Separate Beds

  Mrs. Tollefson had no answers.

  “Do you know, they say a baby has hiccups before it's born.”

  The room remained still again, flooded with late sunshine and emotion while Catherine dealt with possible eventualities. At last she asked, “If I decided to give him up—” A raised index finger stopped her. “Okay, if I decide on adoption as the best route, could I see him first?”

  “We encourage it, Catherine. We've found that mothers who do not see their children suffer a tremendous guilt complex which affects them the rest of their lives.” Then, studying Catherine's face carefully, Mrs. Tollefson posed a question it was necessary to ask. “Catherine, since he has not been mentioned so far, and since I do not see his name on the card, I must ask if the child's father should be a consideration in all of this.”

  The blond young woman rose abruptly and snapped, “Absolutely not!”

  And had her attitude not changed so quickly, Mrs. Tollefson might have believed Catherine.

  The records office of the U of M refused to give out Catherine's home address, thus it took Clay three days to spot her again, crossing the sprawling granite plaza before Northrup Auditorium. He followed at a discreet distance as she cut between buildings, following the maze of sidewalks until finally at Fifteenth Avenue she turned northward. He kept sight of her blue sweater with the blond hair swaying upon it until she turned into an old street of homes that had been stately in their younger day, but hovered now behind massive boulevard trees in a somewhat seedy reflection of the grandeur they once knew. She entered a gargantuan yellow brick three-story with an enormous wraparound porch. The house had no marking other than a number, but while Clay stood wondering a very pregnant woman came out and stood on a chair to water a hanging fern. He might not have thought anything of it if he hadn't suddenly realized, as she turned, that she was not a woman, but was, instead, a young girl of perhaps fourteen. As she raised up on tiptoe to fetch down the plant, the sight of her swollen stomach triggered Clay's suspicion. He looked again for a sign, but there was none, nothing to indicate it was one of those homes where girls went to wait out their pregnancies. But when the girl returned inside, Clay wrote down the house number and headed back toward the campus to make some phone calls.

  By the time Catherine had been at Horizons a week and a half she found herself accepted without question and knew her first taste of sorority. Because so many of the girls were in their young teens they looked up to Catherine, who, as a college student, seemed to them much more worldly. They saw her leaving each day to pursue an outside life while they themselves had forfeited theirs for the duration of the stay, and their admiration grew. Because Catherine owned a sewing machine which was often in demand, her room came to be the gathering place. Here she heard their stories: Little Bit was thirteen and wasn't sure who was the father of her baby; plain-faced Vicky was sixteen and didn't talk about the father of hers; Marie, age seventeen, spoke amiably about her Joe, and said they still planned to get married as soon as he graduated from high school; the unkempt Grover said the father of her baby was the captain of her high school football team and had taken her out on a bet with a bunch of his team members. There were some residents of Horizons who cautiously avoided getting too close to anyone, others who brazenly swore they'd get even with the boy responsible, but the majority of the girls seemed not only resigned to living here, but enjoyed it. Especially nights like this when, all together, a group was working on a pair of nightgowns for Little Bit to wear during her hospital stay, which wasn't far off.

  By now Catherine was accustomed to the banter at times like these; it was a combination of teasing and gaunt truths.

  “Someday I'm gonna find this guy and he's gonna have hair like . . .”

  “Don't tell me. Let me guess—hair like Rex Smith.”

  “What's the matter with Rex Smith?”

  “Nothing. We've just heard the story before and how he's just going to know you're the woman he was made for.”

  “Listen, kiddo, don't forget to tell him somebody else thought the same thing before him.” Laughter followed.

  “I want to be married like Ali McGraw in Love Story . . . you know, make up my own words and stuff.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Fat chance? Did somebody say fat chance?”

  “Hey, I'm not always going to be shaped like a pear.”

  “I want to go to school and learn to be one of those ladies who cleans teeth. The kind of job where you nestle the guy's head in your lap so you can move in close and throw your charms at him.”

  Laughter again.

  “I'm never gonna get married. Men aren't worth it.”

