Barnegat Bay - 12. Chapter 12

Then there came a Monday when Mary turned up in the city. She called first and left a message with my answering service, assuring them it wasn’t an emergency, and she didn’t need to go to a hospital. Still, it was more than just a friendly coincidence that she was in New York on a supposed day off.

“I didn’t think you had days off during the week” was the first thing I said as I slid into a booth in the theater district restaurant where she’d chosen to meet. I knew she wasn’t in town to see a play because the theaters were still closed in the August heat. But Mary and Claire had occasionally gone to the theater, mainly for Saturday matinees, so Mary knew of the restaurant, and she knew, “It was full of men and women, actors and such. So we won’t stand out.”

That’s the second thing she told me. The first was her answer to my question. “No, you know I normally have Sundays off. I asked for the extra day.”

I thought maybe she was looking for a special going-away present for Spence, since it was almost Labor Day. But it was more than that.

“I think I’m going to have a baby,” she said straight-forwardly, if not very loud. “I’m almost definite.” She was sitting across the table from me, looking into my eyes. There was nothing shy or embarrassed.

“I think it’s a little early to actually find out,” she went on. “I know there are tests – and newer ones – for later, and it’s just been over a month. Six weeks. Two misses. And I could be wrong – I’m no expert. I only know what I’ve heard and what I just read in the library. But if I’m not wrong, then this is the time I need to talk about it. And do something.”

“You’re right,” I confirmed. “If it’s only six weeks, it could be early. But I can give you the new test anyway, and we’ll know in a couple of days.”

“That would be good,” she agreed. “Though if I’m right, I don’t have a lot of time to plan. So I need to know first, if you can help me. Second, if there’s someone safe you’d recommend. And third, how much it’s going to cost.”

I wanted to say, “Hold on. You’re getting too far ahead of yourself. There have been plenty of false alarms, in probably tens of thousands of years. And this isn’t the time to worry.” I also wanted to say, “Your family is Catholic and fairly religious. Are you sure you want to do this?” Not to mention, “Have you thought about the complications?” I didn’t need to ask “Is it Spence?” That would simply have been an insult.

Of course, it was Spence. And since we’d all been together most of the day before, and Spence was as low key as ever, I knew absolutely that Mary hadn’t spoken with him. It was less clear if she wanted him to know, but it was evident she didn’t want to get married. At least, not then.

I also didn’t think Claire knew. That wasn’t just the fact that she hadn’t seemed any different all weekend or had given even the hint of a sign. I was sure that if Claire knew, she would have been with Mary. Even more, they would have approached me on Barnegat, and Mary would have been saved from this trip.

“You’re being quiet,” she said after a moment, when it was obvious that’s just what I was doing. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“Hardly,”I said, smiling. “I hadn’t come close to even thinking about that. I was trying to figure other things out.”

“Thanks.” She put her hand over mine, and that was practically the first time we’d touched that way, outside dancing. Soon after, we went back to my office, and she gave me a sterile urine sample. We never even ordered dinner.

“I’ll drop this at the lab in the morning,” I told her. “It’s on the way to my second appointment.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely. I’d do this for any friend.”

The truth was I already had.

“And you’ll know in a couple of days?” she went on.

“I should know by Friday night – when I come down to Barnegat.” I thought for a moment. “That’ll be awkward, since you usually meet me with Claire. I’m guessing you don’t want her to know.”

“No,” she confirmed. “Not yet, and maybe not ever.” She hesitated after that, smiling a bit. “And it won’t be awkward on Friday. You’ll just be telling me something I already know.”

“You won’t be upset?”

“I’m already upset. It can’t get worse.”

I wouldn’t have guessed anything was really wrong. Other than she was more serious than usual and out of her expected place.

“And as long as I’m here,” she went on, “Can you answer some other questions?”

I suspected what they were, and we both knew the procedure was as illegal as bathtub gin. But rich women had always had it done safely, sometimes without leaving their homes. That was one advantage of being rich. But the advantage of not being rich and knowing a young or even willing doctor was almost the same.

Though I’d never done this before, and I didn’t intend to start now.

“You need to tell Spence,” I began, stalling Mary’s questions.

She immediately answered with the expected “No.”

“You don’t want to marry him?”

“I don’t want to marry him like this. It can only end badly. We can’t afford it, and he’s not ready – he’s still in school. And I’m not ready to get married, either.”

“In other times,” I started, “as recently as four years ago, when we all still had money, you could simply have gone away for a year. Maybe even narrow that to five or six months, depending on how you timed it and when you began to show.”

“People in my family show late.”

“That makes things more flexible.”

“Though it wouldn’t make any sense, if I went away. If I were Claire, I could go off to college – or pretend to. And I’m not saying she pretended – you know she didn’t. But I would be. I can’t even say that I’m staying with an imaginary cousin somewhere – like the Midwest – to take a job, working in some store. If there were jobs, why wouldn’t I take one here? Besides, I’m already helping my aunt out – well, part-time, once we close up the store on Barnegat.”

