Chapter 4
A few hours before his wedding, Harge was nervous and happy, and very much wanting a drink. He walked across the hotel lobby, tugging at the sleeves of his suit until they fit perfectly. It was a pointless gesture; he’d be changing before the wedding anyway.
His stress came mostly because there was actually very little stress involved. His wedding to Carol had been the stuff ulcers were made of, at least when it came to the preparations. His mother was on him about every detail, save the one about his own happiness. She’d turned the whole thing into a circus, almost immediately after resigning herself to the reality of him going through with it. His father treated it as a business gathering. The seats that weren’t taken up by relatives he barely knew went to people his father needed to wine and dine. John wanted his clients and colleagues to take priority over Carol’s family.
By the time he’d reached this stage the first time, Harge simply wanted the tedium to be over, wanted escape. Carol had felt much the same. It drew them closer, oddly.
There was no tedium here, no months’ worth of decisions to be made, only to have them overruled by his mother. He didn’t need to referee between anyone, or waste such a precious day on people he didn’t give a damn about. He had Lilah and Rindy, and that was all he wanted. The other preparations, minimal as they were, were already done. He could relax.
Except he couldn’t. It’d been such a hassle last time; it couldn’t possibly be so simple now.
He was walking across the polished floor of the lobby, past a lit fireplace and a group of finely made chairs, a sofa. The doors to the hotel bar were in sight when he heard his name.
Harge stopped, turned. There was a man on the sofa, his face hidden behind a newspaper, until it wasn’t. Rogers lowered his copy of The Times, folded it neatly, gave Harge a little wave.
Harge scowled, shot a longing glance at the doors of the bar. Of course it couldn’t be so simple.
“What the hell did you do? Did you knock him in the head with your shield?”
The words were Carol’s, grumpy and aimed at Steve as Therese listened. They were in his home, eight days before Easter. Carol had spoken to her and they’d agreed the day before, when Harge returned with Rindy, that they would take his invitation. Rindy was giddy at the prospect. Carol, less so.
“I did not knock him,” Steve said. They were gathered in the kitchen for a late brunch. “And if I had knocked him, I wouldn’t need the shield to do it.”
“But what did you say to him?” Carol persisted. She was leaning against the counter, watching him prepare food.
“I just told him to stop being a dick. If he took that too far, I can’t be held responsible.”
Therese, close to Carol with her arms resting on the counter, colored at his unexpectedly crass word. She assumed he allowed it because the only small ears present were too small to comprehend. Jacob was getting fed by Peggy at the kitchen table. Rindy and Lizzie had scarfed their food down at worrying speeds so that they could run off together.
“What’s the matter, Shutter?” Angie asked. She was sat near Peggy at the table, her back to Therese, her eyes glued to a stack of typed pages, where they’d been for the last twenty minutes. An empty seat separated her from Peggy. “Don’t like a little dick talk at the table?”
Therese rolled her eyes. There was no way Angie should’ve been able to see her blush, so she blushed further.
“Oh, stop tormenting her,” Carol said. “I don’t know why we spend any time with you savages.”
“Because the savages we brought into this world are fond of each other,” Peggy said, adjusting her breast without a hint of shame so Jake could latch on better.
That was true, at least. Lizzie’s parents had chosen to surprise her with Rindy’s return. There was a thud when the two girls collided in a hug, loud enough that Carol and Angie exchanged worried looks, but Rindy seemed none the worse for wear. She was beyond eager to share news of her sibling. Lizzie had merely shaken her head and offered somber apology.
Rindy wanted to reacquaint with Jacob too, insisting that she needed to know just the right way to hold a baby now, so Mouse would let her help. Peggy assisted in this, reviewing everything Rindy had forgotten in the month since she last had contact with Jake. Lizzie rolled her eyes over all of it and complained at Rindy’s split attention. Her expressions were dramatic and comical.
Carol’s face was harder to read as Therese watched her watch Rindy with the baby. There was conflict, Therese knew that much, but the nuances eluded her, even after years of making herself an expert in Carol’s features.
Carol had been moody all week, not that Therese blamed her. It was difficult, gauging her temperament, deciphering what she needed. The situation was bizarre and entirely beyond Therese’s frame of reference. She felt too young, the gap in hers and Carol’s life experiences wider than ever, a chasm.
