His First Wife

“Yeah, he’s growing,” I said.

“Don’t worry, baby. He’ll be out in about four days. Five at the most,” she said, rubbing my stomach.

“Oh, Luchie, stop all that old talk,” my mother cut in. “She isn’t due for at least two weeks.”

Aunt Luchie had never had a child of her own, but she always seemed to know a lot about babies—when they were coming, what kind of person they’d grow up to be, what kind of illnesses they’d have. She called it her gift, but my grandparents told her it wasn’t appropriate for someone like her to go around speaking in such a way. They were Christian and didn’t believe in such things. But that never stopped even the most upstanding women of our church from stopping to ask for my Aunt Luchie to lay hands on their new baby.

“You mark my words,” she said to me. “I was only a day off when you were coming—”

“Two days,” Mother said.

“Twenty-seven hours,” Aunt Luchie retorted. “Anyway, don’t go listening to that old hen. I know . . .” She took my hand and led me to the table. “Now, what you doing staying at your mother’s house?” She placed a scone on a saucer in front of me.

“She,” my mother cut in again, “was just here helping me with some things.”

Aunt Luchie frowned.

“What things?” Aunt Luchie asked suspiciously.

“What does it matter to you, old woman?” my mother said.

Suddenly, Ms. Edith appeared, plopping a second and unnecessary carafe of coffee on the table.

“Hum,” she said loudly.

“I thought you were coming over here to talk about the hospital,” my mother said. “Now, let’s talk about that.”

“Please, Thirjane. Now you want to talk about the hospital?” Aunt Luchie said. “Let the girl speak.”

“It’s nothing; I was just in a disagreement with Jamison,” I said. My mother sank down in her seat.

“A disagreement?” Aunt Luchie asked.

“Yes,” my mother said.

“Who is she?” Aunt Luchie asked knowingly.

I wanted so badly not to answer her, to keep the whole thing a secret, but I needed to talk about it.

“What makes you think it’s that?” my mother asked.

“The girl is about to give birth any day . . . what else would make her leave her home and come . . . here?”

“Um . . . hum,” Ms. Edith said. My mother shot her eyes at her and she turned to pretend she was cutting fruit on the countertop.

“It was just a small argument and they will be back—”

“Her name is Coreen,” I said, cutting my mother off. With the mentioning of a name, even my mother fell silent.

“How long he been stepping out?” Aunt Luchie asked.

“I don’t know, six, maybe seven months. That’s all I know of.”

“You knew all this time?”

“Some of it. But . . . I just didn’t know what to do. He kept saying she was just a friend. And that I was being paranoid. But my gut kept telling me something was wrong.”

“Well, why didn’t you follow your gut?”