The weight of water - Anita Shreve [95]
Since the first day of March, the men had been going out to sea again, and there was something of a sense of relief in this, not only because we had all survived the gruelling weeks of the hard winter, but also because now there would be some breathing room. The men, in particular, were cheered by occupation, and I suppose I was a bit more relaxed not to have so many underfoot. My work did not seem to lighten much, however, since there were the same number of meals to prepare and increased washing now that the men would come back fouled with fish goory in the afternoons.
On the morning of 5 March, I remember that Karen painstakingly dressed in her city clothes, a silver-gray dress with peacock-blue trim, and a bonnet to match, and that once outfitted in this manner, she sat straight-backed in a chair, her hands folded in her lap, and did not move much for hours. I believe she thought that being in city clothes prevented her from taking up a domestic occupation, even one so benign as sewing. It was extremely annoying to me to observe her that day, so stiff and grim, her mouth folded in upon itself, arrested in a state of anticipation, and I know that at least once I was unable to prevent my irritation from slipping out, and that I said to her that it was ludicrous to sit there in my kitchen with her hat on, when the men would not return for hours yet, but she did not respond to me and set her mouth all the tighter. Anethe, by contrast, seemed excessively buoyant that morning, and it was as though the two of us, Anethe and myself, were performing some sort of odd dance around a stationary object. Anethe had a gesture of running the backs of her hands upwards along the sides of her neck and face and gracefully bringing them together at the top of her head and then spreading her arms wide, actually quite a lovely, sensuous movement, and she did this several times that day, and I thought it could not just be that she was glad the men were out of the kitchen, for, in truth, I think she was ambivalent about not being with Evan, and so I asked her, more in jest really, what secret it was that was making her so happy on that day, and she stunned me by replying, “Oh, Maren, I had not thought to tell anyone. I have not even told my husband.”
Of course, I knew right away what she meant, and it hit me with so much force that I sat down that instant as though I had been pushed.
Anethe put her hand to her mouth. “Maren, you look shocked. I should not have said —”
I waved my hand. “No, no…”
“Oh, Maren, are you not pleased?”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“I am late two months. January and February.”
“Perhaps it is the cold,” I said. It was an absurd thing to say. I could not collect my thoughts and felt dizzy.
“Do you think I should tell him tonight? Oh, Maren, I am amazed at myself that I have kept it from him all this time. Indeed, it is surprising that he himself did not notice, although I think that men —”
“No, do not tell him,” I said. “It is too soon. It is bad luck to speak of this so early on. There are so many women who lose their babies before three months. No, no, I am quite sure. We will keep this to ourselves for now.” And then I collected myself a bit. “But, my dear, I am happy for you. Our little family will grow bigger now, as it should do.”
And then Karen said from the table, “Where will you keep it?” and Anethe, I think somewhat taken aback by the use of the word it rather than the child, composed herself and looked steadily at her sister-in-law. “I will keep our baby with myself and Evan in our bedroom,” she said.
And Karen did not