front foyer today.

He climbed the stairs quickly, making a lot of noise in his work shoes on the bare steps. He had to pause briefly on the third landing. Catherine ought to be in good shape, making this climb a couple times every day.

He smiled to himself. She was in good shape, all right, he knew that personally. And, God, all he had to do was think about her and she got to him—sexually, emotionally. Every way a woman could get to a man. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, and she was more a part of him than ever. So much for the out of sight, out of mind crap.

But Michael was probably right. Seeing Catherine was going to set Della off again. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t be helped. He missed Catherine, damn it all, and he wanted to know what was going on with her.

He knocked on her door, then waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again. She still didn’t answer. He listened at the door. He couldn’t hear anything. No movement, no music. Nothing.

He knocked louder, and the door across the hall opened.

“She’s not
there
. She left a few minutes ago,” a woman said testily.

“Thanks,” he said.

He went back down the stairs, hesitating a moment before he knocked on Mrs. Donovan’s screen door. The inner one opened immediately. Mrs. Donovan looked as if she had just had her hair done. It was all neatly waved, and she still had the hair clips in.

“You remember me, Mrs. Donovan? I’m looking for Catherine Holben. Her students told me she was sick.”

“Yes, she came home sick, Mr. D’Amaro. But then she got a call from the hospital. That sick friend of hers was asking for her.”

“She went to the hospital?”

“That’s what she said.”

“You know which one?”

“She didn’t say. I’d guess New Hanover, though. Catherine’s going to ruin herself running around like she’s been doing. Working at that school late and then off to that hospital all the time. Going to see sick people will wear you out, Mr. D’Amaro. There’s nothing any worse than having somebody in the hospital. I’ve tried to tell her. Catherine, I said, you’ve got to look after your good health now if you want to have it when you’re my age—”

“Mrs. Donovan, thanks,” Joe said, interrupting, and he left the old woman still talking.

What sick friend? He wondered as he got back into the truck. Pat? It has to be Pat. Damn it all! He didn’t have time to go to the hospital now.

Catherine sat in a straight chair
by Pat’s bed. She had come because Pat had asked for her, but now that she was here, Pat was sleeping. She was running a high fever and had been given something to make her rest. She slipped in and out of awareness, recognizing Catherine when she saw her and worrying about her whereabouts when she didn’t. Several of the staff suggested that Catherine move to the recliner in the room where she would be more comfortable, but she hadn’t. She’d tried it earlier, but Pat couldn’t see her as easily, and it squeaked every time she shifted her position, disturbing what little rest Pat was getting.

Catherine hadn’t told Pat about the pregnancy; she hadn’t told anyone. Another of life’s incongruities: to have such special news and no one to tell.

“Catherine?” Pat said weakly.

“I’m here. Can I do something for you?”

“Some water.”

Catherine picked up the Styrofoam cup with the water in it and helped Pat drink with a straw.

“What time is it?” she asked after a moment.

“Oh . . . about five, I think.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Afternoon.”

“Oh. You came, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I came.”

“I’ve got an abscess in my lung. Did you know that?”

“Yes, someone told me.”

“Better an abscess than the Big C, right. I think they’re going to do something about it tomorrow. Something big time . . .” She drifted off to sleep again, and Catherine stared out the window. It was nearly dark already. She was so tired, but she didn’t want to leave until someone else came. People stayed with Pat all the time now, taking turns, women from her church, and Catherine.

Catherine idly noted the hospital sounds around her. The big carts with the supper trays being dragged off the elevators. The chatter at the nurses’ station. She wondered what Joe was doing. As it turned out, she’d told him the truth this morning, after all. She would be coming home late. She’d been so caught off-guard hearing his voice on the phone this morning; she’d thought the call would be something about Pat. She’d been so glad to hear from him—until the realization came that she absolutely could not see him. She wouldn’t be able to stand it. It had been all she could do to keep from crying just talking to him on the phone.