She was on the early shift at the Navy Yard today and she hadn’t gotten any sleep since last night. Worry was a poor bed companion.
What had begun as a normal evening had taken a turn that left a pit in her stomach.
Margaret had just sprinkled the dregs of their last box of Dreft powder into the water, watching as it fizzed into foam when she swished her hand around in it. There were no more to buy on scant grocers’ shelves, purchases limited to two boxes per household since the company’s equipment had been recommissioned for Uncle Sam’s use and others were following suit. From now on, her mother would be making a paste of lye flakes and vinegar, and Margaret could already imagine the havoc it would wreak on their hands.
Dottie had come in from the back entrance and Margaret knew from the slam of the screened door and frenetic pace of her movements that something was wrong. Her friend picked up a towel and started drying the dishes with such force that the enamel was in danger of rubbing off.
Margaret knew better than to ask what was wrong. Dottie would say so as soon as she was ready.
The sound of the radio blared from the overhead bedroom and the girls could hear Margaret’s parents laughing to The Great Gildersleeve.
It was good to hear them laugh. There had been too little of it lately. But the merriment it gave her wasn’t reflected in Dottie’s face, as it normally would be.
“Margaret,” Dottie said, glancing up, as if to make sure they couldn’t be heard. She took a deep breath and exhaled in a nervous stutter. “I’m…I’m just going to say this.”
Margaret set down the jadeite bowl she was holding. Dottie had been looking uncommonly tired lately and Margaret feared that her friend wasn’t getting enough to eat. Much like the rest of them. Dinner tonight had been watered-down tomato sauce over rice, hardly enough to keep anyone full overnight. They saved their chicken cards for Sundays.
“Say what?”
Dottie lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m receiving a visit from the stork.”
Blood rushed from her head to her toes.
She immediately pictured the implications, much like how people’s lives were said to flash before their eyes before they died. This was not the joyous news it would have been in a different circumstance. Dottie’s devout parents would surely be livid and turn her out. She’d be let go from her position at the Navy Yard.
She’d be destitute.
Because John had been drafted before the wedding could take place.
Margaret grabbed Dottie’s hands, suds forming a bubbling cuff, and squeezed them to keep them from trembling. Though she couldn’t tell who was shaking harder. “Are you sure? Did you go to the doctor?”
Dottie shook her head, and her long, dark curls bounced from side to side. “Of course not. The rabbit test would be too expensive, and I’d be devastated for one to die on my behalf. But it explains my nausea. And my exhaustion. And why…why my monthly didn’t come.”
“The rabbit test?” Margaret asked. Dottie had been a nanny for an Upper East Side family last summer when the mother had become in the family way for a third time. So of course she would know the latest things like that.
“Yes. They make you”—she lowered her voice even more, looking around as if someone might come in—“go into a cup. And then they inject it into a female rabbit and cut it open to see if its ovaries reacted.”
Margaret was appalled, and the image of it distracted her for a moment from the weight of the news. “They really do that?”
Dottie nodded and her curls fell over the right side of her face at their part. “Well, I guess the doctors for rich women do.”
“That might be the only thing that makes me grateful I’m not rich.”
A thin smile spread across Dottie’s face. “Me too.”
“How do you know that’s even true?”
“The woman I nannied for was a showgirl before she became the second wife of a banker on Wall Street. The things she talked about would curl your hair.”
Margaret laughed. “Is that how you got this mop?” She ran a finger down a lock of Dottie’s hair and it bounced right back into position.
Dottie smiled, bigger this time. “We’ve been friends for more than half of my life. You know I come by these honestly.”
“Honestly with a little help from pomade.” But all joking aside, this was serious news. Margaret drew Dottie into a hug and could feel both of their heartbeats racing. Dottie’s slender frame was rigid at first, but at last she rested her head on Margaret’s shoulder, heaving staccato breaths as tears surfaced.
Margaret pulled away after some time and handed Dottie a handkerchief. She led her to the kitchen table and set a newly washed cushion on the wooden chair. Then she joined her on the other side. The tension of the situation was enough to steal the air they breathed.
“What are we going to do about it?” she whispered.
Dottie raised the handkerchief to her nose, reddened, perhaps, by the chill in the air. But more than likely, she’d shed some tears before even coming here. “What do you mean, we? This is my problem.”
“Dottie.” Margaret lifted her friend’s chin up with her hand and mustered a firm look that she hoped was more convincing than she felt inside. “This is our problem. And let’s not even call it a problem. That’s my little niece or nephew in there. Do you realize that? That’s John’s child! John’s going to come home and he’s going to marry you because he loves you and has loved you for as long as I can remember.”
“But my parents…”
“…are not going to find out until we figure out a plan.”
Dottie ran her hand along her waistband. “We’d better figure out something soon. I don’t know how long it will be before it will be obvious to everyone.”
“How far along are you? John left for basic training six weeks ago.”
Dottie nodded. “That long.”
Margaret bit her lip as she was thinking. Maybe Dottie could come live here and stay in John’s bedroom. She was sure her parents would rather do that than see Dottie turned out. Although, if word spread that they were harboring an unwed woman who’d gotten herself into trouble, people might take their business elsewhere and their shoe shop might suffer more than it already was.
But then—a solution. Or at least the fledgling hope of one.
“I know what we’ll do,” she said. “We’ll talk to Gladys.”
* * *
It had been impossible to get any rest after that. Dottie had stayed until The Great Gildersleeve gave way to Dreft Star Playhouse on NBC and it had occurred to Margaret that its host, Marvin Miller, had the unenviable task of promoting a product that was no longer available. Even the loss of something as otherwise insignificant as dish detergent was like another knife in her already worried heart. Each one took her by surprise—there was no solace to be found in everyday routines because they, too, had been altered.
Regular reminders that nothing was what it should be.
At last the radio turned silent as Margaret’s parents went to sleep. Dottie looked at her watch and apologized for the late hour and hurried home with Margaret’s promise that they would get through this together.
It was a night saturated with concern. For John. For Dottie. For the world. When Margaret’s alarm clock sounded in the dark early hours, she swung leaded feet onto the floor and pulled herself up by her bedpost, exhaustion weighing heavily on every bone in her body.