Chapter Two

Being a mother had never been on my mother's agenda; school had been, teaching had been, perhaps even marriage to a man of wealth had been, but never becoming a mother herself. Yes, once she had Phillip, Jr. - or P. D. (they decided that they didn't much like the nickname P. J.) as they quickly came to call him - it was a positive distraction for herself as she was now a useless housewife, in her very private opinion; she was not content with the life she now lived. Elizabeth Delmar begged her for more than just two-month-old P. D. before her biological clocks stopped ticking. Stopped ticking? She had at least another ten years before that happened, but no, her mother-in-law made it seem like the end of the world if she didn't get pregnant before her first born was six-months-old!

P. D. was a quiet baby much to her surprise, our mother had figured it out after inviting a neighbour over with her one-month-old daughter, Myrtle. The lungs on that one! Still, our mother was not pleased with the idea of raising a child by herself during the day while her husband was off lawyering, as she referred to it as. He was working at one of his father's joint law firms, Delmar & Associates; there were five location across America: one in New York, Florida, Philadelphia, Georgia, and Alabama. Patterson Delmar was a man of great respect and expectations, none of which Phillip lived up to or was worthy of. Cecilia, as his wife was a disapointment as well, but Patterson would never let her know that, which had been why he had decided to pay for her and her sister's education at Yale. Being generous, or so he felt, was his ticket to disliking her without her being able to say a word about, should she ever know.
With Phillip away in New York City with his father from Monday until Friday evening, Cecilia spent her days improving her cooking skills, chatting with her less-than-exciting new neighbours, and caring for her infant son alone as a good housewife should be doing. Despite not being a fan of the state, Reginald and Lillian Fergus had packed up, and moved to Louisiana to be with their eldest daughter, the one they couldn't seem to let go of. Mr. Fergus found a home fifteen minutes' drive from the Delmars, and a half an hours' walk. It was all quite difficult for my mother to understand - as soon as she does what her mother wants, her husband disappears for more than half the week for work, and her parents move too close for comfort? She couldn't make sense of her new life one bit!  
On Phillip, Sr.'s thirtieth birthday party, they recognized that they'd survived a year, as it was also P. D.'s birthday. With my father barely being there, my mother had survived three hundred sixty-five days of being a mother to her chubby, blond-haired, blue-eyed son. It was at this little family birthday that my father told my mother that he wanted another one, because apparently, he loved looking after P. D. so much when he was home. The thought was laughable to my mother, but being the wife, she agreed - she wanted a daughter at any rate, and a daughter she wanted quite badly. My father wanted a little Patterson Delmar, as if that might impress his own father, and my mother wanted a little Gladys Mae. Unfortunately for her, little Gladys Mae was never born, my father had never liked that name much; but she did have another child - me. And that day went something like this:

"Phillip! Phillip oh where are you? Those pains I was having earlier, they're contractions. Do you know what that means? I've gone into labour, we must get to the hospital!" That was the shrilly, aggravated voice of my mother as she waddled from room to room, belly first, searching for my father. It was July, and the weather was deathly hot; I wasn't due to be born until late August, and it was now only the beginning days of July; my mother was simply in a panic. P. D. was now two; he had celebrated his birthday with our father on the third of May 1932, some two months ago.
The Great Depression was upon us, but my grandfather had been smart with his money, so he had only been hit by it mildly. Mother spent her days barefoot and in floral-print dresses trying to teach P. D. perhaps prematurely how to spell out Phillip Eugene Delmar, Junior without any mistakes, but as smart as my toddling brother was he was still barely capable of going to the toilet without getting Mother to wipe for him, she was quite concerned to say the least.
Despite not wanting children, Cecilia Delmar became quite intrigued with nursery decorating, and talking to her belly whenever her husband wasn't around; she was absolutely certain that it helped the child inside her somehow, and made a connection with her that only the baby inside her - me - could understand; personally I never saw nor felt the connection - as soon as I was born my relationship with my mother slowly disintegrated until, eventually, it ended.

