A Dutiful Wife
by Sydney Michelle
Chapter Sixteen
That night was not the most peaceful I have ever had. We were both up and down several times as Kenzie’s wonderful meal filtered through us. It made breakfast easy: All Blake wanted was to irrigate her body, juice and tea, not even toast. That meant I pushed her out the door early, still a little bleary-eyed.
I took a few minutes, robed and splotchy with sleep, to fire off an e-mail announcing the great event. Of course our friends from ESU, soon to also be in the family way, and Jen and Bran, and Blake’s parents. Plus a dozen or so assorted friends and relatives. "I’M PREGNANT!" was hardly poetic, but it got the idea across.
My first real problem that day was what to wear. A Cut Above wasn’t the problem, it was work afterwards. With Mrs. Hutchison on the warpath, I needed the right tone, professional, competent, but not severe. I definitely did not need any hint of being a "fake," but a touch of maternal softness might not hurt, either. All things start with a foundation, so I struggled into a waist shaper and underwire bra. Each had a touch of lace, invisible to the naked eye, but a morale boost nevertheless. Panties, plain and serviceable, just my usual filigree around the elastic. I decided against a garter belt and stockings or extra control panty hose and settled for thigh highs in a sand tan shade. A slip seemed appropriately modest, ivory, to the knee.
Separates seemed like the better part of valor, a mid-weight for the touch of fall. My blouse was no problem, a cream, long sleeved, with a stock tie collar just right for a circle pin, would go with almost anything. The skirt was another matter: not tight or constrictive, pleats were too fussy, long slits were definitely out of the question. Below the knee, I couldn’t show thigh, or even knees. With the weather, maybe I could have worn a maxi, but that would have been too great a change given the circumstances. Besides, I liked to wear a pair of mid-calf boots with that, and that was definitely not the image I needed. I settled for a slightly flared navy skirt falling to the swell of my calf, just enough back vent to let me walk comfortably.
A navy jacket would have been overdoing it, especially with a fairly controlled hairstyle. I didn’t want to parody the classic librarian stereotype; I needed to evoke my willingness to fit in. A forest green jacket, one that cut me at mid-hips, seemed the answer. It provided some color, but it wasn’t flashy like my favorite red hunt jacket, and did not fit too snugly around my bosom. The waist had just enough taper not to be a men’s sack, but it wasn’t dramatic.
My choice in shoes wasn’t hard. I usually wore low or mid-heels, comfortable for long periods standing at the copier. Wednesdays, since I worked the desk and would have a fresh do, I often wore something with a little more drama, maybe a three inch heel but never my stilettos. Not that day. A low heel, just taller than flats, navy kid with a slipper side, were comfortable without being dowdy.
Finally there was jewelry. Gloves were out, this wasn’t the fifties. No nose jewelry of course. The choices for my ears were studs or buttons, nothing dangling, not even shrimps. I just couldn’t stand being too toned down. I choose my diamond studs. After all I was a beloved wife, and proud of it. Nothing went on my lapel since the pin held my cravat. I never wore a watch, using the many clocks around. I would either have been constrained by the style, or had to acquire a selection. Going without was simpler, and cheaper. I sunk our money into bracelets instead. Gold, two heavy twisted strands that spread just enough to accommodate my bunched knuckles, seemed right. The ending garnet and amethyst kept it from being too plain without being ostentatious. I had no choice in sunglasses: mine were small aviator gold rims, but the mid-morning glare meant I would need them. They would be tucked away before I hit Tanner’s door anyway.
My purse was a navy shoulder sling, my cream clutch safely inside. I couldn’t wear a hat, you really have to work with your hairdresser so it works with your do, so I had to rustle through my small collection of scarves. The breeze would certainly pick up when the sun went down. I would need something to protect my ears and my do. Except for entering and leaving, it wouldn’t be seen. I wasn’t going to do the shoulder drape routine. But my entry would be subject to full scrutiny, so I dithered. A silky paisley, no fringe, seemed safe, providing a hint of flash that would show that I wasn’t slinking about. It would tie securely, slip easily into my purse, provide protection and style.
I hadn’t taken so much care with my dress since picking out my wedding trousseau. By the time of the wedding, I knew what Blake liked to see me in; putting on her surprise wrapper had taken care, but not concern. Selecting evening gowns had been limited by our wallet and Blake had been there to help. But this was so nerve wracking my stomach fluttered despite my waist cincher.
§§§
Entering the familiar world of A Cut Above was calming. Here I would be accepted, pampered, celebrated. Warm water and scalp massage would relax me; the scrapes and tugs on my scalp would titillate me. Jolene would give me some of the latest gossip, she would include my condition in her "Have you heard’s?" for at least the next week. I would be part of the community of coifed sisters.
I removed my scarf as I checked in with Miriam, browsed the magazines, then settled down. Now I was justified to thumb through "Modern Maternity." It was a little thrill, a public affirmation of my status.
"Mrs. Jones? Miz Thompson says she’ll be ready as soon as I’m done with you." Ashley’s smile was even brighter than usual, her hair drawn into a low French Roll. "May I take you back?"
