“Just make sure you keep that in mind when you're tempted to give in and get in touch with her to see how she's doing.”
“That's the part of it I don't like . . . making her think I'm running across the country. She'll worry herself sick.”
“For a while she might, but the postcards will convince her you're doing okay and they'll keep your old man away from the university. There's no way he'll suspect you're still in town. Once the baby is born, you can see your mother again.”
Catherine turned pleading eyes to her cousin. “But you'll call and check on her and let me know if . . . if she's okay, won't you?”
“I told you I would, now just relax, and remember . . . once she realizes you've had the nerve to pack up and leave him, she might just find some nerve of her own.”
“I doubt it. Something holds her there . . . something I don't understand.”
“Don't try to figure out the world and its problems, Cath. You've got enough of your own.”
From the moment Catherine had first seen Horizons she'd felt at peace in it. It was one of those turn-of-the-century monstrosities with seemingly far too many rooms for a single family's needs. It had a vast wraparound porch, unscreened, festooned now with macrame pieces created by the various inhabitants who'd come and gone from the house. A few of the plants in the hangers looked peaked, as if they, too, had been touched by a late September frost like the maples that lined the boulevard. Inside, there was a wide entry hall, separated from the living room by a colonnade painted a yellowed ivory color. The stairway that led off the left end of the foyer took two turns, at two landings, on its way up. A rich, old, heavy handrail with spooled rails spoke of grander days. Beyond the colonnade spread the living room and dining room, like a sunny, comfortable cavern. Colored light filtered through old leaded glass, splashing across the living room like strokes of an artist's brush: amethyst, garnet, sapphire and emerald falling through the elegant old floral design as it had for eighty years and more. Wide baseboards and hip-high wainscoting had been miraculously preserved. The room was furnished with an overstuffed davenport and chairs of mismatched designs that somehow seemed more proper than the most carefully planned grouping would have been. There were tables with worn edges, but of homey design. The only incongruity present seemed to be the television set, which was off now as Catherine and Bobbi stood in the front hall watching three girls clean the room. One was on her knees sorting magazines, one was pushing a vacuum cleaner and another was dusting the tables. Beyond the far archway, a little girl bent over a dining room table that could have easily seated the entire Minnesota Viking team. Chairs of every nameable style and shape circled the table, and so did the little girl, slapping at each seat with her dishcloth. She straightened up then and placed a hand on her waist, fingers extending around to the small of her back, stretching backward. Staring, Catherine was abashed when the girl turned around to reveal a popping, full-blown stomach. The child was no more than five feet tall and hadn't even developed breasts yet. She might have been thirteen years old or so, but was at least eight months pregnant.
A glorious smile broke out on her face when she saw Catherine and Bobbi. “Hey, you guys, turn that thing off. We've got company!” she yelled toward the living room.
The vacuum cleaner sighed into silence. The magazine girl got up from her knees; the one who'd been dusting threw the cloth over her shoulder, and they all came toward the colonnade at once.
“Hi, my name's Marie. You looking for Mrs. Tollefson?” said the girl who looked like her name: very French, with tiny bones, pert, dark eyes, a wispy haircut and piquant face that Catherine immediately thought of as darling.
“Yes, I'm Catherine and this is Bobbi.”
“Welcome,” Marie said, extending her hand immediately, first to one then to the other. “Which one of you is staying?”
“I am. Bobbi's my cousin; she brought me here.”
“Meet the others. This is Vicky.” Vicky had a plain, long face whose only redeeming feature was the bright cornflower blue of her eyes. “And Grover.” Grover looked as if she should have learned better grooming habits in junior high home ec class; her hair was stringy, nails bitten, clothes unkempt. “And that's our mascot, Little Bit, playing catch with the dishcloth over there. Hey, come on over, Little Bit.”