She had taken recently to yelling at two-year-old P. D., and P. D. had taken to being bad in return by running away from our mother when she was changing him, throwing his food bowl on the floor when she turned her back, and screaming for no apparent reason; this had led him to various spankings and hollerings from our mother, but he was used to this by now. She was upstairs with P. D. in his bedroom that was now going to be shared with me. The room was small, perhaps not even big enough for my older brother, but somehow our father had managed to fit two cribs against the far wall so that they were in front of the window, which was a lookout to Fifty-Two Bishop Street's front lawn. Cecilia Delmar had spent the greater portion of May tearing out the old wallpaper and replacing it with fresh light green paint, and white on the ceiling. Phillip had come home one Friday night with two hand carved rectangles of wood, one blank and the other reading Phillip, Junior in the same green paint as the wall. They were to be hung over the cribs: P. D.'s on the left, and mine on the right. "The other one," My father had told my mother, whom had been so surprised by this gesture that she hadn't known what to say to him, "I'll finish once this little one is born; I figured there was no use carving Virgil into it before he was born." My father was set on having a Virgil, even though if this baby was a boy, my mother refused to allow a name she didn't love. Phillip felt the same way about the name Gladys; he felt it was too unattractive for their potential daughter. He wanted it to be Marie Jane if it was a girl, and Virgil Patterson if it was a boy, for a while he had contemplated naming his second potential son Patterson, but decided that he did not want to do it for him - he had wanted to do it for his father, and where was the use in that? Mother wanted me to either be a Gladys Mae or Archibald John. P. D.'s interest for the birth of his little brother or sister was nonexistent; he could have really cared less, though that was also because he didn't understand.
"P. D., where is your father, huh? You tell me right this instant, Mama's gonna have your baby sister today and I need to find him. You put that toy car down and talk to your mama young man, right his instant." Instead of turning to her like she wanted, my older brother continued to roll his car on the carpet whilst making car engine-like sounds.
"Down, down. Daddy down, down." And just in case she didn't understand him, he ran to the top of the stairs, holding tight to the banister, and pointed to the bottom near the front door. "Daddy down there, stairs."
"You mind those stairs, P. D.! I don't need to bring you to the doctor's too now. Down, down? Oh that husband of mine must be in his basement library again reading about some nonsense medical disease or something. The nerve of that man sometimes, I swear!" Turning back to her diapered son she patted his head and spoke once more: "Thank you honey, now go on and get a shirt on, I'll be calling Grandma Lillian to come and play with you in just a minute and she won't like you very much if you're just runnin' 'round here without a shirt on now, will she? Ouff, smells like you need a change as well! Why did you take your clothes off in the first place? Heavens, what am I to do with you!" But again, P. D. had taken to ignoring her and ran wobbly back to his room to resume his game of smash cars, as he called them.
Hurrying down the stairs as fast as she could, my mother then rushed into the kitchen to call her mother. Lillian Fergus was in a panic, just as her daughter was - how could the baby be coming now when she wasn't due for over a month and a half? Was she sure that what she was feeling was contractions? Where was Phillip? Who was going to drive her into town to the hospital if her husband couldn't be found? These questions only made my already panicked mother panic further so she told her mother to get over as fast as possible and then she hung up. "Oh Phillip, please be downstairs."
My mother was hurrying across the kitchen to the basement door where my father liked to hide with P. D. on Saturday nights after dinner in what he claimed, was an attempt to give his beloved wife some quiet time to herself. She wasn't quite sure what was down there other than a few old books, and the washing and drying machines for laundry. Lately there had been a lot of ruckus coming from underneath the kitchen - it had sounded like the work of a man with a hammer, but being the unnosy wife Cecilia Delmar was, she never went downstairs to check. The stairs were creaky and she was at a loss for words when she reached the final step, looking over her basement. She hadn't been down there in three months despite the fact that the washer and dryer machines were down there; Phillip had taken to doing the laundry for the reasons of mainly not wanting to hear her complain while she constantly descended and ascended the stairs with a basket of dirty-then-clean clothes. In the months since being banned from the basement by her husband, my father had been hard at work, and it showed; when my mother got to the bottom of the stairs all she was able to say was "Wow." He had torn up the cardboard floor that he had been placed down during the house's 1931 basement flood after three days of rain. In front of the bottom of the stairs was a small patch of the floor which had been covered for over eighteen months; from against the base of the staircase going up was a beautiful hand crafted carpet which Phillip had apparently saved most likely from some second-hand shop in New York City that went from there all the way to the entrance of the second room, some six metres away. The staircase's underneath had served as a cupboard since the house had been made, but my father had torn it out and replaced it with hand-made shelves - four indivisual pieces of wood making five shelves - that were made of mahogany and varnished beautifully. My father had many secret talents that he either never told my mother about, or only shared with P. D. and I. He was quite the dancer, as proven to my mother when she was taken out to dance on their first date, he was simply gifted with a hammer and nail, he was brilliantly smart, and all in secret. None of this meant a thing to my grandfather, but recently my father had started to care a little less about him. 

