A Summer in Sonoma. Робин Карр
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all the stuff they have? You know why? They didn’t get married when they were twelve, they have only one child and she works, that’s why! While we’re eating casserole made out of tuna or, on a big night, wings and thighs!”
“Yeah, it’s really tight, but I don’t think we should give any children away…”
“I’m not finding this funny at all! We’ll never get out of debt!”
“Listen, you can’t make assumptions about people, about their lives. Who knows what’s going on in their private lives? For all we know, Marty and Joe have fifty-thousand-dollar credit-card bills and a second, third and fourth mortgage. And besides, I wouldn’t trade one of our kids for a pinball machine or pool table.” Then he rolled his eyes upward. “Well, I’d probably trade Clint for a boat and an RV…”
“We haven’t planned one single baby,” she whimpered.
“Apparently we don’t have to.”
“Really, I’m very upset about this,” she said, pursing her lips, trying for control.
“Okay, I’m not going to let you get me all stirred up, because you’re…well, you know what you are,” he said. “We try our best to keep from getting pregnant, but we’ve had a surprise or two and we take what we get. Not because we wanted another one right now, but because it’s on the way, it’s ours and we can.”
“Well, don’t get all hooked on the idea. This would be an IUD pregnancy and there’s no telling…”
“You take the home-test thing?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Ah. You already threw up.”
She nodded pathetically. “You know, it might not make it…”
He leaned over her more closely, slipping his big hands under her short nightie. “Jules, this is you and me—the baby factory. It’ll make it. And we might not have a boat, but we’ve been so goddamn lucky. Look at those kids, huh? They’re smart! Healthy. And damn good-looking.”
“Clint’s hyperactive. I can’t keep up with him. I’m at the end of my rope…”
“He’ll settle down. Jeffy was kind of like that. Listen, I could get a few more hours a week…”
“You’re never here as it is.”
“I’ll work as hard as I have to, baby. I’ll do whatever it takes. And I swear, I’ll get that vasectomy before this one even gets here.”
“If one swims through that, I’ll kill you in your sleep!”
He laughed and put his hands over her breasts. He jostled her a little, rubbing against her thigh. “One good thing—you don’t have to worry about getting pregnant for a while.”
“That’s not exactly an incentive,” she told him, sniffing back a tear.
“You can eat like a pig. Everything you want,” he said.
“I get postpartum depression,” she said.
“No, you don’t. You get early pregnancy depression, but when you have a new baby in your arms, you’re alive like no other time. Just how late is this period?”
“A couple of weeks. But you know me…”
“So far you’ve been late exactly three times. But why didn’t you do the test right away?”
“It costs seven dollars! And besides, I don’t want to know for sure,” she said softly.
“After dinner with your folks,” he said dreamily. “I loved that—that was wonderful. I wish that would happen more often.”
“I wish you’d turn me off, not on.”
He grinned. “Well, that explains why you’ve been such a bear. Jesus, there was no making you happy. Except, what’s up with the wine? You’ve had wine.”
She shook her head. “Apple juice in a wineglass with Cassie, that’s all,” she said. Then she started to cry and he held her close. “Billy…” she cried. “Billy, I don’t want this to happen…not now. If we were on our feet…”
“Yeah, it’s okay, baby. You’re just feeling the pressure—I understand that. But we’ll be all right. In the end, things always work out for us. Listen to me—I want you to listen to me now. We have something special. We’ve had it since we were kids, and it’s never been about money. We’re not going to be broke forever, honey. But we’re going to have something special forever. I love you, Jules. Since I was just a boy, I’ve always loved you—only you.”
“This is the talk you give me when I’m upset about being pregnant…”
“Which is just about every time you’re pregnant,” he laughed. “I’m not a real religious guy, but these kids—they have to be meant to be. They just keep sneaking up on us. And they come out perfect.”
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you? All along, keeping it from me…”
He covered her mouth in a kiss. “I must be,” he said. “Makes me so happy, watching you round out, get big and moody. Please, Jules. Don’t be unhappy right now, because it’s going to work out. Somehow, it always works out.”
“Oh, Billy,” she said, putting her hand against his cheek. “I just don’t know if I can do it again…”
“You’ll start to feel better pretty soon. It’s just the first couple of months that are hard on you, then you feel good. And you stop being so mean.”
She sniffed. “I think I’ve been a little cranky lately.”
He laughed. “Well, no shit, honey,” he said. “Now love on me. It doesn’t cost anything…”
Cassie had trouble sleeping soundly through the night for a few nights, and then it got worse before it got better. Billy told her he checked high and low, talked to a lot of people about the guy. There was a real Ken Baxter, but he was out in northwest Sacramento and he was fifty. Billy had looked as far as Folsom, a pretty long drive from the Sacramento bar where Cassie and Ken had met, and he hadn’t turned up another one. It gave Cassie the cold willies to think he had lied about everything; he made up a name, profession, tricked her into trusting him, all for the purpose of overpowering her.
“The way I see it,” Billy said, “the guy played off you and what you said and insinuated himself into your comfort zone. Have a couple of glasses of wine, tell him you’re a nurse and several of your friends are firefighters and paramedics, and bingo—he’s practically family. If he’d met an aerobics teacher, he’d have made himself the owner of a fitness center.”
“Scary,” she said. “I wonder how much success he’s had with that modus operandi.”
That’s when she called the police and asked to speak to a detective, preferably a woman who handled rapes.
“Have you been raped, ma’am?”
“No, but I had a close call, and one of the detectives might be interested in what information I have…”
“You can come in and make a report.”
“Can I just talk to someone?” she asked impatiently. Then she was connected to voice mail; the voice was male, and she left her name, cell phone number and said the very same thing—setup, close call, barely escaped, she had information. She didn’t get a call back. After a few days, she gave up on that. She hadn’t found the police real receptive; she wasn’t about to beg. She had absolutely no charge to file.
“Here’s how I see it,” Billy said. “They’re busy, you’re okay and, under the circumstances, that guy isn’t going to show his face around that bar or that part of town again. Since he doesn’t know whether you actually talked to the police, gave a