They were all in various stages of pregnancy, but what surprised Catherine was how very young they all looked. Up close, Little Bit looked even younger than before. Marie seemed to be the oldest of the four, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, but the others, Catherine was sure, were not older than fifteen. Amazingly, they all seemed cheerful, greeting Catherine with warm, genuine smiles. She had little chance to dwell on ages, for Marie took the lead, saying, “Welcome then. I'll see if I can hunt up Tolly for you. She's around here someplace. Have you seen her, Little Bit?”
“I think she's in her office.”
“Great. Follow me, you guys.” While they trailed after Marie, she informed them, “Like I said, Little Bit's our mascot around here. Her real name's Dulcie, but there's not much to her than a little bit, so that's what we call her. Mrs. Tollefson's a good egg. We all call her Tolly. As soon as we talk to her we'll get you settled. Hey, have you guys had your lunch yet?”
Whatever Bobbi's preconceived notions had been about this place, none of them fit. The four girls she'd met so far exuded such an air of goodwill and sorority that she felt quite Victorian at what she'd expected. They all seemed happy and industrious and helpful. Following the bouncy Marie down a hall that led to the rear of the house, Bobbi began feeling better and better about leaving Catherine here. They came to a small room tucked beneath what must have been the servants' stairway at one time. It was as comfortable as the living room, only more crowded. It housed a large desk and bookshelves, and a patchwork sofa in shades of rust and orange that gave a homespun feeling to the room. Shutters were thrown back to let the noon light flood in upon an enormous fern which hung above the desk. Behind the desk a woman was searching through the depths of an open drawer.
“Hey, d'you lose something again, Tolly?” Marie asked.
“Nothing important. It'll show up. It's just my fountain pen. Last time Francie borrowed it she hid it in this bottom drawer. I guess I'll just have to wait until she decides to tell me where it is this time.”
“Hey, Tolly, we got company.” The woman's gray head popped up, her face appearing for the first time from behind stacks of books. It was a flat, plain middle-aged face with smile lines at the corners of its eyes and bracketing its mouth.
“Oh, glory be, why didn't you say so?” Smiling, she said, “Well, Catherine, I wasn't expecting you quite this early or I would have told the girls to watch out for you and bring your things in. Did anyone get your suitcases yet?”
“We'll take care of it while you talk to her,” Marie offered, “if Bobbi'll show us where the car is.” But before they left, Marie said to Mrs. Tollefson, “I'll be her sister.”
“Wonderful!” the woman exclaimed. “I take it you two have already met, so I'll dispense with introductions. Catherine, we usually have one of the established girls help each new girl, show her where things are, tell her how we arrange work schedules, what time meals are served, things like that.”
“We call it being sisters,” Marie added. “How'd you like to take me on?”
“I . . .” Catherine felt rather swamped by the goodwill which she had not quite expected, at least not in such immediate displays. Sensing her hesitancy, Marie reached out and took Catherine's hand for a moment. “Listen, we've all been through this first day. Everyone needs a little moral support, not only today, but on lots of days when things get you down. That's why we have sisters here. I rely on you, you rely on me. After awhile you'll find out this is really almost a terrific place to be, right, Tolly?” she chirped to Mrs. Tollefson, who seemed totally accustomed to such scenes. She wasn't in the least surprised to see Marie holding Catherine's hand that way. Catherine, who had not held the hand of anoth
er female since she'd given up jump rope and hopscotch, was far more uneasy than anyone in the room.
“Right,” answered Mrs. Tollefson. “You've been lucky, Catherine, to be adopted by Marie. She's one of our friendliest residents.”
Dropping Catherine's hand, flapping a palm at Mrs. Tollefson, Marie chided, “Oh, yeah, you say that about every single one of us here. Come on, Bobbi, let's get Catherine's stuff up to her room.”
When they were gone, Mrs. Tollefson laughed softly and sank into her desk chair. “Oh, that Marie, she's a ball of fire, that one. You'll like her, I think. Sit down, Catherine, sit down.”
“Do they all call you Tolly?”