Therese found herself watching Jacob nurse, as she’d watched Rindy hold him. Carol had told her before, during midnight conversations about nothing and everything, that she would’ve liked another child, another someone for Rindy to love, if things had been different. What must it be like, knowing so suddenly that Rindy would have just that, but courtesy of someone else? Therese didn’t know. Carol wouldn’t tell her yet. Couldn’t tell her, Therese suspected.
Therese ducked her eyes away from Peggy and Jacob. Her mind had suddenly played tricks. For a second, she’d pictured Carol and Rindy in those places, which was silly, because Rindy had only ever known a bottle. But for a moment, Therese had thought of Rindy’s earliest years, all those other hundreds of moments that this unknown woman (who Abby swore bore a striking resemblance to Carol) would have with the new baby, Rindy’s sibling.
“For God’s sake, Therese,” came Peggy’s voice, crashing headlong into those thoughts. “It’s been months. I’ve told you I won’t throw you out for looking in the general direction of my breast, and neither will the other two.”
Peggy’s tone was casual, her eyes never leaving Jake. “I grew up in a Catholic school. If you looked in the general direction of a breast, getting thrown out would’ve been a welcome reprieve from what actually happened.”
Angie hummed in commiseration without looking up from her reading.
"Unless those breasts belonged to Saint Agatha of Sicily. In which case, they were served on a silver platter. Literally,” said Steve.
Carol’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. She shot Therese a baffled look. “Do I want to ask?”
“I don’t know this one,” Therese replied.
“You grew up Catholic.”
“Episcopalian, which is usually close enough to Catholic that it’s easier not to explain the differences to you.”
Carol rested a hand on the hip that wasn’t leaned against the counter. “Because you think I’m an idiot?”
“Because I know you don’t care, and I’m too lapsed to remember details. Anyway, who’s Agatha?”
“We make cakes shaped like tits in her honor,” said Angie, absently turning a page.
“God bless the Italians,” Steve deadpanned.
“They put little cherries on top for nipples,” Peggy said mildly, making another adjustment to the one Jacob was currently sucking on. “It can be quite good, actually.”
Carol shook her head slowly. “This is why I don’t go to church.”
“Because of the nipples?” Steve asked, then began handing her dishes. “If you’re done grilling me about your ex, you could set those on the table.”
Carol huffed, but didn’t argue. “You should hire someone.”
“Too many non-disclosure agreements,” Peggy said. “And no one beats a super soldier who rarely needs sleep, remembers where everything is, and instinctively knows the most efficient way to carry out any task. Any help we had would develop a crippling inferiority complex.”
“Also, you’re a snob,” Angie told Carol, in that cheerful way of hers, still reading.
Carol scowled. “What are you so engrossed in, anyway? You’ve been a terrible hostess from the moment we arrived.”
“Ah, but my husband’s a fabulous hostess. New script. Howard got the rights to this comics thing. Girl superheroes.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in that,” said Therese. “You told Lorraine it was stupid,” she added, remembering their night at Bombshell.
“Well yeah, because I wanted her to go away.”
“Because you were busy having sex in the booth?”
Angie actually looked up at that. “Look at you. The S word aloud, and you haven’t even broken into a rash. Nowhere I can see, anyway.”
“Nowhere you ever will,” said Carol. She set a plate down near Angie with just a bit too much force.
“Greedy,” Angie said, eyes back on her script. “Anyway, for a thing about grown adults running around in tights, this is surprisingly not terrible, and no way is Lorraine getting in on a good thing without me.”
“You’re a grown adult who runs around in tights for Peter Pan,” Therese pointed out.
“Yeah, but I’m playing a prepubescent boy in Pan. It’s different. Besides, that’s classic literature, that’s Broadway. This is based off dime store comics, but still surprisingly not terrible.”
“Yes,” Steve said, rounding the counter. “because a story about a superhero in tights not being terrible, that’s so shocking.” He came to the table, plucked the script from under Angie’s nose.
“Hey!” Angie twisted in her chair as he took it, set it aside on empty counterspace. “You can’t look at that, it’s top secret.”
“Believe me honey, there’s nothing in that script I need to look at. Eat.”
“Worried the ladies might have better origin stories than you?”
Steve came back to the table, kissed Angie’s curls. “Or that the fantastic meal I’ve been slaving over will go cold while you’re reading about half-naked women in masks.”