I rose easily, pausing to put my coat on a hanger. Ashley’s skirt twitched lightly behind her despite her comfortable shoes. She had been practicing, putting one foot precisely in front of the other. There wasn’t much breadth, but there was a definite roundness. I suspected padding, but it was discrete padding.
It was her hair that intrigued me. The roll ended below her crown, providing controlled fullness but without an overwhelming shout of "Look at me!" that extending the roll above the crown could give. Something like that might be what I needed.
I sat up extra straight so Ashley could get the towel dam firmly tucked before settling the cape around me. Closed collars are prone to get wet and the linen would just soak up everything. Ashley tucked a little cellophane under the back edge for extra protection before removing the pins and laying me back.
"Did you have a good week? Your hair’s still full. It will need an extra wash."
I relaxed, closing my eyes. "Hhm-m. Feels good."
Ashley lifted and turned my head, wetting my sprayed locks thoroughly so the shampoo would wash away the week’s accumulation of hair spray, scalp oils, and city soot. "Mrs. Braun is expecting. Her third. She says she’s getting tied off after this one, even if it isn’t a boy."
I squeezed my eyes tight as Ashley began working cool shampoo into my hairline. "I would imagine her husband would be disappointed if it isn’t." Jolene would be disappointed if I didn’t let her pass the first official confirmation of my baby.
Ashley began squeezing suds through my strands. "I can’t see what the big deal is about what sex the baby is. It’s not like they’re going to be part of you all your life."
"That’s what I thought. But my mother says your child never stops being part of you. Out from under foot, but never completely out of your mind. Or heart."
"Maybe so. It sounds like you and your mother were really close."
"Tolerable. I didn’t really appreciate her when I was growing up. Oh yes, there some more." Ashley was really good at massaging the base of your head.
She washed the first set of suds down the drain, carefully soothing the water back from my brow so it didn’t run into my eyes. A pause let me know she was reaching for more shampoo.
"Did you get a chance to ask?"
"Ask what?"
"Whether I could come to your support group." More coolness gently worked through my locks, slipping down to the auburn pool lying in the bowl.
"Oh that. Dr. Linwood said visitors disrupt the group too much."
"Oh." Her fingers stopped working momentarily.
"But she said if you were interested in entering their gender adjustment program, if you qualified, you could come then."
Ashley’s fingers flexed again. "Gender adjustment? That sounds like surgery."
"Maybe not. It would be a long while before that anyway. If you found someone, and the two of you wanted a ‘girl with a pearl,’ maybe you could join our program. In the meantime, you could get support and be sure of what you really wanted."
"Maybe." She squirted water, turning my hair carefully to wash the locks clean.
"Think about it. It wouldn’t hurt to try. You’ve gone about as far as you can on your own."
"Maybe. I don’t have a lot of extra money." She started a last dab of shampoo, making sure she washed it thoroughly into my hair behind my ears and along my back hairline. She lifted my head slightly, squeezed wetness through strands, washing and milking, finger combing the mass to be sure the ends were free of dirty residue.
"Hold the position." I sat, eyes shut, feeling stray drops form on my brow, start to trickle down. I felt my hair lift, twist inside a towel. Ashley wrapped the broad warm material around my head, enclosing it in a turban. She wiped away the drops before tucking the tail. "There. Sit up now. You have really beautiful hair, thick and way."
"Thank you. Your hair looks really nice today."
Ashley stripped away the cape and towel. She dabbed my neck, making sure my blouse would remain dry. "It’s too fine, I think. And my color is blah. I’m thinking of getting a perm. And maybe some highlights. We’re starting that, so I could be a model for one of the others."
"I think your hair is lovely. Why not talk to Jolene before you do anything drastic? And do think about seeing Dr. Linwood. I suspect she would be very sympathetic."
Ashley handed me over to Jolene before heading up for her next wash. I settled into the chair, still clutching my reading material.
"So? Can I tell?"
"You sound like you know."
"Your magazine. And Jan told me yesterday. So it’s official?" She unwrapped my tail laying a fresh towel under the wet strands to protect my collar peeking through the styling smock.
I nodded, our eyes locking in the mirror. "I’m pregnant. Isn’t that the most wonderful sound?"
"Depends." Jolene started combing through my tresses, getting them spread out and ready to roll. "You know the old gynecologist joke? ‘I have wonderful news, Mrs. Smith?’
"‘I’m not married.’
"I have terrible news, Miss Smith.’ Depends on the circumstances. But for you, it must seem like a miracle."
"Especially on out first attempt. You hear so much about couples who try over and over."
"They’ve usually put off children thinking menopause would hold off forever. Me, I’m glad I had mine while I had the strength to keep up with them. So what are we going to do with you today, Mrs. Jones?"
"I need something conservative, professional. I like what you did with Ashley, maybe a French Roll with just a little volume? No tendrils this week."
"Easy enough. Mommie’s not giving it up for Lent, is she?"
"No way, Jose. I just need something businesslike for work this week."
"A little height? With your ears, you look better with some volume."
"Are you saying I have Dumbo ears, Mrs. Thompson?"
