Masquerade (7 page)

After he anchored the roller in the paint tray, he wiped his hands on a rag and turned. Celeste stood in the doorway, chin in hand, features twisted as if she had a bad case of constipation.

“Whaddaya think?” He moved toward her, made a wide arc with his arms.

“I can’t hear myself think with the stereo turned up so loud. Can’t you turn it down?”

When he brushed past her on the way to the kitchen, he pecked her cheek and picked up a subtle whiff of perfume. He breathed deeply as he neared the fridge. Be nice if her words were as sweet as her smell. He’d worked hard on the paint job. At least she could give him some encouragement. Probably still upset over the baby thing.

“I’m getting ready to fix supper. Stay out of there!”

“You ain’t my mama.” He grabbed the beer he’d started drinking earlier and took a swig while leaning against the open fridge door.

Celeste scooted over and nudged him with her hip. She reached inside and retrieved several items, then laid them on the counter and covered her ears. “Please, turn down that stereo.”

“No problem, babe.” He slammed the fridge door.

In the living room, he clicked off the record player and stared at the needle as it rose and returned to its holder on the side. He loved Celeste, but she could be stubborn sometimes. Why did she balk so hard at getting a second opinion?

Wait a minute. He lowered to the sofa, stretched his legs out, feet crossed at the ankles. Maybe she was adamant because the infertility wasn’t
her
problem. She didn’t need a second opinion because there wasn’t anything to get a second opinion about. Maybe it was
his
problem and she didn’t want to hurt him. Why hadn’t he seen this before?

With his virility in question, he took another drink, puffing  his cheeks and  swirling the liquid  around in  his

mouth.

Pots clattered in the kitchen. Water gushed from the faucet, then chopping sounded on the cutting board.

Celeste
had
appeared withdrawn lately. He’d chalked it up to the beginning of a new school year and preoccupation with the move. Now it seemed all too clear—she was trying to protect him from the truth, even if it meant lying about her physical condition. He should be protecting
her
, making
her
happy, but he didn’t know if he had the courage to get checked out. Of course he wanted children. The good life included a nice house, decent job, and a family. Sure, he drank some, but Celeste would whip him into shape on that score. With a baby in the house, he’d back off. He was certain of it. Joe Tatem could do anything he put his mind to. And giving Celeste a baby was at the top of the list.

Even if it meant dragging himself to a doctor.

###

The door opened, then closed. Feet scuffed toward the kitchen, stopped and veered toward the living room, finally stopping in front of her. A warm breath grazed her arm. “What are you doing all balled up in a corner, sweetheart?”

Sonya hugged her knees, legs encased in her jean dress like shrink-wrapped sausages. She lifted her head, revealing a large wet spot on the material covering her knees.

Sam squatted in front of her and stroked her cheek. “Honey, you’ve been crying. What’s the matter?”

Lips parted, she felt nothing. Maybe she’d cried it all out. Whatever
it
was. She couldn’t quite put a handle on what was wrong. Nothing. Yet everything. All she wanted to do was sleep. Drift away and never come back. At least the house was blissfully quiet.

“Sonya, where are the children?” He leaned on his heels and surveyed the room.

Hah! If they were in the room, don’t you think we’d know it?
The words formed in her mind, but refused to leave her lips.

“Where . . . Are . . . The . . .  Children?” His face tightened. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

Was it worry? Anger? Join the club.

He jumped to his feet and charged toward the stairs. Impressive for a bulky man.

“It’s okay.” The words sounded as if they came from someone else. “They’re in their rooms. At least that’s where I told them to go after I screamed at them for the umpteenth time.” Her head fell to her knees. “I just couldn’t stop screaming.” A sob welled up from someplace deep inside, and she burst into tears.

The
swoosh-click
of the rotary dial.

She lifted her head to see Sam at the foyer table with the receiver in his hand. “Hello, Pastor? . . . This is Sam Miller . . . My wife’s not doing so well . . . No, nothing physical, at least I don’t think so . . . Seems like she might be having some kind of a breakdown . . . Can we come over? . . . Yes, that would be good . . . Thanks.” He hung up and lowered his head, a hand tucked in his back pocket.

Sonya struggled to her feet, a rush of adrenaline pumping through her. “Why’d you do it, Sam?”

He turned and faced her. “Pastor Ron’s a wise man. He’ll know what to do.”

She hugged her arms. “What will he think?”

He walked toward her, placed his hands on her shoulders. “He’ll think you’re hurting and need help; that’s what he’ll think.”

Twisting away from his grip, she ducked her head. “I can’t let you do it. I’m sorry, Sam. Sorry I can’t be the wife you need nor the mother your children need. I’ll try harder, but please, don’t take me to the pastor.”

“You can’t keep this hidden any longer. Babe, you need help.”

Backing toward the corner, she slid down the living room wall, shaking her head. “No . . . what will happen to Lily? Please don’t tell Social Services.”

“The shape you’re in, they’re going to find out soon anyway.”

Children’s voices sounded from the stairwell. “Can we come down now?”

Sam scrubbed a hand over his chin, stretched his neck in their direction. “Go back upstairs, kids.”

“But we wanna help. We’re sorry for not helping before.”

“The best way you can help right now is pray. Just pray for Mommy, okay?”

“What’s wrong with Mommy?” Hannah stuck her face between the banister slats while Lily hobbled past her and into the living room.

“Mommy’s just tired.” Sam’s voice shook. “Now scoot on upstairs. I’ll be there in a little while.”

Sonya traveled through a tunnel, distance growing between her and the family. Their voices sounded far away.

