The Crooked Path Page 20

  The party took off. The band gave it their best, the tables groaned under the weight of the loaded platters, and the guests ate and danced and had fun.

  Much later in the evening, Lettie left the party to change into her going-away outfit. Miss Pronk had been adamant that it was an unmissable part of every wedding. Klara and Christine accompanied her to Klara’s childhood bedroom, where Lettie changed. “It’s been a wonderful wedding, Lettie, and you look absolutely stunning,” Klara said, leaning back. “What a pity I couldn’t dance. Thank goodness it’s temporary.”

  “Do you realize the three of us are almost sisters now?” Christine said excitedly. “And if Boelie marries Annabel, we’ll be well and truly related.”

  “I don’t think a marriage between Boelie and Annabel would work,” said Klara. “They’re both hard nuts to crack.”

  “And when Lettie has babies, our kids will all be friends,” said Christine.

  Lettie laughed. “Hold your horses!” she cried.

  Together the three friends walked back to the barn.

  When the school reopened early in January 1949, Lettie returned to the surgery. “I suppose we’ll have to order a new sign that says ‘Dr. Lettie Romanelli’?” Mrs. Roux asked on her first day back at the office.

  But Lettie shook her head. “My professional name will remain Dr. Lettie Louw,” she said.

  In January 1949, Pérsomi Pieterse joined Annabel’s father and De Wet as an attorney’s clerk in the firm De Vos and De Vos. Their offices were two doors to the left of the surgery, along the veranda. Only the pharmacy separated the lawyers’ offices from the doctors’ rooms. Lettie sometimes saw Pérsomi in the early morning when she came to work, or late in the afternoon when she was walking home.

  “Pérsomi is a great asset to the firm. She’s worked here during her vacations and she’s brilliant,” De Wet said one Sunday afternoon when Lettie and Marco ate with the Fouries out at the farm.

  Lettie saw Boelie glance up quickly before he carried on eating.

  “She and her mom have left the bywoner home and moved into our townhouse. Boelie lent a hand,” said Christine.

  “Much more convenient, I’m sure,” Lettie said.

  “Aunt Jemima is going to look after Gerbrand after school in the afternoons until De Wet finishes work. She’s his ouma, after all.”

  “Don’t tell me the little scamp is going to school next year!” Marco bridged the slight awkwardness. He laughed. “I bet they won’t know what hit them.”

  “Surely he’s not that naughty,” Christine said uncertainly.

  “No, no, he’s just lively. He’s a lovely little boy,” Marco said quickly.

  “This onion salad is delicious, Christine,” Lettie said. “Have you heard from Klara lately?”

  “De Wet’s ouma made the onion salad, and Klara says it’s hot and she’s feeling rather uncomfortable,” Christine said without stopping to breathe.

  “How she’s going to handle another baby I truly don’t know,” said Boelie. “Cornelius is a handful, I saw it at Christmas. Klara runs after him all day.”

  “You said the same thing when Christine was pregnant with Anna,” De Wet reminded him, “and she’s doing all right.”

  Boelie raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “All kids are demanding,” said Christine, “but they’re also adorable. Annabel wrote to me as well. She says she’s well.”

  “Yes, she writes to me too. She says she’s fine, but I think she’s homesick,” said Lettie.

  Boelie sighed, and Lettie had no idea what it meant.

  Klara and Antonio’s little girl was born in April and was given Klara’s mother’s name: Lulu. “Marco and Antonio’s brother, Lorenzo, and his wife, Gina, also had a little girl,” Lettie told Christine on Sunday.

  “That’s wonderful news,” Christine said, trying to get another spoonful of porridge past Anna’s lips. “When are you and Marco planning to start a family?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry, Lettie, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Lettie laughed and covered Christine’s hand with her own. “We’re friends, Chrissie,” she said. “You can ask me anything.” Her expression grew serious. “But I don’t know if we’ll have children. Marco’s health isn’t good.”

  “But . . . he looks healthy!” Christine cried, dismayed. “I didn’t know he was ill.”