"No, ma’am. It’s just you don’t have those little laid back pixies that work best with slick sides." She lifted some strands, let them fall back. "And all this length has to go somewhere. When are you going to let me cut it?"
"Just trims. I’d like hair to my waist for once. If it could get long enough for us to, well, hook up through? that would be nice. Maybe then I’ll start over and let you make me a switch."
"Are you and Jan in some kind of competition?" Jolene began to section my hair, clipping the top out of the way.
"No. But neither of us have had really long hair. It just seems so . . ."
"Sexy?" Jolene began to roll the back on vertical rollers, rolling them outside in.
"Uh-huh." I had learned that a styling a French Twist or Roll was more in the teasing and smoothing, the set mostly helping the strands dry.
"Let’s see if we can let them know you’re not dead without having them think you’re about to ravish every lawyer near a reading table."
My weekly set had become routine; I was no longer ready to pole vault after my hair was put in curlers. That didn’t mean I didn’t feel a twinge, the gentle tugs and pulls were stimulating, but at least it was under control. I never ceased to marvel as skill in turned a lank mass of strands into something full, moving, enticing. A coman’s hair is her crowning glory? You betch ‘em, Red Rider.
The objective was smoothness, so the curlers were large; the pattern was simple, directing the strands so some would brush across my forehead, blended into a smooth mass sweeping over my ear, tucking under the roll behind. As my hair grew longer, the rollers had become bigger. Fewer than two dozen rollers now did my head if Jolene wasn’t creating tendrils.
Jolene had me rolled before we had time to get into any really juicy gossip. She had me baking under the dryer, reading an article on "Your Early Months’ Diet" and sipping a ginger ale almost before I knew what happened. Next month, before our performance, I would take a Saturday for the works, manicure, pedicure, wax job. But this week it was just relax, enjoy the solitude, check out the other patrons, and sneak a feel of my crisping curlers.
The bell dinged, I raised the hood. The strands were stiff and crisp under the net. As I waited for Jolene to fetch me, the ladies on each side were too deafened by the roar of their dryer fans to talk. I took advantage of the break to slip back to the Ladies to make another deposit of Kenzie’s repast.
When I returned, Jolene had just deposited her latest masterpiece. Back at the styling chair, she quickly relieved me of my hardware, loosening the curls with her fingers. I couldn’t talk, she had my chin pushed on my chest as she teased the back, smoothing, and twisting, and pinning.
She had exhausted Mrs. Braun when she pulled my head back, cranking me down to attack my top. "Were you able to do anything for Ashley?"
"If she will join one of the programs. But she seems reluctant."
"I’ll work on her. And I’ve been thinking about what you suggested."
"What was that?"
"Getting her with someone. She needs to be licensed for most of the shows, but there are some local things where students can get in. There’s one woman I know, she has the worst luck with men, she might finally be ready for someone gentle. An intro and just stand back. Right?"
"Right." My top and sides were a stiff ball, not too big. Jolene began picking and spritzing, and smoothing. The top became smooth and round, flowing over my brow and ears. My crown stood up just under three inches, giving my face some welcome extra height but not enough to make me look like a brainless bimbo.
In practiced hands, smooth takes less time than stacks of curls. I was spun around, holding up a mirror to check the back. A thick roll swept across from my left nape to my right crown, a coil nestled in the crevice where the hair swept under from the side and rolled over from the top. It was definitely controlled, professional, just different enough to be intriguing.
"Now I want to see this all crushed and gone next week, you understand? Don’t you let that spouse of yours ignore my handiwork, you hear?"
"Yes’m." I dug out a tip and stood up to go.
"And one more thing, Jaimie."
"And that would be, Jolene?"
"One! Two! Three! She’s pregnant!" Ashley, and Shelly, and Miriam sprang around the corner, flinging confetti, dragging along a pink helium balloon with a stork on it. They all sang:
"Rock a-bye baby, in the tree top,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
In just nine more months,
Our Jaimie will pop."
"We couldn’t let you go without everyone knowing of the happy event."
"Couldn’t you have just taken out an ad in the paper?"
"This is better. Congratulations, Jaimie. Welcome to the world of mommies, diapers and feedings, laundry and ‘Drive me.’ Unexpected hugs and sloppy wet kisses make it all worth it." Jolene bent to kiss my cheek, pressing a box in my hands. Inside was a pin, all sparkly with faux colored stones, a top hatted crane. What could a girl do? I cried with joy while basking in their group hug.
I toddled up Tanner’s steps in my conservative suit and conservative hair, stomach churning like a cement mixer. Blake was sure, Mrs. Hutchison had been sure, I hoped I could not be fired, publicly humiliated. Not at what should be the most wonderful time of my life. I had finally accepted that I would, not just could, bear our children, was looking forward to it, and now to find I was thought of as a fake, a fraud, a freak. Was I? Would I be stigmatizing my child just by carrying her?