“Priorities, baby.”
“Eat.”
They all did, those who didn’t have them already taking seats. They chatted about nothing in particular, between bites, until Rindy and Lizzie came barreling through, Lizzie clutching the stuffed toy Rindy had brought back for her.
“Hey,” Steve said, catching Lizzie’s arm before momentum could send her sailing somewhere she wasn’t meant to be. “You staying out of trouble?” he asked. He could hear everything the kids were doing from anywhere in the house.
“Yes, Daddy.” She squirmed in his hold; voice serious. “Top secret mission. Need to refuel.”
“Ah, of course.” He handed her a piece of toast, held her with one arm while she ate it, reminding her to take smaller bites at lesser speed.
“Daddy, mission.”
“Lizzie, manners.”
Therese sat next to Carol, exchanged a smile with her over the display. “What about you, Rindy?” Therese asked. “You need fuel too?”
Rindy surveyed the table, very obviously looking for desserts that weren’t there. “No, I’m still full, Mama.” Leaving Lizzie’s side, Rindy rounded the table to stand by Peggy, who was still feeding Jacob. “Do you like doing that?” she asked, eying Jake at Peggy’s breast with no shame whatsoever.
Peggy hummed. “I have to, to keep him full and healthy.”
“And quiet,” Lizzie grumbled around a bite of toast.
“It’s necessary,” Peggy continued, “but it gives me lots of chances to cuddle with him, so I suppose I do like it.”
Rindy nodded, brushing her tiny thumb across Jake’s cheek. She looked at Carol. “Mommy, did you feed me like that?”
Therese was slightly startled by the question, given the direction her thoughts so recently took. Carol too, judging by her expression in the second or two it took for her to school her features.
“I didn’t, sweetheart.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Some mommies don’t, and you liked your bottle. You and I still cuddled plenty.”
Was that a hint of desperation near the end? Apology? Therese tried not to hear it.
‘Oh,” Rindy said again. “I hope Mouse does this.” She kept stroking Jake’s cheek. “I bet she’d like it.”
Therese didn’t hear anything mean in the comment. Carol still looked like she’d swallowed a lemon as Lizzie finished eating and the two of them rushed away, back into their own world.
“So.” Angie was the first to speak afterward. “Want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Carol’s motions were stiff as she brought a coffee cup to her lips. “Rindy’s happy. She’s thrilled.”
“Uh-huh.,” said Angie. “Let the record show that you gave the good parent answer. Now, want to talk about it?”
Carol took a breath, then another sip of her coffee. “There must be something wrong with her.”
“That’s better,” said Angie. “Go on.”
“Who else would want to marry Harge, have a child with him? Obviously something’s off.”
As she had the last five times Carol expressed similar sentiments, Therese bit her tongue.
“Mouse,” Carol continued. “What the hell sort of name is that anyway?”
“Maus,” Peggy said.
Carol eyed her with sudden interest. “What?”
“Maus.”
“Why are you saying that the way my ex-husband does?”
Therese frowned. She’d only heard what Carol spoke of once, yesterday, when Harge was saying goodbye to Rindy. Harge’s emphasis on the syllables was different. Carol, who spoke to him more, had noted it several times.
“Because Peggy’s almost as German as Betty,” Steve said.
Peggy shot him a look. “Angie, love? My hands are full.”
“Got you covered,” Angie said, before tossing her napkin at Steve’s head.
“Almost as good at pretending to be German,” Steve amended.
His flash of a smile marked the comment as some sort of apology. It didn’t land well if Peggy’s response—a series of harsh exclamations that Therese could only identify as German—was any indication. Steve fired something back at her in the same language, and they spoke over each other in an incomprehensible jumble until Angie cleared her throat.
“Can we stick to English at the table, please? At the very least, an Allied language?”
“The Italians weren’t exactly allies during the war, honey,” Steve pointed out.
"Shush."
Angie’s scowl combined with Peggy’s, Steve being sat between the two of them, caused Therese to seriously fear for his safety, serum or not. Angie muttered something in Italian, glaring daggers at him.
“Yes, dear,” Steve replied, all sweet tones and boyish smile.
Carol stared. “How many languages do you two speak?” She nodded between Steve and Peggy, then shook her head. “No, never mind. What does being German have to do with you saying ‘Mouse’ differently? You don’t mispronounce most other things.”