  “Hey, they're not all bad.”

  “Naw, only ninety-nine percent of 'em!”

  “Yeah, but it's that other one percent that's worth looking for.”

  “When I was little and my folks were still together, I used to look at this picture of them on their wedding day. It used to sit in their bedroom on the cedar chest. Her dress was silk and there were little pearls on top of her veil and it trailed way around the floor in front. If I ever get married, I'd like to wear that dress . . . 'cept I think she threw it away.”

  “Wanna know something funny?”

  “What?”

  “When Ma got married she was pregnant . . . with me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But she didn't seem to remember it when I told her I wanted to get married.”

  And so the talk went. And somebody always suggested going down to the kitchen for fruit. Tonight it was Marie who won the honors. She waddled downstairs and was passing the hall phone when it rang.

  “Phone call . . . Anderson!”

  When Catherine came to pick it up, Marie was leaning a shoulder against the wall, a curious half-smile on her face.

  “Hi, Bobbi,” she answered, glancing at Marie.

  “Guess again,” came the deep voice over the line.

  The blood dropped from Catherine's face. She sucked in a quick breath of surprise and remained motionless for a moment, gripping the phone, before the color seeped back up her neck again.

  “Don't tell me. You followed me.” Marie continued toward the kitchen then, but she'd heard all she needed to hear.

  “That's right. It took me three days, but I did it.”

  “Why? What do you want from me?”

  “Do you realize how ironic it sounds to have you asking me that question?”

  “Why are you hounding me?”

  “I have a business proposition for you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Don't you even want to hear it?”

  “I've been propositioned—so to speak—by you once already. Once was enough.”

  “You really don't play fair, do you?”

  “What do you want!”

  “I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Are you free tomorrow night?”

  “I already told you—”

  “Spare me the repetition,” he interrupted. “I didn't want to put it this way but you leave me no choice. I'm coming to get you tomorrow night at seven o'clock. If you won't come out and talk to me, I'll tell your father where to find you.”

  “How dare you!” Her face grew intense with rage.

  “It's important, so don't put me to the test, Catherine. I don't want to do it, but I will if I have to. I have a feeling he might have ways to get you to listen to reason.”

  She felt cornered, lost, hopeless. Why was he doing this to her? Why, now when she'd at last found a place where she was happy, couldn't her life be peaceful? Bitterly, she replied, “You're not leaving me much choice, are you?”

  The line was silent for a moment before his voice came again, slightly softer, slightly more understanding. “Catherine, I tried to get you to listen to me the other day. I said I didn't want to put it that—”

  She hung up on him, frustrated beyond endurance. She stood a moment, trying to collect herself before going back upstairs. The phone rang aga
in. She clamped her jaw so hard that her teeth hurt, put a hand on the receiver, felt it vibrate again, picked it up and snapped, “What do you want this time!”

  “Seven o'clock,” he ordered authoritatively. “Be ready or your father finds out!”

  Then he hung up on her.

  “Something wrong?” Marie asked from the kitchen doorway.

  Catherine jumped, placing a hand on her throat. “I didn't know you were still there.”

  “I wasn't. Not for very long anyway. I just heard the last little bit. Was it anyone important?”

  Distractedly, Catherine studied Marie, small, dark, her doll's face an image of perfection, wondering what Marie would do if Joe had just called wanting to talk to her tomorrow night at seven.

  “No, nobody important.”

  “It was him, wasn't it?”

  “Who?”

  “The father of your baby.”

  Catherine's face turned red.

  “No use denying it,” Marie went on, “I can tell.”

  Catherine only glared at her and turned away.

  “Well, you didn't see the color of your face or the look in your eyes when you picked up that phone and heard his voice.”

  Catherine spun around, exclaiming, “I have no look in my eyes for Clay Forrester!”

  Marie crossed her arms, grinned and raised one eyebrow. “Is that his name, Clay Forrester?”

  Infuriated with herself, Catherine spluttered, “It—it doesn't matter what his name is. I have no look in my eyes for him.”

