And Yesterday Is Gone (28 page)

Knowing that they hadn't planned to leave until after the baby was born, I worried and decided to make a quick trip to the farm. Then, too, Ma should know about our marriage.

Recalling her instant assessment of Rica when she had surprised us in the chicken coop on that visit months ago, I was more than a little apprehensive.

Just as Rica and I were preparing to leave, the phone rang. That damn phone.

It was my boss.

“I'll call you back, J.W….”

“Wait, wait, hotshot. There's a telegram here for you.”

My heart sank, envisioning a problem with Sis' pregnancy. Rushing down to the office, I was ripping it open even as he was handing it to me.

Ma's terse message: “Call 887-4143.”

“Ma. Where in hell are you? What's wrong? How's Sis?”

“Calm down, Stevie. Nothing's wrong. Well, nothing much. Tim broke his arm in two places and Sis is spoon-feeding the big sissy marine. We're in Fort Worth—Texas, of course. Got a nice little three- bedroom house…”

“Ma” I interrupted. “I've got a new phone number. Got a pencil?”

In the pause that followed, my mind tried frantically to find an easy way to break the news. With my usual tact, I blurted, “I'm married, Ma.”

“Married?” her shocked voice asked. “You're married? Not to Juan's girlfriend, I hope. That hussy.”

Absolving me, of course, of any responsibility.

“Easy now. You're talking about my wife. Your new daughter. We've loved each other for a long time, Ma.”

Then came a prolonged silence while she digested the news.

“Ma, say something. This phone call is costing me money.”

“Our address is seventy-seven eighty-four Alamo Drive. When can you come visit? Sis liked her so guess I must have missed something.”

“You don't know the half of it. I love you, Ma.”

I was sweating when I hung up.

O
ne week later, the phone rang. Ma's voice was jubilant. “It's a boy, eight pounds, ten ounces.” Then the phone was held close to the peevish complaint of a baby.

“See how smart he is. Already he can say ‘Uncle Stevie' plain as day.”

After congratulations to Sis, I made my own announcement.

“Well, Ma, get lots of practice with diapers. Rica is expecting in a few months.”

Sis' voice came from the background. “Wow! That old rooster must have told him the secret down there in the chicken coop.”

Ma's snort of laughter told me she was happy.

Her original lack of enthusiasm was matched by Rica's mother at our first meeting. It was obvious that a newspaperman and a Reno wedding were not what she had envisioned for her only daughter. She did, however, thaw out somewhat when she learned that the rent would be taken care of.

Rica and her father were happily reunited. His welcome was considerably warmer as his eyes fastened on the unmistakable mound of her belly and the hand that lay upon it with the sparkling wedding band.

•  •  •

Juan's homecoming was a joyous celebration. With our arms around each other's shoulders, no words were needed.

The tears that Sara shed were tears of gratitude and spoke for all of us. Happiness reigned at the big house.

Juan healed on the side presented to the world, but I knew the scars on his heart were permanent. The courage he displayed when he stood between me and his father's knife was the same he now presented to the world when he resumed a life newly empty of hope, but accepting at last the ghost of his dreams.

He was painting again, and one of his previous oils had sold for an amount that made my eyes grow big. He was definitely one of the big-time, sought-after painters and Rica was his favorite model.

As her pregnancy advanced, he said she grew more beautiful. He captured her radiance on canvas. Always he was available to drive her to appointments or spend time with her when I was on assignment on the other side of town. Their close association reminded me of Sis and me, but without the bickering.

“How wonderful,” a spoiled Rica laughed, “to have a brother so available and the Dr. Teddy, the best obstetrician in San Francisco.”

•  •  •

Before I had the chance to tell J.W. of my marriage, I was summoned to his office. Scowling at me from under those bushy white eyebrows, he reproached me with “Married, huh? I had to read it in my own newspaper?” He rose and shook my hand, adding, “Maybe that will settle you down.”

Sensing his good mood, I took a deep breath and asked that I not be sent out of town for the months of January and February.

“For what reason?” he asked with a piercing look.