I would deposit my purse and rain shell in my locker, pick up the reference requests, assume my post and try to act as though everything was normal. But that was the problem. I wasn’t normal. Even before the clinic called, it’s definitely not normal by any stretch of the statistics for a male to have tits and ass, never mind a nose pierced for a ring and a closet full of dresses and high heels. If it was normal, I wouldn’t need half the world’s doctors hovering over me, poking and prodding and filling me full of hormones. I had been stuck more than a pincushion, and that would continue for the next twenty or thirty years. No, that wasn’t normal either.
What was normal was that I loved Blake and she loved me. And like any two people in love we were a little crazy. Looking at me, a whole lot crazy. As crazy as bedbugs. The only comfort was that she had talked me into this, so if I were crazy, she had to be so far gone that there was no chance of recovery.
Who was I kidding? She comes to and in a few years, maybe less, she’s walking around free as a bird, laughing about her "crazy period," if she mentions it at all. Me, I’m stuck. I doubt Mom could pass me off as Mary Magdalene in one of her summer productions, not in a small county seat. It would be N’Awlins, or Vegas, or the freak show in some traveling circus. Somewhere between the bearded lady and the snake man would be Jaimie, the hermaphrodite. "Come see the pregnant man with a wiggle in his walk and a giggle in his talk. Every luscious curve is ab-so-lute-aly real, and for only an extra sawbuck you can prove it for yourself! Hey, Sonny, step right up! Don’t be shy!"
I passed the desk, working to keep my head up, smile and not make eye contact. I hadn’t wanted so desperately not to be noticed since that long ago first walk down Paradise Mall in College Switch. What kept playing in my head was I Enjoy Being a Girl. Yeah, right.
"Jaimie! Message for you." Sharon had the desk. I might as well face up to it.
"Really? What is it?"
"As soon as you put your things away, Mr. Davidson wants to see you in his office." The pretty blonde goggled. "I bet it’s a promotion. I hear they come with the start of the fiscal year."
It was bound to be anything but. My heart was in my shoes. "Thank you, Sharon. More money would be nice." I’d settle for holding onto what I had without a fight.
I only hoped Sharon attributed my flushed face to modesty instead of terminal shame. At least I hadn’t gone white as a ghost. I took my time putting up my things, checking my makeup in my compact’s mirror At least I was fresh from the beauty parlor, so I would look good at my execution.
It was only when I was about to knock on Mr. Davidson’s door that I realized the request was to see him after I had put up my things. At least I wasn’t to be ignominiously chucked headlong into the street. Maybe I would just be reassigned into the dank, dark bowels of Tanner, supervising the reshelvers, or worse, doing that job myself.
"Come in, Mrs. Jones." The clock showed five before the half hour. Obviously he expected me to be my usual punctual self.
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Mrs. Hutchison sat in the chair beside his desk.
Mr. Davidson stood and indicated a chair. Mr. Davidson made a point of standing until "his girls" were seated. "Yes, please."
I settled onto the padded chair, actually the edge of it, my ankles crossed and tucked under, my hands crossed in my lap. I hadn’t felt so on the spot since that time in high school after . . , The less said about that the better. If I weren’t the picture of contrite respectability, I couldn’t have missed it much. Mr Davidson sat, leaning forward to place his elbows on the desk, He never did that.
"I’m not quite sure how to delicately approach this, Mrs. Jones, so straight out will be best, I suppose." Lordy, It sounds like the ax after all. "Mrs. Hutchison informs me that you are, uh, expecting, that that was the reason for your absence two weeks ago. I find that difficult to believe, as you can imagine. Is that the real reason for your missing work?"
"Yes, Sir." I nodded. If he had used an ear trumpet, he might have heard me.
"Mrs. Jones, I realize that your marital situation is, shall we say, unusual? Why an employee takes leave is normally none of my concern, so long as there is adequate notice. However I do consider lying about the circumstances as most reprehensible and grounds to consider when reviewing your employee evaluation. Do you wish to revise the reason for your absence?"
"But it’s true!" It just came out. I was trying to be polite, and demure, and I just blurted it out.
Mr. Davidson leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and studied the ceiling for an interminable period. But all things do come to an end. Eventually he lowered his gaze, right at me. "I see. Or rather, I don’t see. Modern times are full of innovations, and I vaguely recall hearing something about a man in state who carried a child after his wife was killed in a car wreck. I discounted it as one of those "Two Headed Baby" stories the papers like to run in the silly season."
"That was Toni! She’s nice. And her daughter, Angela, she’s just the cutest thing."
"You actually know this creature?"
"She’s not a creature, she’s very nice. She was a student at ESU, just like I was. She married again after her fiancee got her Masters in Aerospace. They live in Louisiana outside New Orleans now. I think they plan to give Angela a sister in about a year."
"Then that story was not a hoax?"
I raised my chin. "No, Sir. I consider them my friends. We weren’t close, but I knew her and Kim, and liked them. It was Toni having undergone the procedure in emergency circumstances that convinced me I could do it too."
Mr. Davidson’s eyebrows were halfway to his hairline. He gripped the edge of the desk quite hard: his knuckles were white. "So you were not ‘pulling’ Mrs. Hutchison’s leg."
"No, Sir. I would never do that. Certainly not about having a baby."
