Every child is different,so its birth also occasions the birth of a new mother, even if she already has children.

∼  Amaurón, Paedeia

   The first thing Fran did on Monday morning was don her robe and slippers. Eric dozed.

    She scampered from the bathroom to the kitchen, where she filled the percolator with cold water, put coffee in its basket, and plugged the unit in. He strolled into the bathroom and thundered pee into the toilet.

    Fran made two sandwiches of pre-packaged olive-loaf luncheon meat with mayonnaise on white bread. Eric washed the sleep from his eyes and lathered his face.

    She wrapped the sandwiches in wax paper and placed them in a brown bag along with a boxed 4-inch blueberry pie and a Granny Smith apple. He got dressed.

    Fran slipped two over-easy eggs from the frying pan onto two pieces of toast "buttered" with oleo. Eric stood in the doorway and watched his children sleeping in their twin beds.

    She poured coffee into two cups and the remainder of the pot into a thermos, screwed on its cover, and placed it beside the paper bag on the green Formica counter. He walked up behind her, lifted her hair, and kissed the nape of her neck.

    Fran turned, inspected him from head to toe, and felt pleased to see her man dressed in a shirt and trousers rather than the overalls he had been wearing only a couple of weeks before. Eric ate.

   She washed the frying pan, cleaned the percolator, mentioned that their son Kevin had outgrown his shoes again, and began brewing another pot of coffee. He gave her a quick kiss good-bye at the open front door.

   Fran bent down, slipped a note to the milkman inside one of the empty bottles in the metal rack on the front steps, and stepped back into their two-bedroom rented bungalow at 102 Circle Drive in Paley Park. Eric turned to wave, but his hand wilted at the sight of the closed door.

    She walked into the kitchen, briefly recalled the spacious bridal suite and the elegant dining room, and began tidying up, nibbling toast and sipping coffee while she wiped down the counter and table. She went to the bathroom, washed her face, and brushed her hair and teeth. She went to her bedroom, got dressed, and made the bed while she planned a supper of pork chops, string beans and mashed potatoes. She went to the living room, folded the laundry she'd been too tired to tackle the night before, and decided to make cupcakes because Nora and Pete said that the kids had behaved so well, but they wouldn't have said otherwise. No.

    He arrived at work—a little more than an hour after she had done so.

    A few minutes later Kevin stumbled out of bed into the cool morning. She snatched a towel from the pile of laundry, wrapped it around his shoulders and gathered him to her. She plunked herself down and rocked him with her cheek on his sleepy head. She quietly reminded him how much he enjoyed kindergarten and all his friends. After breakfast, she urged him to whisper while he dressed so that his sister, who was sixteen months younger, could sleep a little longer.

    But Linda heard them and sat up without a grumble. She never complained, not even when Fran put a coat over her pajamas and lugged her into the cold for the short walk to Kevin's school. Her reward would be a cup of hot chocolate, which she'd drink while her mother read her books. Occasionally, Fran would stop so that Linda could pretend-read by reciting the words she knew by heart: "Not I, barked the lazy dog. Not I, purred the sleepy cat. Not I, quacked the noisy yellow duck."

    Today, their routine would be different. Fran had just settled Linda at a small school desk with a Howdy Doody coloring book when the first knock sounded promptly at nine. She whipped off her apron, opened the door, and greeted one of the few older women in the neighborhood, who handed her a warm pan covered with a tea towel. Fran had known her for nearly five years, but still felt more comfortable addressing her formally.

    "How thoughtful, Mrs. Pincus."

    "Apricots and almonds."

    "Sounds tasty," said Fran. "Look, Linda, a Bundt cake. What do we say?"

    "Thank you, Mrs. Pincus."

    "Good morning, dear, you're welcome," she answered as she exchanged her coat for the pan and said, "I'll just put this on a plate, get the smaller ones from the cupboard, and place everything on the card-table over there," the kettle began to whistle, "and make the tea, shall I?"

    Then came Mary Ambree, whose husband, John, had helped Eric gain his recent promotion. She wiped her nose furiously. "Sniffles! If it's not one kid bringing a bug home from school it's the other." She handed Fran her coat, saw Mrs. Pincus coming from the kitchen and smiled. "Why good morning, Mrs. Pincus. Bundt cake?"

