The Marriage Bed (16 page)

How she managed to get the buttons of her shirtwaist undone seemed a mystery to her. Clutching it closed she waited for the doctor, alternately praying that she could go through with the examination and wishing she would just expire, then and there, and be saved the embarrassment she knew awaited her.

"Okay," the doctor said, coming into the room and heading for a basin of water that stood in the corner, a sign above it announcing
for the doctor's use only
. "Any questions before we start?"

"Will you be able to tell what's wrong with me?" Livvy asked, then corrected herself. "I mean, right away? Just from . . ." She gestured toward the table. This was worse than her wedding night, and that hadn't been any too good.

"Frankly, Mrs. Williamson, I already have my suspicions. How 'bout we get you up on the table and have a look-see?"

She wanted to. Lord, she really did, but her feet refused to move. The nurse held out her hand. Dr. Roberts crossed her arms over her chest. The clock on the wall ticked so loudly she could hardly hear the tapping of the doctor's impatient foot.

"Up or out, Mrs. Williamson? I've an office full of patients waiting for me."

Livvy nodded and reached for the nurse's hand. As she got up onto the table, she saw the doctor roll her eyes and grimace.

"You've been married three years?" she asked Livvy, as if she weren't sure she'd gotten it right.

"Yes."

"Scoot down here more," the doctor instructed. "Knees over the wood. More. Lord," she said with a heavy sigh. "Let's get this straight. I'm going to reach up inside you with my hand and make sure your husband hasn't moved anything God put somewhere else. Won't feel all that different. You just tell me if it hurts."

The doctor flicked on the lamp and Livvy felt its heat on her shins. The doctor's fingers jabbed at her thighs as if digging for buried treasure.

"What a surprise," she said with a groan. "I'm going to need some soap, Miss McKenzie. She's dry as a bone."

One of the doctor's hands rested on Livvy's stomach, easing her against the table. The other began to insinuate itself between her legs. She smacked them closed, locking the doctor's hand between them.

"Oh, you must be just what your husband dreamed about when he was still taking care of his own business. Miss McKenzie, I'm going to need a little help here."

Cold hands pried her knees apart. Something slipped inside her. A finger. Two. The hand on her belly pressed down.

"Okay," the doctor said when Livvy was sufficiently humiliated and the sound of her sniffling filled the room. "Now. This is going to feel cold and a bit uncomfortable."

Something larger and harder than Spencer entered her. Olivia grasped the edges of the table and bit down on the inside of her cheek until the warm taste of blood filled her mouth.

"It lets me see right up inside you," Dr. Roberts said. "Now scoot down just a little more so I can get my finger into your—"

Something metallic fell to the floor with a clang as Livvy tried to jump up and away from the doctor's probing hands. One leg was still locked over the wooden support, caught in the sheet that covered part of her thigh but left her other parts shamefully exposed.

"Don't," she said, choking on her words. "I can't. I . . ."

The doctor backed away and spoke to her very softly, as if she were a mad dog with foam running from her mouth. "We're done. It's all over. Just sit a minute and catch your breath and we'll talk."

Talk? She couldn't swallow. She couldn't breathe. She certainly couldn't talk. And what would she say, anyway? She dropped her head into her hands and cried. Cried for the baby she wasn't going to have and the hope she would have to let go of.

"There's nothing wrong with you," the doctor said, leaning against the door with her feet and her arms crossed casually. "Everything's where it should be, from what I can see. Except your sexuality."

Livvy had no idea what she was talking about. "My . . . ?"

The doctor shook her head and scratched at her ear, inserting her pinky and shaking it. "You, my dear, are a victim of your time. Repressed, afraid, hysterically shy. You are the reason there are more whores on River Street than breweries. Before you are going to become a mother, madam, you are going to have to become, a woman."

Livvy covered herself with the sheet and stared at the doctor, trying to understand what the old woman had said. "I can have babies?" she asked, finally finding her voice.

"That's what I said," the doctor answered, rolling down her sleeves and turning to leave.

"Then why haven't I?"

The doctor looked her up and down as if she were wearing one of those sandwich boards and parading her condition about Milwaukee. "Nerves," she said, and opened the door. "Same as I see nearly every day of the week, nearly every week of the month. Like more patients than I can count, it would be my guess that until you learn to enjoy what God made miraculous, you aren't likely to produce any miracles. But maybe then ...