Mr. Davidson studied the ceiling again before looking at me, but smiling. "Mrs. Jones, as improbable as it sounds, I am inclined to believe you." He smiled. "The truth should be, uh, self-evident in a few months. My daughter, God rest her soul, was trying to have a child when they discovered her illness. New life is precious, much too precious to risk unnecessarily. I imagine you will be needing additional time off until your time arrives?"
"No, Sir; at least not much. The clinic worked my exam schedule around my work schedule pretty much. They do have pretty thorough one day work ups at three and six months, but other than that I hope I won’t need any additional time off from work."
"Just let us know. Your health, and your baby’s health come first. I’m certain we can accommodate virtually anything short of an extended period of bed rest."
"I hope it won’t come to that, Sir, but thank you."
"Watch your diet then. Mrs. Davidson had problems when she was carrying Amelia. It led to complications." He frowned at the memory. "I wouldn’t want to lose another woman that way."
"No, Sir. Thank you for your concern, Sir."
"You are certain you are carrying, aren’t you?"
"Yes, Sir. The clinic confirmed it yesterday. I was so happy to hear it."
Mrs. Hutchison cleared her throat. "Uh, Mrs. Jones?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hutchison?" I was too relieved to be mad at her.
"I fear in my shock at your news yesterday, at the sheer improbability of the thing, that I rained on your parade, trod on your happiness. Please accept my apology."
"Of course." I smiled sweetly. Anger isn’t a good emotion for your fetus. "I assure you, Mrs. Hutchison, and you, Mr. Davidson, that I have no desire to become a cause celebre. Since I entered the Chrysalis Program, before even, I have always wanted to blend in, to be a good team player. I have no desire to confront anyone. I would abhor any publicity or recognition other than what would come to anyone carrying their first child. In so far as it is in my power, I will not disrupt the routine of the Library."
"Do your, uh, spouse’s associates know of your condition? And of your gender?"
"No, Sir, I don’t believe my dama has told any of them yet that we’re expecting. As for our marital situation, we do not discuss our relations. I suspect many believe we are a lesbian couple. Some did ask if we honeymooned in Vermont. A few, partners and human resources, are aware that I am not only her wife, but that I am a male. We try to live our life as normally, as quietly as possible, not to fight some crusade."
"I do not see there is a point to making a point about Mrs. Jones’s gender, Mrs. Hutchison."
"Nor I, Mr. Davidson. It’s just that without a man obviously in the picture, questions will be raised. Gossip will spread. It cannot be avoided."
"If anyone asks, I am pregnant by in vitro. It happens to be true, which is convenient. It’s much too difficult to remember a fib. There is no reason to discuss the details of my plumbing. Without a medical need to know, I would be offended if someone should be so bold as to inquire."
"Discretion, Mrs. Hutchison. I do believe we can largely rely upon our staff’s discretion."
"Perhaps with a pre-emptive strike, Mr. Davidson. How would you feel about a little announcement party, Mrs. Jones? Just coffee and punch in the lounge, say the end of next week? No presents, of course; it would be premature for a baby shower. But then you could put the word out of your, uh, condition, and we can get the hub-bub over with."
"Is that usually done? If not, that might cause talk in itself."
"It’s not de rigeur but it has been done. If we were to make it an extension of the monthly staff meeting?"
"Then I would be honored."
Mr. Davidson rose, signaling the end of the conference. "Then that’s settled. Let us not detain you any longer from your duties. I suspect whomever you are relieving is anxious to eat. Do keep me informed of your progress, of whether you have any need to adjust your schedule or take additional time from work for medical reasons. And Mrs. Jones?"
"Yes, Mr. Davidson?"
"Your preliminary review was quite satisfactory. Keep up your good work and you should be in line for a promotion. I certainly would not consider your impending family situation an impediment in that regard."
"Thank you, Sir. Mr. Davidson?"
"Yes, Mrs. Jones?"
"Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?"
"I hardly think that is necessary, Mrs. Jones."
"No, Sir, it isn’t. But it’s been five years since my last grandfather passed on, and, well, you’ve been so nice about this, and you’re such a dear man, would you mind terribly?" I fumbled for words. "I feel I need to, Mr. Davidson."
"A peck then, perhaps."
"Definitely. On the cheek."
I stepped around the desk, bent forward, eyes closed, and planted a light kiss in the middle of his cheek. I stood close for a moment, eyes downcast, as he stood stock still. My eyes began to tear, knowing I had overstepped, thinking that Mr. Davidson would not understand that it was a grandfatherly gesture of affection. "Thank you, Mr. Davidson. You are always thoughtful and have been most kind. Even when things have been difficult." I sniffled.
His arms folded around me. "There, there, Amelia. Everything will be alright, you’ll see."
"I hope so." I fumbled for my pocket handkerchief and blew my nose. Nothing big, just a little honk. "I hope my crying didn’t embarrass you."
"No, no, don’t think anything about it. Emotions make huge swings when you women carry."
"Yes, Sir. I’ll get to my station now."
"Mrs. Jones?"
I turned at the door. "Yes, Mr. Davidson?"
"If you should have a girl, would you consider . . . Amelia is a fine name, don’t you think?"
