A few minutes later Nannie walked into the room, pulled out the vanity stool, and sat with a thud instead of her usual grace. Betty steeled herself for a verbal thrashing.
Nannie’s face was long and drawn, making her look worn, beleaguered, even a little sloppy, as if she’d just dressed and hadn’t yet smoothed her dress or tamed and pinned her hair.
“I’m sorry,” Betty said.
Nannie shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Zaide and I are so disappointed, Betty. Our dreams for you were so big, but that hasn’t changed. You’ll go to Barnard, as planned. This is just a delay.”
They’d found a way for her to have everything!
“Zaide has gone to tell the staff you’re suffering from exhaustion, and that no one is to bother you. That buys us some time.”
“Time for what?”
“Mother to the rescue.” Tillie, now in a crisp white linen skirt suit, stood in the doorway. Her mother looked sterile and cold, sounded sharp and flippant. She didn’t look forlorn at all; the maternal woman carrying scrambled eggs had vanished.
And since when did she refer to herself as Mother? Tillie’s short toffee-colored curls tamed every hair in place. Her red lipstick had been reapplied with precision. Attention to fashion detail was the only thing Betty liked that she had inherited from her mother. Tillie sat at the edge of the bed, barely indenting the bedspread. “I’m ready, Betty. We’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Joe and I—your father and I—we got it wrong with you, but we’re ready to be parents now.”
“You’re having a baby?”
“No, darling.”
An army of invisible ants stretched across her back, a warning. “Then what?” Betty lurched back and away. The touches, the gentleness, the motherly words. They crystallized. “You want my baby?”
“Yes. We want him, or her, to be our baby. Mine and Joe’s, I mean, mine and your father’s. We would move back here for good.” Tillie looked at Nannie. “Just like your grandparents have always wanted. And the best part is you would be the baby’s sister. No one would ever have to know.”
Vomit rose in her throat. This was not the time for evening morning sickness, but throwing up on Tillie seemed what she deserved. Betty turned away, the ache in her chest threatening to split it open.
Tillie scooted closer, like an advancing army on the attack. Betty stood and retreated until she was against the open window. She breathed deep to settle her stomach and held the sill so tight she could have sworn splinters were working their way into her palms.
Tillie stretched out her arms, as if measuring the space between them. “You’d get to go to college next year, Betty. Right to Barnard as planned. Your grandparents would have me and Joe here helping with the business, and I’d get to be a mother. Everybody wins.”
Betty released the sill, forcing her hands to her sides. “You wouldn’t know how to mother a rag doll. You couldn’t raise a pet, let alone a baby. Isn’t that right, Nannie?”
Nannie stared at the floor and didn’t lift her head or her eyes to look at Betty. This was the grandmother who had sewn her clothes and bandaged her knees and sung her to sleep. The grandmother who had convinced Betty she could be best dressed and most likely to succeed. The grandmother who had helped Betty apply to Barnard, who said she could be anything from a beauty queen to a fashion editor. Betty crossed her wrists low in front of her belly. At that moment, she knew with unwavering certainty where her baby was growing, and the bile in her throat turned to fire.
Tillie glanced at Nannie, then back at Betty. “Would you rather the baby be raised by a stranger?”
Betty tipped back her head, forced herself to guffaw, then looked at Tillie. “You are a stranger. You’re also a lunatic. Stark raving mad! Nannie would never agree to this.”
“Oh, darling,” Tillie whispered.
“Stop arguing,” Nannie yelled. “Betty, it’s the only way.”
The words hit her like someone had pelleted her stomach with rock-hard snowballs. It couldn’t be. There was no way her grandmother thought Betty would give away her baby to Tillie or to anyone. How had Tillie convinced her?
“Nannie, what did she do to get you to think this was a good idea?”
Nannie looked away and then back at Betty. “She didn’t do anything. It was my idea.”
“No!” Betty screamed. She folded over, crushed by pain. How much more could she take? “Get out,” she shouted. She lifted the night-table lamp, yanking the electrical plug from its outlet.
Tillie leaped toward her and grabbed her arm, twisting the lamp from Betty’s grip. “Sit.”
Betty sank to the edge of the bed, less out of compliance than of fatigue. She heaved and sobbed her words. “I need to tell Abe.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Nannie said. “If he were a Jewish boy, it might be different.”
“Why do you care what people think? I’m your granddaughter. This baby will be your great-grandchild.”
“And I’m doing this so he or she doesn’t grow up a bastard. I’m doing it because I love you. This is the way it works; we marry our own. No matter what.”
“Abe’s parents didn’t think so.”
“And look at the mess that’s made of things.”
“This baby isn’t a mess. It doesn’t have to be. I know Abe will do the right thing when he knows.” Betty needed to find a way to talk to Abe.
“There is no right thing,” Nannie said.
“Says who?”
“I say.” Zaide stood at the door without entering the room.
“Ira, I have it under control.”
“I could hear her downstairs. Voices carry. I will not have anyone thinking my granddaughter is having a nervous breakdown.”
She couldn’t have a breakdown, she couldn’t have a baby, she couldn’t have Abe.
“You do have choices,” Zaide said. “We just hope you make the right one, Betty.”
She wasn’t his bubbeleh anymore. But he said she had choices.
“Now keep your voices down.” Zaide left the doorway.
Tillie sat next to
