"I took care of all those children. While they went to school, I stayed behind and cleaned up and then went to school myself, trying to keep up my lessons but always behind because I couldn't get there enough. Sometimes, Poppy'd come back to the house in the morning before I could get away, and I wouldn't get to school at all that day. Then the children'd come home in the evening, wondering why I missed, and I'd have to say the chimney caught fire or water spilled out on the floor and I had to clean it up, or some other such lie because lies is what he'd led me to. Having to lie to myself and to him and to the children and to the boys who came around the house when I was sixteen. He'd chase them off the place, and I'd have to lie to them, too, telling them it was because my Poppy loved me so much. And then later when he'd ask if I'd been talking to them boys or if I'd been dancing or even thinking of dancing, I'd lie to him until my whole life was lies. He said dancing was the Devil's play, said I was to work. There was no time for play or boys. Said it was idle time the Devil made the most out of.
      "And then come a night when I'd be too worn out even to dream, he'd wake me in my bed, cover my mouth and take me out past my sisters and back to his room. I never knew if he bothered them any. I hope not, but I've never asked them."
      She paused and Hancock listened to the sound of her breathing. He was afraid to move for fear she would stop talking, yet he wished she had never started. After a few moments of silence, she began again, her voice startling him, a bit louder than it was before.
      "They were sweet girls. And now, Drema, the baby, lives right across the river in Point Pleasant. I see her Sunday afternoons some, though she goes to the Baptist Temple and I'm a member of the United Brethren."
      "That's where I met Thurman. My brother L.D. introduced us. He and Thurman met after the war at the Veteran's Hall, and he brought Thurman to church. I was in the choir at the time. That was twelve years ago. I was seventeen and cooking for a family up on Fifth Avenue. The Sterrets. They were good to me. I had a room to myself and they let me have Saturday nights and Sundays off. I didn't go out much on Saturday nights, but every Sunday I would go to church and sing. There'd generally be a meal afterwards or a few of the young girls like myself would take the trolley downtown and eat out and then walk all the way back home together. It doesn't sound like much now, but it was more fun than I'd ever known.
      "Thurman was older. Nearly thirty when I met him. He would walk behind me and help me up stairs or onto the trolley. He was always polite, though he'd tease me sometime, and L.D. would embarrass me, call me his old maid sister and ask us when we were getting married just because we sat together sometimes at the church dinners.
      "Then one Sunday Thurman asked if he could come by to see me and I said yes and he came that next Saturday evening. We sat in the front room and Mrs. Sterret kept the children from bothering us and even brought out a tray of lemonade and cake. Thurman was playing in the industrial leagues then, so Mr. Sterret talked to him about baseball. But most of the evening they left us alone.
      "The next Saturday night we went to the movies in town. After that we had a regular date, and soon everyone around church knew that we were a couple and that was that.
      "I don't know if he'd been dating other girls or not, but I know that once he started in on me he didn't stop. He kissed me on our fifth date and asked me to marry him soon after that. He didn't want to waste any time.
      "He'd been in France during the war and had a serious side, something he'd carry along with him sometimes when we walked together. He'd be quiet a good bit and then he'd say something like, 'I've been studying a long time whether I should marry or not, and I've decide it's time now. I need a wife and family.'
      "I wasn't sure if he was trying to convince me of this or if he was afraid I wasn't taking him serious enough or what. Anyway, he would stiffen up and look way off when he said these things. Most of the time, it thrilled me because he could seem so serious and I thought it was good to have a husband who was serious about marriage. But sometimes it frightened me. I didn't know why then, but I expect it was because I could see that it was himself he was trying to convince, and not me at all. He was trying to believe that marriage was what he wanted or what he needed. But I never wanted to be needed in that way, to help a man move away from being something he was tired of being. If I had known he was wanting me to help change him, I never would have married him. But I was young and didn't know any better."
