Sherry's Story

Day at the Races

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything to do with the Sin City franchise and I’m not making money from this.

lll

Based on the sightseeing information that we received from Doris and George Brady, Ben and I set out to explore our new home to the fullest. Every weekend, we did something different. Carriage rides through the French Quarter, tours of supposedly haunted homes…but the most memorable was our visit to The Big Easy’s famed graveyards.

When it comes to burying its dead, New Orleans is unique from every city in the United States in that respect. Like Venice, its water table is so high that the dead cannot be put to rest in a typical six-foot deep grave, but could only be housed in an above-ground stone tomb. Graveyards are referred to as “cities of the dead.” Around most mausoleums was a rusty wrought iron gate. Crosses and statues on tomb tops cast eerie shadows on our tour group, making me shiver in superstitious dread.

We were told that crypts held several members from the same family. Once a person was body was entombed for two years, the remains would be removed and put into a special burial bag and moved to the side or back of the vault. That coffin they rested in would be destroyed and the mausoleum would be ready for its next occupant. If a family member died within the two-year time restriction was up, they would be placed in a special holding vault and the newly deceased would be moved to their final resting place.

No visit to a graveyard would be complete without seeing the mausoleum of New Orleans’ most famous resident and world-renowned queen of voodoo, Marie Leveau. There were offerings of flowers or small gifts on the front of the crypt. Our guide said that it was common practice for people who came asking for her favours, would leave things that they thought Madame. Leveau might like. I was surprised to see the stone was covered with hundreds of markings of three x’s in a row. When I asked our guide about this, she told us that if we made a wish from the heart, knocked three times, and wrote three x’s on her grave with piece of chalk or brick, our wish would come true.

We were also informed that it was not safe to enter the cemetery alone or after dark--the tombs made effective hiding places for muggers who lay in wait, ready to rob an unsuspecting visitor. Visiting the cemetery again wasn’t high on my to-do list, day or night.

Thanksgiving was coming up soon—our first as a couple. As the holiday came closer, I found it hard to believe that so much had happened to me in the six short months since I had clubbed my Uncle Tom and ran for my life.

Turkey Day traditions in my new home were very different from Basin City or Granite Falls. Like most of the nation, many of the city’s residents would be staying at home watching the Macy’s parade; in New Orleans, it was a time-honoured tradition for many to go to the Fair Grounds Race Course.

We were informed that in addition to watching the races, it was also a place to see and bee seen. Spectators would be dressed in their best as they sipped mimosas, beers, or champagne as they renewed acquaintances and got caught up on the latest news. I was surprised to learn that this was a family affair; many couples with young children were attending the festivities.

“She won! She won!” I shouted, jumping up and down. This was the third race that we’d won today. After nearly six hours straight of watching the well-bred and highly trained tests of equestrian speed and strength, I wasn’t tired of being here. The excitement from the watching crowds was infectious and I found myself, yelling myself hoarse at every race even if I hadn’t bet on it. Of course, I wasn’t old enough to gamble in the state of Louisiana so Ben had placed a few bets, promising me that if we won, we would splurge and get something nice for our apartment.

“How much did we win today?” I asked.

Ben’s forehead furrowed as he thought about it. “Well, we started out with $25 this morning and with the two races that we’ve won and that last horse’s odds being ten to one against her, I’d say we cleared nearly five hundred clams.”

“Holy cow!” I exclaimed. Five hundred dollars was nearly a whole month’s salary for Ben. “I could kiss that horse!”

“I can arrange that if you like,” said a deeply amused voice behind us.

I turned around and felt my ears turn red from embarrassment. The man who spoke was none other than the fellow who had watched me give my husband head in the restaurant. I watched him closely for any sign of recognition but I saw none. I breathed a sigh of relief. He had forgotten.

“I apologize for intruding but I couldn’t help overhearing. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rafe Montgomery,” he said, extending his hand to Ben who shook it. They exchanged pleasantries and as I half-listened to what they were saying. I couldn’t help but note that Rafe’s voice was an intoxicating combination of a soft baritone and a gentle lowlands Louisiana accent. Until today, I never fully understood the difference between a Cracker and a Southern gentleman. Rafe Montgomery was definitely the latter. “I own Sekhmet. Why did you bet on her, if you don’t mind my asking? She was a long shot.”

