woman scorned, woman burned iii

9 March 1967

I'm pregnant. And confused. Twelve years of marriage, seven years of resignation and several weeks of reckless, ecstatic renewal...and I'm pregnant. I am bewildered, anxious. Afraid.

I had to tell Stanley. After the first night, when he came back home, disheveled, rough-faced, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and peace of mind - he looked the part of a man who had spent the night roaming the streets, looking for his wife, refusing to let his legs take him to the one place he knew she was but couldn't believe her to be. When he burst through the door, he saw me in my dressing gown. I smelled like soap and talcum powder, the proof of my adultery lathered away, swimming down the drain in creamy suds. But he saw the guilt in my eyes, he saw that I no longer belonged to just him. I was sitting on the sofa, smoking. He collapsed at my knees and sobbed like a lost child. I couldn't bring myself to touch him, to soothe him, but I let him put his head in my lap. My stray tears dropped onto his gray hairs where they lay, and they grew slick from the moisture.

When we had gathered ourselves, he apologized. I'm not sure what for. For breaking our trust? For momentarily thrusting decorum and manhood aside to weep at my feet? I didn't respond. What could I have said? I didn't say anything until he thanked me for coming home and said he was glad. He was rubbing the back of his neck, wiping my tears off the nape of his neck where they were tickling him, when I said I'm not going to stop seeing him. I don't know where it came from. I hadn't given it much thought until then, but once the words were uttered, I assumed they were true. And they were, despite - or perhaps because of - his rage and the beating he gave me. While John tried to soothe my bruises with ice, I thought with regret about the color of my skin and how well it masked injury. Even the wounds invisible to the eye: why is it so easy to assume that my blackness makes me stronger?

I told Stanley I was pregnant when he came to John's flat, looking for me once again. It was odd to see him there; it's been some time since he deigned to visit. I wonder if its modesty, John's modesty, surprised him. He came to beg - so out of character. He begged for forgiveness, for me to return. I was determined to resist his cajoling. I broke the news defiantly, hoping to hurt him, to throw his insecurity and insolence back in his face. As hard as I could.

I wasn't expecting him to grow still. He glided to the settee and cautiously lowered himself on it. And granted, I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but my hand held a firm grip on a nearby empty brandy bottle. Just in case. When eventually his eyes fell on me, blue and tired, they mirrored my own awe and wonder. There is a child in me. Half me, half our best friend's. His best friend. His brother. The only man alive who has known him from the days of his youth, the one person who was his partner in the discovery of this elusive thing called manhood.

Let me raise it. That's what he said to me. He wants to be a father to my child. John isn't stable enough, he says. He travels too much. One month in London, six months on the rig. Let me raise it. He can provide a home, money, education. Love even, one day. This child, my child, is innocent and no, it's not exactly the one he has always wanted, but nonetheless, it can be our child, he said. Brown-eyed like me, fair-skinned like John...or him. Nobody had to know.

He made his case. John wasn't home. So, coward that I am, I re-packed my small bag and wrote him a brief note to let him know that I had gone home (what home?) and that he wasn't to follow. My head was lowered the whole way back - I felt weak. I feel...powerless. What is the point to a life like mine? I have no say - running back and forth from one man to another, always expecting to be taken care of. Part of me wishes he would come, that John would look for me, but how many times can one woman's heart be pursued? It's been three days and he hasn't even called. I know because I haven't left the house; I haven't wanted to miss his calls. At the same time, I dread having to hear his voice. Will he think I used him, that Stanley and I connived a contrived plot to achieve the fruit of our marriage? I can't bear the thought of pain I have caused him, the blame I will surely hear in his voice. He brought me back to life, however briefly, and I could find no better way to repay him for helping me find redemption. What kind of person am I?

I am reminded constantly that he doesn't know about our child. What would possess me to tell him now, about a child that I've ensured he will never see? Tongues will wag, that much is certain; twelve childless years, suddenly ended, won't go unnoticed and John and I didn't go to any lengths to be discreet in our indecent romance. But I suppose this is my lot. I've made my bed. I now have the future to contend with, an unrecognizable one, filled with nappies and first steps and first words (stretch marks!!). A face, perhaps, that will remind me of John. A face that will remind Stanley, too.

When you have sinned so thoroughly, so willfully, does God still answer your prayers?



cont.