Little Gale Gumbo (39 page)

She found Dahlia on the back porch, sitting on the swing, knees to chest and staring straight ahead.

“Dahl? Sweetie?”

“I charred a chicken,” Dahlia reported dully. “I think I actually cremated it.”

Josie smiled. She sat down and slid up against her sister, the nylon of their down jackets whistling against each other.

“Did you tell Wayne?”

Josie shrugged. “I didn't really have to. He knew it was something big.”

Dahlia smiled sadly. “Not yet, it isn't.”

“Dahlia . . .”

Dahlia rose and moved to a porch post, wrapping herself around it, sighing wearily.

“Then you haven't changed your mind?” Josie asked carefully.

Dahlia shook her head, her gaze fixed forward.

Josie looked down at her hands in her lap. “What if I raised the baby?”

Dahlia released the post and turned around. She blinked at her sister, sure she had misheard.

“Don't look at me like that,” Josie said, pulling the edges of her jacket tighter around herself. “Why is it such a crazy idea?”

“Why?” Dahlia fell back against the post, wide-eyed. “Jesus, Joze!”

“Just hear me out, okay?” Josie leaped to her feet, crossing to Dahlia's side. “I've been thinking about it all afternoon,” she said breathlessly. “Wayne and I have been talking about adoption—how would this be any different?”

“Joze!”

“Tell me—how is it any different?”

“I can't believe you're even asking me.”

“I know how it sounds, but put yourself in my shoes. Please.”

Dahlia fell back into the swing and buried her face in her hands. Josie dropped beside her, hot tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Please just say you'll think about it.”

Dahlia lowered her hands, dragging a sleeve across her eyes. “What did Wayne say?” Josie bit at her lip. Dahlia sighed. “You haven't discussed this with him, have you?”

“I know he'd be okay with it.”

“Okay raising Matthew's baby?” Dahlia stared at her sister, unconvinced.
“Matthew's?”

Josie shrugged lamely. “I don't see what difference it makes whose baby it is—”

“Oh, Joze, don't be stupid.”

Josie frowned at the silver-pink horizon. “He could learn to live with it, Dahl,” she said after a moment, her voice soft and faraway. “I know he could.”

“Well, maybe I couldn't.”

Josie turned to her sister, her eyes pleading and desperate. She'd never asked Dahlia for anything. All the years, all the times she'd put everyone else's needs first, and she'd never once asked her older sister for anything.

“What about Momma and Ben?” Dahlia asked. “What are we supposed to tell them?”

“You could say it was some guy you were dating, some jerky guy, and that he wouldn't want anything to do with a baby, so you won't be telling him.”

Dahlia shook her head. “This is crazy. You're twenty-six! You can't possibly know at twenty-six if you can't have children.”

Josie's eyes filled. “But the doctors can.”

“I don't believe them.” Dahlia took both of Josie's chilled hands and pulled them to her. “And don't you either, damn it.”

“It's not about believing or not.”

“Since when?” said Dahlia. “Sprinkle oil, dust the steps, light a candle, for fuck's sake. You and Momma pull out that crap when you burn a roux—don't you dare tell me you give up now.”

Josie laughed, but it was a sad, tired sound. “I already did all those things, Dahl. Over and over. Nothing can change this.”

Dahlia drew her sister's hands to her cold, wet cheeks and held them there a long while.

“Please, Dahl,” Josie asked again. “Just say you'll think about it.”

Dahlia drew in a shaky breath, her eyes closed.

“Okay,” she whispered finally. “I'll think about it.”

 

When Josie arrived home, Wayne was waiting in the kitchen, sitting stiffly at their small table.

“She's not keeping it, is she?”

Josie took off her coat and sat down, her hands shaking so badly that she had to make them into fists and drive them deep into her lap. “She's not sure yet.”

“Dahlia doesn't want kids, Jo. She never did.”

“No, but . . .” Josie lifted her eyes to his. “We do.”

