(Boss, you think all women are like that?)
(Oh, no! In my youth I knew many married couples in which both bride and groom—to the best of my knowledge and belief—went to the altar virgin and stayed faithful a lifetime. There may be couples like that among you kids today.)
(Some, I think. But you couldn't prove it by me.)
(Nor by me. Nor by all the kinseys who ever collected statistics. Eunice, sex is the one subject everybody lies about. But what I was saying is this: A man who takes his fun where he finds it, then marries and expects his wife to be different, is a fool. I wasn't that sort of fool. Let me tell you about Agnes.)
(Agnes was an angel—with round heels. That's obsolete slang which means what it sounds like. I don't think Agnes ever hated anyone in her short life and she loved as easily as she breathed. She—Eunice, you said you had started young?)
(Fourteen, Boss. Precocious slut, huh?)
(Precocious possibly, a slut never. Nor was my angel Agnes ever a slut and she happily gave away her virginity—so she told me—at twelve. I—)
(‘Twelve!')
(Surprised, dear? That Generation Gap again; your generation thinks it invented sex. Agnes was precocious; sixteen was fairly young in those days, from what a male could guess about it—not much!—and seventeen or eighteen was more common. I think. Actually encountering female virginity and, being certan of it—well, I'm no expert. But Agnes wasn't hanging up a record even for those days; I recall a girl in my grammar school who was ‘putting out,' as kids called it then, at eleven—and getting away with it cold, teacher's pet and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and winning pins for Sunday School attendance.
(My darling Agnes was like that except that Agnes's goodness wasn't pretense; she was good all the way through. She simply didn't see anything sinful about sex.)
(Boss, sex is not sinful.)
(Did I ever say it was? However, in those days I felt guilty about it, until Agnes cured me of such nonsense. She was sixteen and I was twenty and her father was a prof at the cow college I went to and I was invited to their house for dinner one Sunday night—and our first time happened on their living room sofa so fast it startled me, scared me some.)
(What frightened you, dear? Her parents?)
(Well, yes. Just upstairs and probably not asleep. Agnes being so young herself—age of consent was eighteen then and while I don't recall ever letting it stop me, boys were jumpy about it. And that night I wasn't prepared, not having expected it.)
(Prepared how, Boss?)
(Contraception. I had a year to go to get my degree, and no money and no job lined up, and having to get married wasn't something I relished.)
(But contraception is a girl's responsibility, Boss. That's why I felt so silly when I got caught. I wouldn't have dreamed of asking a boy to marry me on that account—even if I had been certain which boy. Once I knew I was caught I gutted my teeth and told my parents and took my scolding—Daddy was going to have to pay my fine; I was not yet licensed. Grim—but no talk of getting married. I wasn't asked who did it and never volunteered an opinion.)
(Didn't you have an opinion, Eunice?)
(Well... just an opinion. Let me tell it bang. Our basketball team and us three girl cheerleaders were all in the same hotel, with the coach and the girls' phys-ed teacher riding herd on us. Only they didn't; they went out on the town. So we gathered to celebrate in the suite the boys were in. Somebody had lettuce. Marijuana. I took two puffs and didn't like it—and went back to gin and ginger ale which tasted better and was almost as new to me.
Didn't have any intention of swinging; it wasn't the smart scene at our school and I had a steady I was faithful to—well, usually—who wasn't on the trip. But when the head cheerleader took her clothes off—well, there it was. So I counted days in my mind and decided I was safe by two days and peeled down, last of the three to do so. Nobody made me do it, Boss, no slightest flavor of rape. So how could I blame the boys?
(Only it turned out I didn't have two days leeway and by the middle of January I was fairly certain. Then I was certain. Then my parents were certain—and I was sent south to stay with an aunt while I recovered from rheumatic fever I never had. And recovered two hundred sixty-nine days after that championship game, barely in time to enter school in the fall. And graduated with my class.)
(But your baby, Eunice? Boy? Girl? How old now? Twelve? And where is the child?)
(Boss, I don't know. I signed an adoption waiver so that Daddy would get his money back if somebody with a baby license came along. Boss, is that fair? Five thousand dollars was a lot of money to my father—yet anyone on Welfare gets off free, or can even demand a free abortion. I can't see it.)
(You changed the subject, dear. Your baby?)
(Oh. They told me it was born dead: But I hear they usually say that if a girl signs the papers and somebody is waiting for it.)
(We can find out. If your baby didn't live, then the fine was never levied. Didn't your father tell you?)
(I never asked. It was a touchy subject, Boss. It was ‘rheumatic fever,' never an unlicensed baby. Just as well, I guess, as when I turned eighteen, I was licensed for three with no questions raised.)
(Eunice, no matter what cover-up was used, if your baby is living, we can find it!)
The second voice did not answer. Johann persisted.
(Well, Eunice?)
(Boss...it's better to let the dead past bury its dead.)
(You don't want children, Eunice?)
(That wasn't what I said. You said it didn't matter that your son wasn't really yours. I think you were right. But doesn't it cut both ways? If there is a child somewhere, almost thirteen now—we're strangers. I'm not the mother who loved it and brought it up; I'm nobody. Really nobody—you forget that I was killed.)
(Eunice! Oh, darling!)
(You see? If we found that boy, or girl, we couldn't admit that I'm still alive—alive again, I mean—inside your head. That's the thing we don't dare admit... or back they come with those horrid straps and we'll never be free.) She sighed. (But I wish I could have had your baby. You were telling me about Agnes, dearest. Tell me more. Am I really somewhat like her?)
(Very much like her, Eunice. Oh, I don't mean she looked like you. But if I believed in reincarnation—I don't—I would be tempted to think that you were Agnes, come back to me.)
(Maybe I am. Why don't you believe in it, Boss?)
(Uh... do you?)
(No. I mean I didn't believe in it, even though most of our friends did. I couldn't see any reason to believe either way, so I kept —my mouth shut. But, Boss, it gives one a different viewpoint to have been killed...and then turn out not to stay dead. Dearest Boss—you think I'm a figment of your imagination, don't you?)
Johann did not answer. The voice went on: (Don't be afraid to admit it, Boss; you won't offend me. I know I'm me. I don't need proof. But you do. You need to know. Admit it, darling. Be open with me.)
She sighed again. (Eunice, I do need to know. But—if I'm crazy—if you are just my own mind talking back to me—I'd rather not know it. Darling, forgive me... but I was relieved when you told me that you didn't want us to try to find your baby.)
(I knew you were relieved... and I knew why. Boss, don't be so right-now. We have all the time in the world, so relax and be happy. Proof will turn up—something I know and that you couldn't possibly know except through me. And that will be that, and you will be as certain as I am.)
She nodded to herself. (That makes sense, Eunice—and it sounds like the scoldings you used to give me when I got fretful. You used to mother me.)
(I'm going to go right on mothering you, and scolding you when you need it—and loving you all the time, Boss. But there is one thing there is some hurry about.)
(What?)
(That bedpan. Unless you want us to have a childish accident.)
(Oh, damn!)