While she was talking, I’d been thinking. “You could say you were taking care of a relative – an older one. Or the relative of a friend.”

She shook her head. “My family knows so few people outside Toms River. And our relatives have always stayed near.”

I wanted to tell her something, but thought it might hurt her feelings. I wanted to say, “No one outside your immediate family and friends might notice if you went away – especially for only six months. Possibly no one would care.” And she could simply explain, truthfully, “I like working with clothes. I’m pretty good at it. But there are no full-time jobs in Toms River.” Though why would she go any further than Philadelphia or New York? She could tell them, “To try someplace different.” But it might not seem convincing.

Still, I knew she had sales and sewing skills and clearly the confidence. And it’s not like she needed to raise the baby. She could immediately put it up for a good adoption and come back home.

Though I’d had this discussion with other women – always abstractly, but the answer came back the same: “You’re being an idiot,” they started – nicely, because they thought I was a sweet man. “A mother doesn’t just leave her child – simply walk away. Especially when it’s a baby.”

“Then why are the orphanages full?” I’d counter.

“Those are children of desperate women. Or of girls, with humiliated or controlling families. Or uneducated ones. Or families with no choices.”

More often, the women favored getting married – no matter how narrow the possibilities of that succeeding. “It’s far easier to live with your child – and with the results of a stupid mistake – than it is knowing you have a baby out there – a growing child you’ll never see and who’ll never be part of your life.” Plus, they’d add, “It’s getting easier to get a divorce now – if not an annulment. I’d just have to wait a couple of years.”

“You need to talk with Spence,” I told Mary again. “Even if you never live together. Even if you pretend to be married and explain it’s because he’s finishing school that you temporarily need to live apart. It’ll be so much easier to make decisions a year from now. And possibly better ones.”

“I’m not telling Spence.” She’d decided that and was unshakable. “And don’t think I’m being stupid. I know just a little about science – from high school and earlier. And I know this isn’t a baby yet. It’s only the start of the beginning of one.”

“It’s smaller than a coffee bean.”

“And the sooner it’s stopped, the less guilty I’ll feel.”

She hesitated, almost as if to doubt that.

“It may not be as easy as I think,” she soon admitted. “I’ll have to forget so much the Church has taught me. But it’ll be so much easier to go on – more carefully – with my life.”

I had to smile at that, and then to quickly assure Mary I wasn’t grinning at her. “You sound just like my mother,” I told her. “She’s never been in your situation – at least, I don’t think she has. But my family doesn’t keep a lot of secrets, so I’d probably know. And my parents are always telling us – their kids – that there are lessons to be learned from mistakes. So they’d take a practical approach, like yours. But I also think she would have married my father first.”

Mary seemed to delay her answer. “What if it wasn’t your father?”

Now I was confused. “Are you saying it wasn’t Spence?”

“No,” she said immediately. “I’m not saying that at all. That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then why wouldn’t you marry him?”

“I told you. Not now. It’s the wrong time and way. In fact, everything’s wrong.”

I tried not to be guy stupid about the next thing. But it had to be said. At least, I felt I had to say it.

“You know he’d marry you right away. I’ll bet anything on that.”

“Yes. He’d do the right thing.”

She didn’t make it sound appealing.

“He’s good like that,” she went on. “Even if it’s nothing either of us want.”

She paused again.

“And right now, it’s a question of what I want. And I want this to be over. I want it to go away.”

She smiled at me.

“You know I won’t forget this – at least, I’ll never be able to forget it completely. So your parents would be happy that there’s a lesson to teach.”

She waited for my reaction, and I nodded.

“But I think I’ll be able to forget most of it. And maybe just wonder about it for the rest of my life.”

I was about to reply when she stopped me.

“Doc, so many babies die. So many people die before they’re even allowed to begin to start living their lives. So what does it matter if one, tiny – not even baby – is never allowed to be born. Never allowed to see if it even has a chance of really beginning its life.”

“It doesn’t,” I had to admit. “Not in the largest view of things. But this is right here. And now.”

She thought that through. Then she looked around my small, fairly dark consulting room. “Is this really where you work?” she asked.

It was clear she needed a break from thinking. And I gave it to her.

“I mostly work in people’s homes. Almost no one comes here. Mainly men who want privacy. Or a very few women – for the same reason.”

“And you live here, too?”

“I have a bed – more of a cot – in what should be a storage closet – a walk-in. And it shares that tiny space with a file cabinet. Plus, I use the desk in the waiting room to store other records.”

She peeked into my bedroom. “It’s smaller than your boat.”

I laughed at that, but it was true. “Yes. I could give up this office and move to Barnegat. Be a Doctor At Sea.”

She laughed along with me, then looked at her watch.

“I need to be starting home.”

“I’ll take you to the train.”

“That involved a walk and a bus or subway. Mary assured me she could go by herself, and I knew she could. But I also knew there was no reason.

“I’ll see you on Friday night,” we told each other at the station.

“Don’t worry,” she told me.

But it was already too late for that.