Turning her attention back to the bookshelf, my mother looked at all the items he had on the shelves: novels, poetry books, short stories, thick folders, loose pieces of paper, old newspapers. My father was a collector of things; my mother always referred to him as a hoarder, but P. D. and I knew the real truth - he was a collector. He kept old newspapers from twelve years before because it meant something to him. "It's history," My father would come to explain to P. D. and I. "Some day you'll understand, but until then you'll have to just trust that it's history." Also on the shelf was a cluster of books, but in fact, these books were not actual books - they were fake books hiding a safe behind them, but my mother wouldn't know that for some years to come. 

She touched a few of the books, temporarily distracted from her contractions and all that was present. Being down in the basement was like discovering a whole knew part of her husband, a whole different person from the one she married six years before. Cecilia Delmar turned around again and took in the rest of the room: on the left side were three delicate Queen Anne armchairs that had been restored with two hand crafted side tables in between them; on the right, a large mahogany desk covered in paper and folders, on the wall above it was forty-two pictures frames all of which - she took a minute to look at a few up close - contained photographs of pictures she either hadn't known existed or had pushed out of her memory altogether. Some were of her parents, others of his; there were five of P. D., their wedding photograph, their first family photograph with P. D., and a picture Cecilia hadn't seen taken of her while she had been pregnant with me. She looked beautiful in the black-and-white photograph - her always-done hair was down and brushed out, she was looking out the kitchen window upstairs at P. D. playing in the front lawn, there was a morning mist outside, and she was smoking a cigarette eligently. It was times like these that made my mother wonder whether or not she knew her husband honestly.

Cecilia Delmar let her fingers run along some of the photographs of present-day and deceased relatives, and then along the papers on her husband's desk which was where she found the three other picture frames with pieces of paper stuck between their glass and frame, one reading Phillip, Jr. and Baby, the next reading First family photo together, and the final reading Baby alone. He was planning for their second child, reserving a place for me on the wall and everything. Three places on the wall for me. My mother was elated, and continued to feel this way as she crossed the room to the wall with the three Queen Anne armchairs and the two hand-made tables. Running her hand over the closer table in the dimly lit room she was unable to identify the type of wood, but she still was able to see their beautifully varnished surfaces; she knew it was hand-crafted by Phillip because in the centre of both side tables was Delmar in Phillip's precise cursive script. It was beautiful what he had done with the place, but disorganized and secretive. Cecilia moved over some to the next table where she was just now noticing the sweating glass of brandy on the rocks sitting on a coaster and Phillip's dayplanner. His career was being a lawyer, his life was being a lawyer more specifically, so why should she be interested in it at all? Yet for whatever reason my mother mustered in her mind, she felt the sudden urged to open up the dayplanner and read it, every single page of it. Her fingers were on it, then she had it in her hands, but suddenly she felt a sting of sharp pain trench through her bulging abdomen, and she was brought back to real life where she was in need of her husband. She made her way from the tables to the stairs, each step to the kitchen like conquering a tiny Mount Everest. It had taken her a seeming forever to get to the kitchen, but she had done it and was making her way to the living room when she stopped in the door frame. "P. D., what do you think you're doing, young man? Get away from that door this instant!"

While my mother was downstairs, two-year-old P. D. had somehow managed to get down the stairs in clothes that were not his own: our father's undershirt which he had probably stolen from their bedroom floor after likely being unsuccessful at putting back on his own clothes like our mother had asked. He was also wearing his shoes as he tried to open the front door. He was determined to get outside, and was slamming his little clammy palms on the door. "Outside, outside. P. D. want outside!" He was turned away from our mother grabbing at the doorknob but his lack of height and his blond ringlets were clinging to his eyes and forehead because of the heat and perspiration. "Outside, Mama."

"Oh, I don't think so, Phillip, Jr. You told Mama that Daddy was downstairs but he is no where down here, nor in the basement! Why are you lying to me, huh? Mama's going to have your little sister today and I need to find him. Grandma Lillian is coming over, in fact she'll probably be here any minute and I don't even have a hospital bag packed all because of you now. You go sit down on that chair young man; no shirt, no pants, no socks - you look like an animal! What, are you trying to make me look like, the world's worst mother?" Now she was overexaggerating to say the least. P. D. was two and he was expected to re-dress himself in the tiny outfits our mother picked out for him? It was practically a small miracle that the two-year-old had thought enough to get an undershirt on of our father's.

