The Twelfth Child (25 page)

“If you’re too tired, we could wait, have dinner tomorrow night.”

“Me, tired?”  Abigail saw him smile and for a moment she thought a star had dropped down from heaven.  “I’d
love
to see you tonight – of course, I do have to go home first to freshen up.”

That evening Abigail stepped out looking as she did in the days of Club Lucky.

T
he vase of roses sent by John Langley sat on the front shelf of the circulation desk until the leaves turned brown and fluttered to the floor.  Wilbur Atkins, a man who was considered legally blind and seldom said anything more than good morning, squinted at the vase and told Abigail he thought those flowers were dead.  “Not quite,” she answered, with a breathy sigh that sent several petals cascading to the floor.  

“Not dead, huh?” Wilbur cleaned his glasses and took another look.

Two days later, Bunny Pence, offered to cart the flowers out to the garbage can if Abigail was busy.  “Why, I’m not the least bit busy.” Abigail answered, then explained that she simply wanted to continue enjoying the flowers.  “I adore the smell of roses,” she exclaimed as Bunny stood there looking bewildered.  

When there was just one rose petal left, Abigail plucked it from the stem and pressed it into a book of Elizabeth Browning’s poetry.  She then wrapped the bare stems and a dry sprig of baby’s breath in pink tissue paper and placed the package on a shelf usually used for overdue notices.  That entire summer, not one person in all of Richmond received an overdue notice.  There was frost on the ground when Amelia Cooper remembered to return a book on the planting of daffodils, but Abigail told her to just forget about the fine.

Every other week John Langley spent two days in Richmond and on those nights he courted Abigail as she had never been courted before.  They ate in the finest restaurants, danced at the rooftop pavilion, saw movies, went to the opera, walked in the park and kissed.  When they were alone, John whispered words of love into her ear and kissed her so ardently that Abigail truly believed her body would burst into flames.  Her happiness would have been complete were it not for the fact that John always left. “I’ll be back,” he said, and after a while Abigail came to understand that he was true to his word.

It was easy to know when John was in town, for Abigail’s feet never touched the ground.  She’d float into the library looking radiant as a movie star and click on the radio, despite the
Silence Please
sign she’d put there herself.  Old men got tickled behind their beards and boys were told how handsome they were growing to be.  Bouquets of flowers appeared at the reading tables and there were dishes of chocolates set out on the circulation counter even though Halloween was almost two months off.  Abigail’s cheeks blushed scarlet, not only while John was in town, but for a week afterward.

“You’re in love!” Gloria said and Abigail nodded.  “But,” Gloria stammered, “you don’t know a thing about this guy.”

“I know he makes me happy,” Abigail answered.  “Just, look at me!” 

Gloria had to admit she’d never before seen Abigail looking so good – her cheeks were blossoming, the curve of her face full and round, her mouth upturned and tinkling with the sound of laughter.  “Does he feel the same about you?” she asked.

“Of course!” Abigail giggled.  “He said I make his head spin.”

“Yes, but did he say he
loves
you?”

“Maybe not that exact word.  He said he’s crazy about me.”

Gloria, a skeptic to start with, frowned and left it at that.  After all, it had only been a few months.  Abigail was surely smart enough to insist on a commitment when the time was right.

Abigail never knew a summer to fly by as that one did.  One morning she noticed Wilbur Atkins wearing a wooly sweater instead of his straw hat, which prompted her to check the date on the calendar.  Much to her surprise, both Labor Day and Halloween had slipped by without notice.  She didn’t want such a thing to happen with Thanksgiving, so then and there Abigail decided to fix a roast turkey for John; she planned on sausage stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and a raspberry trifle – he could bring a bottle of wine.  Two nights later, she told him of her idea; but he heaved the saddest sort of sigh and said he’d be up in New York that week.   When her face fell into a look of disappointment, he suggested that they have their own Thanksgiving celebration a week early – which is exactly what happened.  On November seventeenth, a Tuesday, Abigail hired a substitute librarian and stayed at home to cook.

