The House of Eve (81)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO TELLING STORIES
Eleanor
Eleanor was not eight months pregnant, but if she were, her baby would be the size of a cantaloupe, weighing between four and five pounds. At this stage, she might occasionally see the baby’s hands and feet protrude through her belly. The extra tooting of gas would turn her face red with embarrassment, especially in front of William. With D.C. being so cold and icy in November, she’d have to be more careful when out for walks, because her center of gravity would have shifted. But on Expectant Mother’s long list of pregnancy symptoms, there were two that Eleanor did not need to fake: insomnia and restlessness.
Sometimes when she was especially lonely, she wondered whether she’d really needed to go to such lengths to bring a baby into their lives, or whether she’d needed to hide the adoption. Perhaps she would have been looked at as a celebrated hero in the Prides’ social circle for rescuing a child from an unwed mother. A modern-day trendsetter, not an infertile woman raising an illegitimate child.
The truth was that Eleanor didn’t know anyone who had adopted. The whole idea had been foreign to her before meeting Mother Margaret. When she was growing up, children would come up from the South to stay with an aunt or grandmother and never leave. A childless, married woman would disappear for a season, and then show up at church rocking a baby. No one asked questions but people still whispered behind closed doors. Eleanor couldn’t bear the thought of being on the receiving end of more whispers. She figured she was being talked about enough, as the poor girl from the industrial streets of Elyria whom the dashing William Pride had rescued. Or something close to that.
The home that Mother Margaret ran was largely for white women. The few Negro girls allowed must have the means to pay. Eleanor had spent a lot of time curious about these unwed girls. Where had they come from? Did they have any say in giving away their babies? Did it break their hearts, or had they willingly handed their infants over? When she was being honest, she knew she wanted to visit the place and have a peek at the house where her child was being incubated. But she was scared that she’d find out that life for the girls wasn’t the easy picture Mother Margaret had painted for her, which would be more than she could handle. But being cooped up had given Eleanor plenty of time to daydream.
In her head she had started referring to the home as the House of Eve. Eve as in Adam and Eve, the first mother of all living things. She tried to picture what her Eve looked like. Was she tall or short, have long hair or bobbed? Was she carrying the baby high or low? And the question that plagued her the most: Was Eve happy to turn her baby over to the loving care of William and Eleanor for her second chance, as Mother Margaret had put it, or was that all hogwash?
* * *
It was the Monday before Thanksgiving, and William was set to leave for Theodore’s engagement dinner on Tuesday afternoon. He had promised her all weekend that he’d be home so that they could spend time together before he left, but he had phoned each day with a delay. Today, he had been given a rotation in the emergency room and two children had come in with severe dog bites, and he didn’t know when he’d be home.
Eleanor was used to being alone from her years in Ohio as an only child. With her parents working all the time, she’d had to learn to be independent. But this was different. Eleanor felt more isolated than self-sufficient. Howard was closed for the holiday break, so she didn’t have any papers to write or library work to keep her mind occupied.
To pass the time, she cleaned every inch of every room in the house. When she was done, not a speck of dust could be found on any of the furniture or floors. Both her kitchen and two bathrooms smelled of bleach, and all the laundry had been folded and put away. Still, she had too much time left in the day.
A nugget of relief washed over her when she heard the telephone ring, and she dashed off to the den to pull it from the cradle.
“Hello, Sugar.” Crackle, crackle, static.
“Mama!” she exclaimed, so happy to hear her mother’s voice.
“How’s it going?”
“Fair to middling.” Eleanor snuggled against the settee with her feet folded underneath her.
“Is the baby moving around a lot? You eating your fruits and vegetables?”
“Yes, kicking up a fuss,” she said, and then recited a few symptoms and stats she had read about for this stage of pregnancy. A bad wave of static crackled between them and Eleanor had to repeat most of it. As she fabricated her condition, pangs of guilt rumbled through her belly. She hated lying to her mother and reasoned it was for Lorraine’s own good.
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Sister Pryor died a few days ago from a heart attack. Our little church is falling apart over it. You know she was everyone’s mother.”
Eleanor clutched her chest. It felt like she’d had the wind knocked out of her. “Oh, Ma. So sorry to hear that.”
Sister Pryor had been Eleanor’s babysitter when she was too little to go to school. She had fond memories of eating peach cobbler and listening to soap operas on the radio with her.
“I wish you could come home for the funeral. It would be good to see you, and I’d love to rub that baby in your belly.”
“Me too, Mama, but the doctor says I can’t travel in my condition. I don’t even leave the house anymore. Just here waiting,” she said over a pop of static.