  “But you can't help it.” Marie shrugged as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  “Oh, come on,” Catherine said in exasperation.

  “Once you've been in this place you realize that no girl who comes here is immune to the man who's the other half of the reason she's here. How could she be?”

  Although Catherine wanted to deny it, she could not. It was true that when she'd heard Clay Forrester's voice something had gone all barmy in the pit of her stomach. She'd grown shivery and hot all at once, light-headed and flustered. How could I! she berated herself silently. How could I react so to the mere voice of a man who—two months after the fact!—forgot that he'd ever had sexual intercourse with me?

  Chapter 7

  The minute she came home from classes the following afternoon, Catherine knew something was up. The atmosphere was charged, the girls giddy, giggly. Everyone turned suddenly helpful, advising her to go upstairs and get her studying done right away, not to worry about setting the table—Vicky would do it for her. Someone suggested she do her nails and Marie suggested, “Hey, Catherine, how about if I blowdry your hair? I'm pretty good at it, you know.”

  “I did it this morning, thanks.”

  Behind her back Marie made an exasperated gesture, followed by a rash of questions about whether or not Catherine had ever worn purple eyeshadow. Apricot blush? White lipliner? By the time she went down to supper Catherine accosted the crew with a sly look on her face. “All right, you guys, I know what you're up to. Marie's been talking, hasn't she? But this is not a date, so don't misconstrue it as one. Yes, someone's coming for me, but I'm going exactly as I am.” There stood Catherine, confronting the whole dining room full of critical faces, dressed in faded blue jeans and an outsize flannel shirt, looking like she should be slopping hogs.

  “In that!” Marie fairly choked.

  “There's nothing wrong with this.”

  “Maybe not for a game of touch football.”

  “Why should I primp? I told you, it's not a date.”

  “The word is out, Catherine,” Grover proclaimed. “We all know it's him!”

  Marie, without question the group leader, put a hand on her hip and sing-songed, “Not a date, huh? What'sa matter, Catherine, is he old and feeble or something? Hasn't he got any hair on his legs?”

  They all started laughing, Catherine included. Someone else picked up the teasing, carrying it forward. “Maybe he's got body odor! Or halitosis. No, I know! Ringworm! Who'd want to dress up for a guy with ringworm?” By now they were circling Catherine as if she were a maypole. “I know, I bet he's married.” But what had started out to be funny suddenly angered Catherine, who saw the girls as a pack of feral animals, nipping at her, closing in for the final attack.

  “Nope, I know he's not married,” Marie informed the group. “It's got to be something else.”

  “A priest then, a man of the cloth. Oh, shame, shame, Catherine.”

  “I thought you were my friends!” she exclaimed, confused and hurt.

  “We are. All we want to do is see you dolled up for your fella.”

  “He's not my fella!”

  “You bet he's not, and he won't be either if you don't get out of those everyday rags and paint your nails.”

  “I am not painting my nails for Clay Forrester. He can go to hell, and so can all of you!” Catherine broke from the circle and ran upstairs.

  But she was not allowed to sulk, for momentarily Marie appeared, leaning against the door frame. “Tolly doesn't allow anybody to skip meals around here, so you'd better get back down there. The girls were just having a little fun. They're all quite a bit younger than you, you know, but you're the one who's acting childish by coming up here and sulking.”

  Catherine threw a derisive glance at her roommate. “I'll be back down,” she said coldly, “but tell the girls to lay off! It's nobody's business how I dress.”

  Supper was an uncomfortable affair for Catherine, but the rest carried on as if nothing had happened. She sat stonily, her nerves as taut as fiddlestrings.

  “Pass the strawberry jam,” Marie requested, eyeballing a silent message to Vicky, on Catherine's left, then to Grover, who was refilling milk glasses. When Grover reached Catherine, she made sure a cold splat of milk landed in the angry girl's lap. Catherine's chair screeched back, but she only glared silently at Grover.

  Marie's voice was as smooth as melted butter. “Why, Grover, can't you be more careful?”

