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“No. Can’t say we were.”
His answer, refreshing in its swift honesty, makes me decide to continue the conversation. It might be risky—and I might eventually come to regret it—but if Archie’s currently in a talkative mood, I’m not going to stop him.
And Lenora, I know, is listening, even though she pretends she isn’t. I retrieve the Walkman, pop in the latest book-on-cassette from Jessie, and put the headphones over Lenora’s ears. I lodge the Walkman itself between her motionless right hand and the side of the wheelchair so it won’t slide off.
“A new book from Jessie,” I explain to Lenora. “Would you like to listen to it while I talk to Archie? After that we’ll have dinner.”
Knowing she’s not going to respond, I press play and turn back to Archie, who says, “What else do we need to talk about?”
I hesitate, trying to think of the best way to phrase my question. After concluding that there’s no good way to pose it, I blurt out, “Did Lenora have a baby?”
“A baby?” Archie stares at me, perplexed, like I’ve just asked if she had two heads or a pet rhinoceros. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Lenora made a passing reference,” I say, nodding toward the typewriter on the desk. I figure it’s fine to give Archie an indication that Lenora can use it. He might already know.
“What have the two of you been doing on that thing?”
“Just getting to know each other better,” I say, presenting the truth in its simplest form. “I like to learn about the people I’m caring for.”
Archie eyes me with skepticism. “And she told you she had a baby?”
“She hinted at it.”
“You must have misunderstood her.”
“So Lenora was never pregnant?” I say.
“Never.”
Apparently done talking, Archie turns to leave. I pose one last question to his retreating form, hoping to get if not an honest answer, then at least an unconscious reaction.
“When you were close, did she ever mention the name Ricardo Mayhew?”
Archie’s formidable frame comes to a stop in the doorway. “No,” he says.
“He used to work here.”
“I know,” Archie says. “But Miss Hope never mentioned him. There’s your answer.”
He starts moving again, walking stiffly into the hall. Only then does he face me again, his hard stare a silent warning.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t spend too much time typing with Miss Hope,” he says. “The past is in the past. It does no one any good to start digging it up.”
“The baby just kicked.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“It did, I swear,” Archie said, his hand still pressed to my swollen belly.
I pushed it away. “I think I’d know.”
It was another Tuesday night with the rest of the household staff gone and my family scattered. Archie often spent those nights off in my room, where we’d laugh and talk and dream about the future. It was a ritual we had performed almost since he first started working at Hope’s End.
By that September, though, the ritual had become a rarity. In the past few months, Archie and I had spent little time together. He’d grown distant, and I worried it was all my doing rather than his. I’d neglected him terribly since meeting Ricky, so my decision to tell him of my pregnancy was an attempt to involve him once again in my life.
He was happy for me, but also concerned. As I told him my plans for the future, he pretended to be pleased, but worry lines kept rippling over his brow.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he said. “With someone like him?”