Since I had been the one to choose which horse to bet on, I took this as my cue and spoke up. “I chose her because of her name. Sekhmet was an ancient Egyptian warrior goddess and not someone you would want to have on your bad side.”

Rafe nodded and I saw admiration in his eyes. “Yes. You know your history,” he said, his lips parting in a broad smile, his white teeth providing a perfect contrast with his tanned skin. He wore an open-neck shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal a dark mat of chest hair. Tan coloured jodhpurs and perfectly polished black riding boots completed his outfit. To me, he resembled the male on every romance novel I had ever read. Rafe saw my perusal of him and grinned, his dark eyes flashing with suppressed humour that spoke volumes to me.

Oh Christ, I thought, he remembers me. I raised my chin, suppressing the childish desire to stick my tongue out at him. I had nothing to be ashamed of; I had only given my husband the best blowjob he’d ever had in a crowded restaurant, completely undetected except for him.

“Have you ever been at a race track before?”

“No, this is the first time for both of us and we did very well,” I said. “We’ve won nearly five hundred dollars, mainly because of your horse.”

“Would you like to meet her?” Rafe asked.

“Can we? That’ll be super,” I said before Ben could object.

“Come right this way,” Rafe said, gesturing that we follow him.

lll

The odors of the stables rose in a gentle waft, prickling our noses—the reek of acrid manure and the smell of freshly cut hay mingled together to create a sickly sweet stench that churned my stomach. Once I began breathing through my nose, I felt better.

It was a lively place. Diminutive men in brightly coloured racing silks darted in and out of various stalls making final preparations for their races; tightening bridles, adjusting saddles and some were whispering words of encouragement and endearments to their towering mounts. The horses owners, all of them dressed in suits, giving the jockeys last-minute advice and instructions.

Sekhmet was a magnificent animal. She was chestnut brown with a white splotch on her nose. The horse whinnied when she saw Rafe, tossing her head and tail. He strode forward and took the mare’s head in his hands, scratching her ears affectionately. I realized in that moment that Sekhmet was not a possession that made him money; she was a beloved member of his family. Seeing them together made me think of a dog showing love for his master with joyful barks and a steadily wagging tail.

A blanket had been placed on her body, which I assumed was to keep her from cooling off too quickly after a strenuous race.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she? She is a Thoroughbred from both sides of her lineage. Her sire is a Godolphin Arabian, and her dam is a Turk. She stands sixteen and a half hands high.” His pride and love for the mare was evident in his tone.

I didn’t understand a word he said but I nodded politely. I wanted to go closer for a better look but the horse was huge and I was nervous.

“Don’t be scared, she won’t bite you as long as you do as I say.”

I was skeptical despite Rafe’s assurances. I had never been this close to a horse before and my anticipation overrode my misgivings. “May I touch her?”

“Certainly. However, give her your hand slowly so she can know you first. Careful, now.”

Remembering her owner’s warning not to make any sudden moves, I stretched out my hand to let the mare familiarize herself with my scent. I stroked her long nose, admiring the proud set of her head and her warm brown eyes as she gazed back at me. When she did not withdraw or make any movement to indicate that she did not want me to stay, I became bolder, reaching up to stroke her neck.

Rafe handed me a carrot. “She loves these. Hold your hand out straight, and don’t curl your fingers or you’ll get nipped.”

I did as instructed and flattened my hand, gingerly extending it so the mare could accept my offering without biting my fingers. Her nose felt like warm liquid velvet against my hand and she nickered softly in appreciation as she stretched out soft lips and gently took the carrot from my hand. She withdrew and proceeded to munch on the crunchy treat I had given her.

“She likes you,” said Rafe, giving me a warm glance that made me blush. “She usually doesn’t take to strangers. See?” He jerked his chin toward Sekhmet and I saw that the mare was stretching her neck out hopefully towards me. Although I knew next to nothing about horses, I knew that she was looking for more. I was more than happy to oblige the splendid mare who had done so well by me.