  “He’s healthy now, but I’m scared of the approaching winter,” said Lettie. “If only we could keep the pneumonia at bay for a few years, I’d feel a lot better.”

  “I think his health will continue to be good this winter,” Christine said. “I’ll get Boelie to bring you a pocket of oranges every week to boost his immunity.”

  Unfortunately it wasn’t quite so simple. When the weather turned colder, Marco wore the turtleneck sweaters Klara’s ouma had made for him. “If you can just keep his chest warm, Lettie,” Klara’s ouma said, “and a spoonful of lemon-and-honey every morning does wonders for the immunity.”

  They went for a walk every day, never early in the morning but late in the afternoon, when the bushveld earth was still warm from the heat of the sun. They ate Boelie’s oranges and grapefruit, avoided closed public spaces, and stayed home in the evenings.

  But at the end of June, the monster that regularly sneaked into the surgery found its way into Marco’s chest. Lettie had him admitted to hospital without delay. She ordered the prescribed amount of penicillin, and they began to apply hot poultices to his chest. “This time we’ve nipped it in the bud,” she reassured Antonio on the phone.

  By mid-July, when Klara and Antonio and their young family arrived on the farm for baby Lulu’s baptism, Marco was back on his feet—much thinner than at Christmastime and very pale, but overjoyed to see his brother and the children. And when he addressed Cornelius in Italian and the boy replied, he couldn’t contain his excitement. “The child is a genius!” he told Lettie. “And Lulu is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”

  “Blood is thicker than water!” Klara laughed. “It’s high time you had some of your own, brother-in-law, so you can see what these little angels get up to at night.”

  But when Lettie brought up the subject of children, Marco shook his head. “No, Aletta,” he said firmly. “I’m not taking the chance of leaving you behind to raise my children on your own.”

  In December, Christine and De Wet hosted Christmas at the farm. All the Fouries were there, as well as Lettie’s parents, Marco, and Antonio.

  On Christmas Eve everyone gathered to sing carols around the Christmas tree in the front room. Irene was at the piano, Boelie played the guitar, and the rest joined in the singing. All the Fouries were good singers, except their mother, Lulu, who was a Fourie by marriage but sang heartily just the same. “My mother-in-law always makes the rest of us who can’t sing feel better,” Christine said to Lettie in the kitchen, laughing. “You know I can’t sing at all!”

  This year the ranks of the Fouries were bolstered by the strong tenors of the two Romanelli brothers, and Lettie and her parents joined in with gusto.

  But after a while seven-year-old Gerbrand could no longer bear it. “Are we still getting our presents tonight?” he asked his dad.

  De Wet held up both hands. “This young man feels we should hand out the presents now,” he said. “I suppose you want to read the nativity story first, Dad?”

  “Yes,” Klara’s father said. “Irene, fetch the Bible.”

  They listened again to the age-old Christmas story. They held hands and bowed their heads, and Lettie quietly gave thanks that her husband and parents had been welcomed into such a family.

  They exchanged gifts, small tokens of love. For the past months Marco had been spending his evenings carving toys. Cornelius’s gift was a truck with wheels that could actually turn. He got down on his knees at once and pushed the car all over the floor, shouting, “Vroom! Vroom!”

  “Cornelius, say thank you to Oom Marco!” Antonio said.

  The child looked up at
Marco. “Grazie,” he said and carried on playing.

  Marco laughed. “It’s enough reward that he’s enjoying it so much,” he said.

  Baby Lulu’s gift was a dolls’ house with four rooms. “Marco, it’s any little girl’s dream!” Klara said, overcome.

  “She’s still too young to play with it,” he said apologetically. “You’ll have to keep it until she’s a little older. My mother-in-law made the curtains and carpets. Next year I’ll make some furniture.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Issie,” Klara said.

  De Wet and Christine’s Anna got a doll’s cradle with bedding made by Lettie’s mom. De Wet tried to engage the little girl’s attention. “Look, this is for your baby.” But she was more interested in the cookie in her ouma’s hand.