    "A new recipe from Good Housekeeping."

    "Should be scrumptious," said Mary. She turned to Fran and asked, "Well, where is it, the big present? Eric told John all about it, and you have no idea how difficult it was for me to keep it a secret, you lucky devil!"

    "Over there," said Fran, pointing with her elbow. In the corner stood a wooden cabinet with a radio dial at the top, a handle to pull out a record player in the middle, and a panel of gold-threaded fabric to hide its speakers at the bottom.

    "A Philco, of course," said Mary, clasping her hands with admiration. "The phonograph has two arms, one for 78s and the other for 33s."

    "You know more about it than I do."

    "Imagine five watts of power. It'll huff and puff and blow your house down! May I turn it on?"

    "Just the radio, softly, please."

    But a knock at the door made her say, "I'll get it, Fran." She never got the chance. In stepped a willowy brunette in a billowing red wool coat, Dolores, who sailed past Mary with a "hi there" smile to Fran. She tugged at the fingertips of a white glove and asked, "Is Shirley coming?"

    Fran said, "A proper greeting goes something like this. 'Hi Fran, how are you?'"

    "I'm fine," said Dolores. "Thank's for asking." She draped her coat over Fran's shoulder and looked over the top of her black-frame glasses. "Well?"

    "Shirley has to work."

    "Work!" Dolores opened her purse, quickly stuffed her gloves inside, and took out her cigarettes. She put the box up to her ear and cupped her other hand around an imaginary mouthpiece. She widened her eyes with surprise and dropped her jaw. "Listening in on all the gossip—I should have a job like that. Mike won't let me work, and I'm getting bored right out of my tree." She took out a cigarette.

    "Save one of those for me," said Fran. "So you're not enjoying life as a newly-wed?"

    "It's dreadful," she scowled, lighting up and blowing the smoke at the ceiling. "Not enough sleep, and not enough powder for these dark circles," she twinkled her eyes at Fran and added slyly, "although some nights the dawn comes too early! You remember those first weeks of marriage, don't you, old thing?" Before Fran could answer, Dolores cried "Linda!" She extended her arms and bee-lined across the room lilting, "It's auntie Dolores! Howzabout a big smooch from my little darling."

    Fran heard the door open and saw a woman holding it for her mother-in-law, Nora, a fairly short woman with a head of pure white soft curls and wire-rim glasses. The other woman was Fran's neighbor, Betty, who was asking, "Did you see Jack Benny on television last night?"

    "Wouldn't miss him for all the tea in China," she answered, as they made their way to Fran, said "good morning," and handed over their coats.

    "There's coffee. Mrs. Pincus brought Bundt cake and Linda made cornbread muffins," she winked, "all by herself." Then she headed down the short hallway to lay the garments on her bed and thought, some day I'll have more closet space.

    The last to arrive was her mother, Patricia, a slender woman whose upright posture evinced self-assurance. "Hello, dear," she said, accepting a peck on the cheek before walking to the living room closet. "The roads from Exeter were clear. I made good time."

    "You drive too fast."

    "I did manage to get here," she said, locating a hangar and squeezing her coat in with the others. She closed the door part way, turned, and leaned on it to finish the job. "When are you going to learn to drive?"

    "Soon, because Eric insists."

    "We wanted you to learn, but the fuel rationing put the kibosh on that. Pleasant weekend?" she asked, looking past Fran at the guests.

    "The fruit basket was wonderful and the—"

    "It's a shame your sisters couldn't be here. I see you invited Mrs. Pincus and her Bundt cake, or is it the other way around?"

    "Apricot-almond, which might be tasty. Look, Nora's waving you over. Have a coffee with her."

    After she left, Fran surveyed her company. Nora and Mrs. Pincus wore handsome house dresses, earrings, and necklaces, although Fran knew there wasn't a genuine pearl between them. Her mother and two of the younger women were in stylish sheath dresses. Dolores had on her usual slacks. They were all holding either a cup or a dessert dish, which made Fran vow that some day she would have a dining room.

    After returning, she heard Betty say, "Come along, Franny. We're dying to hear all about it."

    Fran sat on the sofa and said, "Where to begin?" She started by pointing to the bouquet of flowers on the coffee table, a gift from her parents presented by her kids as they were leaving, and how the hotel staff had been only too pleased to put them in a vase and bring them to the room.