“Here, give her this,” Rafe said, giving me a handful of sugar cubes.

I laughed when I heard Sekhmet slurp as she devoured the treats I had given her.

“She doesn’t have the most delicate way of eating,” Rafe said. “But that’s all right. Even when I give her medicine, she takes it with no fuss, no muss. No matter what, she never spits when I give her something. She swallows every drop.” Rafe’s dark eyes were gleaming with hidden meaning and I blushed to the tips of my ears.

Ben said nothing but even so, I could tell that he was pissed about something. He followed our conversation, his head turning from side to side as if he were watching a Wimbledon tennis match.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked Rafe.

“My family has bred racehorses since the Civil War but that doesn’t pay the bills, unfortunately. Therefore, I’ve had to get a real job. I am an attorney, but don’t hold that against me. Did I say something wrong?”

A lawyer. Of all the possible professions in the world, he had to be a goddamn lawyer. Ben’s face tightened and I felt myself about to be sick. The only other attorney we’d ever been associated with was evil and corrupt. And because of me, he was very, very dead.

“We had a bad run-in with a shyster before we moved here, Mr. Montgomery,” Ben said, his tone deliberately formal.

“Actually, we prefer the term attorney or lawyer.” Rafe said. I sensed a note of testy defensiveness in his voice. “While I am sorry that you had an unpleasant experience in the past, but please do me the courtesy of remembering that not all of us are crooked. Don’t compare me to your friend just because we are in the same profession--”

He got no further. In three angry strides, Ben stormed over to Rafe and was in his face. The two men stood eye to eye; I hadn’t realized until then that Rafe, although built on a leaner frame, was the same height as Ben. However, a lifetime of riding horses toned his body into a deceptive wiry strength that Ben would do well to respect. A man doesn’t necessarily have to lift weights and have a six-pack in order to kick another man’s ass.

I had to give Sekhmet’s owner credit—by his sheer size and demeanour, Ben was a very intimidating man but Rafe never blinked or retreated. He held his ground, eying Ben as calmly as if he had his personal space invaded all the time.

Ben poked his index finger sharply into Rafe’s chest. “First of all, pal, Rich was not our friend. He was a murdering bastard who wanted to hurt my wife for his own pleasure. I’m glad she stuck a knife…”

“Ben, no!” I exclaimed before Ben could forget himself and spill the beans.

“Oh, right,” Ben said, coming back to himself. “Christ! C’mon Sherry, let’s go.” He took my arm and propelled me to walk with him. I cast one look along my shoulder at Rafe, who frowned at me and shook his head before he turned back to tend to Sekhmet.

lll

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” I said “You were horribly rude to a man who was only trying to be nice. Can you tell me why you are so upset when you should be happy? I mean, we won a lot of money today.”

He jerked his arm out of my grasp. “I don’t care about the goddamn money.”

“Then why are you mad?”

“Why are you asking me? Ask your new boyfriend.” Ben bit off each word with an almost audible snap of his teeth.

“What? New boyfriend? What are you talking about? I just met the man today!”

“Well, you and him seemed to hit it off very well for people who just met each other.” Unexpectedly, Ben whirled around to face me. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you and…I saw you lookin’ at him, too. Don’t deny it, Sherry.”

My stomach was roiling unpleasantly and I was in no mood to humour him. “You’re imagining things.”

“Yeah, right.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Ben. Rafe was only being nice to me because I wanted to see his horse.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sherry. We both know there was more to it than that.”

Thinking it would lighten Ben’s mood, I explained where I had seen Rafe before….And the circumstances.

“So, that’s it. I married you, didn’t I?” I said when I finished.

“Sometimes the man you want most in your bed isn’t the one who put the ring on your finger. You should know that better than anyone. Or do I have to draw you a goddamn picture?”