      She looked up at a place on the wall, and again Hancock thought she would cry. He leaned back in his chair to distance himself from her and waited while she watched the wall. He could do nothing for her but listen; he knew that she had no other use for him. He was embarrassed to look at her and looked instead at the wall, also. He tried to picture her father and could see only the pitiful, frail old man he had seen a few weeks back. They sat like this, in silence, until finally she lifted her head again to look at him, as though she had just been awakened. She opened her mouth to say more, but instead fumbled with the purse in her lap and then rose stiffly.
      "If you can give me the name of that other doctor, I'll see if there's anything he can do."
      Hancock wrestled himself up out of the chair. Awkward and over-anxious, he took her hand, trying to hold it reassuringly, but feeling like something huge and ridiculous. This was too abrupt an end to such a conversation, yet he did not know what else to say or do.
      "I'll have Mrs. Tate write out the address and I'll give him a call and explain, though I don't know if he'll be able to do much either. We'll give it a try."
      "Don't say anything about what I told you today."
      "Of course not, if you'd rather not."
      "Thank you for your time, doctor." She turned away from him and started out. "I'll be bringing the baby in again next month."
      "Yes. Of course. And he's in fine shape. A healthy boy."
      He followed her out. Mrs. Tate and another woman were in the waiting room, cooing over the baby across the nurse's lap. Hancock watched as Garnet Reeves suddenly became animated, rushing over to lift the child from Mrs. Tate, who playfully reproached her for stealing him back. The three women laughed while Hancock stood uncomfortably in the doorway, not yet loose from the claustrophobic feel of their conversation. He felt estranged from the little dance of the three women, and attributed this more to his sex than to the confusion and hollowness he was left with from what he had heard in the other room. Even as the women talked, he played parts of the conversation back in his mind and searched for places where he could have interjected helpful bits of wisdom, for he believed he knew much more than his actions had shown.

* * *

      Hancock sat in the big easy chair that had been his father's. In the kitchen, his wife hummed a tune made of only two notes. She would hold on one, breaking it into little rhythmic bits, and then switch to the other, ringing it out in a long single note. This song of hers annoyed him and usually he would ask her to stop, calling her "Mother," though they were childless. The humming would cease and she would say she was sorry. She was too kind to him and he found he could not respect her today because of this.
      After Garnet Reeves had left, he spent the rest of the day working harder, in hopes of putting the conversation out of his mind. He had been successful until the workday ended. Then the feeling he had had as she spoke came back to him, as did his regret over having been so useless. Thus, now, he tried to purge himself of his guilt and uneasiness by tolerating what he was usually intolerant of in his wife, as if by treating her kindly, he could do for her what he had not done for Garnet Reeves.
      But it was not working. The longer he listened to his wife, the more he thought of his own incompetence. He had so rarely doubted himself during the past few years that this all seemed new, and he was not prepared to face such change. This was the time of his life when he had hoped to be wise and stable, in complete control of all around him. And he had been-- until Garnet Reeves told her story, and in doing so passed a part of her burden onto him.
      His wife came through the room. She was petite, her shape much the same as it had been thirty years ago when they had married. When she was a small child, the side of her nose had been torn loose by a dog, and the resulting scar (an imperfection which Hancock originally thought added an exotic charm to her young face) now made her look pinched and severe. She was stuck on the long note of her song as she passed before him.
      "Mother," he said.
      She stopped and smiled. Her hair was up and she wore the same flowered apron she had worn for the past ten years. "Yes?"
      "You're humming."
      She looked surprised. "Oh, I am. I'm sorry." She smiled again and went silently back into the kitchen.
      He was miserable, pitying and hating himself in the same instant. He wondered how had he gotten so far with such a lack of control. Her humming had not been that bothersome.
      They ate their supper as usual in the dining room, and he attempted to talk with her as he always did, telling her about the day, relating a bit of gossip Mrs. Tate had passed on to him to pass on to her. And when he finished his meal, he sat on the porch, as he always did, to enjoy the first rumblings of his digestion while his wife washed the dishes. Usually, he would step in to dry, but tonight he leaned back in his chair and tried to admire the evening.
