PRESSURE POINT
I gather my growing family around me before school time. Our kids range in age from three months to twelve years and they do keep me stepping. Carla is the youngest, cutest. Of course, I realize that I say the same thing each time I bring another babe home from the hospital. Carla really is the cutest, lying in her bassinet, tiny bubbles spilling out of her rose bud lips. She burps from both ends and I have to laugh.
Our other two daughters have dark, straight hair that is soft and easy to manage. The boys, looking almost like twins, except for an extra inch in height, have curly blond hair that they like keeping very short. And now our newest and hopefully last child, Carla, has blue eyes and Titian red hair. It's still too sparse to put a ribbon in it but is an uncontested red. She's going to cause trouble in this family.
Our friends (?) and neighbors are already making up stories, stories that come back to me. Adele, my most trusted friend, has told me that there's a rumor circulating that I have a lover. I would like to knock a few people off their feet, but know that won't come to pass. So far Phil hasn't mentioned what Adele told me, nor have I told him about it. I worry that he must be talking himself into believing such nonsense. Last night I noticed him opening my underwear drawer. He's never done that before. Why now? The idiots who are spreading lies are trouble-makers. I have no time for a fling and if I did, I would not use it and would be a faithful wife.
At the super market, I sense fingers pointing at me, mouths pressed against ears of my neighbors and heads nodding in agreement. Melinda, a friend from childhood days, greets me with 'Hi, new mama. How's that red-headed daughter of yours getting along?' I pretend I am not aware of her slyness and just tell her the truth. 'Carla is adorable, growing fast, almost ready to try a sippy cup. Stop by and see us soon.'
Eyes follow me everywhere. I know I am becoming paranoid and have to stop this nonsense but don't know how. My Phil asks me questions he never asked before like 'What do you do all day when the kids are in school? Where were you when I called this afternoon? 'Why didn't you get my jacket from the cleaner's today?' Feeling the tension, I try to stay calm but don't. 'Phil, I clean, I cook, I watch t.v. diaper Carla, play with her. You know damn well what I do all day.' He sticks his nose back in the latest Time magazine and ignores me until I ask him to collect the children for dinner. That he does without comment.
Saturday mornings Phil usually stays in with the boys for an hour or two and I take the girls with me to do my marketing. We always bump into somebody I know. Just today Sarah mentions what beautiful hair my children have and adds on, 'but where in the world did your baby's red hair come from?' So smooth, so easy, so nasty, I don't bother answering and walk away.
An idea grows in my mind and as soon as I get into the house, am settled, the kids are all okay, I take a few minutes of private time, go to Phil's computer and type in a little poem, ' I love my husband. He loves me. And we're as happy-as we can be.' My idea is to print this and put it in my neighbors', my friends', mailboxes. Stupid, childish. I delete it and pout to my mirror.
That's when a visitor arrives, my great grand-mother, 98 years old and still holding onto her sanity and walker. Her usual black leather pouch purse is over her shoulder. Whichever children are home and hear her arrival, rush to her, know her bag has some goodies for them. After the hugging, the goodies distributed, great grandmother puts aside her walker, asks me to hold her arm, take her to the sofa. The children have disappeared like magic. She hands me her pouch, sits down, breathes calmly and asks me to bring Carla down to her. 'I want to see that great-great red-headed grand daughter I have.' 'She'll be awake soon, Granny.' We chit chat until I hear Carla's cry for attention. 'I'll change her, Granny and give you a sensational kick when you see how she has grown in only two months.'
Still holding her, I puff with pride and joy and start to hand the baby to her great-great grandmother and am stopped. From her worn black pouch she pulls out a large envelope and hands it to me. 'Open it!' I oblige and see a fading photograph of a man in a derby, holding onto a studded cane. I had never seen it before. I learn that the picture is an early linotype that had been colored by hand. Carla and my granny smile. ' Look carefully, Sweet Lady. See my dear departed Manny? He had red hair, a red mustache and beard. That's where Carla got what will become her crowning glory!'
This explains everything except the rudeness of my friends, who I'll have to forgive. It will take longer for me to forgive Phil, but I will.
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