“Well, uh, my wife is pregnant.”

“Since when is it required that a man hold her head for morning sickness?”

“Well,” I mumbled, “she's a little further along than that.”

“When is it due?”

Looking over his head, admiring the wall, I stuttered, “Uh, in a while.”

“No more bullshit,” he thundered. “I asked you when.”

“In about three months,” I whispered.

He looked at me in amazement and then laughed. “I'll be damned.” His fist banged the desk.

“You didn't have to do it all at once, stupid. Guess I haven't kept you busy enough. I'll remedy that.”

And he did, but at least there were no out-of-town trips.

It was rumored among my peer group in the pressroom that I was the favorite son, which did not gain me any favors there. However, J.W. was tough on me if he felt my work wasn't as good as it could have been. But those times were seldom since I had to please myself first.

•  •  •

My life with Rica in that crowded apartment was all I ever dreamed it could be. To lay my hand on her belly and feel the new life that stirred so vigorously beneath, caused a thrill that consumed me, especially knowing it was part of me.

“What shall we name him?”

“Him? It's a girl—I should know. Let's name her ‘Margaret' for your mother, or ‘Mary' for mine. That should gain us some points.”

“I think ‘William' for my father. ‘William McAllister' has a nice ring to it,” I coaxed.

“Betcha.” She giggled.

“Betcha,” I answered with a kiss.

We shopped for baby things. I never dreamed such a small individual could require so many clothes. Rica chose pink ruffles; I chose blue, but also found to my delight a tiny red baseball cap with “SF 49ers” embroidered in gold thread.

“That will look silly on a girl,” Rica declared, but I persevered.

The one thing that we really needed was a crib and we found a most beautiful white piece of furniture fit for a royal prince.

“Princess,” Rica insisted.

The price was fit for royalty, too, so we settled on a bassinette that would fit next to our bed.

Our happiness made time fly; soon we were counting the weeks.

True to his word, J.W. kept me in the city, available at a moment's notice.

•  •  •

“I guess you think your mother is the only woman in the world who can make a chocolate cake,” accused Rica.

“Well,” I responded peacefully, “I'm sure you could do as well—she just measures the flour and adds eggs and …”

“Now you're going to give me a cooking lesson—my coffee is weak, the tacos are burned…”

“Darling, I love your tacos; they were a little brown, but on the third day you had them absolutely perfect.”

“I didn't know cooking was a requirement—my mother did that. She didn't raise me to be a cook.”

The tears flowed; I kissed them away.

I came home early the next day to find all the windows open, the fan whirring—and the distinct odor of smoke.

My wife was in a blazing tantrum.

“There's the damn cake,” she said, pointing to the charred chunks of chocolate stuffed back into the box of mix in which it had arrived—flung in the general direction of the garbage can.

I took a tentative step forward and slid on the sticky remains and broken shells of a hen's best effort.

“And damn those chickens—their eggs roll right off a countertop,” she continued.

“I'm fat and ugly and I know my ankles are fat, too, even if I can't see them. Look what you've done to me. And now you'll hate me because I can't cook.” She threw a mixing spoon that clattered off the wall.

“You'll never make the team with a pitch like that, my beloved.”

Casting caution to the wind, I grabbed her and pulled her down with me in our big chair.

“Rica, Rica, my darling. I've never told anyone this before, but I've been so tired of chocolate cake all these years.” Then came the fleeting recollection that Ma always knew when I was lying.

“You make wonderful tacos. Anyway, it isn't food I'm thinking about when I'm with you. And in a few weeks, you'll be holding our baby. Your ankles won't be swollen; you'll be slim and beautiful, as beautiful as you are now.” As I held her close and wiped away her tears, I said, “You've never been so beautiful to me. Now blow your nose.”

With her arms around my neck, she said, “I love you, Steve.”

A quick knock at the door interrupted us. “Anyone home?” Juan called.

The door opened and he stood there with a big smile lighting up his face, two men behind him with a large box almost too big to squeeze inside. Well rewarded, the men left and Juan stood grinning expectantly. “Surprise.”