Although she’d not had much luck with the trifle and had at the last minute rushed out and bought an apple pie, the dinner, John claimed, was wonderful.  Afterward, he gave her a cameo locket to commemorate their first holiday together, even though it wasn’t really the actual holiday.  After he fastened the chain around her neck, John kissed Abigail clear down to her bosom all the while whispering how he was absolutely crazy about her.  With his mouth suckling the hollow of her throat, Abigail swooned into his arms and when she finally came to her senses, she was lying on the bed.

“You fainted,” he explained.

“Oh,” Abigail sighed, locked into the pleasure of his face hovering above her.

On Thanksgiving Day, Abigail anticipated a call from him – John did things like that; telephone at odd times, send flowers when she least expected it, poke his head in the door on Tuesday when he wasn’t due back ‘till Thursday – so she got up early and sat beside the telephone.  She waited for seven hours, but the telephone never rang.  At three o’clock she began to think there was something wrong with her line, but just as she started downstairs to inquire about a repairman, the phone rang.

“Hi,” Gloria said and Abigail’s heart slid down past her knees.  “Can you come over?” Gloria asked.  “We’ve got something special to tell you.”

“Well, actually, I’m expecting John to call.” Abigail answered, trying to hide the greatness of her disappointment.  “Tell me on the phone.”

“That would spoil everything.  Come on over. 
Please?
”

Abigail, still hoping John would call, said she’d be there a bit later.  She hung up, waited another five hours then went to Gloria’s apartment. 

The moment Fred opened the door; he called out “She’s here!”

Judging by the glow on his face, Abigail thought he might be a bit tipsy.

“You want champagne?” he asked, “Mince pie, maybe?  We still got turkey –”  

Abigail hadn’t eaten all day and she was just about to say that some of the turkey sounded pretty good, but Gloria cut in.  “Don’t anybody don’t want that left-over stuff,” she laughed, “but we could all use a Coke-cola.” 

Abigail saw something new in her friend’s face – something impossible to put a name to, a softness around the eyes, a half-smile curling the corner of the mouth, an at-peace-with-the-world look of gentleness.  Long before the words were said, she knew Gloria was expecting a baby.   

“In June,” Gloria said, “and we want you to be the Godmother.”

Abigail was so pleased; she told Fred she’d have the champagne, after all.

W
ith Christmas now seeming just around the corner, Abigail began shopping – she bought her forthcoming godchild three yellow baby buntings and a rocking horse and she took to telephoning Gloria most every day to check on how she was feeling.  “Do you have any cravings?” she’d ask, “Want some ice cream?  Pickles, maybe?”

Gloria would usually laugh and say that Fred was taking very good care of her.  “Oh,” Abigail would answer, with a tinge of jealousy because she wanted to be more than a Godmother, she wanted a part in the pregnancy. 

The more Abigail thought about Gloria’s baby, the more she longed to become John’s wife and grow fat with her own child.  She went to Blumgarten’s, the finest men’s shop in all of Richmond and bought John a pair of leather slippers lined with fleece, the kind of slipper any man would look forward to at the end of a hard day.  She also bought him a fine briarwood pipe, even though she’d never known him to smoke.  She wrapped both gifts in Santa Claus paper and fixed a sprig of holly atop the packages.  On Christmas Day she planned to feed him a hearty dinner, and then insist that he sit in the easy chair to relax with his pipe and slippers.  That, she thought, would be the right time to drop a subtle hint about marriage.

On Christmas Eve John called, at a time when she’d already slipped a roast of beef into the oven and was expecting him to be knocking on the door. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m tied up with some emergency inspections in Philadelphia and won’t be able to get there for another week.”

“It’s Christmas,” Abigail moaned.

“I know,” he sighed, “But, what can I do?”

“I’ve already started dinner.”

“Could you maybe invite some friends over?”

“On Christmas Eve?” she sniffled.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Abigail heard the contrition in his voice and ached to feel his arms around her no matter the cost.  “I’ll come to Philadelphia,” she offered.

“Oh no,” he answered almost a little too quickly, “I couldn’t let you do that.  I’m out at the site all day, every day.  It’s terrible.  Muddy.  Cold.  Dangerous even.”

“Dangerous?”