The woman was carelessly dressed and exuded a friendly warmth that made Catherine think she ought to be wearing a cobbler's apron. Instead she wore a pair of maroon jacquard-knit slacks of definitely dated style, and a nondescript white nylon shell beneath an aged cardigan sweater that had long ago lost its shape to that of Mrs. Tollefson's rotund breasts and heavy upper arms. Altogether, Esther Tollefson was a most unstylish woman, but what she lacked in fashion, she made up in cordiality.
“No, not all of them,” she answered now. “Some of them call me Tolly. Some call me 'Hey-you,' and some avoid calling me anything. Others don't stay long enough to learn my name. But they are few and far between. Some think of me as a warden, but most of them consider me a friend. I hope you will too.”
Catherine nodded, unsure of what to say.
“I sense that you're self-conscious, Catherine, but there is no need to feel that way here. Here you will deal with keeping yourself and your baby as healthy as possible. You'll deal with making decisions about what to do with your life after the baby is born. You will meet young women who have all come here for the same reason as you have: to have a baby that is being born out of wedlock. We do not force you into roles here, Catherine, nor do we place labels on you or on the decisions you will make. But we do hope you'll spend time considering your future and where to pick up after you leave Horizons. We will need a little intake information for our records. Anything you answer will, of course, remain completely confidential. Your privacy will be strictly protected. Do you understand that, Catherine?”
“Yes, but I may as well tell you immediately that I don't want my parents to know where I am.”
“They don't have to. That's entirely up to you.”
“The rest of the information . . .” Catherine paused, looking down at the manila card, looking for a blank that said “Father's name” or “Baby's father” or something like that. She found no such thing.
“There is no coercion here of any kind. Fill out only what you want to for now. If, as time goes by, you wish to add additional information—well, the card will be here. These first few days we want you to concentrate chiefly on gaining your equilibrium, so to speak. Decisions about the future can be made in due time. You'll find that talking with all the girls will help very much. Each of them has a different outlook. There may be some fresh ideas that will help you immensely. My best advice is to remain open to the support that they may want to give. Don't shut them out, because they may be asking for your support when it appears they are giving you theirs. It won't take you long to find out what I mean.”
“Are they all as friendly as the ones I've met so far?”
“Certainly not. We have those who are bitter and withdrawn. With those we try all the harder. We have—as you'll soon see—one girl whose rebellion at her situation has taken on the form of kleptomania. There is no punishment here of any kind, not even for stealing fountain pens. You'll meet Francie soon, I'm sure. If she steals something of yours please let me know. I'm sure she will, right off the bat, just to test your reaction. The best thing to do is to offer her some compliment or suggest doing something for her or ask her advice about something. It always makes her return whatever it is she's stolen.”
“I'll remember that when I meet her.”
“Good. Well, Catherine, as I said before, during the first few days we want you to relax, gain your composure again and get to know the others. I think I hear the girls coming in now. They'll find some lunch for you and show you your room.”
Marie appeared in the doorway just then.
“All set?”
“All set,” Mrs. Tollefson replied. “Feed this girl if she's hungry, then introduce her around.”
“Aye-aye!” Marie saluted. “C'mon, Catherine. This way to the kitchen.”
Some thirty minutes later Catherine walked out to the car with Bobbi. They stopped, and Bobbi turned to look back at the house.
“I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't anything like this.”
“Anything's better than home,” Catherine said with a definite chill in her voice. Bobbi saw the defensive veneer which always seemed to glaze Catherine's eyes when she made comments such as this. A mixture of pity and relief welled up in Bobbi—pity because her cousin's home life had been so painfully devoid of the love to which every child has a right, relief because Horizons seemed as good a haven as possible under these circumstances. Perhaps here Catherine might at last have, if not love, at least a measure of peace.
“I feel . . . well, better about leaving you here, Cath.”