I gasped. How could he say that? Then in less than a heartbeat later, the true meaning behind his words became crystal clear—he was referring to my photographed encounter with Richard. Despite the engagement ring on my finger, I gave a part of myself, my cunt, to another man, when it should have only been for him.

Up until this moment, the day had been perfect. Why did he have to spoil my fun by bringing up the past? Why was he being so selfish? I stomped my foot in a surge of childish anger.

“Only you would think that there is something between me and Rafe. My God, Ben, how can you be so goddamn stupid sometimes?”

I had gone too far and I knew it. Ben’s face was flushed with anger at my thoughtless words and I was as afraid of him now as I had been on our wedding night. Ben raised his hand and I thought he was going to smack me for what I just said.

”NO!” I yelled, instinctively flinching and lifting my arm to protect myself from the blow I imagined was on its way. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw several heads turn in our direction and I was grateful because I knew that if people were watching, then Ben wouldn’t be able to hit me again. This was the Deep South after all, and chivalry was alive and well here. I was sure someone would intervene on my behalf.

My heart was pounding in fear as I waited for my husband to hit me and I felt as if I would throw up. When the blow didn’t come, I lowered my arm from my head and saw Ben take a step toward me.

I swallowed deeply and tried to breathe slowly and deeply to calm myself, but my body wouldn’t obey. My knees would no long support my weight and I fell to the ground. I saw Ben’s stricken face leaning over me; his lips were moving but I couldn’t hear what he was saying above the buzzing in my ears. Sight and sound swirled together in a whirling kaleidoscope of colour and noise. I felt as if I were on an out of control merry-go-round. Darkness enveloped me like a warm blanket and I welcomed the black void.

The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital room. Just like the last one, the room was cold, whitewashed, and smelled of antiseptic. A white-coated doctor came to my side but before he could speak, I did. “What happened?”

“My name is Doctor Francois Renault. How are you feeling?”

I stifled my impatience. The man was only trying to be nice. “Peachy. What happened?”

“You fainted. Did you eat anything today?”

I shook my head. “No…”

“When was your last menstrual cycle?”

I blinked my eyes rapidly, trying desperately to remember when my last period was but I couldn’t. I had been so caught up in our new life here, I forgot all about it. “I don’t know. I--I can’t remember.”

“Is there a chance you might be pregnant?” His eyes twinkled.

“Oh God….don’t say that, not even as a fucking joke! I can’t…I won’t have this baby!”

The doctor looked at me strangely at my outburst. “Why not?”

I was filled with such shame I couldn’t look at him as I explained my circumstances. “I was raped….so there is a good chance that my husband is not the father.” The words were hard to think about, let alone speak them but I had to be realistic.

“I think the first thing we have to do is remember when your last menstrual cycle occurred and work backwards from there. Let me get a calendar and we’ll figure this out together, all right?”

Under Doctor’s Renault’s guidance and gentle questioning, I did the best I could. It was as I’d feared, the estimated date of conception as the last weekend in September. Richard’s party.

“Oh, please god, no, “I moaned. “I attended a party in my honour that Saturday night. Ben was going to join me later but before he arrived, the host…” My voice cracked and I couldn’t speak.

Doctor Renault looked sad and he squeezed my hand sympathetically. “I’m very sorry, Sherry. However, there is still a chance that your husband is the father, isn’t there?”

“I guess,” I said reluctantly.

“I think that before you decide to do anything, you should discuss this with him. He’s waiting outside. I’ll send him in.”

Doctor Renault was gone for a few minutes and once the room was silent, I had a chance to let his words sink in.

I was pregnant.
I was pregnant.
I was pregnant.

No matter how many times I said the words, it still did not register in my brain. The fact of the matter was, I did not want to believe them. There was a fifty percent that Richard was the father and that was fifty percent too much for me. As I ran my hand over my womb, I had to resist the urge to slam my fist into it, to pound and slap the baby out of me while it was in its most vulnerable state.

