with.” She waited till he glanced from the road to her. His gaze was at first curious. Then, the second time he glanced her way, he caught something in her expression. His face stilled and his eyes sparked with intense concentration, as though he anticipated her next comment.
She spoke slowly, wanting to be sure of her words. “John, I know you’ve wanted a child for a long time. While I was standing at the curb, waiting for you, I was thinking how life is so short, so precious. I don’t think we should wait any longer.”
A moment passed while a flush of color crept up John’s cheeks. When he glanced her way a third time, she could tell from the excitement bubbling in his eyes that he was overjoyed, but trying his best not to appear overanxious, lest he spook her. She held back her smile, thinking that John would make a terrible lawyer. His eyes would give him away every time.
“Are you sure?” he asked, almost stuttering.
“Aren’t you?” It was terrible to tease him.
He cleared his throat, utterly serious. “Sure, I’m sure. But I want to be certain that this isn’t just some reaction to Tom’s death. I mean, hell, Annie, this is so sudden. We’ve been married for five years and this is the first time you’ve ever agreed to so much as discuss having a baby. Every time I’ve brought it up you’ve stopped me cold. We aren’t getting any younger. I sort of gave up on the idea of ever having a baby. And now suddenly you want one? What about your law practice? What about all that pro bono stuff you’re so hot to do? How does a baby fit in with all that?”
Her eyes danced merrily as she poked at his arm. “So…you’re saying we shouldn’t have a baby?”
“No!” He almost shouted the word. He pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. “No,” he repeated after a deep breath, his shining eyes fixed on her. “I’m only trying to make sure you want one.”
That was so like John, she thought, looking into his clear, honest eyes. She stroked his arm lovingly. Her heart felt ready to burst. She wanted to give him the world, but she’d start with a baby.
“I’m sure,” she replied, holding his gaze. Then, to deflect the intensity of the moment, she poked his arm one more time and winked, saying, “But I don’t think I want to make one right here. Gearshifts and bucket seats can be pretty damn uncomfortable. So put the pedal to the metal, boyfriend, and take me home to bed!”
Midge drove home from the funeral to the far eastern side of Oakley, an area considered “risky” by the other women of the Book Club. The neighborhood bordered the western boundary of the city of Chicago, an area populated by low-income families, gangs and high crime statistics.
It was also an area where old buildings were being converted into fabulous lofts, an area where ethnic restaurants thrived, and where artists, bead makers, writers and eclectic religions could afford to rent large spaces. Pockets of creativity thrived in western Oakley and it was fast becoming “hot” property.
Back in the 1970s when Midge returned home after college and a failed marriage in Boston, the transient area fit her needs. She was searching for large, open space in which to paint that was affordable, architecturally beautiful and reasonably safe. This was usually synonymous with antichic—and that suited Midge fine. She was never one to worry about fashion. In fact, she made a point of living against the grain. She’d purchased a large loft in one of the area’s first conversions, long before the current wave of lofts hit the country, and liked it so much that she bought the whole building for a good price during a period when the owner thought the area was going downhill.
Over the course of time she’d watched the area spiral from a solid blue-collar neighborhood to an increasingly crime-ridden one, then later find rebirth under the loving care of a gay community. Gradually the neighborhood evolved into the charming blend of solid ethnic families, gay couples and artists that it currently was. In the process, she’d watched her investment go up, down, and back up again like an economic roller coaster, all because people were afraid their houses were worth less if minorities moved in. When people congratulated her on her investment, Midge always snorted and replied, “Hey, it pays not to be prejudiced. Why not try it sometime?”
Still, prejudice was an everyday fact of life for Midge. As an art therapist, she worked with young children and teenagers who were seething in anger against poverty and prejudice. She saw that anger as a powder keg waiting to explode. What made her job—her life—hard was that, when her work was done and she came home drained, there was no one to wrap arms around her and hold her, to tell her that she was loved and secure.
Midge well understood loneliness, and her heart broke for her friend, Eve, knowing what was in store for her. The transition from married to unmarried, from beloved to forsaken, was long and bitter. In time, a strong individual adapted and prospered, like any solid building. But, as any building needed loving tenants and a cohesive community to avoid crumbling, so Eve would need the love and support of her friends.
At least Eve had her family, Midge thought as she approached her building and pulled out a large metal ring of keys. The broad-based, redbrick building covered half a city block and housed several small studios and shops at street level. The top two floors had been converted into lofts, many rented by the shop owners. In the rear she’d created an enormous garden from what was once an old rubbish heap. Today, vegetables, flowers, a gazebo, chimes and birdbaths flourished in the haven for all to share. She was proud of the way she maintained this building and the relationships she’d forged with her tenants. They were her family.
Yet, they were not family. A realist, she didn’t kid herself about that fact. As she made her way up the dark flight of stairs to her own door, the sound of her heels on the wood stairs echoed with a hollow loneliness. Yes, she knew this journey so well. She stood at the threshold of her loft, her arms hanging dejectedly at her sides, not ready to step inside and face her isolation.
It was an airy space, bold and modern, even masculine in the rugged disregard for feminine comfort or style. Much like herself. Usually she felt a tremendous release of pressure when she shut the door behind her. She’d throw her coat and purse over a chair and sigh with relief upon entering her own space. She might grab some cheese and crackers or a bowl of cereal—she never much cared what she ate—then head straight for a book or her paints.
Sometimes, however, the loneliness hit hard and unexpectedly. At times like these, there was a silence so intense she could hear herself breathe and she felt closed in, buried alive. Today, something about the funeral stirred the depths of a melancholy she strove to keep at bay. Was it witnessing the demise of a family? Or was it seeing the endurance of family ties even under the worst of adversity? The image of Eve clutching the hands of her children stayed with her. So beautiful…and for her, now so unattainable.
Midge closed the door behind her, mentally closing the door to those depressing thoughts. Tom Porter was her age when he died. At fifty, it was unlikely that she’d find that kind of security and joy in a marriage or with children. She had to face the fact that when she was depressed or frightened, she’d have to dig deep and find her own security. When she wanted to watch a movie in bed on a cold night, she’d better get a cat for company. When she woke up alone on Christmas morning, well…Midge paused and took a deep breath. Well, she told herself with a stern voice, she’d just have to look around and see all that she had to be thankful for. She had a career, her art, good friends. This was her life; she’d made choices and now she must live them out.
She moved quickly to do something, anything, to divert the melancholy. Stretching out her arm, she punched the button on her answering machine and waited while the tape whirred. The nasal voice pierced the silence.
You have no messages.