Rica's curiosity overpowered her baking disaster. She ran to Juan, gave him a hug and shook the box to no avail.

Together Juan and I dismantled the heavy cardboard carton to reveal a magnificent baby crib that brought on another flood of tears. The crib fit very snugly between the foot of the bed.

Glancing discreetly around the apartment, Juan said, “I've been wanting to try this new place where the food is rumored to be wonderful. Rica, powder your nose and let's go to dinner. C'mon, Steve.”

Surely there was no man in the world as rich as me.

Dinner wasn't a gala affair, although the food was excellent, the surroundings beautiful. Rica picked at her food. I knew she was uncomfortable and exhausted. Suddenly her belly seemed to have grown larger.

“Maybe it's twins,” she worried. “Perhaps I should have had that sonogram. Another week or so to go. I'm glad the bag is packed; I'm tired of waiting.”

Juan drove slowly, carefully, as I held Rica close in the backseat of his new car.

“Dr. Teddy said I should try a Bentley and I really like it. What do you think?”

“I guess I'll have to get one, too,” I joked, “now that I'm a family man. We'll crowd that truck.”

“Country boy,” Rica murmured, cuddling closer.

She was so tired and it had been a long day for me, too. Bed was a welcome refuge.

Finally, after much tossing and turning, she lay quiet and I drifted off into a dreamless sleep. Slowly awakening, I was vaguely aware that something…what was happening? I peered at the clock. The illuminated dial showed 2:30 a.m.

My pajamas were clinging to my body. I felt a strange sensation—something warm and wet, very wet. Slipping my hand tentatively between the sheets, I discovered Rica was saturated. Realizing she had wet the bed and knowing how embarrassed she'd feel, how could I wake her?

Then her hands were shaking me. “Steve, Steve, wake up. I think my water broke and I hurt,” she groaned. “I think the baby's coming.”

“No, it can't,” I said stupidly. “It isn't due for eight days—maybe ten.”

We abandoned the bed and dressed quickly.

“Call Dr. Teddy.”

Then she was in the shower.

The sound of Dr. Teddy's sleepy voice did nothing to slow my heartbeat, despite her reassuring words.

“Don't worry; she's got lots of time. Take her to the hospital where they will make her comfortable. And drive carefully. I'll be there shortly.”

Rica was struggling to get into her clothes, but then gave it up and pulled on my robe. She was excited, happy…and scared.

“What if something should go wrong? It's too early, Steve.”

With a sharp intake of breath, she took my hand.

“Dr. Teddy told you she couldn't give you the exact time. Don't worry. Where's your bag?”

“Over there. I need a towel. Just think, at last, at last we'll have the baby and my ankles won't be fat. Hurry, Steve,” she gasped.

Driving perhaps faster than necessary, I parked in front of the brightly lit hospital, both of us glad to be there.

“I don't need a wheelchair. I can walk.”

“Sit,” a no-nonsense nurse instructed.

“Now I suppose she'll want me to roll over,” came Rica's irritated aside to me. Then she gasped and held her belly.

With the paperwork finished quickly, I followed the wheelchair through the maze of corridors. Abruptly, it stopped and the nurse pointed to a room.

“You can wait in there.”

“Can't he come with me?” Rica cried out.

“No, later maybe.”

My shaky legs were glad to deliver my body to a chair. There were two other people in the room, obviously for the same reason. A boy, who hardly looked old enough to grow whiskers, trying not to act as I felt, was pacing up and down the small room, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth.

An older man sitting with an unopened magazine in his lap and a look of irritation crossing his bearded face spoke in a low, angry voice. “You damn kids. What the hell do you expect? Sixteen years old and now she's got a baby. I'm not supporting them. You damn well better have a plan and you damn well better get a ring on her finger. She's the last of my five kids and I'm not raising yours. Tires aren't the only things made out of rubber, you know—or ought to know.”

The kid lit his cigarette with shaking hands and didn't answer.

Time seemed to crawl. I looked at my watch; it was nearly six. I needed a cup of coffee, but I didn't want to leave.