  Grover set down the milk carton, grabbed some napkins and made a show of swabbing the wet leg of Catherine's jeans. Titters started around the table as Catherine viciously yanked the napkins away and said icily, “It's okay, forget it.”

  But as she leaned forward to pull her chair back up to the table, a hand shot out from her left, bearing a biscuit, oozing jam. The sticky strawberries caught Catherine on the left temple, smearing into her hair, ear and eyebrow.

  “Oh, my, look what I've done,” Vicky said innocently.

  Catherine leaped up, anger bubbling uncontrollably. “What kind of conspiracy is this! What have I done to make you all so hateful?”

  Just then Marie, their ringleader, arose, wearing her piquant smile and came to put her arms around Catherine. “We only want to help.” Catherine stood in the circle of Marie's unwanted hug, holding herself stiff.

  “Well, you have a strange way of showing it.”

  But just then Marie drew back with a false gasp, and Catherine felt something warm and cloying plastering her shirt against her back where Marie's arm had been.

  “Now I've really done it. I got gravy on your shirt, Catherine.” Then with a sly glance at all her coconspirators, Marie suggested, “We'll just have to see what we can do about it, won't we, girls?” And standing back, hands on hips, the shorter girl surveyed Catherine critically. “Have you ever seen such a mess in your life?”

  Catherine, dumbfounded, only now began to suspect the method behind their madness as smiles bloomed all around the table. One by one they passed her on their way upstairs, each offering something.

  “You really should wash your hair. I have a bottle of strawberry shampoo.”

  “And I have some yummy Village Bath Oil you can borrow.”

  “I haven't done my laundry yet. If you'll leave your jeans and shirt in the hall, I'll throw them in with my stuff.”

  “Institution soap is the pits. I'll leave mine in the bathroom.”

  Marie swiped a finger across Catherine's temp
le, then sucked the jam from it. “Yuck! I guess we'll have to give you a fresh hairdo after all.”

  “For heaven's sake, get her upstairs and do something with that jam, Marie!”

  Marie winked at Catherine, reached out a small hand, waiting. In the moment before she placed her own in it to be led upstairs, Catherine felt a lump lodge in her throat, a curious, new growing thing, a learning thing, a trusting thing. But before she quite decided how to deal with it, she was in their hands.

  Many times during the next hour Catherine raised her eyes to Marie's in the mirror, understanding now, feeling warmed and grateful because they cared—they all cared so very much. “You're crazy, you know,” she laughed, “you're all a little bit crazy. It's not even a date.”

  “By the time we get done, it will be,” Marie deemed.

  The pile of makeup that appeared would have put Cleopatra to shame. With gratitude but reservation, Catherine accepted pedicure, manicure, coiffure, jewelry, even lacy underwear, all offered with the best and most optimistic intentions. After holding her dress while she slipped it on, the stubby Marie stood on top of one of the beds to fasten a gold chain around Catherine's neck.

  “Hey, when you gonna grow up, Marie?” someone quipped.

  “Hadn't you noticed?” she rubbed her belly. “I'm growing daily, only in the wrong direction.” Laughter followed, but subdued now, almost reverent, while Catherine stood in their midst, looking unbelievably lovely.

  “Go on, have a look,” Marie prompted, nudging Catherine's shoulder.

  Catherine walked to the mirror, fully expecting to see a Kewpie doll looking back at her. But she was stunned at the surprisingly lovely woman reflected there. Her hair was glowing, flowing back from her face as if its golden streaks were blowing in the wind. The makeup had been done tastefully, giving her cheeks a delicate, hollow look, her blue eyes a new luminous size and glitter. The gloss on her lips reflected a bead of light, as if she'd just passed her tongue along them and left them provocatively wet. Small gold hoops at her ears complimented the shadowed length of her neck and emphasized her delicate jawline, while the loop of gold around her neck drew her eyes downward to the open collar of the soft, blue wool shirtwaist with its long sleeves and front closure. The collar stood up in back, flared open in front, leaving a bit of exposed skin above the highest button.