Olivia

  "Yes," she said, gasping.

  Now everything made sense. A number of times during the past few months Daddy and I had made comments about Belinda's gaining weight. She was ravenous at every meal lately and didn't seem at all concerned about her widening hips and bloated face. I really didn't care. It was more Daddy who complained. His precious little Barbie doll was disappearing right before his eyes and in its place grew this self-indulgent creature I called my sister.

  Oh, once or twice, I said things like, "Aren't you afraid you'll lose your entourage of boyfriends?"

  She didn't seem concerned even though it was true that fewer and fewer young men came around to visit her or ask her to go sailing, take walks on the beach or spend an evening in town. Now that I stared down at her squirming on the bedroom floor, her child quiet and unmoving between her thighs, I realized why she had so adamantly kept me from seeing her naked a number of times. A quick search of her closet would result in the discovery of a pair of girdles in a box. What I also understood now was her sudden and uncharacteristic interest in and desire for those baggy dresses she used to refer to as "Granny clothes" whenever I wore them.

  I knelt beside her and put my hand on the infant's tiny chest. It felt cold already and it did not vibrate with any heartbeat, nor did it rise and fall with any breath.

  "I don't think it's alive," I said.

  She whimpered again.

  "Please, Olivia, get it away. I . . . can't touch it," she said.

  I didn't move quickly. I stared at the wrinkled little creature for a while, studying its facial features, its blue lips and its fingers so tiny even one of my own small fingers was the width of nearly all five of one of its hands.

  "It was a boy," I said, more as a thought voiced aloud than anything she wanted to know.

  Belinda closed her eyes and began to

  hyperventilate. I watched her suffering for a moment, still dumbfounded at how well she had kept this secret. What would our daddy think of his precious little princess now? I wondered.

  "Do you have any idea, even an inkling of an idea, how terrible this is, Belinda? Didn't you consider this inevitable outcome and think about what it was going to do to our parents? Why didn't you come forward earlier so Daddy could have done something about this instead of deceiving everyone and hiding your condition?"

  "I was afraid," she murmured and began to sniffle and sob. "I thought everyone would just hate me."

  "Oh, and now we just love you?" I countered. She closed her eyes and held her breath a moment. "Please, please, Olivia, help me," she begged. "How many months were you pregnant?" I asked.

  "I don't know exactly, but at least six or seven," she said quickly.

  "That's why this child is so tiny. It's a premature birth. I knew you were having sex with some of your boyfriends, Belinda. I just knew it. I told you this would happen. I warned you. Now look, just look at what you've reaped with your wild, selfish behavior."

  She sobbed an apology.

  "Right," I muttered. "We'll all just blink and it will be gone."

  "Please, Olivia . ."

  -Who is the father?" I demanded. She didn't reply. "You've got to say, Olivia. Whoever he is he bears at least half the-responsibility. Daddy's going to want to know. Who is it? Arnold Miller?"

  He was a boy she had been with a great deal more than the others.

  "No," she said quickly. "Arnold and I never went far enough."

  "Then who was it, Belinda? I'm not going to play a guessing game with you. Tell me! If you don't tell me, I'll leave you here wallowing in this . . . disaster."

  "I don't know," she wailed. "Please, Olivia."

  "How can you not know unless you . . . my God, Belinda, how many boys have you slept with? And so closely together that you can't pinpoint who would be the father of this . . this child?"

  At the moment I didn't know what bothered me more: that she had so many lovers or that I had had none.

  She just shook her head.

  "I don't know, Olivia. I don't know. I don't want to blame anyone. Please."

  "You'll have to tell Daddy something, Belinda," I warned. "He won't settle for an 'I don't know."

  She opened her eyes and gazed up at me, and for a moment, I thought she was going to reveal the father of her baby. Was it someone I knew well, too?

  "Well?"

  "I can't blame someone if I don't know for sure," she finally declared. "Can I?"

  "They're all to blame. You might as well name all of them and let each one sweat," I said, thinking that would be a just and poetic revenge.