If I gave birth, there was no way I could love this baby if it wasn’t Ben’s. I knew that every time I looked into my child’s face, I would see Richard and remember how he’d raped me on his study sofa. I would remember the photos of the room in his basement where he planned to keep me prisoner. The locks on the doors. The delivery room. Scared and alone and hidden away in a damp, dank dungeon until it came time for me to be fed or fucked, whichever struck my captor’s fancy first. And knowing Richard as I did, it wouldn’t have been in that order.

I curled into a tight ball and cried.

Ben came into the room and kissed my forehead. “How are you doin’, babe?”

“I might be pregnant,” I said.

“I know. The doc just told me.” There was a gleam in Ben’s eyes that I had never seen before. He was happy. And I was angry. How the hell could this be good news?

Before Ben got too attached to the idea of impending fatherhood, I knew I had to snap him out of it as soon as possible. “I think I should get rid of it. Now. Before it’s too late.”

Ben’s face whitened. “For God’s sake, Sherry, think about what you’re saying!”

The expression on my husband’s face tore my heart in two. “Ben, please listen to me. The baby may not be yours, remember?”

“Yeah, I know what that bastard did to you,” Ben snarled.

“That night, I told Richard to his face that if I ever carried his child that I would get rid of it,” I said. “How can I be expected to look at this child and love it…? How can you?”

Ben was silent for a moment. He took my hand in his and placed it over my belly. “It don’t matter if the father is me or…not. The most important is that this baby is a part of you. You are its mother. If worse comes to worse and if this baby turns out to be his, I will love this child as if it were my own.”

“You mean that?” I wanted to believe him so badly but I had to be practical. Sure, it was easy for Ben to say that now but what if there came a time when he looked at my baby and hated what he saw? I was a mess of emotions, teetering on the brink of losing complete control. I didn’t know whether to scream in anger or bawl in misery. “I don’t know what to do!” I wailed.

”I do. This baby growing inside of you is a miracle, don’t forget that. Please don’t get rid of it.” He gently took my chin in his huge hand and tipped my chin up so his warm blue eyes could gaze into mine. “It’s your body and you have every right to do what you want with it. The final decision is yours.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I repeated. I looked in my husband’s eyes and saw the love that shone from them.

“I do,” Ben replied softly. “You will have this baby and we’ll raise it together.” He chucked me playfully under the chin. “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll still love you even when you get so fat that I’ll have to tie your shoes for you.” He was purposely trying to lighten my mood and I loved the big lug even more than I thought possible for making the effort. “And just think,” he said, giving me a smouldering look, “we’d better get in all the tying you to the bed and fucking you into the mattress that we can now because we won’t be able to do that soon.”

The doctor re-entered the room and announced his presence with a discreet cough. “I’d recommend being careful about that. At least during the first three months,” he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. In less than a heartbeat, his professionalism returned. “Have you made a decision?”

“What about adoption?” I asked. No matter what Ben said about the baby being part of me, I couldn’t stomach the thought of looking at Richard’s eyes over the breakfast table every morning.

“That certainly can be arranged,” the doctor said. “But we have plenty of time before that has to be thought of. Until then, this is what I want you to do: eat plenty of fruit and vegetables and get plenty of rest. As for drinking and smoking, I suggest moderation. A glass of wine at night won’t hurt you or the baby. However, when it comes to sex,” he added, giving Ben a hard look, “Gentleness and consideration should be the rule of thumb. Do I make myself clear?”

Ben swallowed nervously and looked straight into the doctor’s eyes. “Yeah. You have my word on that.”

I spoke up, disappointment surging through every fiber of my being. “Does that mean that we can’t be intimate…like we usually are?”

“That depends. If you usually are intimate with your husband by getting tied up or, er, how did he phrase it, ‘fucking you into the mattress’? In that case, I would have to say no. You certainly can and should engage in sexual intercourse, but in a less strenuous method. It certainly does not mean that you are cut off from all sexual relations. Quite the contrary. In fact, many of my expecting female patients experience a surge in sexual interest and desire—they no longer have to worry about getting pregnant because they already are.” Doctor Renault suppressed a smile when he saw Ben and I exchange relieved looks.

