Bloodline(22)
The words that finally manage to plop out are ugly, childish. “You said no Mothers were allowed at the meeting.”
Deck’s eyes flick to me, then return to the pin. “A few Mothers dropped by at the end to clean up. You caused quite a buzz, popping up in Little John’s last night without me. Got the whole town talking.” He chuckles. “The Mothers suggested that you see Dr. Krause, get his opinion on how a pregnant woman should conduct herself. I figure, if he says drinking while pregnant is fine, then that’ll shut everyone up.”
I clip every word before I release it. I’m not even sure what I’m fighting for, but I’m desperate to be right about something. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll both stop drinking in public. We’ll save it for home, just the two of us.”
The numbness hasn’t receded.
“Please, Joanie? It’s only for a few more months.”
I twitch. He takes it for agreement. He stands, kissing the top of my head. “You’re the best. The absolute bee’s knees. I have to get going. Dad and I are looking at a property south of town. They need home insurance. Could be a big deal. Might go hunting after that.”
He grabs his wallet and keys and is out the door before I can ask him when he took up hunting.
CHAPTER 14
After I shower, I find a handwritten note threaded into my typewriter’s platen.
Baby, you are the earth, sun, and moon to me.
It’s the fourth note I’ve discovered since Deck left. One was taped to the milk inside the fridge, another written on a square of toilet paper still on the roll—that one made me smile, grudgingly—a third coiled in the elf’s-shoe twist of our toothpaste. All the notes say the same thing, essentially: Deck loves me and is always thinking of me.
The edges of my anger melt. I do need to find a doctor in Lilydale, after all. Might as well be one who comes highly recommended. Besides, it’s so silly, how this escalated. I simply wanted to get out of the house last night. I’d be fine never having another drink in my life.
I make a silent pledge to call Dr. Krause first thing Monday morning.
That’s also the deadline for the article I’m turning in to Dennis, but I see no reason to wait. I prop up the notebook that I brought to last night’s concert, scanning my neat shorthand. With luck, the camera holds four or five good photos. Personally, I hope Dennis chooses the one featuring the student-made yellow submarine, a painted plywood cutout as large as a car. It had required several kids to wheel it out, and their pride glowed on their faces.
I click on the radio for background noise and begin typing.
We All Live in a Lilydale Dream
The radio drama that I flipped on is interrupted with another Vietnam story, this one about American troubles at Kham Duc. During an evacuation, there wasn’t enough room in the helicopters for Chinese soldiers battling alongside the American boys. I think about those miserable men left behind, fighting a strange war with no end. I’m ashamed at how easy it is to tune out their pain, halfway across the world and me in this sleepy little town, but that’s exactly what I do when I snap off the radio. A person can sit with only so much bad news.
Then I pause, bite my lip, and type my very first byline, a happy flush warming my cheeks.
By Joan Harken
May 11, 1968
Lilydale Elementary School’s Spring Musical program was a hit! The May 10 extravaganza featured music by The Beatles with each grade, kindergarten through fourth, presenting one song. Miss Colivan, fourth grade teacher, told the packed gym that “we wanted a modern presentation, something children and parents alike could enjoy.” The song list: Kindergarten: “Twist and Shout”
First Grade: “I’m Only Sleeping”
Second Grade: “I’m Happy Just to Dance with You”
Third Grade: “She Loves You”
Fourth Grade: “I Want to Hold Your Hand”
Everyone certainly seemed to be having a wonderful time. A crowd of at least 400 people gathered to hear the sweet songs of youth. The grand finale featured all 243 children singing “Yellow Submarine,” while some of the older students wheeled out the submarine they’d created in their Arts & Crafts class. If the evening concert was any indication, the future of Lilydale is in bright hands.
The relief is immediate. A story out rather than in.
I review my writing. “Twist and Shout” isn’t technically a Beatles song, but I don’t think this article is the place to mention that. The rest holds up. Edward R. Murrow doesn’t need to stop the presses, but I’m satisfied. I zip the paper out of the typewriter, slide it into my portfolio, nuzzle Slow Henry, and pad to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, apply makeup, and scan the article one more time. I still like it. It’s more Women’s News than hard-hitting journalism, but it’s a start.
And my name is on it.
I pat my head. My hair is not quite set from this morning’s hot shower. I know what I could do while I wait for it to dry, but hell. I don’t want to. My feet drag as I walk to the phone, my lungs heavy. I pick up the handset and dial.
Ursula answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Joan. What the hell? Why haven’t you called before? I’ve been worried sick about you. I nearly drove to Lilydale, knocking door to door, asking who’d taken my Joanie.”