"Yes, Mr. Davidson, very charming. It suggests spring, high spirits, a good nature."
"Industrious. It means a good and pleasant worker, Mrs. Jones."
"I’ll remember that, Mr. Davidson." And we did.
§§§
The rest of the day flew by. I was floating, the burden of dread lifted from my shoulders. Even my dinner’s tuna sandwich seemed more flavorful than before, I was alive, doubly so, and accepted, and in love with a woman who loved me. It just couldn’t get any better.
Blake was already in when I fit my key in the lock. "Hi, Hon. How was your day?"
"Pretty much the same. The crisis count won’t pick up until Friday. Yours?"
"Fantastic!"
"I take it crotchety old Davidson didn’t can you then?"
I pushed Blake’s paper away to sit in her lap. I brushed my fingers over her hair, smoothing back the wisps. "He’s not crotchety at all. He’s sweet. It’s just he lost his wife and only daughter and he’s all alone. You clerks didn’t like him because he’s protective of ‘his girls.’ He told me to take all the time off I need for my ‘condition.’ And I’m going to be promoted."
"You sure he’s not just trying to get you quietly out of the way?"
"Lawyers! Always suspicious, looking on the dark side. No he’s not. They’re going to have a little announcement party for me at the staff meeting next week. Get the word out all at once."
"It’s because the people we deal with are usually trying to get an edge. Both our clients and the other party."
I ruffled her hair. "Maybe you need to deal more with real people. Drew doesn’t count: she’s a lawyer too."
Blake snorted. "We see ‘real people’ in our practice, mostly in trouble. A spouse runs around, they’re being sued over some failure of their service, or they’re wanting to sue somebody over what they consider false representation. We see them all the time at their worst."
"Maybe that’s the problem. They are at their worst. You need a meanness antidote, O barrister dama of mine." I kissed her, quick and hard. "I mean, isn’t life wonderful? We have each other and we’re going to have a baby. A baby girl that you wanted. We have good friends and supportive parents, at least on my side."
"Like mine aren’t?"
"Not to be critical, but . . ."
"Which means you’re about to cut to the bone."
"Stop interrupting. I really don’t think your mother approves of me, to put it mildly. Your father just wants you, us, happy. But your mother? She really believes you would be much happier with a law partner for a husband rather than a librarian for a wife."
"It’s what I think that counts."
I wrapped my arms around her neck, pulling her head to my breasts. "True, but we were talking about support. I worry that your mother doesn’t approve."
Blake nuzzled my breasts through my blouse before turning her head to breathe. "Worried about what? Surely not that I would leave you because my mother is uptight?"
I sank fingers in her chignon, ran my hand over her head. "No, not that. It’s just I want my Blakey-Bear all happy and lovey. And you’re a grumpy bear every time you get off the phone with your mother."
"Maybe she is a little cold."
"Honey, that woman could sink the Titanic when she’s around me. And she takes it out on you. I would like you to be on good terms with your mother, but I don’t plan on disappearing in a puff of smoke just to please her."
"You did, and my happiness quotient would drop off the meter."
"Speaking of happiness quotients, how do you feel about a little slap and tickle tonight? I have a fresh do and Kenzie’s feast had us too groggy last night."
Blake unpinned my cravat, unfastened three buttons of my blouse and went diving for the button hidden beneath my bra. Her magic tongue probed and teased as I arched. "Does that answer your question?"
"Hhm" I unbuttoned her blouse and proceeded to engage in a little button fishing of my own. Her mounds were soft, warm as my tongue traced her cleavage, but her buttons were firm and erect by the time my crimson lips covered them. It does a wife good to feel her spouse arch beneath her, to hear the rumble of moans of passion building within her, to feel the hastening beat of her pulse. After all, we aim to please, and being pleasing, to be pleased.
Blake’s hands began stripping my blouse. Fingers fumbled at my bra, pulling snaps so the band hung free. Her fingers covered my nape, guiding my head from one tip to the other. "Let me take you to bed," she whispered.
"I thought you’d never ask."
It was like old tines before we married. There was this trail from the living room to the bedroom: a blouse and bra here, a pair of shoes there, my skirt and panties in a pile at the doorway. It’s nice to be chased, but every once in awhile, your dama needs to know she turns you on. There was no message to her mother that night, unless that’s what you would call our ecstatic moans.
The next evening was my time to catch up on real life, at least the mundane part of it. I had the wifely duty of tending to the bills, so once I had a soup pot warming and a salad tossed together, I turned to the accumulated mail. We routinely canned junk at the mail box, except for the coupon stuffers and the pizza discounts. Thursday’s mail had brought a card from Mom and Dad, a very sweet "So Now You’re Expecting" in which Dad had written a short note and Mom a long one. Otherwise it was the last of the monthly bills and two more credit card offers.
I set those aside to discuss with Blake. It was almost time to roll our balances for another six months interest free, but we were really going to have to get those zeroed out this time. We had been pretty good about getting the balances down since the wedding, but the honeymoon, furnishing our apartment, and building professional wardrobes had gotten us pretty far in hock. Soon we would have car payments, and baby things to worry about, not to mention saving the down for a house. We had to get ready if I was going to get to be a full time mom.