    "What kind of flowers are they, Linda?" asked her mother.

    "Stargazing lilies and wed roses," she said, making everyone smile and chuckle.

    "Stargazer lilies. Why are they 'wed' roses?"

    "Because they're for a wedding annibersary."

    "Anniversary."

    Then Fran told them about the enormous bridal suite, with its fireplace already lit, warming the room and making Champagne in the icy silver bucket that much more enjoyable to sip while they sat in the alcove and watched the sea. The room itself was like a museum. One cabinet had curved glass and was filled with exotic curios: an old brass telescope, a sextant, pieces of scrimshaw, and Far Eastern fans. The room also had a four-poster bed.

    "Ooh," they murmured.

    "Canopied."

    "Now you're really talking," said Dolores.

    And how that first night both she and Eric had dined on baked stuffed lobster beneath a glimmering chandelier. The next morning Eric was in heaven with his buttered smelt, but she settled for an English muffin and tea because the gala dinner was that night and Shirley had made the cocktail dress fashionably snug. After breakfast, they went for a leisurely stroll through the town, which was rather quiet, but the shops had been nicely decorated for the holidays. They met a man named Bayliss, a local historian they assumed, because he knew quite a lot about the town. Still, he couldn't explain the peculiar sign in the tailor's window, which showed a group of smiling mice and read, "Closed. No More Twists."

 

    Across town, Pete took a cigar out of his mouth and asked Charley, who would replace him as station manager in a few years, "Did you see the Jack Benny Show last night?"

    "No, Margaret wanted to listen to Fred Allen on the radio."

    "Well, Benny is standing there holding a pistol nonchalant-like and he says to Bob Hope, 'Give me your money or I'll blow your brains out.' Hope raises the gun so that it's pointing at his head instead of his privates and says, 'Let's not do any jokes we didn't plan on, eh?'"

    "You're pulling my leg!"

    "He musta made that up right there on the spot!"

    "On national TV," laughed Charley. "Imagine saying such a thing."

    "Can you believe that guy?"

    "I wonder if he'll catch hell from his boss."

    "Maybe. All I know is I just about died laughing. Nora didn't get it at first, of course, and when I explained she got kinda embarrassed." He stood up, stubbed out his stogie, and plopped a gray fedora on his bald head. "Gotta stop in and order some coal for the house and then get the old lady back home from Eric's house. Keep an eye on things, Charley."

    "Train leaving on track five for Anaheim, Azusa and Cu-ca-monga!"

   

    "Tell us about the grand celebration," said Dolores.

    "Well, first of all I gotta tell ya that Shirley's dress was fantastic."

    "She's a whiz," said Dolores.

    "The best," said Fran. "We went downstairs for dinner, and the table was set with a burgundy cloth, a small arrangement of white roses with baby's-breath, and candles in silver holders. Eric had the filet mignon. I ordered the broiled swordfish, and we decided to have wine."

    "Wine. Special occasion," said Betty.

    "We let the waiter pick—what do we know about wine?—and he said that normally people have red wine with meat and white wine with fish, and we only wanted one bottle, so I changed my order to pot roast." Everyone nodded. "We had baked Alaska for dessert, and honestly I wish I hadn't let Shirley make the dress so . . . speaking of which a woman with one of those," she brushed her index finger on the tip of her nose, "airs about her, from Manchester-by-the-Ocean—"

    "By-the-Sea," said her mother.

    "Thank you. She thought it was a Jo Copeland original."

    "Three cheers for Shirley," said Dolores.

    "The whiz," added Fran. "Then we went into the ballroom and listened to the orchestra, which was right up there with Guy Lombardo's, if you ask me."

    "How nice, Franny," said Nora. "I hope my son asked you to dance."

    "He did, and he was gentleman enough to let me lead, too." Everyone giggled. "The band—that's what your son insisted on calling it, Nora—had a fantastic crooner."

    "What did he sing?" asked Mary.

    "A lot of my favorites. 'How High the Moon' and 'Too Young,' that song the Negro fellow sings."

    "Nat King Cole."