      His father had been a doctor, had begun grooming him for medicine early in his life. He had been trained --by his father and by the hallowed traditions of the profession-- to keep a confidence and to live a life of moderation. And because he behaved this way, he felt he was a moral man. He enjoyed practicing medicine, just as he enjoyed his Lodge meetings and his monthly poker games. He had played with the same men for the past fifteen years. His poker, a daily shot or two of bourbon and an occasional cigar were his only vices. He thought himself to be a good man, and this, as far as he knew, was the opinion of the community.
      What bothered him now was that he was surprised at all by what he had heard. He had seen and treated misuse and abuse of the body before. None of what Garnet Reeves had told him was new to him. He was an old man. Yet, he was very disturbed by her revelations.
      He admired the young woman, and that this admiration bordered on affection confused him. He felt protective of her, and yet he knew that, if nothing else, she was capable of protecting herself. He was enamored by her resilience and strength, because these were qualities he could not find in himself. The sounds of his wife at the dishes, the children playing ball down the block and the traffic on the avenue taunted him with their familiarity, and he realized that possibly he had been weak and complacent all of his life.
      He went back into the house and told his wife there was something he had to do. She kissed him lightly, without question, as she always did.
      Walking to his car, he formed a plan. He would go to her husband and tell him how she felt, convince the man to be more patient and understanding with her. He might even tell him about her father if he were pushed to do so.
      He drove down 5th Avenue past Marshall College, heading toward Guyandot where the family lived. He was almost to the bridge when he realized he would not know what to say if she should answer the door. He turned on 29th Street to circle back toward the C&O railroad yards. There were many cars on the street now.
      When he arrived at the railroad yard, he parked in the huge gravel lot and entered the bay door nearest him. The sound of the machinery was deafening. At the far end of the open work area was a windowed office. A young woman sat at a desk just inside the door. He stepped in apprehensively, and she studied him for a moment before smiling. When he asked for Thurman Reeves, she checked the schedule sheet and said that he had left at five, at the end of the day shift.
      Hancock crossed back through the monstrous shop. The machinery shrieked and groaned around him, and he quickened his step. He rushed out the open bay door and back into the air. The last bit of sunlight had disappeared and the new dark expanded around him. His eyes found the sky and the first stars, and he felt old.
      In his car again he thought of a time he visited her father when Garnet was a girl. He had been out to check on Annie Peck, who had lost her legs and eyes to diabetes and was one of the few patients he saw regularly at home. She was too sick to be hospitable, so he dropped by the Jeffries' house on the way home for a glass of lemonade and some conversation. Her father was not there, so Hancock remained out on the porch while Garnet waited on him. She must have been thirteen at the time-- a dour, serious child; reasonably attractive, as pretty as they came on Russell Creek. He had teased her, as a middle-age man will do a young girl, until she finally smiled. He realized now what an effort that must have been.
      In the center of town, traffic was stopped because of a fire in one of the shops on 4th Avenue. He sat in the car and watched as the men unravelled the hoses from two engines and sprayed the building. Grey smoke billowed out of the broken windows of the first floor. He maneuvered the car until he could turn around; then, gesturing to the other drivers, he worked his way to the side where he parked and got out.
      He walked down past the fire, staying outside of the barricade of saw horses the police had arranged. He continued on 4th Avenue and then cut down 13th Street to where it ended near the river. He turned up a small lane where four ratty gray frame houses lined one side of the street. Across from them was the Ohio River, its brown surface smooth and opaque. Hancock slowed down as he approached the porch of the last house, the whorehouse Garnet had mentiond earlier in the day. All of the rooms were lit, but thick curtains kept what went on inside private. Vague shadows moved across the draperies. A few cars were parked along the street, down beyond the lights. He mounted the steps, determined to speak to Thurman Reeves and explain to the man just how much he had at home. Though Hancock knew the futility of this, he could think of nothing else to do. Maybe Reeves would not be here at all, or he would be furious that Hancock had come for him. The doctor rang the bell. Inside he could hear shrill laughter and the click of heels coming down a long wooden hall.

---

Click on the right arrow below and go to next page