“However,” he emphasized with an arch of his eyebrow, “certain precautions should be addressed now. You can safely engage in sex up to and including the eighth month or until it becomes uncomfortable for you. However, because of the size of your husband, I would strongly recommend that once you start your second trimester, you should be the one on top.”

Ben winked at me. “Cowgirl style, huh? Yippie-ki-yay.” He ducked just in time to dodge the pillow I threw at him.

lll

On the way home, Ben took my hand. “I’m sorry for the things I said at the stables. I never meant to get you so upset, babe.”

I squeezed his fingers in return. “I’m sorry, too. Sometimes I just blurt things out before thinking it through.”

“Both of us are guilty of that,” Ben said. “The most important thing is that I get you home and into bed.”

“Remember what the doctor said about crazy bedroom stuff,” I teased. “For the time being, at least. We have to take it slow and easy, remember?”

“Yeah, I can handle that,” Ben said, with a wink, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. I had been married to Ben long enough to know what that smile meant—sex. However, because of my condition and the doctor’s warning, it wasn’t going to be fast and furious. “Hell, I’ll handle you any way I can get!”

“How about now?” I said coyly, lifting the shirt over my head.

“No time like the present,” Ben said. His eyes glowed as he slowly slid the straps of my bra down my arms. I reached back to undo the clips when I felt Ben’s firm hand gently persuading me to stop. “Let me do that,” he murmured.

Slowly, so infinitely slowly, he removed my bra and let it fall to the floor. His gaze on my bare breasts was so deep and intense, I felt shy and almost raised my arms to cover myself.

“No, don’t cover yourself up,” Ben said. “I want to see you.”

“Why? What are you looking at?” I asked.

“I’m looking at my beautiful bride and the mother of my child,” Ben whispered, reaching up to stroke my face.

My throat tightened and I wanted to yell, “The baby might not be yours!”

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t interrupt this special moment and break my husband’s heart... There would be a time for that when I gave birth but until then, I wanted to memorize the look of love that shone from his eyes like a palpable aura.

I removed the rest of my clothes and lay on the bed. I blushed in embarrassment when Ben leaned forward so he could have a clear, unobstructed view of my entire body from head to foot. I doubted that even my doctor had ever given me such a thorough once-over. He didn’t have to tell me that he was looking for changes in my body that indicated pregnancy.

“I’m only two months along,” I said. “It’s too early to see anything yet.”

“Don’t be too sure, Sherry,” Ben said with conviction.

“If anything were different about my body, don’t you think I’d know? I see it every day.”

“Not through a husband’s eyes.” Ben took my breasts in his hands and weighed them as if he were making a decision about which grapefruit to buy and I gasped. “Your breasts are a little larger than they were before, and they are tender to the touch.” His calloused hand gently rested over my womb. “Your waist and belly are swollen. Haven’t you noticed that your clothes are getting tight?”

I didn’t answer. I had noticed all right, but I had assumed that it was because of the many new dishes I’d been sampling in my new home city. Jambalaya. Gumbo. Boiled, barbequed and fried crawfish. Even thinking about food now made my mouth water.

But above that was the desire for my husband. The man who forgave me for saying those cruel words today and every other occasion when I spoke before I thought about what I was saying.

Now it was my turn to touch and caress. “I need you, Ben,” I said. “Please?”

Ben responded by giving me a kiss that was so scorching it made my toes curl. His hand was nestled between my legs as he stroked my aching clit to its hardest. As my desire rose, I whimpered and moaned, pushing my hips against his hand.

lll

When he moved into position, settling his body between my legs, I wanted him to slam into me over and over but he set a slow pace. Ben entered me gently and I was immediately reminded of the first time we made love—when I was recuperating after my suicide attempt.

“Faster,” I whispered, my nails raking deep into Ben’s back.

“I can’t, babe,” Ben said hoarsely. I felt his body shake with the strain of holding himself back. “I won’t.”

Wordlessly I begged him, unconsciously tightening my legs around his hips. I bucked against him, I wanted to slam my hips forward, making Ben deep-dick me until the explosion of climax extinguished the flame of arousal that seemed to sear my very skin. But my husband was in control, deliberately keeping the pace infuriatingly slow, until I could feel my pussy twitch and clench at every millimetre of motion, each tiny teasing thrust.