  Gerbrand got a rifle. “To hunt lions,” Marco said.

  Gerbrand immediately took aim at the ginger cat, asleep in the corner. “Pow! Pow! Pow!” he shouted, and Lulu burst into tears.

  Klara’s mother stepped in. “Come, let’s eat. Once these kids really start playing, we’ll never manage to feed them.”

  That night in the guest room, Lettie had a long, earnest conversation with Marco. “We can’t live our lives in the shadow of death, Marco,” she said.

  “But we must make responsible decisions, long-term decisions,” Marco said. “To have a child is a commitment for the next eighteen years. It’s a very long time for a man who’s—let’s admit it—living on borrowed time.”

  “I want you to stop thinking of your life as borrowed time, Marco. We all live on borrowed time. Take that young family in the car crash last weekend. They didn’t know how much or how little time they had. None of us knows.”

  But he shook his head slowly. “Aletta,” he said.

  “We both love kids, and we’re not getting any younger,” she continued. “I believe we’re denying ourselves a great deal of happiness by not starting a family. Think about it, that’s all I ask.”

  He put his arms around her and drew her close. “I’ll think about it,” he promised.

  She waited until she was absolutely certain. She lived with the wonder for a few days, held it safely inside her, cherished its presence in her body.

  Then she spoke to the man she loved. They lay in bed, covered by only a sheet, for the nights were still very warm. The light was out, the glow of the half-moon and the bright bushveld stars reflected in the windowpanes. “We’re going to have a baby, Marco,” she said.

  She felt him stiffen, heard him draw a sharp breath. “Are you sure, Lettie? Have you seen a doctor?”

  She began to laugh. “I am a doctor, Marco.”

  He sat up. She looked at the outline of his movements as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Shouldn’t you see . . . another doctor?”

  “There’s no need,” she said calmly. “Everything is a hundred percent normal.”

  He lay back against the pillows and held out his arm. She moved closer, snuggled into her place. He held her tightly. “Are you sure?” he asked again.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “Our baby will be born mid-October.”

  “I have to wait that long?”

  She laughed softly. “That’s how long it takes, yes.”

  He lay motionless for a while, stroking her arm. He’s processing the miracle, Lettie thought.

  “I want you to stop working at once,” he said suddenly.

  “Why?” she asked, surprised. Then she laughed and raised herself on her elbow to look at his face. Her finger followed the contours of his classical profile. “I’m not sick, Marco, just pregnant.”

  “Oh.” He thought awhile longer. “But you’ll have to get in a partner immediately.”

  “You’re right, I’ll have to get a partner. The practice can easily support two doctors, and now that my dad is almost completely retired, I’ll have to look around for someone else regardless.”

  They lay in silence for a while. “Marco, how do you feel about the news?”

  “It feels strange,” he said. “I think I’m happy, but it’s just such a foreign thought.”

  She understood, because she knew him. He needed time to let the realization sink in and develop. In his own time he would share with her the joy of parenthood.

  Just before they fell asleep, Marco said, “Heavens, Aletta, I hope we made the right decision.”

  “We did, Marco, we did.”

  In May, Fanus Coetzer joined Lettie in the practice. In his interview he was frank with Lettie and her father.

  “Doctors,” he had said, “I’m going to lay my cards on the table so there won’t be any misunderstanding later. I’m fifty-two, divorced, with three grown children, and I’m a recovering alcoholic. But I’ve always been a good doctor. I lost everything I had, but I made a decision to turn my life around. I’m starting from scratch. I undertake to be the best doctor I can be.”

  In August, with Christine’s third baby due any moment, Lettie was grateful for the extra pair of hands. And Fanus was indeed a good doctor. But it was Lettie herself who carefully laid Christine’s second baby girl in her arms.

  “She’s lovely,” Lettie said, stroking her friend’s blond curls. She bent over the infant’s wrinkled little face. “Hello, baby Lulani, welcome to the best extended family in the whole world.”

  Then she turned for the door. “I’ll call De Wet,” she said.