  "I can't," she wailed. She shook her head so hard, I thought she would tear it off her neck.

  "All right, suit yourself. You'll see what's going to happen now. You'll see," I predicted.

  I rose and went to her bathroom to get some towels. Then I returned and rolled the dead infant onto one. I placed it and the afterbirth and umbilical cord on the bed just as Daddy opened the door and stepped back into the room. He looked around, his eyes avoiding Belinda for a moment. He gazed at the child before turning to me with a questioning look.

  "He's dead, I think, Daddy," I said.

  He nodded.

  "Most likely," he said and approached the bed. He reached down slowly with his big hand and put the tip of his forefinger on the infant's neck. "Yes," he said. "A blessing."

  Belinda began to wail.

  "Stop it!" I snapped, hovering over her. "Do you want Carmelita to hear and come running up here?"

  Belinda muffled her sobs and turned over on her side.

  "Can you get her cleaned up and back to bed?" Daddy asked me.

  "Yes, Daddy."

  "Is she . . . bleeding or anything? Are we going to need a doctor?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Make sure. I'll be right back," he said.

  "How's Mother?"

  "I have her calmed down a bit, but she's still trembling badly," he said sorrowfully.

  "After I get Belinda into the bathtub, I'll look in on her," I promised.

  "Good." He hurried from the room.

  "Get up, Belinda. I can't lift you and carry you into the bathroom. I'm going to run some water in your tub. At least cover yourself for now. You look absolutely disgusting moaning and wallowing on the floor," I said.

  She whimpered her reply and started to brace herself on her elbows. There was blood on her legs, but she didn't look to--be bleeding anymore. She took deep breaths again and sighed so deeply I thought she had passed out.

  "Are you in any pain?"

  "I don't need a doctor," she said. "I'll be all right." "Maybe you don't need a doctor, but whether or not you'll be all right remains to be seen," I said.

  I glanced again at the dead infant. I couldn't make out the color of its few strands of hair because its head was covered with sticky blood. There was no way to study it and determine who the father could be, I thought, and went to the bathroom to run Belinda's tub.

  After I helped her get in, I heard Daddy return to the room. I went to the bathroom door and saw he had brought a small cardboard shoe box along. He glanced at me as he lifted the dead infant, wrapped it more tightly in the blanket, and then carefully, as if it were still alive, put it in the box.

  "We've got to clean this up ourselves," he said, nodding at the floor. "I don't want the servants knowing anything, Olivia."

  "I'll take care of it, Daddy."

  "How is she?"

  "She's all right. She'll live," I said sharply. He nodded again and lifted the box in his arms.

  "What are you going to do, Daddy?"

  He paused.

  "I'll have to bury the poor thing," he said.

  For a moment I just stood there staring at him clutching the makeshift coffin in his arms.

  "Don't we have to report it to someone?" I asked.

  "If we do that, Olivia, this terrible event will be headline news in every home and tavern in Provincetown. It would definitely do Belinda no good, and it would be very damag
ing to the family. Apparently, she did a good job of keeping all this a secret from us, but question her vigorously and make sure no one else knows about it," he added.

  "Yes, Daddy."

  "Don't forget. As soon as you finish with her, please look in on your mother."

  "I will, Daddy."

  He stared for a moment and then looked at the box in his arms.

  "It has to be this way," he concluded, more for himself than for me, I thought. He turned and hurried out of the bedroom with the box cradled securely in his arms.

  I returned to the tub and saw to it that Belinda washed herself. I helped her dry her body and then I brought her a new, clean nightgown. After I got her back into bed, I went downstairs to the utility room. I found I was tiptoeing and slinking along in my own home, moving like a burglar to keep from waking Carmelita, our maid and cook, or Jerome. I got a pail, a mop, rags and some detergent. Then I returned to Belinda's room and filled the pail with hot water.