The introspective look faded from Catherine's face as she turned to her cousin. The brilliant autumn sun burned down through the balmy afternoon, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
“And I feel good being left here—honest,” Catherine assured her. But that guilty look which Catherine had seen so often lately in Bobbi's expression was back again.
“Don't you dare think it,” Catherine scolded gently.
“I can't help it,” Bobbi answered, thrusting her hands into her jeans pockets and kicking at a fallen leaf. “If I hadn't lined you up with him—”
“Bobbi, cut it out. Just promise you won't tell anyone where I am.”
Bobbi looked up, unsmiling, her shoulders hunched up, hands still strung up in those pockets. “I promise,” she said quietly, then added, “Promise you'll call if you need anything at all?”
“Promise.”
There hung between the two girls an intimate silence while each of them thought about that blind date last July, their many shared confidences of girlhood leading to this greatest shared secret of all. For a moment Bobbi thought maybe this time Catherine would make the move first.
But Catherine Anderson found touching a difficult thing to do. And so she hovered, waiting, until at last Bobbi plunged forward to give her the affectionate squeeze Catherine needed so badly. In a life where love was a foreign thing, Catherine's feelings for this vibrant, bubbly cousin came as close as any to that emotion. And so, the hug she returned told a wealth of things, although she herself remained dry-eyed while tears gathered in Bobbi's throat before she backed away.
“Take it easy, huh?” Bobbi managed, her hands jammed once again in her pockets while she backed away.
“Yeah, for sure . . . and thanks, huh?”
And only when Bobbi spun and headed for the car, getting in and driving off without another backward glance did Catherine admit that she felt like crying. But she didn't. She didn't. Still, she came closer than she had since, at age eleven, she'd promised herself never to allow that weakness again.
Chapter 4
It was twenty-four hours since Herb Anderson had appeared at the Forrester home with his threats and accusations, twenty-four hours during which Clay had slept little and found it quite impossible to concentrate on the evolution of the law as affected by the McGrath vs. Hardy Case he was currently analyzing in Torts II.
Angela heard the car door slam and moved toward the desk where Claiborne sat in his swivel chair. “He's home, darling. Are you quite sure about what we've decided?”
“As sure as it's possible to be, under the circumstances.”
“Very well, but must you confront him seated there like some oracle behind your desk? Let's wait for him on the loveseat.”
When Clay came to the study
door he looked haggard. He stood in the doorway scarcely aware of the comfortable fire within the cozy room. He was too occupied with the strain upon his parents' faces.
“Come in, Clay,” Angela invited, “let's talk.”
“I've had a hell of a day.” He came in and sank down wearily on the coffee table with his back to them, slumping forward and kneading the back of his neck. “How about you two?”
“Likewise,” his father said. “We spent the afternoon out at the Arboretum talking. It's quiet out there at this time of year after the picnickers have gone. Conducive to thinking.”
“I might as well have stayed home for all I accomplished today. She was on my mind all day long.”
“And?”
“It's no different than last night. I just want to forget she exists.”
“But can you do that, Clay?”
“I can try.”
“Clay,” his mother's concerned voice began, “there's one possibility we did not discuss last night, although I'm sure it entered all our minds, and that is that she might possibly get an abortion. Forgive me for sounding like a grandmother, but the thought of it is utterly sickening to me.”
“You might as well know, we talked about it,” Clay admitted.
Angela felt a quiver begin in her stomach and travel up to her throat. “You—you did?”
“I offered her money, which she refused.”
“Oh, Clay.” The soft, disappointed swoon in her tone told Clay how it hurt her to hear the truth.
“Mother, I was testing her. I'm not sure what I'd have said if she had agreed.” But then Clay swung around on the shiny table to face his parents. “Oh, hell, what's the use of denying it? At the time it seemed like an easy solution.”
“Clay,” Angela said, as near to scolding as she'd been in years, “I fail to see how your feelings for that child as its father can be any less than ours as its grandparents. How could you think of—of denying it life, or of spending the rest of your own wondering where and who the child is?”