"My sorry Mama, outside please?" He had turned around only the slightest bit to talk to her, than returned to the door.

"No P. D., no. I can't take you outside right now, it's too hot and I don't know where your father is. I'm going to get a drink, you go sit down on the chair over there." She was motioning to the chair beside the front door. With her back to him P. D. moved from the chair back to the door, and with a swift movement, was able to open it wide, and run out on to the porch.

It was loud, so she had heard, and when she did she ran back in a fury of anger. Heat of the July day hit her like a ton of bricks, and only felt worse because of her pregnancy. "Phillip, no! Phillip - oh Phillip!" She had hurried onto the porch just in time to see P. D. run down the stairs and into our father's arms. "Phillip Eugene Delmar, Sr., what on God's heavenly planet are you doing out here? Did you hear me hollering? Why do you have that box? And don't even get me started on whatever it is you've been doing with the basement recently!"

Nonchalant and unconcerned by my mother, my father simply replied: "It's the porch swing Cecilia, remember? We went to Bowen and Sons Hardware back in October looking for a porch swing for spring and they had none? Well here it is, some men from the shop just dropped it by now; I didn't even order one then, I told Mr. Bowen that if I still wanted one than I would come get one in May but I never did. Kind of weird, isn't it? But at least its a free porch swing." He had laid all of the wood pieces on the grass roughly where they would need to be for assembly.

"Are you even listening to me? I've been searching for you for at least a half hour, Phillip. My water broke, I'm feeling contractions, we need to get to the hospital at once. I've already called Mother, and I suspect she'll be here within ten minutes. Father has the car so she'll be walking over. I haven't an overnight bag packed for the hospital and I feel as though I may pass out cold from this heat. Get moving Phillip, just look at the outfit your son is in! Ugh!"

Our father fixed P. D. in his arms before moving closer to his wife at the bottom of the stairs. "Look at P. D.? Why darling - look at you. You've sweat yourself into a temper; or perhaps you've tempered yourself into a sweat, I'm not sure. Why don't you get in the house and I'll call Dr. Morgan? I'll pack you a bag and if Dr. Morgan says its necessary than we'll drive over to the hospital. It can't be today dear, you still have over a month to go before you have him -"

"Her. Before I have her, Phillip. It's going to be a girl, we've discussed this." As if discussing it made it true. "And it doesn't matter that she's not due until next month - she's coming now, I'm sure Dr. Morgan will tell you the exact same thing!"

"Yes, right, before you have her then. P. D. is fine darling, its a hot day; I can't blame you for dressing him in one of my undershirts. It looks as though he put on his shoes himself though, ha, ha. Go on inside, dear, really." He was smiling at her as he came a little closer, and touched her stomach. "That's my baby in there, P. D. That's your little brother."

"Your little sister; we already know that this baby is a girl, and I did not dress him in that! I told him to put his clothes back on and he snuck into our bedroom to put your clothes. He was supposed to be sitting on the chair beside the door, but he ran out the front door before I could catch him, oh I'm worried he's becoming a bad little boy like Gertrude Melner's boy, Ernest. He ran out of the house! And ooh - a contraction, Phillip! Please get inside, leave your silly porch swing there; my mother will look after it when she's here. I need to go to the hospital; get a bag packed for me and P. D. dressed in actual clothing."

Seeing my mother's actual panic for seemingly the first time, he put his arm around his wife and helped her back up the porch steps, into the house, and onto the chesterfield. "Now you sit down, I'll go upstairs with P. D. to change him and pack, and I'll be back in ten minutes. I'll get you a glass of water first though." He readjusted their son in his arms again and hurried into the kitchen to bring Cecilia a tall glass of water. "Ten minutes Cecilia, only ten minutes."

"Ten minutes? Phillip, you have three minutes before I drive to the hospital myself - five minutes before I walk there!"

 

He had taken the full ten minutes much to my mother's anger, bringing her a duffle bag full of clothes, diapers, and bath items and a glass of water for the ride. Her mother wasn't quite there so our parents told P. D. to play in the livingroom until Grandma Lillian arrived. "I don't care Phillip, we're going this instant. My mother is bound to be here in a few minutes; it only takes half an hour to get here from her house and its already been forty-five. P. D. will be fine without us for five minutes, it's not as if he's one anymore!" Oh yes, as if a few months made all the difference. 

