“Goddamn it, Joanie, stop that right now.” She’s angrier than I’ve ever heard her. “There’s no conspiracy! No one is trying to steal your baby. Nobody is watching you. You need help, Joanie. Deck and I are very worried about you.”

“You called Deck?” I slide to the floor, my voice etching the air.

“Don’t be mad,” she says firmly. “You’re going bananas, Joanie. I was worried after that first call, but then Deck called me last night. After you left that cuckoo message. He told me all the insane ideas you’ve been having. He’s worried about you, Joan. He’s a good husband.”

I swallow the sharp rock in my mouth. “A good husband.”

“Yes.” Her chuckle is dry. “I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me the two of you eloped. If nothing else proved you were going crazy, that would have done it.”

And that’s when I realize, finally, how powerful they are.

They have made sure I have no one to turn to.

“You’re right, Ursula. Thank you for your concern.”

I drop the phone and flee into the night.

CHAPTER 52

I don’t get far, obviously. They would never allow that.

It’s Catherine who finds me sobbing, running barefoot in my nightgown, and brings me to Dr. Krause. He administers a shot. When Deck shows up, Dr. Krause tells him that Senator Robert F. Kennedy’s shooting—that’s what got the Fathers out of bed—has made me hysterical. The radio playing in the doctor’s office says the senator’s condition is critical, and I understand he will die, and most of Lilydale will not care because we live separate from the real world here, and boy do we.

Dr. Krause tells Deck I cannot drive, or work, or experience any distress or I will lose the baby. He prescribes sleeping pills in addition to the Valium, enough of both to sedate an elephant.

After, Deck leads me to the car.

“Darling,” he says, “what’s wrong with you?”

You brought me to this town, you sorry bastard. You dropped me in this crazy stew.

“I’m sorry, Deck,” I say. It sounds as if I’m speaking in another woman’s voice, a soft, acquiescent woman. “Can you drive me home?”

It’s a short ride from Dr. Krause’s to the craftsman, white with blue shutters, home to avocado appliances and charming built-ins and my jail. Catherine, Dorothy, and Barbara are waiting. They help me into the house. Dorothy wants to tuck me into bed, but Deck says he can do it. I hear him shooing out the Mothers.

The baby kicks.

I’m so sorry, Beautiful Baby. So, so sorry.

I start weeping.

Church next Sunday is lovely. That’s what I make my face say if anybody looks at me, and my mouth repeat if anybody asks. The priest speaks of the promise of eternal life, offering hopes and prayers for the Kennedy clan, and then, as an afterthought almost, for the Gomez family. I bow my head and murmur the right words. I’m even wearing white gloves. I’ve chosen a dress that displays my belly in all its pregnant glory.

I am pure, and I know my role.

I let no one see what’s inside: my escape plan, fully hatched.

When I approach Dennis after mass, he appears nervous. It’s only recently that I tricked him out of his car keys, which has certainly gotten him into all kinds of hot water. He glances around the church. There are Mothers and Fathers nearby, but it doesn’t matter if they’re sitting on my shoulders. Every word I say is going to pass muster.

“Hello, Dennis. Such a wonderful service.”

He tugs at his collar. “Yes. I’m so glad to see you well. I heard about . . . I’m so glad to see you well.”

“I shouldn’t have let myself get so excited. You understand. The assassination.”

Senator Kennedy succumbed to his wounds twenty-six hours after he’d been shot. Deck keeps me away from the television and the radio, but when he isn’t watching me, I have begun listening to the world again. It has me keening with grief. Boys dying in war. Riots. Children starving. I’ve neglected my responsibility as a reporter and a woman, entering the morbid snow globe that is Lilydale, cutting myself off from the tides of the world, from my duty.

“Yes, terrible news, that.” Dennis is glancing around, desperate for a reason to excuse himself. I don’t have much time.

“Mr. Roth, I’m worried about my health. I’m so sorry, but I think I shouldn’t write articles for the paper until after I have the baby. Maybe not even until he’s school-age and my days free up.”

Dennis is so relieved that he encases my gloved hands in his long insectile fingers. “That’s probably for the best. Don’t you worry. We’ll hold your job for you until you’re ready.”

I squeeze his hands back. “I would like to write one final article,” I say, keeping my smile firm.

His face falls.

“I’ve so admired the gardens belonging to the Mill Street women. It would make me joyous to write an article honoring their talent.” I chuckle heartily, leaning forward as if I’m about to share a delicious secret. “Who knows? With any luck, I might pick up a miracle that would help my own gardening.”

His eyes tear up. I scared him, and then I offered him a gift. “I promise I’ll make room for it.”

“You’re too kind.” I perch on my tippy-toes to kiss his cheek, and he leans forward so I can reach. Afterward, when I’m about to walk away, almost as an afterthought, I say, “Do you suppose I could borrow your camera for a few days? The article would be so much better with pictures of the lovely flowers.”

He’s smiling so wide I fear the top of his head is going to tip off. “Stop by later. I have some work back at the shop and will be in this afternoon.”

I nod and make my way to the church basement. I walk straight to the five core Mothers: Catherine the Migrant Mother, Mildred the Mouse, Birdie Rue, Saint Dorothy, and Bland Barbara. I stand next to them meekly. I can tell they’re mad at me. I have been a lot of trouble. I won’t be anymore. Eventually, when I don’t ask questions, they relax. When Mildred mentions the next crow hunt and I keep a placid smile stapled to my face, Catherine asks if I would like to help cook for it. I say yes. They’re no longer asking if I want to be initiated, but being asked to help in the kitchen is the next best thing. I just need them to let down their guard.

I stay late to clean up. When Deck is waiting impatiently by the door, I tell him I’ll walk home without him. He hesitates. He doesn’t particularly want to stay home with boring old me. Yet he doesn’t want to get in trouble, either. Letting me walk unchaperoned might be a bad decision for him.

I grip his arm softly. “Deck, I don’t want anything to happen to this baby. I’ll walk slow. The fresh air will do me good.”

He relents.

I’m the last person besides the priest to leave. I make my way leisurely, smelling flowers along the way. When I’m halfway home, I pause as if a thought has come to me. I step into an alley, a shortcut to Wally’s that passes alongside Regina’s back entrance. I come out the other side whistling. Inside the grocery store, I buy eggs and milk. Enough food to show the necessity of the trip, but not enough to make anybody worry about me carrying something too heavy.