“Oh, that must be delicious,” Ruth said when I’d finished reciting the recipe. She actually sounded sincere, but I was beginning to learn that Ruth could sound like she adored you at the same time she was slipping a knife between your ribs. “And yes, certainly we can find you an old pillowcase or perhaps a sheet you can cut up. That should do the job.”
We worked for a few minutes in silence, until Ruth said, out of the blue, “So, tell me, Tess, dear”—her fingers sifted through the small pile of beads on the table in front of her—“exactly how far along are you?”
My hands froze on my box. I was taken aback, though I probably shouldn’t have been. I wasn’t wearing my girdle this evening. I’d taken it off when I got home from Reverend Sam’s and I simply couldn’t bear to put it on again before coming downstairs. I knew I was showing without it. I didn’t think it was noticeable unless someone was truly examining my figure, but I guessed Ruth was doing exactly that. She knew I hadn’t gotten pregnant on our wedding night. I’d told Reverend Sam about the baby, of course, but here in Ruth Kraft’s kitchen, saying out loud that I was four months pregnant seemed so … obscene, somehow. I stared down at my fingers, white and stiff against the blue ribbons and lace on the box. The silence in the room felt electric and I had to break it.
“Four months,” I admitted. “I’m due in late July.”
“Well,” she said, avoiding my eyes as steadfastly as I was avoiding hers, “I suppose we’ll have to do some creative fudging when the baby’s born then. We’ll say it came quite early. And we’ll keep visitors at bay for a while. We don’t want anyone to think the worst, do we?”
“People aren’t idiots, Mother,” Lucy said.
“Well, Lucille,” Ruth said to her daughter, “let’s not help them jump to the wrong conclusion, all right?”
“They already know. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“And who is everyone?” Ruth’s voice was tight.
“Violet and her friends, to begin with.”
“Well, yes. But who can blame her? She adores him.”
I bristled as they talked about me as if I weren’t there.
“Oh,” Ruth said suddenly. “Late July? I just realized you and Henry may be in the new house by then.” She furrowed her brow. “I’ll come over in the beginning to turn any visitors away,” she said, “and we’ll have to instruct the nanny to do the same. I’ll begin asking around for nanny referrals. You don’t want to wait too long to pin someone down.”
“I’d really rather not have a nanny,” I said. I couldn’t wait to take care of my own child. I wanted so badly to hold my baby in my arms.
“You’ll feel differently once that baby is actually here,” Ruth said. She tipped her head to the side in an attempt to look at my stomach, hidden behind the table. “We need to find some clothing that masks … you know. Your condition,” she said. “I’ll get one of those Lane Bryant catalogs for you to shop from. And it’s time we set up an appointment for you with Dr. Poole.”
“An obstetrician?” I asked.
“He’s our longtime family doctor and he delivers the babies of everyone in Hickory,” she said. “All the white babies, anyway. And he knows when to keep his lips sealed. As soon as you start to show a bit more,” she added, “you mustn’t leave the house.”
I didn’t respond. I knew women of Ruth’s generation hid themselves away during their pregnancy, but this was 1944 and I hoped to have at least another couple of months of freedom. The thought of being trapped in this house was overwhelming. Plus, I wanted to be able to visit Reverend Sam whenever I chose.
“Maybe church this Sunday should be your last outing,” Ruth said.
That would be one bonus of not leaving the house, I thought. The fewer church services I needed to attend, the better. “Maybe,” I said, hoping that answer would be enough to satisfy her for now.
We fell quiet again, and I wondered if all three of us were thinking about how we would get through the next few months. I wished it was already July. I wanted to meet this little person nestled inside me. The one person in Hickory I knew I would love. The one person in Hickory who was going to love me back.
*
In bed that night, I asked Henry if we could plant a tree for my mother at our new house. At first he laughed. “There are more than forty trees on that land already,” he said.
“This one would be special,” I said. “It would have meaning for me.”
He looked at me across the empty space between our beds then, the humor leaving his face. “Sure, Tess,” he said. “You can do whatever you want with the house and the land. It will be yours. All right?”
I thanked him, thinking as I always did how many girls would love that invitation. If only a big house and beautiful land was what I wanted.
32
My ham came out perfectly that Friday evening, the best I’d ever made. It had been almost like a dream come true, cooking with my sister-and mother-in-law. We even laughed a bit. We put my ham, Lucy’s meat loaf, and Ruth’s fried chicken in the refrigerator to chill for Saturday’s box supper. Lucy had scraped together enough sugar to bake her red velvet cake, and Hattie had shown her how to create its vibrant color using beets instead of food coloring.
“We can take the leftovers to Adora and Honor and the kids,” Lucy said to her mother as we straightened the kitchen after our cooking project. “Adora’s birthday is Sunday, remember?”
“Oh yes,” Ruth said. “Taking them the leftovers is an excellent idea.”
All three of us turned at the sound of Henry’s car in the driveway.
“Maybe Henry can drive us to Adora’s on the way to church Sunday morning so we don’t have to take one of those blasted stinky old cabs,” Lucy said.
“Watch your language,” Ruth scolded as she took off her apron.
Henry walked in the back door and I knew right away he was in a sour mood. It emanated from him like something tangible. I stood awkwardly by the table, never knowing how to greet him when we were in front of his family. Certainly there would be no welcome-home kiss. We didn’t even kiss in private.
“What’s the matter with you?” Lucy asked.
He took off his coat and tossed it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, then stood in front of us, hands crammed into his pants pockets. “Gaston’s trial ended,” he said. “He lost.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I still hadn’t met Gaston Joyner, although I’d seen a picture of him and his wife, Loretta, in the paper that morning. They stood side by side outside the courtroom and I felt a stab of sympathy for them. The wife, Loretta, had a hand to her cheek as though wiping a tear away, and Gaston was speaking to someone outside the photograph, exhaustion in his face. I knew Henry had been hoping—unrealistically so—that the state would recognize their interracial marriage as valid and his friend could stay out of prison.
“Well, of course he lost.” Ruth set her dirty apron on the table near the back door where Hattie would be sure to see it. “He was a fool to think he could come back here with a colored so-called wife and get away with it. It’s the law, pure and simple.”
“A backward law,” Henry muttered. He sounded like an angry little boy who hadn’t gotten his way.