Free Palace Council by Stephen L. Carter Page A

Kevin?
    (II)
    T HAT NIGHT, Aurelia girded herself for battle. Kevin was in town, and would be home for dinner: she had Mr. Thrush’s word for it. She gave the maid the evening off and did everything herself. Set the dining-room table with the good silver. Made a spicy chicken fricassee with dumplings, a favorite of all the Garlands. Picked out what she hoped was a nice wine from Kevin’s collection. Ordered a strawberry cheesecake from the bakery down the block. Then she put on her slinkiest dress—although she did not feel terribly slinky since Zora’s arrival two months ago—and what Kevin liked to call her full paint job. She mixed the martinis and crushed the ice, then sat in the parlor, and waited.
    All men need a period of adjustment after a baby, dear,
Claire had murmured—although admitting, when pressed, that her Oliver, Kevin’s cousin, had not.
Not every man who keeps a secret is up to no good—
although everyone knew that Oliver could hardly wait to get home and tell his wife everything about his day, but only after listening to everything about hers.
If the two of you are having problems, I can recommend somebody,
said Claire, a pediatrician who worked half-time at Harlem Hospital. By this time, Aurelia could hardly wait to get Claire out of the apartment. And yet mixed in with all the useless advice came one nugget of gold:
Oliver says that Kevin never calls any more.
    He used to call?
    All the time, dear. They were as close as brothers. And now they’re not.
    Because Kevin was too busy? Or because Oliver disapproved of whatever he was up to?
    She waited for Kevin, wandering through the dining room, to the kitchen, into the nursery to check on Zora, into the guest room, into the master bedroom, then back again, another circuit, as the hands of the grandfather clock in the front hall swept past seven, past eight, toward nine. At half past ten, the maid returned and found the mess where Aurelia had dumped the untouched dishes into the sink. She heard the sobs through the bedroom door but knew better than to knock. When Mr. Kevin got home, he would have to deal with it.
    Aurelia woke around one-thirty, the slinky outfit ruined, her paint job now part of the duvet, to find her husband sitting in the bedroom chair, holding a shoe in his hand as if frozen in the act of undressing. All the lights were on. Kevin had a smooth, handsome heart-shaped face, almost feminine in its delicacy. He possessed no temper to speak of, and looked rather Byronic, but tonight the poet was a demon. Her husband had never laid a hand on her, although she supposed there was always a first time.
    â€œI need a son.”
    Aurie blinked. “What?”
    â€œA son. An heir. I love you, but I have to know. Are you going to give me an heir or not?”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?”
    â€œWhat else you do is up to you. It makes no difference, as long as you don’t have another man’s child. I need a boy, Aurelia. Zora is fine as girls go, but I need a boy.” He was very drunk. He stood up, strode around the room, running both hands through his hair like a madman. “It’s urgent. They won’t wait. Tell me when you’re ready.”
    He went out.

CHAPTER 7
    Two Announcements
    (I)
    E DDIE WAS BOOKENDED by sisters. At Christmas of 1956, the family gathered in Boston. Marcella, the eldest of the children, arrived from western Massachusetts with husband and lively trio of pretty daughters, their hair flattened with a hot comb. Junie, the baby, unmarried at twenty-four (to her mother’s mortification), arrived alone, still in law school, one of many mad ideas Wesley Senior and his gentle wife, Marie, waited for her to outgrow. There were not enough positions in professional life for the men of the nation, the pastor would point out: should Negro women steal the few places that were allocated to the race? Junie, more lanky than graceful, had little of the easy