"There is no pill, no cure, no operation. You are your own worst enemy, Mrs. Williamson, in my opinion. Your husband knows what to do. Let him do it."

And with that, she shooed the nurse out in front of her and shut the door.

Chapter Eleven

Bess hadn't wanted to talk about the doctor any more than Olivia. She'd clutched her purse to her chest all the way back to their room and muttered to herself under her breath. She seemed so beside herself that Livvy temporarily forgot her own troubles and demanded to know what Dr. Roberts had told her.

"Nothing." Bess held the handbag so tightly Livvy was afraid it would break in two. "What did she give you?"

"Give me? Nothing. Nothing I'd ever use, anyways." Now she had Livvy's curiosity piqued. "Because?" "Because I'm a good Catholic and I know what marriage and the marriage bed are for!" She blushed to her graying roots.

Livvy hadn't, noticed how old Bess was getting, but now she could see the little lines by her eyes and the silver in her fading reddish hair. Time was running out for Bess, and Livvy knew she wasn't far behind. She put out her hand, palm up, and waited for Bess to open her purse and place her secret into it.

"I can't," Bess said, shaking her head. "I just can't."

"Bess Sacotte! What in the world has gotten into you? Is it some sort of medicine? A tonic?" She knew how much alcohol, or even opium, some of the medicines on the market contained, and she was as leery of them as the next woman, but it was nothing for Bess to be ashamed of. Not with her, of all people.

"It's a"—Bess lowered her voice so that no one rushing by on the street could overhear them—"fremph lope."

At least that was what it sounded like to Livvy.

"A what?"

"A French envelope," Bess said, a little louder as she was frustrated and fed up and Livvy thought she might even be near tears.

Livvy put her hand around her sister-in-law and patted her gently on the back. "Well, that's not so bad, is it?" she asked. "Are there special instructions inside?"

Bess looked at her as if she were daft. "Instructions? I figure that Remy'll surely know where to put the thing, don't you?"

"Put what?"

Bess's eyes widened. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

Livvy had assumed that the French had figured out some special system to aid Bess in her problem, but from the look on Bess's face, she was obviously missing some vital piece of information.

"It goes on his . . . That is, it catches the . . . So that a woman doesn't . . . Oh, Livvy! I can't talk about this!" She hid her chubby reddened face in her hands.

"It's a thing? From France?"

"No, it's just called that because a man puts . . . and it holds . . ."

Livvy had no idea what her sister-in-law was getting at.

"Oh, Lord," Bess said with a sob. "It catches his . . . and the Lord says that loving is for the making of babies, and with this there won't be any making of babies because . . . Well, you know. You're a married woman, for goodness sake!"

Livvy just patted Bess's back some more and nodded. Dr. Roberts was right. Before she became a mother, she was going to have to learn a lot about being a woman. Bess had just confirmed what the doctor had told her. She was repressed. She was hysterically shy. Her own worst enemy. The doctor had laid all the blame on Livvy's nerves. But, and it was a glorious, wonderful
but
, if it was only nerves and fear, she could give Spencer a baby of his own.

In a silence that was one shade shy pf companionable, the two women sat on a bench in front of the YWCA and waited for Charlie Zephin to pick them up and return them to where they belonged. Milwaukee was full of conventioneers and wild women and beer gardens and doctors who expected women to know more than they should.

They both seemed relieved when Mr. Zephin's carriage finally pulled up, his friendly face breaking into a smile at the sight of them.

Well
, Livvy thought,
at least I'm not repulsive. Charlie Zephin's happy to see me.
Lord, now she didn't know whether she wanted to believe the doctor or not. It would take an awful lot on her part to live up to the doctor's recommendations. But the rewards were so great!

"Just gotta make a quick stop," Charlie said when the women were settled in the carriage. "You women have a nice morning?"

Livvy and Bess exchanged looks, Bess hugging that purse of hers even more tightly to her bosom. Livvy searched for something to say in answer, but before she could come up with anything, Charlie pointed toward a dapper gentleman standing by the corner and pulled the carriage up beside him.

"Makeridge?" he asked, and the man nodded. He was pleasant-enough looking, though from this distance it was hard to tell how accurate Emma's description of his blue eyes and wavy brown hair had been. He carried a leather satchel and several packages and next to him there stood a valise.

