The Gift

“You can ask them to take an exam when you go back, and you won't have to miss the semester.” But that was something he didn't like to think about, her going back to Iowa and her parents. He wanted her to stay with him, but neither of them knew yet exactly what would happen after she had the baby.

But for the moment, his plan was working extremely well. They met every night after school, and work when she could, and both of them did the homework. She kept the papers she did, and she did all the same assignments. In effect, she was continuing school, and working at Jimmy's too, and Tommy was very impressed with the quality of the school-work she was doing. And in spite of his good grades, he realized within days that she was actually an even stronger student than he was.

“You're good,” Tommy said admiringly, correcting some algebra for her, from the sheet they'd given him at school. She'd had an A+ on both quizzes he'd passed on to her that week, and he thought her history paper about the Civil War was the best he'd ever read. He wished his history teacher could see it.

The only problem for them was that he was getting home at midnight every night, and by the end of the first month of school, his mother was getting suspicious. He explained to her that he had sports practice every day, and was tutoring a friend who was having a lot of trouble with math, but with his mother working at the school, it wasn't easy convincing her that he was justified in coming home at midnight.

But he loved being with Maribeth. They talked for hours sometimes after they finished their work, about their dreams and ideals, the issues their assignments brought out about values and goals and ethics, and inevitably they talked about the baby, about what she hoped for it, the kind of life she wanted it to have. She wanted it to have so much more than she had. She wanted it to have the best education it could get, and parents who wanted to help it move ahead into the world, not back into positions forged by the fears or ignorance of past generations. Maribeth knew what kind of fight she herself was going to have trying to get to college one day. Her parents thought it was frivolous and unnecessary, and they would never understand it. But she didn't want to be confined to a job like the one she had now. She knew she could do so much more with her life, if she could just get an education.

Her teachers had always tried to tell her parents that she could go far, but they just didn't understand it. And now her father would say that she was just like her aunts, and had managed to get herself knocked up out of wedlock. She knew she would never live that down, and even without the baby in her arms, they would never let her forget it.

“Then why don't you keep it?” Tommy said to her more than once, but she would shake her head at that. She knew that that wasn't the answer either. No matter how far along she got, or how sweet the feelings were, she knew she couldn't take care of it, and in some part of herself, she knew she didn't want to.

By early October, she had to admit to the girls at work that she was pregnant. They had figured it out for themselves by then too, and they were excited for her, imagining that it was a last gift from her dead husband, a wonderful way of holding on to his memory forever. They had no way of knowing that it was Paul Browne's memory, someone whose eighteen-year-old wife was probably already pregnant by then too, and didn't care about this baby.

She couldn't tell them that she wanted to give the baby up, and they brought small gifts in to work for her, which always made her feel terribly guilty. She set them aside in a drawer in her room, and tried not to think about the baby that would wear them.

She also went to see Dr. MacLean again, and he was very pleased with her, and always asked about Tommy.

“Such a fine boy' he smiled, talking to her, sure that their mistake would have a happy outcome. They were both nice kids. She was a lovely girl, and he was sure that the Whittakers would adjust to it, and accept her once they knew about the baby. And it was mid-October when by sheer coincidence Liz Whittaker came in from school one day for her checkup. And then, before she left, he remembered to tell her what a fine boy her son was.

“Tommy?” She looked startled that he remembered him. The last time he had seen the boy was six years before when Annie was born, and he had stood outside the hospital and waved up at her window. “He is a good boy,” she agreed, sounding puzzled.

“You should be very proud,” he said knowingly, wanting to say more about the two young people who had impressed him so much, but he knew he couldn't. He had promised both of them he wouldn't.