    "That's him," Fran said, "and then a woman came out and sang 'Come on-a My House,' and I tell you hand-on-heart you'd have thought she was Rosemary Clooney. After that, the man came back on and sang some Tony Bennett numbers, 'Because of You' and 'Cold, Cold Heart,' and then—"

    "Any Sinatra or Patti Page?" asked Mary, exhaling a stream of blue cigarette smoke.

    "Of course, and Eddie Fisher," she said. Linda climbed up on Fran's lap to show her a picture she'd colored.

    "Linda, darling, show me," said Dolores reaching for her and asking, "How did you see in the new year, Franny?"

    "A few minutes before the clock struck we put on silly hats—'Auld Lang Syne' doesn't sound the same without them—and the waiter brought out a bottle of Champagne that Eric had ordered on the sly and that he promised would stop me from turning into a pumpkin at midnight! We wound up kissing a bunch of perfect strangers, finishing our drinks, and heading up to bed."

    "Let the celebration begin," said Dolores.

    "Dolores," said Patricia, who engaged her eyes and then looked down at Linda.

    "On Sunday morning we slept in, had lunch at the hotel—their fish chowder is out of this world—and went to a reading by a local poet, Charles Olson."

    "La-dee-da," said Betty.

    "It wasn't like that, and you won't believe this. Olson was originally from Worcester." She looked over at Nora. "That's where Eric's dad is from, and when we got back to Rivermouth and told Pete, he said that he knew the guy."

    "Imagine that," said Mrs. Pincus.

    "He didn't know him well, but their fathers had worked together in the post office."

    "Small world," said Mrs. Pincus.

    "Isn't it, though," said Nora. "More coffee anyone? Patricia?"

    "I'll have some," said Dolores. She took Fran's arm. "Might help me shake the yawns."

    "Did you take many pictures?" asked Nora.

    "My parents gave us a new Brownie camera," she explained to the others. "But I haven't got the hang of threading the film yet, so—"

    "Oh what a shame," someone said.

    "Those darn things," said Nora to Patricia's inexpressive face. "You know how tricky cameras can be."

    "If you don't read the manual," said Patricia.

    A half-hour later the party petered out. Dolores was the next-to-the-last to leave, saying to Fran, "I don't think Linda loves her auntie."

    "You smother her with kisses—button your coat or you'll catch the death of cold—you have to give kids room."

    "I can't help it. She's adorable," Dolores put her hand on the door knob, "I just want to gobble her up."

    "Have one of your own."

    "Oh, I don't know about that, Francine," she opened the door and stepped onto the stoop.

    "Children are inevitable. They come with the late nights," she laughed, "and the dark circles."

    Dolores leaned back inside the house and lowered her voice. "Not when you've got a diaphragm and some jell, they don't." Fran didn't know what to say. "Mike hates rubbers. Who doesn't?" She gave Fran a kiss on the cheek. "You should get one." Fran said nothing. "Ta-ta for now, Franny. I'll call you tomorrow and explain all about it."

    "Bye," offered Fran weakly, adding "Give my best to Mike" as she closed the door.

    The sound seemed to summon her mother from Linda's bedroom. Patricia walked to the closet saying, "Dolores got married." She withdrew her wool duffle coat. "That was quick and quiet."

    "To Mike Hantler. They'd been going together a long time."

    "I know, but men don't usually buy a cow when milk is free. I don't suppose she's—"

    "Mother!"

    "Perhaps he's too old to manage." She buttoned her coat. "They are a May-and-December couple."

    "Hardly. She's twenty-six and he's thirty-nine, I think."

   "He has been for years, I'm sure."

   "Admit it, mother. You've never been fond of her. You should be happy she's settled down."

   "Is that what you call it?" Patricia pulled on thin gloves that were more appropriate to driving than keeping warm. She looked at Fran thoughtfully and to her daughter's surprise took her hands.

   "What?" asked Fran.

   "Nothing."

   "That's not what your face says."

   "I don't know. It's not like me at all, I just . . . I don't know, I just have this peculiar feeling that you're probably . . . "

   "Probably what?"

   She released Fran, touched her abdomen with her fingertips and said, "Pregnant."

   "Well, I . . . "

   Patricia said in a strangely angelic voice, "Now, then, be careful. Drink no wine or beer. Eat nothing unclean."

NEXT SECTION: Chapter 4 - Dr. Sturkaz