Chapter 49
September slips into October with not so much as a whisper, as if the seasons are trying to fool them into believing that nothing is changing at all. Little does, for the Kellys.
They work, they laugh, they have frankly obscene amounts of people over for dinner. By the middle of October, Saturday evening has become the night for having dinner in the Kelly kitchen (after the end of Shabbat, of course, which sometimes involves them not eating until nine pm). Such dinners feature a revolving cast of characters, but Davey, Race, and Crutchie are permanent features, usually with a sprinkling of other newsies and appearances from Daisy, Medda, and Daniel. Poor Daniel, he didn't know quite what had hit him the first time Jack invited him to what has become known as 'family dinner night', despite not one of them being related to each other, turning up on their doorstep in a suit and carrying a bottle of wine. Once he got used to it though, he fit in just fine.
On the third Saturday in October, family dinner night is a surprisingly small affair, featuring only the regulars. Indeed, when Katherine storms in the door at three in the afternoon, Shabbat hasn't even finished yet, meaning that the kitchen is home only to Jack, Crutchie, Race, and an enormous pot of soup.
"That no-good, idiotic, arrogant little son-of-a-bitch!"
"Someone's cheery today." Race remarks from his seat in one of the kitchen chairs, his feet (admittedly only sock-clad, he's not a heathen) resting on the table.
Katherine doesn't dignify him with a response, instead shoving his feet off the table and shooting him a glare. Duly chastised, Race pulls out a cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket and stoppers his mouth with it. Katherine makes a beeline for her husband, who lays aside the spoon he's been using to stir the soup and opens his arms. He knows the drill for bad days well enough at this juncture.
"My editor is the most awful man on the face of the planet." Katherine moans into his chest.
"Ain't that your father?" Offers Race, speaking around the cigar.
"Not helpful, Race." Jack mutters, wrapping his arms around his wife.
He'd known, of course he had, that something was brewing when Katherine received a message calling her into the office on a Saturday morning. Of course, something has been brewing for substantially longer than that. Whilst his commissions are now at a manageable rate (and are bringing in enough extra cash, on top of his salary from the Journal, that he's starting to feel like a half-decent husband), Katherine's career is less than conducive to things such as a proper sleep schedule.
Most weeknights, she's tapping away at her typewriter until the early hours. Jack has had to implement a curfew of one in the morning, at which point, if she hasn't already fallen asleep at her desk, the typewriter keys imprinting a pattern on her cheek and the half-dried letters smearing ink across her forehead, he has to forcibly remove her to the bedroom. Except, Katherine is more than capable of matching any amount of force Jack can exert, so forcible removal usually constitutes him breaking out the puppy eyes and telling her that he doesn't sleep right without her, or distracting her with kisses planted along her neck, or saying that he needs her with him for if he wakes up from a nightmare. (That last one is a bit below the belt, he won't lie, but a guy's got to do what a guy's got to do if his wife plans on working herself into the ground. Besides, that last one never fails, so it's only his last resort.)
"So, he calls Johnson and I into the office and tells us that the Sun have been offered an exclusive interview with William Jennings Bryan." Katherine pauses for dramatic effect, except it becomes substantially less dramatic when Race leans across the kitchen table and whispers to Crutchie:
"Who's that?"
"I think he's runnin' for president?" Crutchie whispers back. Thoroughly underwhelmed by the reaction, Katherine ploughs on.
"So he's got me and Johnson, the spotty kid with less than three weeks under his belt, stood in front of him, and he and gives Johnson the interview with Bryan and tells me that first thing Monday morning there is an official restaurant opening that he wants me to cover. He dismisses us, Johnson leaves, and I obviously ask him why he gave Johnson the interview, and do you know what he says? He says that they need an unbiased perspective. I point out that I'm less biased than Johnson, because I can't bloody well vote! And he says it's not so much about bias, but that he doesn't want me going into 'hysterics like this' whilst interviewing the possible next president!"
Throughout this speech, her voice rises into something shrill that hurts Jack's ears, but he doesn't pull away. Like him, sometimes Katherine needs to rage at the world. She holds him while he does so, it's only fair to return the favour.
