Bishop's Road by Catherine Hogan Safer Page A

coming over. Harvey is still digging a hole under the rhododendron. The dahlias from the yard next door are climbing through and over the fence. The scarletrunner beans have made their way up the lilac and are leaning toward the kitchen window. Zucchini and carrots that someone planted down the street are growing among Eve’s zinnias. There are tomato plants crawling out through the chicken wire of the compost bin. Flowering. And if there’s a scarcity of earthworms elsewhere it’s only because they heard there is a party going on at the old convent. Hedgehogs return from wherever they’ve been. Birds follow Judy and Maggie home from the playground and they have to shake them away before they go into the house. Eve sits in the middle of her small paradise and marvels at the glory of it all. Hell indeed.

    Maggie brings her letters to the sitting room and Judy Checks to make sure they are all in order. Thinks that Judy may be right. Perhaps it’s time to read them, perhaps it’s okay to read them but not alone. Her hand is shaking as she passes the first one to Judy, indicates that she would like to hear her letter. But now Judy doubts the wisdom of her original idea. Says, “Are you sure, Maggs, cause you might not like what’s in this. Who are they from anyway?”
    â€œI don’t know. They gave them to me the day I was leaving. But I want you to read them to me now. Please. I don’t want to read them by myself.”
    â€œWell okay then. But it might be real weird, you know.” Maggie settles herself on the carpet at Judy’s feet. Stares at her friend’s face as she begins to read. The letters are from her mother. Each a page long and those pages cold. But if the words are empty, the memories they rouse are not. Maggie cries. No sobs. No sound. No change of expression on her pretty face. Just six year’s worth of tears and the front of her dress is soakingbefore Judy opens the fifth envelope.

    Mrs. Eldridge was amazed to find herself pregnant at the ripe old age of forty-five. She and Mr. Eldridge had decided long ago that she was barren and there was simply nothing to be done about it. After the first three years of their marriage, and before they gave up on the idea of ever having a family, Mrs. Eldridge cried most of the time. Especially when she ovulated or bled. Every twinge and the slightest discharge reminded her that she was not complete, for all that her internal organs seemed to be in working order.
    There were times when Mr. Eldridge was sure he would have to leave her. The disappointment of having no children, he could handle, but the constant weeping and wringing of hands almost drove him mad. Every day they went to their work like normal people. They ate lunch with their colleagues. They chatted with friends. Attended all of the obligatory cocktail parties and company dinners. Sometimes they even went out for a drink on Friday evening and a movie just the two of them. But as soon as they were home, it started. Mrs. Eldridge would get that look in her eye and Mr. Eldridge would brace himself for the waterworks. She would cry and walk back and forth through the house, from the basement to the kitchen to the dining room, to the living room and the window to stare outside, up and down the hall a few times, upstairs to each bedroom and the bathrooms. Back to the basement to begin again. She would stop to eat when Mr. Eldridge put a meal in front of her. She would stop when he gently took her hand and led her to bed. The few times they made love, she sniffled her way through most of it.
    For years she didn’t buy groceries, prepare meals or washa dish. She went to work and earned her keep and suffered. Weekends were especially difficult. It never occurred to them to see a doctor, to try to adopt, to hire a surrogate. One day, shortly after Mrs. Eldridge turned thirty-eight, she called Mr. Eldridge at his office and said, “I don’t think