Scott Turow: The Burden of Proof

Above them there was stirring. Marta wa on the stairs, a smaller woman, also dark, with wire-rimmed glasses and a bosky do of untamed black haft. She regarded the scene below with a vulnerable look of her own.

"Group cry?" she asked.

Stern awaited Kate's lead.erself taught school. She loved her husband with a pitiable tender innocence, but Stern at moments could feel his heart rub itself raw with worry at the prospect of the moment Kate finally learned about the wallops the world could deliver.

Now she touched his hand.

"Daddy, I want you to know something. We weren't going to say anything for another month, but everyone is so sad-" Kate's mouth trembled slightly.

Dear God, thought Stern, she is pregnant.

She lifted her face proudly. Kate said, "We're going to have a baby."

"Oh my," said Stern. He grasped her hand. "My," he said again, smiling bravely and trying to recall exactly how he would be expected to reflect his delight. He kissed her first on the temple, then took her in his arms. He did so only rarely, and here in her thin nightgown he was amazed by the feel of his daughter, her narrowness, the loose movement of her breasts against him. Kate wept with sudden abandon, then drew back.

"We couldn't say anything," she explained to her father.

"It wasn't safe yet. We'd had some problems. And now I keep thinking, What if Mommy knew?" Once more she became uncontrollable. Once more Stern took his dark, beautiful daughter in his arms. But even as he held Kate, he found there was an abrupt adjustment in his own vision of things.

Clara had abandoned the children, too. He had viewed this last act of hers as aimed exclusively at him. But the children, grown but troubled, were still not past the point where they required occasional assistance.

Would it have made a difference, had Clara known Kate's secret? Or had she decided that they too'd had the last of what she could stand to give?

Above them there was stirring. Marta wa on the stairs, a smaller woman, also dark, with wire-rimmed glasses and a bosky do of untamed black haft. She regarded the scene below with a vulnerable look of her own.

"Group cry?" she asked.

Stern awaited Kate's lead. She squared her shoulders and dabbed her eyes. The entire family was to know. As he prepared for her declaration, entirely unexpected, an arrow of joy shot forth from the leaden-like mass of his interior and he was overcome by a startlingly exact recollection of the abrupt ways a baby's hands and legs would move, random and sudden as life itself.

"I just told Daddy. I'm going to have a baby." Marta's shriek split the household. A self-serious person, she carded on mindlessly. She embraced her sister, hugged her father. The two young women sat together holding hands.

Peter arrived then, coming early to beat the traffic, and was informed.

With the commotion John emerged, and everyone rose to hug him. In response to his reticence, they were always excessive. They had labored for years to make John feel accepted in a situation where, for many reasons, he knew he never would be. The group by then had migrated together to the living room. Silvia entered in her housecoat, looking grave; clearly she had taken their hoopla as the noise of one more calamity. Silvia and Dixon had never had a family of their own, much to Silvia's despair, and the news, so unexpected, brought Silvia, too, to tears. It was barely past seven and the family, overcome by all of this, clung to one another. And there in the living room, Stern, at last, longed for Clara. He had been waiting for it. More than the disorder and the loss, at this moment there was the absence.

When he looked up, Marta was watching. It had savaged Stern with sorrow to see her the night she had arrived. Marta, brave Marta, his boldest child, trod soldier-like up the walk, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, weeping openly as soon as she climbed from the taxi. Stern embraced her at the door. 'Daddy, I never thought she was a happy person, but-' Throttled by emotion, Marta got no further. Stern held her and suffered privately the unequivocal nature of his daughter's estimate of her mother. She had always held Clara at greater distance than the other two; as a result, perhaps, she.had more to regret.

Across the' room, his daughter, with her father's tiny close-set eyes, looked at him sadly now.

I miss her, too, she mouthed.

Stern, a frequent morning chef, cooked for the entire group, He fried eggs and flapjacks, and Marta squeezed grapefruit for juice, a family tradition. By nine, an hour before the mortician's limousine was to arrive, they were all fed and dressed, quietly gathered once more in the living room.

"How about bridge?" Marta asked. She prided herself on being unrestrained by convention. In most things, Marta styled herself in the ways of the late sixties. She had been a child then and took it as a time of great romance; she went about in flowing gowns and high-laced boots, with her wind-sprung hair."Mom liked it when we played."

"Oh, sure," said Peter. "She liked it when we squaredanced, too, while we were kids. We can do-si-do to the chapel."

Marta whispered to her brother, Oh fuck off, but smiled.

Marta had always tempered her rivalry with Peter, and she granted him special liberties now. Kate's tears were constant, but Pete, of the three, seemed the hardest hit, morose, pensive, persistently out of balance. He went off by himself at many moments but returned inevitably to the comfort of his sisters. Close-knit, Stern's children appeared to take strength from each other:

Marta again mentioned bridge. "Daddy, would you mind?"

Stern lifted his palms, not quite an answer.

"Will you play?" Kate asked her father.

Silvia motioned Stern forward, encouraging him.

"I have a few things to look after for later." She was preparing the household for the crush of callers that would follow the funeral.

"I shall help Aunt Silvia. You four play."

"I'll help Aunt Silvia," said John. He was on his feet already, a huge young man, a mountainous blond with a neck thick as a tire rim. He had never mastered the game, like so many other things attached to his in-laws. The Sterns with their quiet intense ways had mystified John for most of a decade.

"Come on," Marta called. She was in.the sun room, already looking for cards. Stern understood his daughter's excitement. For an instant, it would be as when she was seventeen and the children were all safe from the world of grownup difficulties. Stern, as ever, found himself chafed and touched by his Marta and her impulses.

"Katy, I will play with you," Stern announced. He was always a partner with one of the girls; usually Kate. He and Peter squabbled when they played together. Stern had spent much of the little time he had at home playing one game or another with his children. Chutes and Ladders.

Monopoly. Word games when they were in the primary grades.

The four of them spent hours around a game table in the sun room. Clara seldom participated. Often she would sit in a fifth chair, with hands and ankles primly crossed, watching or, when necessary, assisting Kate.

But she was not obtrusive. This, for better or worse-rules, moves, strategies-was Alejandro's time.

Peter made the cards and handed them to Stern to deal. The sun room-referred to in the old architect's plans, drawn in the twenties, as 'the solarjura'-was a narrow area, rimmed with windows, floored in slate. From here they looked directly at Clara's garden. It was the time of year when she would have begun to turn the soil. The stalks of last year's gladloll, trimmed neatly almost to the soil, rose in rows, survivors of the mild winter.

Stern bid a weak club. He played all conventions. Anything but hand signals, Clara said.

"Are you going back to work after the baby?" Marta asked her sister.