Charlie got down from the carriage and grabbed Mr. Makeridge's suitcase, then ushered the man toward them, all the while talking animatedly no doubt about the merits of placing a railroad line through Maple Stand. Livvy didn't care very much one way or the other. Maybe Dr. Roberts was right. Maybe if she just relaxed, it would happen.

"Mr. Makeridge, allow me to introduce Mrs. Williamson and Mrs. Sacotte, only two of the lovely women that hail from Maple Stand. Ladies, Mr. Makeridge."

The man came close enough for Livvy to get a good look at him, and Emma hadn't been exaggerating by much. If his eyes weren't as blue as a June sky, they were certainly late May. And that rakish curl that dipped over his left eye, well, there was a time a man like that could have probably made her swoon. But now she valued a strong back over a full head of hair, a careworn face over a slick smile.

Stilly she couldn't help but notice his fine manners and the way he complimented her on her traveling dress and hat. He took notice, too, of the fancy needlework on Bess's gloves and then asked the ladies' preference regarding seating for the ride. Stunned at being given the choice, she stuttered for a moment and let Bess answer for them.

"Back of this wagon rides like a plow over a rocky field, Mr. Makeridge. If you don't mind awfully, I'd sure prefer to ride up front with Mr. Zephin."

Makeridge smile widely at Olivia, as if he could think of nothing more pleasant that spending an entire day next to the wife of some stranger, then extended his hand to Bess and assisted her in getting down from the wagon and then up again into the front seat.

Climbing in next to her, Mr. Makeridge asked Olivia if she would mind holding his packages for a moment, took his satchel from Charlie, and settled himself.

"Chocolates," he said by way of explanation when he took the parcels back from Olivia and settled them on his own lap. "Love them, don't you? Ambrosia from the gods."

Olivia smiled and nodded. She'd had chocolates only a few times in her life, and remembered the occasions well. The last time had been when Spencer proposed marriage. He'd brought a box of chocolates and a bouquet of pussy willows, it being too early in the season for anything else to be in bloom. He'd explained that he couldn't manage the farm himself and that he thought they could get on well enough.

There had been no mention of love, no flowery words exchanged. But that once, at least, there had been the chocolates and the pussy willows.

"You know there is no chocolate that compares to that which one can find in Milwaukee," he said. "Perhaps later I can interest you in sampling some."

"I'm sure you can," she agreed, perhaps a little too readily for good manners. "Later. It's a long ride."

And indeed it was. The afternoon sun lost its brilliance and the day turned cooler the farther they traveled from Milwaukee until the sun began to set somewhere around the halfway point of their journey.

Bess had fallen asleep long ago, her head alternately tipped back with her mouth ajar or leaned down deep against her chest. Charlie shouted back to his passengers every now and then, but it was difficult to hear him and Olivia felt most of the time as if she and Makeridge were all alone in the world, vast fields laid out on either side of them.and no one passing for miles at a time.

"I enjoy my work immensely," he said after one of the many periods of silence between them. "There's a wonderful opportunity to travel, to meet new people, to influence the future on a grand scale as well as on a personal level."

"There are a great many people opposed to the railroad, Mr. Makeridge. How do you deal with them?" she asked, wondering if Spencer would still be angry at her when she returned home. Why had she disagreed with him about the railroad? How could she have opposed him publicly the way she had? No wonder he hadn't even said good-bye.

"Throughout time there have been people who have refused the opportunity the future was willing to hand them. People who want to stay mired in the past because they are comfortable in it, or simply because they are afraid of the unknown. I view these people with pity, Mrs. Williamson, or sometimes even with contempt, for they don't want merely to stay in the past themselves but hold to everyone back with them."

"About an hour or two more to go," Charlie said over his shoulder. "Wish we'd stopped for supper back in Green Bay."

Olivia was sorry, too, but the doctor had cost her all the money she'd saved. And she'd had to lend Bess the little bit Spencer had given her for a book by Dr. Alice Stockham that had a diet Bess was to follow. Since the two women hadn't enough money for a meal in Green Bay, they had suggested pressing on. Livvy's stomach rumbled, as it had been doing for the last half hour, and she hoped Mr. Makeridge didn't hear it.

