“I felt weird,but I figured it was hormonal stuff. Menopause, whatever. I finally went to the doctor because I was throwing up in the mornings.” Joanne giggled. “She took one look at me and asked, ‘Have you been taking your birth control pills?’ Lo and behold, I’d run out for a few weeks, busy hosting three weddings this summer and seven concerts. Never once thought about getting pregnant. I’m almost fifty years old, for heaven’s sake!”
I dragged over a chair and sat down. “What do your children think?” One of the girls and both boys were married, and the younger girl was away at college. I tried to imagine my own mother getting pregnant when I was in my twenties and couldn’t do it.
“Haven’t told them yet. Been too busy with bed rest.”
“From now until the end?”
“You bet. My doctor is worried about a miscarriage. Guess the rate goes way up when the mommy is more than forty. I’m stuck here for the duration.” Smiling, she flung out her arms. “Nothing to do for months and months.”
My knees knocked together, and I put my hands on them to keep them still. I’d felt old giving birth to Oliver when I was thirty-three. Joanna would be fifty when the baby was born. Fifty!
“Poor Mack is frantic.” She chuckled. “He’s got a bug about keeping this room germ-free. I’m surprised he didn’t make you put on a gown and mask before coming up.”
“How far along are you?”
“Two weeks into the second trimester. The morning sickness is already gone, thank goodness. That gives me only five and a half months of lolling around in bed.” She looked sad for a moment, then perked up. “But that’s five and a half months I don’t have to polish Vogel furniture, dust Vogel knickknacks, vacuum old Vogel floors, or wash the glass on the front of Vogel pictures. Have you ever taken a close look at Mack’s great-grandmother?” She shuddered. “With a face like that, I’m amazed there were any more Vogels at all.”
“I’ll try and remember to look.”
“Don’t get me wrong.” She pleated the white sheet that lay across her chest. “I love this house. Keeping it in the family is important to me. But you know something?” She looked up at me, her face earnest. “It consumes me. I could do with a break.”
Having a baby seemed like an extreme way to get out of housekeeping, but I kept that thought to myself.
“Honey?” Mack knocked on the door. “Joanna? Are you all right?”
Joanna grinned at me. “Mack?” she called in a faint voice. “Is that you?”
The door creaked open, and Mack’s mostly white head of hair came inside. “Dinner’s almost ready.” He spoke with a sickroom voice. “Broiled chicken, rice, and a spinach salad. I’ll have the tray here in ten minutes.”
She held up a trembling hand. “Could I have noodles instead of rice?”
His frown came and went in an instant. “You can have anything you want. It’ll take a few extra minutes, though.”
She sighed and turned her head away. “Never mind. It’s too much trouble.”
“No!” His voice bounced off the room’s many hard surfaces. “No,” he said more quietly. “It’s not too much trouble.” He came to the bed, kissed her forehead, and left.
“I’d like rice just fine,” Joanna whispered. “But I like the idea of Mack washing extra dishes even better.” She gave an exaggerated wink.
After I’d said good-bye, I went down to the kitchen. The room, which I’d always seen with shiny copper kettles hanging from hooks and decorated with flower-filled earthenware vases, was a disaster. Dirty pots filled the sink, dirty dishes cluttered half the counters, and lumpy grocery bags crowded the other half.
Mack was standing at the sink, trying to fill a pot with water. Since the sink was overflowing with dishes, he was filling a glass with hot water and dumping it into the pasta pot, over and over and over.
“I’ll have to cook another chicken breast,” he said dully. “This one will be dried to leather by the time the pasta is done.” He dumped a last glassful into the pot and lugged it over to the cooktop.
I looked at him, at the kitchen, at him, at the kitchen. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started running hot water into the sink. “Sit down,” I said. “Eat that chicken and rice while the water is heating.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I opened the cupboard door and rummaged around for dish soap.
“Joanna hasn’t had dinner yet.”
“It’s silly to let food go to waste,” I said. “And how long has it been since you’ve eaten? Did you have lunch?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Eat something. You’re not going to be any help to your wife if you keel over in a dead faint.”
Irresolute, he stood, the pot top in one hand. The other hand, without anything to do, wandered around aimlessly, plucking at a shirt button, tugging on a belt loop, finally coming to rest at his side. “She needs to eat,” he said.
I tried to match this battle-fatigued husband with the decisive school superintendent I’d known for years. Again my imagination came up short. “You need to eat, too.” I found a dish mop behind a tottering stack of glasses. “I’ll wash; you eat.”
“The dishwasher is broken,” he said.
“Eat,” I commanded.
The top went on the pasta pot with a clatter. “I should eat something,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have that chicken in the broiler and the rice Jo didn’t want.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and counted to ten. Which wasn’t enough, so I counted to twenty.
The ostensible head of the house took a clean plate out of my hand, dried it, and filled it with food. Still standing, he started to eat. I left him alone and went on with washing dishes. By the time I’d filled the dish strainer, he’d polished off the entire meal. I found a dish towel. “Joanna says the kids don’t know about sibling number five.” I held out a dry cookie sheet.
“Really?” He took the offering. “Oh. Well, I suppose they don’t. Maybe I should have them over for Sunday dinner.”
Past Sunday dinners would have included a roast, mashed potatoes, a vegetable, fresh rolls, a Jell-O salad, and some sort of home-baked dessert—all cooked by Joanna. “Maybe,” I said, “you could have them over on Saturday. Order pizza.”
“Saturday?” A look of revolted surprise crossed his face. “But it’s always Sunday dinner. Joanna makes—” He stopped, seeing the impossibilities inherent in his assumptions.
“It’s going to be different,” I said softly.
He stared at the frying pan I’d just handed over. The shiny bottom reflected a warped view of Mack’s face. “I’m going to be a daddy again,” he said. “At my age. Just think of it.” A slow smile spread across his craggy features.
I smiled back at him. “Congratulations, Mack.”
“A daddy,” he said in wonder. He laughed, and I decided to stop worrying about the Vogels. Joanna would eventually tire of being waited on hand and foot, and their children would take one look at the wreck of the house and make sure Mack got some assistance.
“So,” Mack said, “how can I help you?”
I carefully dried a wire whisk. Right. I hadn’t stopped by to wash Vogel dishes. I thought back to what Bick had said. “I was wondering if the school board had made any decision about Tarver’s addition.”
“Is it still going to happen, is the question, correct?” Mack took the whisk. “The board was scheduled to meet yesterday.” He waved the whisk around like a conductor’s baton, convening meetings left, right, and center. “Joanna’s situation delayed the meeting. It is rescheduled for next Tuesday. As a Tarver parent and the secretary for the Tarver PTA, you will no doubt be notified when the decision is made.”
Yup, Mack was feeling better. Pontification galore. “Do you have any feel for how the vote is going to go?”
“As superintendent, I am obliged to keep meeting proceedings confidential until the votes have been cast and tallied.”
A plethora of pontification, but those were just warm-up questions. “Who’s funding the addition?” I asked. “All I ever heard was that it’s an anonymous donor.”