Most likely afraid of my mother in her current state, my father had agreed and pulled out of the drive way just as his mother-in-law came hurrying up the street. "I'll come see you with Phillip, Jr. tonight, Cecilia Mary. You go on now and have my grandbaby!" The drive into the inner parts of town only took fifteen or so minutes, but to my mother that felt like a small eternity. My father dropped her off out front then went into the parking lot to drop off the car; he met his wife inside where a young African-American woman named Cordelia Jones wheeled her into a private room. "Good luck, dear! I'll come in as soon as I'm allowed." Said my father, as he made his way from the room to the waiting area where the fathers were designated to sit. There were four other men there just as scared and wide-eyed as Phillip Delmar, Sr.

"This your first? This is my first." A young man of twenty-three asked my father as soon as he sat down. He had short blond hair, and was deathly pale, though perhaps that was because his wife was giving birth in a room beyond their view.

"This is my second, the wife's hoping its a girl. We've got a two-year-old boy already, named him after me - Phillip Delmar, Sr. My son is the junior, we call him P. D." My dad stuck out his arm from his chair to the man on the chair opposite him.

"Phillip Delmar, huh? Nice to meet you, the name's Cliff Archibald. The wife's name is Elaine; she wants a girl too. Went in there two hours ago, she did. I'm assuming yours went in there just now? Should be a while then. That's alright though, plenty o' folk to talk to in here." He was blabbering from a combonation of nervousness and habit; it quite annoyed my father but he just smiled and continued on with their conversation.

"Yes, Cecilia just went in. You have a name picked for your little one?"

"Yessum, we've had the names picked for quite some time now - Clifford Henry Archibald, IIIV if its a boy, and Gail Elaine Arichbald if its a girl. I'm rooting for a boy, I really want to pass down the name, you know? I'm the third, my father's the second. It would be amazing for my old grandfather to see his great-grandson become the forth Clifford Henry before he passes; he's got the cancer." Cliff was manly; he wore facial hair but barely so, kept his fists clenched lightly at his sides, and wore a green tie. "Do you have names picked out?"

"The cancer, huh? I'm sorry to hear that. Cecilia wants it to either be Gladys Mae or John Simon, but I want Virgil Patterson, I have a feeling that this one's another boy. I know she'll be mighty disapointed but I told her we could have another. She's scared though; first one we tried to have she lost just a few months in."

"I'm - so sorry Phil, you don't find if I call you that? My sister lost one, 'cept it was after her little girl was born. She went in her sleep; she was only two months old. My sister had her named Louise. She's had herself four more since, boys though - Nelson, Wilfred, Irwin, and Bernard. They're a good bunch of boys, rowdy as hell, but good most times." Cliff smiled at him in a sheepish way before standing. "I'm gonna get me a coffee, want me to bring ya anything?"

My father thanked him but declined the offer; meanwhile while Cliff Archibald, III was gone he began to talk to the few other men in the waiting area: a man in what must have been his best suit, fedora hat, and a flask in hand. His wife was in labour with their fifth child; the man's name was Ira Felton, his wife's name was Sadie. He was thirty, and she was twenty-six. Milton Crawley was the next man who was frightened beyond belief at the concept of his wife Irma having their second child. My father tuned out the third after hearing the same thing.

 

Two hours passed making the time on the loud clock sing six-fifteen; Cliff Archibald's wife had given birth a half hour ago to a little Clifford Henry Archibald, IIIV, just like he wanted. Milton Crawley had gotten their second child like Phillip was so desperately awaiting - a daughter named Annette Yvonne Crawley; hardly an attractive name. The two other men who had been in the waiting room had also left to go see their wives whom had had their babies. Phillip was the only one left.

He was tired, and hungry, and worried for his wife. She was in pain, and in prayer of their second child being a girl. What if it wasn't? What if the daughter she desperately wanted turned out to be a son? Phillip was looking down when a man in a doctor's uniform approached him. "I've just checked your wife, Mr. Delmar. I'm afraid she won't be giving birth for quite a while, the likelihood of it even being tonight is highly unrealistic, I'd say; she's only five centimeters. I wouldn't blame you for going home to your son, Mr. Delmar. I told Cecilia that I would get a nurse to call as soon as there is any sign of her giving birth." It was Dr. Stuart Neville, a man of sixty-two, and six-feet-two-inches. His hair was completely gray and he had a rather large bald spot on top of his head, but he was still handsome in an odd kind of way that even Cecilia agreed with amongst the nurses.

"But my wife -" My father began.

"- Won't even know you're gone, Mr. Delmar." My father couldn't help but think she wouldn't care either.