Bryan's POV:
The bathroom door was locked. I'd expected that, so I brought the little Allen wrench from my tool box to use as a key.
Diane never used to lock the door when she showered, but lately, since she'd come back from a conference in St. Louis, she'd taken to shutting herself inside alone. I remember how we'd grown used to seeing each other naked in the shower, in the bedroom, in various other places in the house. Hell, we'd been married for fourteen years. That had changed over the past couple of weeks. For some reason, I hadn't seen my wife undressed in several weeks, and I wanted to know why.
Of course, I already had my suspicions.
I didn't knock. I kept silent as possible as I continued to work on the lock from the outside. In fact, since the shower was still running I figured that the noise of the water would work in my favor, no matter how loudly I picked the lock.
Yesterday I had found that picture stashed away in her purse, hidden inside the secret compartment—a small flap which was tucked away in the lining of her handbag. It was a very innocent picture: she was standing in the hotel conference room next to James Kenton pleasantly smiling. But, she looked different. She'd never looked so content in any portrait taken with me. I swear to you the last time she'd looked that happy was in our wedding pictures.
Clink! The sound of the door lock reverberated in my ear. Did she hear it?
"Bryan?" her voice called out as I slipped the door open as silently as possible. "Is that you?"
"Sorry," I said. "Have to use the bathroom."
"How come you didn't use the one downstairs?" Water hit the side of her mouth and she sputtered a little bit while she spoke.
"This one's closer," I replied. Quickly I pulled my pants down and sat on the toilet.
"Huh," she muttered. "Thought I locked—" Diane didn't finish the sentence.
Our shower curtain is semi-transparent. You really can't see very much, but I could easily make out her pink form contrasted against the white bath tiles. Just a bit more than her silhouette, I thought. Just show Diane to me in a side profile.
She bent over to reach down and turn off the water. Then, as she stood up to reach for the towel, it all became so perfectly apparent to me. Her nipples had changed, darkening in color, her breasts were noticeably bigger than they'd been before, and, most importantly, Diane had all the signs of a distending tummy.
Instead of drying off, Diane wrapped the towel around her middle. She was trying to hide her condition from me. But it was too late.
"Oh, God," I whispered, as I stood up at the toilet and pulled my trousers back up. "It's true, isn't it?"
"What are you talking about?" She took a second towel and began to dry her hair.
"Fourteen years together and we couldn't have--" I paused. "You-you're pregnant."
Diane stopped drying herself. "I don't know for sure."
"Don't lie to me, Diane," I growled. "Fourteen years and the two of us never had a baby. Now look at you! You're putting on weight in all the wrong places. How long have you been sleeping with James?"
"J-James?"
"Damn it! We both know this is James Kenton's baby," I shouted. "Now how long have you been sleeping with him?"
She pleaded with me with her eyes for a second, and then she murmured an answer. "About seven months."
"Oh, Christ!" I responded.
"You shouldn't have asked the question, if you knew the--"
"Shut up, Diane," I cried out. Then I lowered my voice. "Please. Just shut up. I have to think."
Slowly, carefully she began to towel dry herself once more. "I won't say I'm sorry I'm pregnant, Bryan. But I am very sorry we never had any children."
The words blurted out of my mouth before I could stop them. "So you had to go out and got yourself knocked up by some n*gg*r?"
I heard her throat catch as she gulped in response. She took a deep breath and then spoke very calmly. "He's a decent, caring man."
I wanted to swing at her with my fist, but I held myself in check. "Oh yeah? Well, I'll bet he doesn't care enough to divorce his wife for you," I replied. I could tell I struck home with that one. She reddened and bit down hard on her lower lip. Better than a fist, I thought. No marks.
"I want this baby, Bryan. If you think a divorce will settle things between us--"
"I don't know what to think, Diane," I turned to look her in the eyes. "How are you going to explain this baby to both our families? How are we going to tell our friends? What am I supposed to do with a goddamned black baby in the house?"
"We could try loving it."
"Shit!"
"Then I suppose I'd better leave," she said quietly.
I wanted to leave it at that. I wanted to say
That's a good idea,
and leave it at that. But I couldn't. Instead, I asked her, "Where will you go?"
She shrugged. "I don't know yet?"
I shook my head. "Don't leave until you're certain you have a place."
Diane nodded. "I'm sorry, Bryan."
"I don't want to hear it," I said. I walked out of the bathroom and left her alone. "I don't want to hear it," I repeated to no one in particular. I really wanted to get drunk again, but I couldn't. I had to go to work.
Diane's POV:
It was all out in the open now, and, frankly, I was relieved. I heard Bryan stomp down the stairs and slam the front door on his way to the shop. Yeah, this would be tough on him.
I padded barefoot into the bedroom, and unwrapped the towel around me so that I might dry off the rest of way. What was that? Some pieces of paper were scattered on top of the dresser drawer. I let my shoulders slump. Bryan had taken the photograph of James and me taken at the conference in Detroit out from my purse and ripped it into several pieces. I picked up the pieces one by one and fit them together like one would assemble a jigsaw puzzle.
I sighed. "Damn. Why did it have to be this one?"
The picture didn't look particularly special, but it was—to me. For one thing, it was the first time I had ever tried real cognac. James taught me to appreciate fine cognac.
The first day of the Detroit conference had gone extra long. Speeches rambled on and on, while workshops went over time. By the time the evening wound down, it was well past eleven. I was hungry, thirsty, and more than anything else I was tired.
At eleven twenty-five there was a knock at my door.
"Mrs. Taylor?" the room service guy asked.
I nodded. He began to roll in a cart with a bucket of ice and a bottle of warm amber glowing, caramel colored liquor sitting next to two ellipsoidal glasses mounted on stems.
"Your Courvoisier cognac," he said. "Where do you want me to put it?"