"Is now a bad time to tell you that you do sound a bit hysterical?" Race asks, earning a glare from Katherine that could wilt an evergreen. "We hate Johnson." Race concludes, nodding sagely.
Crutchie follows suit. "I hope that Johnson dies a slow an' painful death in a dark hole, 'f that helps." He offers, ridiculously hopeful in his insult. Katherine laughs into Jack's chest.
"Well, I wish he'd do it before Monday, if he's going to, so that I can do the interview instead."
Crutchie frowns, looking down at his twisted leg, halfway between comic and forlorn. "The leg's pretty good, Kath, but I don' think it's that good."
She laughs again, emerging from her hiding spot in Jack's arms. "I'm sorry," she sniffs, "I just…"
"Nah," Jack shakes his head, bringing one hand up to cup her face and brushing away a stray tear with the calloused pad of his thumb, "you's got a right to be upset."
Her bottom lip trembles, but she doesn't cry, not properly. She's been crying a lot lately, more than normal, though she's not sure quite why. Everything just feels a little bit heightened, like she's standing in a room at the height of summer, the air stuffy, heavy, oppressive.
"Hey, this'll cheer you up," Crutchie tells her, "Racer, tell Kath what Specs said yesterday…"
By the time that Davey arrives, Katherine is laughing, at least, but Jack can see the tears lurking in the corners of her eyes. He eats one-handed at dinner and Katherine doesn't even tell him off, mainly because he's got his free hand resting on her knee under the table, warm and steady and comforting.
She plays hostess all evening, and it's not that she isn't happy to; she loves having the boys around, the house wouldn't be the same without them. Katherine knew when she married Jack that their house would always be full of people, full of family. But she feels ill and disappointed, and as much as the newsies are a nice distraction, all she really wants to do is crawl into bed with her husband and let him trace patterns on her back until she falls asleep.
By the time Jack has walked the boys to the door and waved them off, Katherine is ready for bed, dressed in her nightgown with teeth already brushed, curled up under the covers. Jack doesn't need telling twice, following suit and pulling her into his arms just as soon as he slips in between the sheets beside her. Nestling into his chest, Katherine cries, looking up at the stars. Jack, bless him, just makes soothing noises and rubs her back until she chokes out:
"I just keep getting passed over and I'm staying up half the night working on articles and I'm so stressed, I can barely keep food down, I just… I don't know what the problem is."
It takes until the second weekend in November before Katherine figures out exactly what the problem is, which is probably longer than it should have taken somebody as smart as her. Well, 'the problem' is a bit steep, but it's certainly a rather large chunk of it.
It's a Saturday, but there's uncommon peace in the Kelly home, with the boys meeting at the lodgehouse tonight. Race has asked for Jack's help with getting some of the younger boys in line, so just as soon as Jack's been over to Crutchie's apartment to help him figure out how to fix the sink (because the landlord is, in Jack's words, a piece of shit), the two of them are going to take dinner over there and lend a hand. Katherine, therefore, has Daisy over.
The showgirl has brought lemonade, courtesy of her sister, who, apparently, is getting into domestic crafts within her new role as a housewife. Daisy has also offered them some socks she's made, which were, by all accounts, more poorly knitted than the sweater Katherine gave Jack last Christmas, and were thus hastily declined. However, the lemonade isn't half bad, served in a set of glasses that were a wedding present from Edith – a gift that surprised Katherine, to say the least, but that make her smile every time she opens the cupboard that they sit in. Whilst Katherine has tucked her stocking feet up into the armchair, Daisy has kicked off her shoes and is stretched out across the sofa, ignoring her glass of lemonade in favour of telling a very animated story about the events of the previous night's performance at the Bowery, which has Katherine doubled over in laughter.
"…so, Pam is freakin' out over this secret admirer, an' our dressin' room is jus' covered with these ruddy red roses –" Daisy breaks off, catching sight of a figure in the doorway to the living room, "- hey Jack!"
"Daisy!" Jack grins, wandering in. "How's things?"
"Y'know, gettin' by. You's lookin' very smart."
Jack looks down at himself, remembers he's wearing the waistcoat and trousers set that Katherine bought him for his birthday because he's still never gone into a tailor's and he's damned if he's going to start now. Still, he's secretly rather pleased with it, the sturdy, dark-blue wool.