  Fortunately, she had lowered herself from the bed onto a throw rug and the rug had absorbed most of the blood. I rolled up the rug and then washed away any traces of the horrendous event. Belinda lay there with her eyes closed, moaning softly, occasionally sobbing. As I worked, I rattled off a relentless series of complaints and chastisements.

  "You've really done it this time. Mother is beside herself. Daddy looked pale enough to be a corpse, too. We'll all have nightmares forever. What did you think, it would all just go away without anyone knowing?"

  I paused and looked down at her wilting little face.

  "Did you think being pregnant was like having a cold or the measles? Maybe you damaged yourself forever, Belinda. Maybe now you'll never be able to have a child decently. No one will want to marry you. What were you thinking?" I ranted. How could this be happening? I wondered. How could anyone, even Belinda, do such a thing to herself and her family?

  "Please, Olivia. Please, stop. Please," she begged putting her hands over her ears.

  "I'll stop. I should stop and let you clean up this mess," I muttered. "Does anyone else know about your being pregnant? You didn't tell any of your bubble-headed friends at school, did you?" I followed. Most of Belinda's friends were silly, spoiled girls I called the Bubble Gum Club because I thought their brains were full of bubbles.

  "No, no one knows anything," she swore. "I always got dressed and undressed in private when I took physical education class, and I never showered at school."

  "You better be telling the truth," I warned her.

  I went to the bathroom and cleaned up the tub so Carmelita wouldn't find any traces of this tragedy.

  Daddy returned, his dark brown hair wild, his eyes full of torment and shock. He saw the rug and the wet rags and picked everything up.

  "I'm going to bury all this too," he mumbled. "It must be as if none of this ever happened."

  He looked about madly.

  "You've got everything, Daddy."

  "Good," he said and charged out. I had never seen our father look more crazed. It actually

  frightened me more than it frightened Belinda, who was lying there with her eyes closed most of the time. I imagined she was afraid to look him in the face now.

  After Daddy left again, I went to see how Mother was doing. She was sitting at the edge of her bed, working up the strength to stand and see about Belinda. She still looked quite pale, her breathing labored..

  "Mother, you should lie down again," I said rushing to her side.

  "How is Belinda?"

  "She'll be all right. I got her cleaned up and back to bed."

  "And . ."

  "Daddy's taken care of all the rest."

  "Taken care?"

  "The baby died right away, Mother," I said. "It was premature. Daddy took the baby and buried it someplace. He said he doesn't want anyone to know."

  "Buried?" she gasped and shook her head. "God forgive us," she whispered.

  I thought she would fall forward to the floor, so I seized her by the elbow and tried to get her to lie back, but she shook her head.

  "I have to look in on her, Olivia."

  She wobbled when she stood. I put my arm around her waist and helped her to the door. She grew stronger as she walked and returned to Belinda's bedroom. Belinda started to sob as Mother

  approached her. "I'm sorry, Mommy," she whimpered. "I'm sorry." Mother sat on the bed and held her in her arms, and as Belinda cried, Mother rocked her.

  "Poor child," she said.

  "Poor child? She oughta be whipped," I muttered, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for her, too, even though I didn't want to give her an iota of sympathy.

  "There, there, dear. It's all right. It will be all right," Mother chanted.

  Finally, Belinda sucked back her sniffles and wiped her cheeks.

  "I know I should have told you, Mommy, but I just couldn't. I was too ashamed and afraid," she explained.

  "That made a bad thing worse, Belinda. You can't keep such a secret from your parents, or your sister," she said, gazing at me. Belinda looked at me, too. "We all love you and would want to help you."

  "I know, Mommy. I'm sorry," she said.

  "How did such a thing happen?" Mother asked in a hoarse whisper, looking more at me than at Belinda now.

  For as long as I could remember, Mother turned to me to learn things about Belinda. She always expected I was in charge of my younger sister, but I had been away at finishing school most of this year, and knew about Belinda's exploits only through gossip and the little I observed on holidays. This was Belinda's senior year, and I thought she had been given too much freedom, much more than I had been given. Without me at home, Mother didn't keep a good account of Belinda's whereabouts and activities. She was permitted to sleep at her friends' homes and stay out way past midnight. Daddy was always too busy to notice, I thought, and now look at what had resulted.