I hit the bill stack, utilities, credit cards, gasoline, a jeweler and two department store accounts. As nice as they were, we were just going to have to resist buying more little nothings for awhile. Besides, I wouldn’t exactly fit the catalog image in a few months. Then there were our student loans. Only nine more years to go, give or take. I had to wonder if a degree in library science was really worth the time and expense. Blake at least would be drawing down enough to justify the accumulated debt of a small house, if you weren’t picky about the neighborhood.
With the bills done, I stirred the soup before clearing the answering machine. It was mainly tele-marketers, or rather their computerized dialing machines. There was one from Thelma, telling me we would have to practice at two that Saturday.
I shucked down to something more comfortable, some thin sweats, before checking my e-mail. I had dashed off my announcement without taking the time to check my in box, so there was quite an accumulation. Most of it was spam, despite our filter, much of it from web sites where we had registered for purchases, Besides there were at least two daily messages from the firm with our retirement accounts. I had barely finished hitting "Delete" when Blake hit the door.
"Hi, Sugar-Bear, How was your day?"
"Quiet. Yours?"
"I got a new case supporting Draper. Small corp control battle. Should be interesting."
"How big do you think your Christmas bonus will be this year?"
"Not huge. I won’t have been with the firm that long. How come? Thinking about a European vacation while you can still travel? A Dickens Christmas? How about it, holly sprigs, plum pudding and roast goose?" Blake put her arms around my shoulders.
"Actually I was hoping to pay off the cards and put a little back." I touched her arm with my hand. They were reassuring there.
"You’re getting awfully economical."
"We have responsibilities now."
"True. Any mail?"
"Card from Mom and Dad. Bills. I was just about to check the box. Why don’t you dish up soup and salad while I finish?"
"Your wish." Blake kissed my ear and headed for the kitchen.
There were four of interest: from Jen, Jean, Jodi, and Dad. I ran prints for Blake.
"So, brother of mine, or so the birth certificate says, you and Blake have gone and done it. Made me an aunt. I’m not old enough to be an aunt. Or strong enough, heh, heh. I still have a hard time thinking of you in a maternity dress, even if you were a beautiful bride. Are you gonna be the typical Southern matron, a belly as big as a house and hair to match? Pictures, I want pictures of your progress. They should scare the bejeebers out of Bren. Love you always, your sister, Jen"
"What is this two peas in a pod business? I seem to remember you assuring me on the deck that women bore the babies. Now you’ll be giving Nikki ideas. I’m so jealous it’ll make my brown eyes green. Hugs and kisses, Jean"
"WOW! We’re so happy for you two. We’re trying again next month. I can’t wait to stop teaching History and make some. Congratulations. Has Blake come down from the ceiling yet? All our love, Jodi and Shelby Villebranche"
"So you two actually went through with it. That’s a precedent breaker. I have to come up next Thursday to argue a brief. Take you two to dinner. Dad"
"Sounds like my brother is having a move put on him."
"Maybe. If Jen gets him in a wedding gown, that really ought to freak your mother out."
"No kidding. Speaking of mother, we ought to call her tonight."
"Do we have to?"
"Sooner started, sooner done. Besides, we put it off and she’ll just bitch we didn’t call earlier."
"True. Right after dinner. You check your e-mails, and I’ll get comfy, and then you can call."
"Me?"
"She’s your mother."
"But you’re having the baby."
"Blood’s thicker than water, even amniotic fluid. I’ll be sweet after you butter her up."
"I really think your relations would improve if you would call her."
"Screw your courage to the sticking place, McBlake, and once more into the breach."
"Those lines are different plays."
"Who cares? You call." Never negotiate with a lawyer. That’s how I wound up with a four baby family plan.
Supper went slowly. It was good, I always add a little something to the can, but it wasn’t that good. We lingered over cheesecake, grocery deli, I’m not a perfectionist like Jan. But eventually I gave the pots and pans a quick swipe before retiring to undress.
Normally when my hair is up, I like to draw attention to my neck, a little ribbon choker, or a gold chain necklace. If I didn’t get a hickey sometime before I saw Jolene again, I must have been doing something wrong. But not this night. It was light flannels, despite the return of warm weather, and fuzzy slippers, and cold cream to deep cleanse my face. No way Blake was going to wiggle out of this one by seducing me. I even slipped on full cut panties with me tucked neatly under.
Blake wandered in, a sheaf of papers in her hands.
"Anything important?"
"Some additional points from Draper. Congratulations from Uncle Ben and Aunt Tilda, Aunt Linda and Uncle Marion. Some other stuff that can wait. I better read this from Mr. Draper."
"Oh no you don’t. You can’t do anything about it tonight anyway. I’ll read the notes from your aunts and uncles, you get on the phone with your mother."
The notes were nice but perfunctory. His father’s kin had been polite at the wedding, their gifts appropriate. "Congratulations. Keep us informed," basically.
Blake sat still, phone in her hand, drew a deep breath. She punched in one last number.
"Mother? Hi, it’s me, Blake."