Lily touched her face. “It be all right, Sonny. Jesus help you.”

What a sunbeam of a child. But even Lily couldn’t lift her dismal mood. Maybe Sam was right; she needed help, and the sooner, the better.

CHAPTER SIX

Celeste squinted at the nightstand clock and bolted upright. “Joe.” She shook her husband. “Joe, get up. We overslept.”

Groaning, he snatched her pillow and covered his head.

“You’re going to have a dandy of a hangover on this Monday morn, my love.”

Sunlight filtered through the mini-blinds and cast stripes on the peach wall. Dust particles danced in the air. In spite of the number of beers Joe had consumed over the weekend, his paint job in the master bedroom looked great, especially in the early morning light.

She rummaged through the closet and located a patterned, peasant skirt with high waist and full, round pleats. After shrugging out of her pajamas, she wiggled into a fitted shirt. She stepped into the skirt, then breezed by the bed and nudged her husband. “Joe, get up!”

Silence.

In the bathroom, she ran water over her face, swished toothpaste around in her mouth, and scooped her hair into a ponytail. As she turned to leave, she nearly collided with Joe. He stood in the doorway, his dark hair a

disheveled mess.

She glanced at her watch. “Hurry up, Joe. You’re gonna be late for work.”

“Right.” His eyelids drooped.

She fanned the air. “Whew, your breath reeks.”

“And your teeth are crooked,” he tossed back before stumbling to the sink.

“They are not.” She smirked and darted to the kitchen. A banana would have to keep her until lunch. After throwing together two bologna sandwiches on rye for Joe, she dashed back to the bathroom. Joe sat on the commode, head in his hands.

She peered at him from the doorway. “Maybe you should call in sick today.”

“Nah, never let it be said that Joe Tatem can’t hold his liquor.”

“Well, at least take some acetaminophen.” She retrieved a bottle from the medicine cabinet, popped the lid, and handed him two tablets.

Gulping them down, he stood and scratched his stomach.

Celeste zipped from the room and returned with his work clothes. He stood in front of the sink, a Listerine bottle to his lips. She snatched the container and smashed the uniform against his chest. “Hurry up. If you insist on going to work, I’m taking you. No arguments.”

Hand to his forehead, he saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he closed his eyes and puckered his lips. “Kiss for the private, Captain?”

As  he  fumbled  with  his  uniform, Celeste tried to

comb his hair. Task complete, she flitted to the kitchen, grabbed another banana and her tote bag on the way to the utility room. She idled at the door long enough for her husband to catch up. Her gaze swept to the spare bedroom, now glowing with fresh paint. Celery green.

She sucked in a breath, then exhaled as Joe padded up beside her and brushed the side of her neck with a whiskery kiss. “I love you, Tater Tot. I always will.”

She touched his cheek. “I know, Joe . . . I know.” Opening the door, she urged him outside. “Now let’s get going.”

They sprinted to the Plymouth, Joe matching her step-for-step. Good. Appeared he’d pull out of his stupor after all.

No words passed between them en-route to Joe’s work.

When Celeste pulled up to the curb at Schreiber Metal Works, Joe hopped out of the car and slapped the roof. “We’ll have a child, Celeste. A little girl with her mommy’s button nose.” He grinned, leaned inside, and tapped her nose.

She brushed his hand away. “Go on now, Joe . . . oh wait, take your lunch.” She pressed a brown bag into her husband’s hand. After he slammed the door, she shifted into Drive and pulled from the curb. When she glanced in the rearview mirror, he waved, then headed through the factory door.

When will he understand we can’t have children?
That I can’t have children?

Denial.  Helped  him  cope  with  news  too  big   to

absorb. At least it appeared he’d forgiven her for not telling him sooner about the doctor’s report. She nibbled the inside of her cheek. Maybe he’d be okay if she told him the rest. Could he really forgive her for aborting their child when she couldn’t even forgive herself?

She slammed on the brakes inches from the van in front of her. Great. As if the day hadn’t already started out with a bang.

Arriving at The Brighton Center, she parked the Plymouth and jogged to the door. Martha Filbert’s head shot up when Celeste passed her classroom. Was that a smirk on her face?

She froze when a voice called out, then pivoted on her heel.

Martha charged toward her tugging on her crocheted vest. “Good morning, Celeste. What time did you want me to bring my class down for music?”

Staring at the other teacher, she racked her brain. Was she losing it? She didn’t remember setting up a joint music time.

“If it’s a problem, sweetie,” Martha purred, “we can do it another day.”

“No . . . no problem. Merely slipped my mind, that’s all.” Could she run to her classroom now?

Sidling up beside her, Martha touched Celeste’s elbow. “Well, you’ve been busy moving and settling in, with a new school year on top of that. And probably other challenges, I’m sure, sugar. Why, it’s enough to addle anyone’s brain.” Her cherry-colored lips swept into a saccharine  smile,  reminding  Celeste  of  a  circus  clown.

This woman could spread phony sentimental goo like a dog slinging water off its back.

“Thanks, Martha. Nice of you to understand.” She backed down the hallway. “Bring your kids at nine-thirty.” Turning, head held high, she walked down the hallway. That Martha Filbert wasn’t going to get the better of her.

Inside the safe haven of her classroom, she breathed a sigh of relief. So good to see her able aides tending to the children. Everything under control.

She hurried to the front of the room and eased her tote from her shoulder. “So sorry, everyone. Running late.” She tossed an apologetic smile at Barbara and Amelia. They nodded and smiled back. “Okay, let’s get started. In a little while, Miss Filbert’s class will be joining us for music.”