Wayne stared at her a long moment before he pushed back from the table and charged to the sink.

“Baby, just hear me out,” Josie pleaded. “Matthew would never have to know it was his. Dahlia could say it was somebody else's, somebody she barely knew. . . .”

“God, Jo.” Wayne gripped the edge of the sink, his eyes fixed on the window, his own strained reflection in the glass. “Just listen to yourself.”

“I know how it sounds—”

“Do you?” He turned to her, the wash of hurt on his face so plain Josie had to look away. “Do you have any idea what you're asking?”

“Dahlia said she'd think about it.”

“I'm not just talking about Dahlia, Jo. I'm talking about me. About
us
.”

Josie nodded. She knew. Of course she knew.

Wayne sighed, turning back to the sink. “I need time. You can't just expect . . .”

“I know.”

He moved from the sink and crossed to the stairs, stopping at the first tread.

He spoke without turning. “I just wonder.”

Josie studied the back of him, her heart racing. “Wonder what, baby?”

“I wonder if you'd have ever suggested this if it weren't his baby.”

Josie drew in a quick breath, as if he'd reached across the room and struck her. He lingered on the stairs an extra moment to give her a chance to respond, but she couldn't manage any defense.

It wasn't until the following morning, after Josie had spent the night wandering the downstairs, that Wayne came to her at the counter and gave her his answer.

“Okay,” he said, tearing as he drew her into his arms. “Okay.”

 

Four days later, Dahlia and Josie sat side by side in the women's clinic's pink-and-cream waiting room.

“Whoever named it morning sickness was an asshole,” Dahlia muttered. “They should really call it every-waking-fucking-second sickness.”

Across from them an older woman with her pregnant daughter glanced up from her magazine, giving Dahlia a disapproving look.

Josie patted her sister's hand. “Can I get you something?”

Dahlia closed her eyes and swallowed. “A daiquiri.”

“I've got saltines.”

“Lucky me.” Dahlia stuck out her hand; Josie set a small stack in her palm. Dahlia began crunching them roughly. Josie returned to the clipboard on her lap, tapping the end of her pen against her lower lip and frowning at the dizzying list of health history questions.

“I always hate this part,” she whispered. “I have no idea what our family has.”

“Just check the box for
nuts
,” Dahlia said. “That about covers it.”

“What are you going to tell the doctor if she asks about the baby's father?”

“She won't. I know she won't.”

A young couple shuffled past them, the woman's large belly straining against her poncho, her feet pinched into a pair of white flats. Dahlia watched her lower herself into a chair, her husband hovering, looking nervous.

“Momma wanted to know why you didn't come in yesterday,” Josie said. “I told her you have food poisoning.”

“For three months?”

“I'm sorry. It was the first thing that came out of my mouth.”

“Jesus, I just wish I could throw up,” Dahlia moaned through a mouthful of saltines. “I would sell my soul for one long, beautiful hurl.”

The older woman snapped her magazine closed. Josie smiled apologetically.

“Dahlia Bergeron?”

The nurse in the doorway looked pleasant, young. Dahlia rose, throwing her bag over her shoulder.

“I'll be right here,” Josie said, handing her sister the clipboard.

They squeezed hands briefly.

“I know you will, sweetie.” Dahlia managed a weary grin. “You and ten pounds of saltines.”

 

In the weeks that followed, Dahlia would swear the sky wore a new shade of gray every morning. Some days it was hard as metal, others soft as ash, but always, undeniably, gray. It seemed the only sun that shone on the island was in the form of Josie, sparkling through each day with an increasing glow, arriving every morning to rouse Dahlia from sleep with a new book on pregnancy, fat and thick, and bags of vitamins and supplements that soon began to overrun the kitchen counter. Not yet ready to tell Camille and Ben, Dahlia had kept her off-season routine intact to avoid suspicion, helping out at the café four days a week and spending the rest of the time ordering bulbs and plants for the spring.