"Yes, it’s true."
"No, Mom, it’ll be fine. I’m very happy about it."
"Yes, I know it’s not how most people do it. But you knew at the wedding about our plans."
"No, Mother, I talked him into it. With my career, it seems like the best way. You wouldn’t want all my education to go to waste, would you?"
"Mother, I make three times as much as Jaimie. Of course I’ll be the main bread winner. I don’t mind."
"No, he doesn’t mind either. Do you, Sugar?"
What was I supposed to do, shout into the phone?
"Of course he’s right here. Where else would my wife be?"
"Yes, wife. Get used to the idea, Mother. I, we, like it this way." Blake stuck the phone out. "Here. She wants to talk to you."
"Hello? Mrs. Jones?"
"Are you really pregnant? You two aren’t just pulling my leg?"
"Yes, I am, and no, we aren’t. I’m so happy to have Blake’s child."
"I thought you weren’t sure about that."
"I wasn’t always, but Blake is so loving and supportive, you really did a wonderful job raising her, Mrs. Jones, that it just all fell into place. Our team is really wonderful and I just know everything is going to be just fine. You and Mom will dangle a granddaughter on your knee and get to spoil her a bit."
There was a momentary silence. "A granddaughter? You’re sure?"
"Uh-huh. They checked when they checked the genetic markers."
"Genetics? Nothing’s wrong, is it?"
"Oh no. That’s why they check. She’ll be so sweet, I just know it. Just like Blake." Not like her granddam, you bet.
Silence. A long, impenetrable silence. "You really want to do this?" Be a freak and a laughing stock, you mean?
"Yes, I do. I want to have Blake’s baby more than anything."
"Are you two ever going to do anything the conventional way?"
"I assure you, Mrs. Jones, that at heart we are as conventional as any couple they ever wrote romantic songs about. My outer package may be a little changed, but inside my heart beats true for my one and only."
"You’re not going to dress her in trousers and cut her hair into a crew cut, are you?"
"Of course not. She’s going to be the most beautiful, the sweetest, the smartest, the strongest little girl ever." Shoulda left off the strongest bit. "All the boys will love her."
There was a deep audible sigh. "I’m not sure I will ever understand you two. I thought I did, once. Blake, that is."
"Just love us, Mrs. Jones. I love Blake, and Blake loves you," Deep down that’s not a fib. "and we’re all going to love our little girl."
"Picked a name yet?"
I crossed my fingers, my ankles, my toes. "It’s still under discussion. We have awhile."
"Just not a junior, alright? I can’t stand adults walking around being called ‘Junior.’ It sounds so, so, hillbilly! Like they’re inbred or something."
"I think I can guarantee she won’t be called ‘Junior,’ Mrs. Jones. I think we oughta ring off now. Blake has a long day ahead of her tomorrow."
"Perhaps so. Let me talk to my daughter again."
"Surely. We love you, Mrs. Jones." I’ll never know where that came from. Relief, maybe, at still having my head on my shoulders.
"You do? I love you too." It was an automatic, but even auto-pilot counts in my book.
"Mother? We’ll keep you informed of progress."
"Love you too. Bye."
Blake cradled the phone, breathe hard. "That went well, I think."
"Mama-Bear didn’t make my Blakey-Bear all Grumpy-Bear, did she?" I snuggled close, nuzzling her arm.
"No, just exhausted."
So I didn’t get my hickey that night. Rubbing my poor, tired Provider-Bear’s back was nice too, part of my wifely duties after I cleaned off my remaining cold cream.
§§§
My hair was properly crushed when Jolene did me next. Ashley had questions I couldn’t answer about Richard’s Gender Identification program, but it was obvious she was giving serious consideration to seeing Dr. Linwood. Jolene was full of questions about how I felt, curious to discover if there were emotional or physical differences with her pregnancies. It was reassuring to have my own yardstick when my body went through the inevitable changes.
My immediate concern was how to wear my hair. You can do a thousand variations on a twist, but I like variety. After all, it’s not like I’ve worn do’s forever, so it’s still a little exciting, seeing my look change just from rearranging my hair. But honestly? A different do keeps Blake intrigued as well. With my job, up and controlled is the norm. With my skill level, something simple I, or Blake, can maintain and repair, helped make it to the next session. With Dad coming in, something smooth. He handled that better than when my head was in flossy curls.
Jolene came up with a style between a Gibson and a Geisha. Not as much pompadour as a Gibson, not sectioned like a Geisha, but with a smooth, slightly lifted top and sides, and a puffed back. Everything was drawn up on my crown into a large fan chignon with strands smoothly wrapped around the base. There were curled wisps at the points of my nape and my temples, just enough to keep Blake interested without making Dad all uncomfortable. Before I went under the dryer, two of the other patrons congratulated me on my "impending event." That was nice. So was openly browsing "Modern Maternity" along with the style books.
The fan made a nice backdrop for a small pin, just a little accent for interest, not enough to scream "event." Even Mrs. Hutchison was complimentary when she reminded me we would be announcing my "condition" that Friday. I was floating a bit when I headed for home, primped, praised, and pampered.
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