"You know," the man next to her said, lifting one of his parcels onto his lap and peeling the brown paper off it, "I could surely go for a chocolate about now. I adore the chocolates you can get in Milwaukee. The French cream roses are beyond compare. But the very best that this city—or any other that I've been in, and I have been around"—he placed a hand on hers and patted it knowingly, giving her a wink—"has to offer are the imported chocolate-covered cherry cordials."

He ripped what remained of brown paper from the box, revealing a fancy satin cover imprinted with writing that Olivia thought she recognized as French, but wasn't sure.
French envelopes
popped into her head. She wished it was too dark for Mr. Makeridge to see her embarrassed blush, but doubted it. She guessed she fairly glowed.

"Won't you try one?" he said, lifting the cover and letting the moon's light reveal perfect rows of sweet dark chocolate mounds with a swirl atop each one. "I assure you they will take you to heaven."

"Perhaps just one," Olivia agreed, the juices in her mouth pooling at the smell that was rising from the box.

He leaned forward and extended the box toward Charlie and Bess. "Chocolates?" he offered.

Bess's chubby hand reached for one and then pulled back. Livvy had thought she was still asleep. "I think I'll wait awhile," she said. It seemed she was looking for an alternative to the doctor's solution.

"Love chocolate," Charlie said, reaching in and grabbing several. "Little enough sweetness in life. Take what you can get."

"Yes," Mr. Makeridge' agreed and placed the box in Olivia's lap. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth. That's what I always say, Mrs. Williamson. Or may I call you Olivia?"

Livvy lifted a soft chocolate from the box, its melted edges clinging to her fingers, and took a bite, letting the lush center stream into her mouth. She tipped her head back quickly but still some of the cream dribbled onto her chin. She felt Makeridge's finger catch the drop before it fell to her bodice, and he traced its path upward toward her lip, then placed the finger in his own mouth and sucked it clean.

Between the moist sweetness that swirled in her mouth and the sight of the handsome man next to her licking his finger and watching her clean her lips with her tongue, she felt a dizziness like nothing she had ever felt before.

She popped the rest of the bonbon into her mouth and chased the cherry with her tongue, coaxing it out of its candied shell. At his insistence she had three more before he shifted in his seat and eased her against him ever so gently. "You must be getting tired," he said solicitously. "If you'd like to rest, I would be honored to act as your pillow.

Livvy let herself sink against him slightly. It had been a long ride and there was still awhile to go. Her corset cut into her stomach and her breasts, and she marveled that city women wore them every day. She could feel more than see the gooey mess on her hand, and seeing no alternative, she licked her fingers as daintily as she could.

"You may let yourself go," he said, easing an arm around her shoulder and encouraging her to sink closer into his chest. "I hardly feel you against me, you're so very delicate."

Livvy had been called many things, but never delicate. She was good, sturdy stock, meant for a life of hard work. She had strong muscles and tough bones. Still, in the quiet carriage, the moori shining down on her, her belly full of chocolate cordials and her back resting against a very handsome man, she felt almost delicate. And maybe a trifle wicked, as well. If only Dr. Roberts could see her now.

"Have another chocolate," he said near her ear, rustling the box in her lap until she agreed. She had an astoundingly hard time finding a bonbon with her fingers, then an equally hard time finding her own mouth. It wasn't all that surprising when a piece of the chocolate shell, perhaps because she wasn't sitting quite upright, fell onto her bodice. Before she could react, Mr. Makeridge's quick hand whisked it away and popped it into her mouth.

His fingers were salty in her mouth, and firm. They slid on the cream that was already there and then disappeared through her pursed lips. "Mr. Makeridge!" she managed to get out, after swallowing the cherry whole and nearly choking on it. She tried to right herself, but it seemed too great an effort. And he was whispering so quietly that if she moved, she'd never be able to hear him.

"WayIon," he said smoothly, as if she hadn't tried to yell at him. "And we couldn't have such a pretty suit ruined, now could we? And you surely wouldn't want to waste this chocolate."

He handed her another, touching it to her lips before she took it with her own hands. "These are really good," she told him, struggling once again to sit up but feeling somewhat off balance. "Really good." Not only did they taste good, but they seemed to make her feel good, too. The air felt warmer, the breeze stronger, and the carriage wheels seemed to be rolling on air.