Read Online Parlor Games by Maryka Biaggio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maryka Biaggio
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juncture—so soon after taking up residence at Carrie Watson’s, and with my grand plan just beginning to unfold—but love can lead any of us to commit acts we find foolish in retrospect.
Robby, the very picture of puzzlement, rushed up to me and then halted abruptly, perhaps trying to decide whether to embrace me or shake me. He proceeded to unleash a torrent of questions, right there in the expansive post-office lobby: What was going on? Why didn’t I look six months pregnant? Why hadn’t I written in weeks?
I took his hand. “Please, not here. Come, let’s find some nice place to talk.”
We went to Robby’s hotel, the well-appointed Hotel Davenport, around the corner on Dearborn. (He’d no doubt selected it for its proximity to the post office, which I learned he’d been frequenting for hours on end with the express purpose of intercepting me.) He wanted us to go to his room, but I insisted on the dining room. Hoping to set the tone for a civil conversation, I ordered tea and a plate of cakes, all the time begging Robby to cease his questions until our order arrived.
He pressed his lips together, trying hard to contain what I imagine was months’ worth of frustration now laced with confusion and possibly indignation.
“I do owe you an explanation, I certainly do,” I began as I poured his tea.
He nodded and moistened his lips, clamping the dainty teacup handle between his chunky fingers and thumb.
I could think of no better explanation than that which I had penned in the letter now stuffed in my purse. “Three weeks ago, I lost the child and became quite ill. Helga attended me. On her orders, I have been confined to bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “You look fine to me.”
“Yes, I’m much better now, thank you.”
“I mean you don’t look like someone who’s been ill.”
“Oh, Robby, I don’t know what you expect. I’ve lost the baby. There’s nothing either one of us can do about that.”
“That’s obvious.” He smacked his hands down on the table. “Do you think I’m some numskull?”
I raised my brow and softened my eyes. “No, of course not.”
“Why didn’t you write earlier? Didn’t you think I’d want to know right away?”
“The fact is, I hated the thought of distressing you.”
“You think not telling me makes it easier?”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t.” I met his gaze straight on. “Robby, there is simply no way to spare your feelings. I’m afraid I must break off our engagement.”
“Why, you …” His face ignited to bright pink. “After all this. How dare you.”
Poor Robby. He took it quite hard, shaming me for subjecting him to months of waiting and torment, for spending his money under the circumstances, and for keeping him in the dark about the baby.
I allowed him his say, and then I told him that he was wrong about being kept in the dark, that I had in my possession the letter which I had intended to mail that very day to prove it.
Unfortunately, that did not placate him. He shoved back from the table, sprang to his feet, and leaned threateningly over me.
“I hope you get what’s coming to you, May Dugas,” he said, and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me to pay the bill.
And that concluded my affair with Robby. I learned that soon afterward he married the most darling girl in Menominee, and I’m certain he’s far happier with her than he ever would have been with me.
Chicago was quite a city in those days—booming, boisterous, and gleaming with newness, as if it’d sprung up overnight on the shores of Lake Michigan. Soaring buildings dominated the streets south of the river, turning Chicago’s downtown into the most modern and imposing of any American city. Fashionably attired pedestrians strutted along the sidewalks and wove their way among stylish carriages and streetcars jammed with workers and shoppers. And the Michigan Avenue district—such shops as I had never before set foot in: Marshall Field’s, The Fair, and
Robby, the very picture of puzzlement, rushed up to me and then halted abruptly, perhaps trying to decide whether to embrace me or shake me. He proceeded to unleash a torrent of questions, right there in the expansive post-office lobby: What was going on? Why didn’t I look six months pregnant? Why hadn’t I written in weeks?
I took his hand. “Please, not here. Come, let’s find some nice place to talk.”
We went to Robby’s hotel, the well-appointed Hotel Davenport, around the corner on Dearborn. (He’d no doubt selected it for its proximity to the post office, which I learned he’d been frequenting for hours on end with the express purpose of intercepting me.) He wanted us to go to his room, but I insisted on the dining room. Hoping to set the tone for a civil conversation, I ordered tea and a plate of cakes, all the time begging Robby to cease his questions until our order arrived.
He pressed his lips together, trying hard to contain what I imagine was months’ worth of frustration now laced with confusion and possibly indignation.
“I do owe you an explanation, I certainly do,” I began as I poured his tea.
He nodded and moistened his lips, clamping the dainty teacup handle between his chunky fingers and thumb.
I could think of no better explanation than that which I had penned in the letter now stuffed in my purse. “Three weeks ago, I lost the child and became quite ill. Helga attended me. On her orders, I have been confined to bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “You look fine to me.”
“Yes, I’m much better now, thank you.”
“I mean you don’t look like someone who’s been ill.”
“Oh, Robby, I don’t know what you expect. I’ve lost the baby. There’s nothing either one of us can do about that.”
“That’s obvious.” He smacked his hands down on the table. “Do you think I’m some numskull?”
I raised my brow and softened my eyes. “No, of course not.”
“Why didn’t you write earlier? Didn’t you think I’d want to know right away?”
“The fact is, I hated the thought of distressing you.”
“You think not telling me makes it easier?”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t.” I met his gaze straight on. “Robby, there is simply no way to spare your feelings. I’m afraid I must break off our engagement.”
“Why, you …” His face ignited to bright pink. “After all this. How dare you.”
Poor Robby. He took it quite hard, shaming me for subjecting him to months of waiting and torment, for spending his money under the circumstances, and for keeping him in the dark about the baby.
I allowed him his say, and then I told him that he was wrong about being kept in the dark, that I had in my possession the letter which I had intended to mail that very day to prove it.
Unfortunately, that did not placate him. He shoved back from the table, sprang to his feet, and leaned threateningly over me.
“I hope you get what’s coming to you, May Dugas,” he said, and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me to pay the bill.
And that concluded my affair with Robby. I learned that soon afterward he married the most darling girl in Menominee, and I’m certain he’s far happier with her than he ever would have been with me.
Chicago was quite a city in those days—booming, boisterous, and gleaming with newness, as if it’d sprung up overnight on the shores of Lake Michigan. Soaring buildings dominated the streets south of the river, turning Chicago’s downtown into the most modern and imposing of any American city. Fashionably attired pedestrians strutted along the sidewalks and wove their way among stylish carriages and streetcars jammed with workers and shoppers. And the Michigan Avenue district—such shops as I had never before set foot in: Marshall Field’s, The Fair, and
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