“Did you know that pregnant women have an increased sense of smell?” Dahlia asked during one of Josie's routine visits, sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

Josie gave her sister a pointed look. “That's not caffeinated, is it?”

“Don't start, Joze,” Dahlia warned. “And no more books. If I read one more chapter about how I should be looking forward to uncontrollable flatulence and excessive urination, I'm going to kill somebody.”

Josie smiled, undaunted. “I brought you more of that ginger tea, and I found a great class at the hospital on what to expect during delivery that I already signed us up for.”

“A class?”

“And there're plenty of openings in the Lamaze classes at the Y. I checked.”

“Jesus, Joze. Since when is having a kid a graduate program?”

“Maybe you should lie down,” Josie said suddenly, studying Dahlia as if she might sprout horns. “You look really tired.”

“That would be because I
am
really tired.”

“Do you think Momma and Ben have any idea yet?”

Dahlia shrugged. “It's too early to tell anything. But once I start working outside, it won't be so easy to hide it.”

“Working outside?” Josie blinked at Dahlia. “You're not actually planning on landscaping this spring?”

“No, sweetie, I thought I'd just live off of our fabulous inheritance and take up soap carving. Of course I'm planning on it.”

“But you lift stuff.”

“I know,” teased Dahlia. “Whole pots of seedlings.”

“You know you lift things heavier than that, Dahlia Rose. I'm talking about twenty-pound bags of mulch and topsoil. I'm talking about digging holes for trees!”

“Of course I won't do that,” Dahlia said, growing restless and more than a little annoyed. She rose, adding more coffee to her lukewarm cup. At the counter, she spied a jar of liquid and turned to give her sister a wary look. She held it up. “What is this?”

“Oh, it's nothing.” Josie waved her hand. “Just a little Florida water.”

“Joze . . .”

“Look, I'm not saying you have to splash it on yourself
every
day, just once in a while for a quick cleansing. Just think of it as perfume. Like Momma does.”

Dahlia set the jar back down on the counter, surrendering for the moment. She glanced out the window, watching a female cardinal dance along the edge of a frosted bough. “I haven't seen much of Wayne at the café lately.”

Josie stopped her unpacking a moment, looked up. “He's been helping Roger out on the new garage. He says we need the extra money if we're going to be raising a child.”

Dahlia knew it wasn't the whole truth, but she didn't press her sister.

Finished, Josie folded the empty paper bags neatly and tucked them under the sink.

She hugged Dahlia on her way out. “See you at the café,” she said. “And don't forget to keep taking your folic acid.”

Dahlia forced an agreeable nod, but her strained smile fell as soon as Josie was out the door, her cheeks aching almost as much as her heart.

 

It was a thawing Sunday morning a week later when Dahlia found Wayne in the backyard, painting Charles's boat.

“You're not honestly going to keep that thing?” she asked, taking a seat at the old picnic table.

Wayne shrugged, dragging his brush across the hull. “If you're only looking to catch bluefish, it's not a half-bad boat.”

Dahlia squinted up at the house. “Joze here?”

“Nope. She went into Portland for supplies.”

Dahlia turned to look out at the horizon, her eyes watering. “We need to talk.”

Wayne just nodded gravely, setting his brush into the can at his feet.

 

He made them a pot of coffee. Dahlia sat in the window seat, watching Kitty and Douglas Chase navigate their way down the sidewalk, back from church. They had four children, she recalled. Grandchildren too. Great-grandchildren, probably.

When Wayne came out with their mugs, she tried taking a sip but couldn't. She set down her coffee. “I can't do this.”

Wayne looked at her. It had finally come. The confession he'd yearned for, the ugly, guilt-soaked admission he'd wished for in the loneliest hours of so many sleepless nights in the past month.

The relief came so quickly it made him sick to his stomach.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I can't either. I wish to God I could, but . . .”

Dahlia licked tears from the top of her lip. “I love my sister. I would do anything for her.”

Wayne sniffed, dragging a sleeve across his wet eyes. “So would I.”