If I wasn’t pregnant, who was?
My first thought was of Jonah’s voluptuous daughters. Both were gorgeous, boy-crazy, and no doubt the subject of the crotch-pinching fantasies of their horny high school classmates. At the ages of fifteen and seventeen, they were prime candidates for unwanted pregnancies, STDs, and other unsavory consequences of libidos in overdrive. I stole a quick look at Courtney and then Ashley in turn, but neither seemed stricken with shame or embarrassment. Courtney was preoccupied with Banner and Ashley had decided her ponytail would look better in a French braid, which she was plaiting with her head bent and her arms raised above her head.
I caught sight of Cheney and my focus jumped from his troubled expression to Anna’s. Now she looked like someone stricken with shame and embarrassment, which made perfect sense. She and Cheney had been an item for months. I wasn’t sure how long, but apparently long enough. She had followed me to Santa Teresa from Bakersfield the year before. A short time later the cops had migrated from the Caliente Café to Rosie’s place and that’s where their paths had crossed. Anna’s recent emotional upheaval suddenly made sense. It also explained why Cheney was hovering. I rearranged my mindset. Anna’s baggy sweater wasn’t a fashion statement; she was disguising her baby bump. Jonah must have taken her to the clinic. Maybe Cheney was tied up and Jonah had stepped in as a personal favor. What I couldn’t fathom was Jonah’s doing something as idiotic as listing his home address on Anna’s paperwork. Why put himself in the line of fire when Cheney was rolling in dough and could have taken her anywhere?
I thought, Oh my, and the truth opened up before me like a miry pit.
Anna and Cheney weren’t having an affair; Anna and Jonah were. Cheney was the “beard,” running cover for the two. The three of them had created an optical illusion and I’d bought into it. How had I missed the obvious? Naturally, Jonah was drawn to her. I’d never seen a man who wasn’t. Even Henry and William became a bit giddy in her presence. Poor Jonah was starved for affection and desperate for companionship.
At the time Anna entered our lives, Camilla (the skank) was still off somewhere, taking advantage of the “open marriage” she’d thought was such a keen idea, as long as it applied solely to her. Jonah wasn’t actually allowed to participate. His brief fling with me had come to nothing except to fill him with guilt. Then along came Anna, who had no interest whatever in a relationship. What could be more perfect? She didn’t intend to marry and she abhorred the idea of having kids. I remembered quite clearly how she’d likened the prospect of motherhood to Virginia Woolf’s suicide, which she’d accomplished by filling her pockets with heavy stones and wading into a river. Essentially, Anna had proclaimed she’d rather drown herself than give birth. I had no doubt she’d made clear to Jonah that her desire for freedom was paramount. She wanted to travel. She yearned for a life of adventure. She was saving her money so she could move to New York City, where she hoped to launch a career in modeling or acting, assuming she ever learned to act. What now?
I couldn’t imagine how she’d slipped up, but I was certain I’d hear about it. The larger question, of course, was how she intended to remedy the situation.
More to the point, had she already done so?
22
There was no indication the party would ever break up. I waited a decent interval and then eased out the door without saying my good-byes. Henry was gone by then. I’d been trying to catch his eye, but he was studiously avoiding me. Rosie, usually abrupt, judgmental, and quick to censure, sent me any number of sympathetic looks. I raised an index finger and signaled in the negative, wagging it back and forth like a metronome, hoping she’d pick up the message about the misunderstanding. Her response was to pat her own heart to show how moved she was. There was too much noise for conversation and the one time she was close enough to talk, she’d taken my hand and held it between her own, shaping it like a biscuit.
William looked mournful at the sight of me, probably calculating the odds of my dying of childbed fever. As far as these people were concerned—absent my standing on a tabletop, calling for tampons—I was “with child.” It was all too tedious for words. Eventually, I’d get it straightened out, but good news doesn’t travel fast. That’s because good news is usually too boring to repeat. The cold hard truth will fall on stony ground, whereas your all-around trashy rumor will flourish like a weed.
I walked the half block home, let myself through the squeaky gate, and rounded the side of the studio. Henry’s house was entirely dark. I knew he was there, but the only evidence of life was Ed, whose pale shape seemed to glow in the darkened kitchen window. He looked out at me with his small, hopeful face. How could he break my heart without making a sound? Pearl and Lucky had stayed on at the party, where they’d drink free booze until they both toppled sideways. Killer was nowhere in sight and I imagined him still zipped in the tent and having a fine snooze, his dolly between his paws.
I let myself into my studio and locked the door behind me. Camilla’s harangue had left me exhausted. I wasn’t accustomed to verbal abuse in my personal life. In my professional life, okay, fine. My sideline, process serving, brings out the worst in human nature. An eviction notice, a summons, an order to appear—these are life’s little ways of informing you that you’ve blundered badly and payment is now due. Camilla’s hostility was another matter altogether and I’d done a piss-poor job of protecting myself.
I flung myself down on the couch, too done in to stagger up the spiral stairs.
There was a tap on the door. I closed my eyes briefly and prayed it was Henry. I pictured him too worried to sleep, finally braving the darkness to assure himself that I was doing okay. I was desperate to clear up the confusion about my nonexistent pregnancy so I could be redeemed in his eyes. I crossed to the porthole and flipped on the outside light. Anna was standing on the porch, her hands shoved in the pockets of her navy pea coat. She was clearly in a black mood. I slid back the chain and opened the door.
As I ushered her in, she pointed a finger at my face. “Not one word of blame or criticism.”
“Far be it from me,” I said. “My only question is how you managed to screw up so badly.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”