Chapter 31
CHAPTER 31
February 1970
Maura
Christy and I learn how to better live with one another after Christmas. Or, more honestly, I learn how to better appease him. I know when to join in conversation and when to keep my mouth firmly shut. I know what meals to cook and not to cook. I know when to look my best and when to stay out of his sight.
Christy’s thirtieth birthday falls on a Saturday. I’ve bought him a watch with a square face and a black leather strap. He says he’d prefer a brown strap. I tell him I’ll change it in town next week, and I’m glad to have the chore and an excuse to visit Bernie. She hasn’t been coming by as often lately. Her feet are badly swollen. She doesn’t complain, but Dan confided in me that walking is causing her pain.
“This baby can’t come soon enough,” he said. “Her headaches are getting worse by the day.”
I asked Christy if headaches in late pregnancy were normal and he told me I’d find out for myself someday.
Christy’s birthday runs like a military operation. At 11:00 a.m. on the dot our doorbell rings and his family comes inside for brunch. We chat and eat and laugh. Declan says the house looks great. Agatha compliments my dress and Grace passes me a box of bread soda that she picked up in the market.
“For the net curtains,” she says. “They’re looking a little yellow.”
I soaked every curtain in the house in boiled water and bread soda last week for the occasion. They’ve never looked whiter. But I smile and thank her nonetheless.
At 2:00 p.m. the Davenports leave and Christy heads for the pub with his colleagues.
“I won’t be long,” he says, pulling on his coat by the door. “We can celebrate, just the two of us, later. Wear those earrings I bought you for Christmas, eh?”
Christy opens the door and a gust of icy wind scurries inside, but it’s a sense of dread that chills me to the bone. I watch him leave, then hurry upstairs and fetch the silver earring box. I sit on the bed and count backward from five before I muster the courage to open it. With shaking fingers, I lift out one of the earrings. My heart sinks. As I feared, the delicate emerald jewelry is not clip-on. It has a stem for pierced ears. My ears are not pierced. I spend much of the afternoon fighting panic. A couple of times I try to push the stem through my earlobe, but I fail each time the pain takes over.
At 6:00 p.m. the front door opens and song fills the hall. I creep onto the landing and view Christy sitting on the bottom step of the stairs trying to pull off his shoes while singing “Sweet Caroline.” He isn’t holding the melody correctly and the lyrics are off. I hope if I stay out of sight long enough he’ll sing himself to sleep right there in the hallway. Unfortunately, my hopes are dashed when he pulls off his shoes and shouts, “Maura, what’s for dinner?”
There’s a stew waiting on the cooker, and by the time I fix my hair to cover my ears and make it downstairs he’s helped himself to a bowl.
“There you are, my darling,” he says. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. “This is delicious.” A little gravy trickles down his chin.
“Glad you like it,” I say.
Mouthful by mouthful, I watch as sustenance seems to sober him. His focus sharpens and begins to cut into me. My heart races as his eyes sweep over my face. If he touches my hair, I think I’ll run.
I needn’t worry—it’s not my hair he wants to touch. He sets his bowl down and slides his arm around my waist, pulling my chest against his. Face-to-face, his breath smells of alcohol and carrots.
“Thirty,” he says, as if his age shocks him. “Can you believe I’m thirty years old now?”
Christy has no lines in his face and there is only a hint of gray hair sprinkled at his temples.
“Thirty and still not a father. My father had all three of us by the time he was twenty-eight.”
I don’t speak. I can’t guess what he wants to hear.
“Let’s rectify that now,” he says.
I stiffen. “But it’s only been five weeks.”
Christy laughs, but his face turns sour when he realizes I’ve been counting the days.
“The doctor said to wait six weeks, didn’t he?” I say.
Christy taps his chest with his fingertip. “This doctor says five is fine.”
My palms start to sweat. If we make love, Christy will almost certainly push my hair away from my ears.
“I have a terrible headache,” I say.
“There are pills in the bathroom cabinet.”
“They’re all gone.”
“There are more in my bag.”
“But—”
“Maura, are you listening? My father had three children by my age. I have none. I am not asking.”
“Christy, please?”
Christy says my name once more through clenched teeth, and when he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me toward the bedroom, I know earrings are the least of my problems.