Those last three words told me that something was truly, deeply wrong. Before today, I’d assumed the Vogels’ house repelled disorder with some sort of magical power. Never once in the multitude of functions I’d attended there had I ever seen a speck of anything even resembling dirt. “Um, is Joanna here?”
His eyes looked glassy, then wet, and then, to my shock, he started crying. His shoulders shook in great heaving sobs, and he covered his face.
I stood stock-still. It wasn’t a simple wink-out-a-few-tears kind of cry; it was a full-blown bawl. His face was red and twisted and old. “Jo-Jo-anna,” he kept repeating, her name coming out in small gulps. “Jo-Jo-anna.”
The cowardly parts that made up the majority of my body desperately wanted to flee. They wanted to pat Mack on the shoulder, say I’d come back at a better time, and run away fast.
The silvery ring of a handbell trickled down the stairs. Mack groaned. “I can’t do this anymore.” He swayed, a tall tree beginning its slow topple to the forest floor.
I took a fast step forward and shoved a chair behind his knees. “Sit.” I pushed down on his shoulders, and he sank fast onto the velvet upholstery.
The bell tinkled again. “You sit,” I said. “I’ll go up.”
Faster than a striking snake, he reached up to grab my hand. “Thank you,” he said. I squeezed back and slid out of his grasp. At the bottom of the stairway, I put my hand on the acorn newel post and looked across the room. Mack sat loosely, looking as if he’d forgotten how to use his muscles.
I was getting a very bad feeling about this.
The small tinkling bell sounded again. I took a deep breath for courage and went up. At the top of the stairs a six-paneled oak door stood slightly ajar. I sucked in another breath and knocked. “Joanna? It’s Beth Kennedy. May I come in?”
“Beth?” Her voice sounded strong and vibrant. “What are you doing here? Come the heck in. If I have to spend one more day in this bed without seeing anyone other than Mack, I’m going to go stark raving mad.” She laughed. “If I’m not already.”
From a Garden Club tour I remembered a brass bed covered with quilts and brightly colored pillows, lace sheer curtains at the bay window, a watercolor landscape of a country garden, a wood floor cushioned with an Aubusson rug. All that was gone. In their place were a hospital bed, stark white shades, and a wide collection of medical charts and graphs.
I stared at Joanna, at the naked windows and floors, at the charts littered with images that told me exactly what was going on. “You’re . . .” I couldn’t say the word. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was inferring an incorrect conclusion. Maybe I was—
“Pregnant,” Joanna said cheerfully. “That’s me.”
“But . . .” The words crowding into my mouth couldn’t be said out loud.
“But I’m forty-nine years old.” She grinned. “Yah. Who would have guessed?”
“Um . . .” It felt like years since I’d finished a sentence.
“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.”