“Of course you meant Topper. Wouldn’t be P.J. now, would it? Never mind he’s already married to the matte and muted Mary.”
“Just answer the question, Hattie.”
“Topper’s keen as can be. What gives, hon? You’re angry as a cat.”
“Is this a relationship?”
Ruby pictured Topper flipping Hattie over, jamming himself into the small space between her round and lifted cheeks. The girls at school discussed all manner of tips and tricks to prevent pregnancy or the loss of virginity, but no one had ever mentioned anything like that.
“Are you in it for real?” Ruby asked, trying desperately not to cry. “Or is it merely some big game for you? The girl from the Continent humoring the local Yank?”
“Is he my steady? Is that it?” Hattie asked, an amused smile playing at her lips. “Oh, sugar, we’re nothing like that and, believe me, it suits your brother just fine. It’s all in good fun.”
“Fun?” Ruby snorted. “Yeah, looks like a real blast.”
With that, she chucked her toothbrush into the sink.
“Well, Hattie, I’m gonna hit the percales. Have a good night. Sweet dreams. And don’t forget to shut off the lights.”
29
Wednesday Evening
Bess tells Evan about the pregnancy—every sordid detail.
It all happened so fast, she explains. One minute Bess was, if not happily married, at least unobjectionably attached. The next minute she was finding out about hookers and approximately ninety seconds after that, moving into a hastily secured rental in an undesirable part of town. By the time Bess realized her missed periods were a result of a baby and not stress, her life had already changed. She did tell her ex. A bad decision, in the end.
No, Bess hasn’t been all that nauseated, just a touch “off” from time to time, no more irritable or sick to her stomach than might be expected given the prostitutes and divorce and rancid smell outside her new apartment.
And what, exactly, does Bess plan to do about the unexpected twist? Well, she missed an appointment this afternoon. If not for the Cissy problem, Bess would be in San Francisco and, as of this very moment, not pregnant anymore. So time is getting short, for Cliff House and for Bess.
“You seem completely unfazed by this revelation,” Bess says after unspooling it all.
Is she glad for Evan’s blank expression? Or is she concerned?
“I shouldn’t have led with the whores,” she adds.
Evan shrugs. “Admit it, you like saying the word ‘whore.’” He cracks open a fresh beer. “Let me ask you something. If you planned to end the pregnancy, why’d you tell Brandon? I can only assume he was a total shit about it.”
“Yes,” Bess says with a salty sort of chuckle. “‘A total shit’ is one way to put it.”
“So, why then?” Evan presses. “Why’d you tell him?”
“Oh. Well. It felt like the right thing.”
So Bess hasn’t really told Evan “every sordid detail.”
Because while she plans to end the pregnancy now, she didn’t necessarily have the same designs before. Not that Bess wants to be a mother under such circumstances, and she’d pity any kid forced to have Brandon for a dad. But at first Bess simply didn’t know what to think. In telling Brandon she was looking for something: a sign, a hint, an outright directive. Be careful what you wish for and all that. He gave her one hell of a “sign.”
“I’m pregnant,” Bess had said, simple as that.
Because, while the situation was and is complex, this particular problem is quite basic. An unexpected pregnancy, the great equalizer. It’s happened in every country, in every tax bracket, in every year since the dawn of time. Pretty straightforward, at least until you realize it’s a total fucking disaster.
“You dirty slut” had been Brandon’s reaction.
“Um, excuse me?” Bess choked out.
It was a low blow, yet also quite Brandon. He had such an aggressive, full-metal-jacket way of talking to people, followed by a heavy dose of manufactured charm. It’s amazing what handsome, upwardly mobile guys can get away with. To think, Bess once considered him refreshingly direct.
“You can’t talk to me like that,” she’d said.
“Fuck yeah, I can. You’re a complete piece of shit.”
“Hey! Our marriage is ending, but I deserve to be treated like a human.”
Brandon shouted something else, jumped to his feet, and then lunged toward Bess—lunged!—before remembering where and who he was. Brandon was a tech executive, a man with stature, if only in his own mind. They were sitting in a Starbucks on Sand Hill Road, only five minutes from his office. Someone might be watching.
“You dirty fucking slut,” he said again, to be sure she heard.
He pulled back, then clenched his hands together.
“Jesus, Brandon, calm down,” Bess answered, trembling. “The baby is yours. I haven’t slept with anyone else in seven years, so you can stop with the ‘slut’ claptrap.”
“Nice try, bitch,” he said. “If you think you’re going to trap me…”
“Trap you? No, I very much want the divorce. More than ever.”
“‘More than ever,’” he said, mocking her in a girl’s voice. “Ugh, you disgust me. So you want money. Is that it? You’re trying to shake me down for cash?”
“What cash?”
“Fuck. You.”
“Listen, I don’t even know if I’m keep—” Bess shuddered. “I don’t want anything from you, not a single penny. Shaking you down? Please. I’m letting you have the house, remember? The house we bought together but with my money.”
Both of their names had been on the deed, but they used Bess’s savings for the down payment. Brandon’s cash was all tied up in his new company, the business now dead thanks to a fight over code. This was how badly Bess wanted out. He was allowed to have everything she put into that marriage, including their home.
“So are you keeping the baby?” Brandon asked, growling at her from across the table.
God, Bess thought at the time, the things that happened in a Starbucks. Books written. Divorces decreed. Pregnancies revealed. Bess had read somewhere that meth heads frequented the private bathrooms. All of humankind, foibling in a Starbucks.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Bess admitted. “But, rest assured, if I go ahead with the pregnancy, you won’t have to contribute a thing.”
“You’re not keeping it.”
“I haven’t made a decision but, like I said, I want exactly nothing from you, should I decide to … proceed. I just wanted you to know.”
“You’re not keeping it,” he repeated.
“I realize this is quite a shock and we’re not exactly in a place of mutual understanding.”
“You’re not having this baby.”
“I might, I might not,” Bess said, trying to keep her voice measured and low. “But you don’t actually have a say.”
Eyes were beginning to make skittish glances in their direction. Bess felt like she was back in the ED, battling a patient with “chronic back pain,” a patient who was desperate for oxycodone but who wasn’t going to get it, at least not from Dr. Codman. Brandon had that same jittery-irate-irrational vibe, as if his pulmonary system were about to rupture.
“Listen to me, you fucking cunt.”