“No!” Ben said. With a loud groan of disappointment, he pulled out of me and ground his hips against mine until he climaxed against my belly. When he could breathe again, he rolled off me and onto his back.

“What did you do that for?” I asked crossly.

“I’m not gonna risk hurting you….or the baby.”

“Well goddamnit, what about me?” I whined. Ben had had his orgasm but I sure as hell hadn’t. I felt a surge of anger toward the thing that Richard planted in my belly. I hated it already.

Ben would never know it, but when I begged him to go faster, it wasn’t for sexual gratification; I was hoping that he would forget himself and use enough strength—like he did on our wedding night—and made me miscarry.

“Oh, I’m sorry, kid, I wasn’t going to forget about you.” He threw the blankets over his head as he burrowed along the bed until his mouth was over my pussy, preparing to chow down but I was too pissed off to be horny anymore, no matter what the temptation.

“Forget it,” I snapped, pushing his head away. “Just go to sleep.” I turned on my side away from him. In the dark, I heard Ben sigh. I forced my breathing to be slow and deep, letting him think that I was drifting off to sleep. As I lay quietly in the dark, I remembered the doctor’s words and I formed an idea.

Like all men after sex, Ben fell asleep quickly. As soon as he began snoring, I tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. Once in the living room, I made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. I reached in and chose a bottle at random; it didn’t matter to me what I drank, I needed something with alcohol in it, the stronger the better...I took the bottle with me to the sofa and sat down.

I held the bottle for a long time, trying to work up the courage to drink. Deep in my heart, I knew what I was going to do was wrong, but I hoped that once the alcohol was in my system, it would silence my doubts. I steeled my nerve and poured three fingers worth of vodka in the glass and took it neat.

I remembered what Ben had said earlier in the day about loving this thing growing inside me as if it were his own…It was fine for him to think that, but who was going to be the one who was going to have to suffer through hours of labour? Who was going to have to nurse the goddamn thing as it latched onto me like a parasite feeding off its host? Who was going to have to change its shitty diapers?

In all cases, the answer was the same: me, me, and me.

“Yeah, real generous of you, Ben,” I sneered quietly. I let my head rest against the arm of the sofa and relaxed. From time to time, I raised the bottle to my lips and drank. The alcohol effectively silenced the battle between my conscience and what I knew I had to do...

After I’d had enough about an hour later, I staggered to the kitchen sink and put the bottle under the tap. “The good thing about vodka,” I muttered, my words slurring, “is that it looks exactly like water.” Once the level was close enough to when I began drinking, I screwed the cap back on. A fit of giggles over my cleverness hit me and I clamped my hand hard over my mouth to stifle any sound of laughter. As long as I remembered to buy a new bottle of vodka soon, no one would ever know the old bottle was mostly water.

I had to think about my next course of action. How was I going to get rid of this baby? Under no circumstances would I go to a back-alley abortionist—I’d heard too many stories of women who were left barren because of an accidental slip of the coat hanger; more than anything, I wanted to conceive and bear Ben's children in the future.

No, there were other ways, I thought. If I couldn’t drink it out, then my next step would be to starve it out. And in case those ideas failed, I could always “accidentally” fall down a flight of steps to induce a miscarriage.

One thing was clear: no matter what I had to do, whether it be boozing, starving, or falling, I was determined that there was no way I would give birth to Richard’s baby.

When I flopped back in bed beside Ben, I began to cry. So I wouldn’t wake my husband, I ground my face deeply into my pillow and wept. For what was probably the first and only time, I was glad my mother was dead. She would have been very ashamed for taking my revenge on Richard out on my innocent unborn baby. She’d raised me to respect life, not take it away because it was inconvenient. The hate she would have felt towards me was nothing to the hate I now felt for myself.

lll

Author’s Note: As unbelievable as it sounds today, it is absolutely true that doctors in the 1950’s approved smoking and drinking in moderation for expectant mothers!