"Thanks." Jack nods in easy acknowledgement, then stoops to brush a kiss across Katherine's lips, lingering just a little longer than is strictly appropriate for a goodbye kiss. "I's off now, sweetheart, won't be back until late, so don' wait up –"
"You know I will." Katherine cuts him off.
She's discovered that it's now become impossible for her to get to sleep if Jack isn't holding her, a phenomenon that seems to have been exacerbated by the debacle with the nightmares and him sleeping on the sofa. Katherine finds herself now hyper-aware of his presence in their bed, unwilling, even in sleep, to let go of him.
"How you doin'?" Jack frowns, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up to him and pressing the back of his other hand against her forehead, searching for a fever. "You's lookin' a bit pale still."
"I'm fine, Jack." Katherine swats his hands away, smiling and shaking her head. "It's just a stomach bug, it'll pass. Go on."
"You ain't been well, Kath?" Daisy frowns.
"I'll say," Jack snorts, "she's been throwin' up every mornin' this week."
"I'm fine." Katherine insists, pushing at his side. "Now, go, I love you."
"Love you too." Jack smiles down at her, warm and fond, before heading for the door, raising a hand to their guest. "See you, Daisy."
"See you, Jack." Daisy calls from her position on the sofa. She doesn't say anything until they both hear the front door close. As soon as it does, she snaps to face Katherine, face unreadable. "Throwin' up? Every mornin'?"
Katherine looks at her, confused. "It's nothing."
"When didja last bleed?" Daisy demands, not about to be put off. All the colour drains from Katherine's face.
"You don't think – Daisy!"
"When was it?" Daisy's voice is low and insistent.
Katherine knows that it's not a good sign when she actually has to think about that question. "The week after our honeymoon."
"So, two months since." Daisy says, very matter-of-fact. "You ain't bled for two months an' you's throwin' up every mornin'."
There's no question. Two months. With everything else that's been going on, Katherine's barely noticed its absence. If anything, she's forgotten about it, repressed it, probably, after the first time it happened, back in September, and her and Jack had woken up with bloody bedsheets. Poor Jack, he thought that she was injured, that he'd somehow accidentally hurt her in the middle of the night and had worked himself into a right state before she'd managed to explain, cheeks aflame, that this was normal. Credit where credit is due, after she'd explained it, Jack had been wonderful – changing any soiled bedsheets without complaint the entire week and sneaking a bar of that new Hershey's chocolate into her work bag. Still, it's not something one talks about, as kind as Jack had been about it all, and it had been terribly embarrassing. Not having it was about to get more than embarrassing, she's pretty sure.
"Shit."
She cannot be pregnant. She just can't. She's nineteen, for pity's sake. She has a career. She's got so much ahead of her, articles to write, people to save, things to do. She needs more time than this, damnit, more time to be brilliant, to be the star reporter that Jack's always telling her she is. Jack. She needs more time with Jack. She's barely managing this whole being a wife thing, never mind being a mother. She needs time. A whole new century spread out in front of her, hers for the taking, hers for the making, and this? This is what she gets?
"Shit, shit, shit." Katherine hisses, pressing her hands to either side of her head, crushing her fists against her temples.
"Hey." Daisy gets up, coming to kneel in front of Katherine, taking hold of her hands. "You an' Jack, you's talked 'bout kids, ain't you?"
"Yes," Katherine bites her lip, "but… in the future. Not now! I'm nineteen. I can barely look after myself, never mind a baby."
This cannot be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening. How? They've been using the sheaths and she's even bought one of those godawful pessaries that the women from the suffrage magazine recommended. They've been so careful.
"How did this even happen?"
Daisy smiles at her, a little bit mischievous, squeezing her hands. "I think you knows exactly how it happened."
"Not helpful, Daisy." She knows that Daisy is trying to help her find the humour in this, but it's really, really not working.
"Hey, my auntie, she reckons she can tell whether it's goin' to be a boy or a girl jus' by feelin' at your tits. You want me to ask her to call round?" One look from Katherine is enough to silence Daisy on that particular topic. Clearly, folk tales are not the order of the day.
"What the hell – what – I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to do this." Katherine buries her face in her hands. "Never mind that – how am I going to tell Jack?"