  Evenings after supper were the most peaceful time of day. “It’s going to change pretty soon,” Christine and Klara warned Lettie. “Better enjoy it while you can.”

  When the washing up was done, Lettie joined Marco in the living room. She sat down carefully in the deep armchair and picked up a medical journal from a side table. “This year, 1950, has seen major progress in the field of science,” she said, shifting in her seat to find a more comfortable position. The reading lamp bathed her in a soft glow.

  At the table Marco looked up from his stack of papers. “I know about the groundbreaking heart surgery earlier this year. The first human aorta transplant, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, with the worldwide increase in heart conditions, it was probably the most important development. There was also the discovery of hepatitis A, of course. And I’ve just been reading about a breakthrough in the synthesis of penicillin, which could lead to the development of more antibacterial medicines.”

  “Penicillin seems to be a miracle cure, able to cure every disease,” Marco said, stretching his tall figure.

  “Oh no, not at all. It’s ineffective against poliomyelitis,” Lettie said, her eyes fixed on the article she was reading. “For centuries infantile paralysis was restricted to children between the ages of six months and about four. Now the average age of children who contract the disease has risen to nine, and a number of patients over the age of fifteen have even been diagnosed.” She frowned, shaking her head. “It says here that the paralysis is worse in the older children.”

  Marco got to his feet. “And there’s still no treatment for it?” he asked.

  “I doubt there ever will be,” Lettie said. “The paralysis is permanent. The young patients never fully recover. But there’s been some progress in the development of vaccines. One is presently being used in the Congo and Poland. Just how effective it is, we’ll have to see. The disease is turning into a pandemic.”

  “There have been more local cases as well, not so?” Marco asked, crossing the floor to her chair, where he bent down and gently kissed her forehead. “I’m going to make coffee, or I won’t stay awake to grade this pile of papers. Would you like some hot milk?”

  She looked up guiltily. “Sorry, I’m keeping you from your work,” she said.

  He smiled. “No, Aletta, I find everything you tell me interesting—much more interesting than the standard eights’ essays.”

  All day she’d been aware of a vague discomfort—the onset of the contractions she had so often described to other women. In the morning she had tea with her mom without letting on, in case it was a false alarm.

&n
bsp; By the time Marco came home from school in the late afternoon, she knew it was time. She greeted him, then said, “Our baby will be coming sometime tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  He froze, his eyes nearly popping. “Where’s your bag?” he asked without returning her greeting.

  She began to laugh. “Marco, let’s have tea first. My mom has sent you a lovely milk tart. We don’t have to—”

  “Lettie, I don’t know anything about having babies, so we’re leaving for the hospital this minute,” he said.

  “And I know everything about having babies,” she said, still laughing. “We’re going to sit and have our tea.”

  But when another contraction came halfway through her cup of tea, he jumped up, leaving his half-eaten milk tart on the plate. “Come,” he said firmly.

  “Please don’t speed,” she said when they turned into the street. “This baby is still hours away.”

  Later he sat on her bed, puffed up her pillows, and held the glass when she wanted water. “Please go to bed, Marco. I’ll tell the sister to phone you when I go to the delivery room.”

  “I’m staying,” he said. His tie was crooked, and he had run his fingers through his normally neat hair so often that it was completely disheveled.

  “This is a great learning opportunity,” she said awhile later. “In the future I’ll know exactly what women endure when I deliver their babies.”

  “Shouldn’t we send for Fanus?” Marco asked. “It’s getting late.”

  “The sister will call Fanus as soon as I’m taken to the delivery room,” she said calmly.

  When the night sister decided the time had come, Marco was dispatched to the waiting room. “I love you, Aletta,” he said stiffly.

  She smiled. “I know. Everything will be fine. It’s a big adventure.”

  But by four o’clock the next morning, when their baby girl was finally born, the great adventure and the learning opportunity were very far from Lettie’s mind. Giving birth was hard work, she realized, painful work. She was soaked in sweat, parched, exhausted. But when she heard that familiar first cry, pitiful yet strong, she was the happiest woman on earth.