Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,130

bedroom when the friends come over, but she gives me a sour look when she asks me to do so. I don’t think very many things make Dodie happy.

Sometimes in the evening, I sketch the family members on sketch pads that Jesse left behind. Except for Nellie, they refuse to pose, so I have to catch them on the sly. Mr. Williams falls asleep in his big rocking chair while everyone else reads, and that’s when I draw them, waiting for the moment they look up so I can sketch their eyes. The whole family looks tired from working so hard. I am tired too, which is why I haven’t written much in this journal of late.

I don’t dare sign anything I draw here. One evening a policeman came by. Fortunately, Dodie saw the car come up the driveway and I was able to rush up the stairs and into the closet with its claustrophobia-inducing wall pocket just in the nick of time. He didn’t stay long, but when I came downstairs again, Mr. Williams chastised me for leaving the sketches in plain sight on the table by the sofa. Dodie told the policeman the sketches were old, from when Jesse lived here. I hope he believed her.

Anyway, I’m doing my best as I wait nervously for my baby to come. It’s the nights that are hard. I hate going to sleep because of the nightmares. They are bloody dreams about murder and childbirth. I toss and turn and wake up trying to scream but only squeaks come out. At first, I scared Nellie, but I told her I just have bad dreams sometimes, so now when I wake up that way, she comes over to my mattress on the floor and tries to comfort me. “You all right,” she coos, smoothing one of her small hands over my hair. She tells me my dreams are only make-believe. “Ain’t nothing to worry ’bout,” she says.

I tear up when she treats me so kindly. I wonder if my own child could be like her? A funny, smart, winsome little thing with a caring heart? But then I remember my child is also Martin Drapple’s child, and I feel ill.

How can this be happening to me? I lie on my mattress, Nellie often curled up next to me, asking myself that question over and over again.

I have no answer.

Wednesday, July 24, 1940

Last night, Mrs. Williams and I were sewing in the living room when she suddenly asked me if she was ever going to see her boy again.

I don’t know what got into me. I broke down crying. It was her voice, so different from her usual voice. It had pain in it—the pain of a mama who knows she might never again see her child. I went over to where she sat on the sofa and put my arms around her. She didn’t soften or return my embrace, but I didn’t care. I know she still blames me for getting Jesse into this terrible mess. But I needed the comfort of a human touch, and I held her as long as I dared.

“I sure hope so,” I said, when I finally pulled away. I told her I hoped we’d both get to see him again someday soon, but I know that will never happen. It’s too dangerous for him to come home. Mrs. Williams turned away from my impossible words. Most likely, neither of us will ever see Jesse again.

Friday, July 26, 1940

I was taking my turn in the bathtub last night when I felt the baby move. At first I thought it was some odd bubbling in the bathwater, but then I realized what it was. I guess most women feel joy at that sensation, but it made me sick to my stomach. Maybe I’d been denying what was really happening in my body all this time. I don’t know. What I do know is that I felt no joy, only the horrible realization that a part of Martin Drapple is still alive and, worse than that, it’s alive inside me.

I rushed out of the tub, put on a robe Mrs. Williams had given me, and ran down the hall to Aunt Jewel’s room.

I have been in her room several times. She checks my blood pressure there, takes my temperature. Feels my belly. Hers is the most sterile-feeling room in the house. There is nothing on the top of her bureau or vanity dresser. Her spotless yellow bedspread has sharp