  "She says she doesn't know who the father is," I declared. "Apparently, there are too many

  candidates."

  "What?" Mother asked, her face twisted in disbelief. Did she think Belinda was some sort of angel just because Daddy always treated her like his little cherub? "Too many? How can there have been too many, Belinda?"

  "I don't know, Mommy. Please, I don't want to think about it. Please," she begged and started to sob again.

  "We should know," I insisted. "Daddy should know and go see them."

  "Maybe it's better we don't," Mother concluded, succumbing to Belinda's teary grimaces and wails. "What good is it going to do anyone now?"

  "People should be responsible for their actions, Mother. Daddy's going to want to know," I added firmly. "I'm thirsty," Belinda moaned.

  "All right, honey. All right. Olivia will get you some water."

  "I need something colder, something with ice," she demanded.

  "So go get it," I snapped.

  "Olivia, please," Mother said, turning her soft eyes to me.

  "We shouldn't be babying her now, Mother. She's done a terrible thing to all of us," I said, feeling abused too. Mother just held her gaze, pleading with her eyes. I turned and hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

  Carmelita had finally been roused by the sound of the footsteps on the stairway and the activity above. She was a tall, very dark skinned, half-Portuguese, half-Negro woman, what we called a Brava on the Cape, and she had been working for our family for the last ten years. She was in her mid-forties, lean, with a narrow face and eyes the color of obsidian. Carmelita was the perfect maid and cook for our family because she was strong, efficient and discreet. She seemed to have no opinions about any of us and kept to herself when she wasn't working.

  Her licorice-black hair was down to her shoulders when she emerged from her quarters to greet me. She was in her nightgown and robe.

  "Is someone sick?" she asked.

  "Belinda," I said.

  "Oh. Is there anything I can do?"

  "No thank you, Carmelita," I said. "I can take care of it," I said firmly. She f
ixed those dark eyes on my face for a moment and, expressionless, nodded and returned to her maid's quarters at the rear of the house. I knew she didn't believe-me, but even when I was just a young girl, Carmelita never challenged anything I told her.

  When I was in the kitchen getting Belinda's drink, Daddy came in through the rear door off the pantry. He stood there a moment, his face streaked with sweat, his hands caked with dirt.

  "It's done," he said. "How is it up there?" he asked, his eyes shifting toward the ceiling.

  "Mother's with her. I'm just getting her a cold drink." Daddy nodded and looked at his smudged wrists and hands before looking back at me.

  "You understand why I'm doing it this way, don't you, Olivia? The bottom line is it's the best way to protect the family."

  "I understand, Daddy."

  "She told you no one else knows about this?"

  "That's what she said," I replied, not without a smirk of skepticism that Daddy chose to ignore.

  "Good," he said. "Good."

  "She won't tell me who the father is, however," I added. "She claims she doesn't know."

  He shook his head.

  "Maybe it's better. We can't go accusing someone and stir up a nest of hornets."

  "Whoever it is, he shouldn't get away with it, Daddy."

  "It's done and over," he said. "Let it all be buried," he added and then left to wash up before returning to see Belinda. Once again, I thought, my spoiled sister gets away with something terrible.

  When I returned to Belinda's room with her water, I found Mother had her lying back

  comfortably. I gave her the cold drink and she sipped it and smiled up at me.

  "Thank you, Olivia. I'm sorry I put you through so much."

  "Yes, you did," I said without flinching. She looked like she would burst into tears again and make Mother feel more terrible. "Just rest now, Belinda. You don't want to get seriously ill," I added mercifully. She changed her expression instantly to one of gratitude and then reached out to take my hand.

  "You're my best sister," she said. I nearly laughed. "I'm your only sister, Belinda."

  "I know, but you're so good to me."

  "She is good to you. She's good to all of us," Mother said smiling at me. "What we all have to do now is get some rest."