“These are industrial buildings, steel scaffolding and such.  Way too dangerous for a woman to walk around.”  As Abigail sat there crying into the telephone, he went on to say he missed her just as much as she missed him and that he’d see her as soon as he could finish up and get to Richmond.  Then he hung up.

Abigail threw herself across the bed and cried for three hours, completely forgetting about the roast beef in the oven until a curl of black smoke wafted through the apartment.  She didn’t eat at all Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day she ate a bologna and cheese sandwich.

John did not get back to Richmond until the third of January, by which time Abigail had decided that she was going to return the pipe and slippers to Blumgarten’s and ask for her money back.   

“I don’t care much for roses,” she grumbled when he came through the library door carrying a bouquet the size of an oak tree.

“You’ve always liked them before,” he answered.

“That was before –”

“Before what?  Before I disappointed you?  Before I ruined Christmas?”

Abigail mumbled, “Yes.”  She looked down at an overdue notice she’d already stamped seven times and didn’t let her eyes meet his.

“Don’t you think I was disappointed too?”

She shrugged and whacked the overdue stamp.

“Damn you,” he shouted, “Look at me!”  He reached across the counter and tilted her face to his.  “I love you, Abigail!  Can’t you understand that I was just as disappointed as you?”

Abigail was going to tell him that such a thing wasn’t possible, but before she could push the words from her mouth, a tear rolled down her cheek. 

“Yell at me, scream at me,” John pleaded, “but, please don’t cry.”  With that he leaped across the circulation desk and took her in his arms. 

Before that happened, Abigail was set on saying she wasn’t interested in a boyfriend who bounced around like a rubber ball, but once he started smothering her face with kisses, whatever resolve she had was forgotten.  Right there, in full view of library patrons, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.  The kissing continued for a full five minutes and may have lasted through the afternoon, were it not for the fact that Gertrude Fishman asked for a book on tropical rain forests.

T
hat night John took Abigail to dinner in a French restaurant, a romantic place with lights so low, you couldn’t know for sure what you were eating.  He ordered a bottle of champagne tucked inside a silver bucket, and every time she took a sip, he quickly refilled her glass.  He sat alongside of her, close enough that she could feel the pulse of blood in his veins.  He whispered how missing her had driven him wild with desire, then slid his hand over her thigh and drew her closer still.  Abigail knew that even if the building suddenly burst into flames, or the sky came tumbling down, she would be helpless to pull herself away.

Later that evening, at her apartment, they celebrated their own Christmas, despite the fact that Abigail had already taken down the small pine tree in the parlor and ripped the Santa Claus paper from John’s presents.  “I’m sorry this isn’t wrapped,” she murmured handing him the shoe box.  He claimed it didn’t matter, then removed his shoes and slid his feet into the slippers. 

John opened the suitcase he’d carted up to the apartment and pulled out a small box wrapped in silver paper.  “This is for you,” he told Abigail.

When Abigail peeled back the paper she found a solid gold watch sprinkled with diamonds, a watch so delicate a person would have to squint to actually see the time on the face, a watch so perfect, it could only come from a man in love.  “It’s beautiful,” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck so enthusiastically that they both toppled over.  She then leaned into his chest and covered John’s face with kisses.  

When he was finally able to catch his breath, he handed her a second box – pearl earrings.  After that it was a bottle of lavender bath salts.   The last gift was a large box from Macy’s Herald Square.  “This came all the way from New York?” she asked.

He nodded.

Abigail knew she’d been wrong about John not caring.  Obviously, he was every bit as much in love with her as she was with him. 

Inside of the box was a pink satin nightgown with thin straps tied at the shoulder, beneath the nightgown was a matching robe – the most beautiful lingerie set she’d ever seen, elegant enough perhaps to be considered an evening gown, something that a movie star or debutante would wear, something that could only come from New York City or maybe, Paris, France.

“Try it on,” he said.

“A
nightgown
?”

“Wear the robe overtop, that’s perfectly decent.”  When Abigail seemed as though she might be considering the thought, he added, “You ought to make sure it fits.”

She hesitated a moment then moved into the bedroom; when she came back she was wearing the nightgown.   The romantic sound of ballroom music was coming from the radio and John was pouring a second glass of champagne.