“Most?” Peggy repeated.
“Well, you are British.”
“And you ungrateful, traitorous Americans are the ones who mispronounce. Without us teaching you how to speak, you’ve turned into complete idiots.”
“Yes, anyway,” Carol said, dismissive. “Mouse?”
“Maus,” Peggy corrected. “M-A-U-S.”
“What’s the difference?”
"One's a horrible American way of describing an irritating, tiny rodent, the other’s a German term of affection that compares one to a cute, tiny rodent."
Carol scoffed. "Rodents aren't cute. There are no cute rodents. Why would anyone use a rodent as a term of affection?”
“Tell that to Rindy,” Peggy replied. “I know she was quite pleased when Harge read her Stuart Little.”
Carol made a face, somewhere between annoyance and realization. “Jesus. Is that where this is coming from?”
“Possibly.” Peggy shrugged one shoulder. “Mice are cute. Pet shop mice in particular. Were they not, they would not star in movies dancing and singing, nor work as the symbol for an entire production studio.” There was a pause of consideration. “Or a theme park. Did I tell you, darling, that Howard’s thinking of acquiring everything Disney?”
“Oh, that is a terrible idea,” Angie said, stealing Steve’s unused napkin to replace the one she’d thrown at him and dabbing her lips with it.
“He’s not doing it anymore,” said Steve. “It was Disney or the comics thing, and he chose the comics.”
Peggy frowned. “That might be an even worse idea. Still, it’s Howard. The venture that involves real, live half-naked women is obviously a better fit.”
“Can we get back to the rodent woman, please?” Carol asked.
“I thought I just spent an exorbitant amount of time explaining that she’s not a rodent woman,” said Peggy. “At least not in the derogatory sense.”
“Leave her alone, Pegs,” said Angie. “Jersey, you keep using the derogatory sense, as long as you want.”
“What is this word again?” Therese asked. “Maus?”
“How do you pronounce it?” Carol asked, clearly annoyed at having said it wrong around Harge more than once.
“Like a cat noise.” Peggy said, “Mao-sss.”
“Say ‘moss,’ but add some twang,” Steve offered.
“Carol doesn’t do twang,” Therese replied, and got a dirty look for it. “What? You don’t.”
“Cat noise,” Peggy repeated.
Carol looked like she would soon be moving on to something stronger than coffee. “Alright, so she’s a rodent-cat lady. Who’s going to be spending more time with my child than I will. What the hell else do I know about her? Nothing.”
“Isn’t that meant to change next week?” Steve asked.
Carol waved him off. “That’s a dinner party. Nobody’s truthful about themselves at dinner parties.”
“Oh hell no,” Angie agreed.
“So again,” said Carol, “what do we really know about this woman he’s moved in with Rindy? Lilah? Is that even her real name?”
“Yes,” Steve said around a mouthful of toast.
Carol, who’d been glaring into her coffee, shot a quick, confused look to Therese, then focused on Steve. “What?”
“Sorry, was that rhetorical?”
“Jesus, here we go,” Angie murmured, shaking her head.
“What do you two know?” Carol asked, demanded, really.
Steve and Peggy exchanged a look.
“Tell me everything,” Carol insisted.
"Delilah Gisela Braun--no relation--born in Comfort—”
"You'd think that was a joke about wealth, but it's actually a tiny town-"
"Texas, June 21st, 1929," continued Peggy, as if Steve hadn’t spoken. "One of six. She's... hmm, not the eldest, darling?"
"Third born. Two brothers older." Steve paused to scoop eggs into his mouth, "Handful of relatives incarcerated during the war but being German, Italian, or Japanese would do that to you. Family didn't lose everything so lucky there. Finished high school, went to secretarial school. Worked local business in San Antonio for a bit, then moved to New York and started working for Harge in,” he frowned, "whatever the hell Harge does for a living."
“Real estate,” Carol and Peggy said at the same time. One response was bemused, shocked, the other absent and uncaring.
"Woman's never had a traffic ticket, though she is licensed to drive,” Peggy continued. “And to use weapons, but I've been informed most Texans do indeed like firing guns."
There was a lull after this. Steve ate. Peggy helped Jake eat. Therese looked at Carol, waiting for her to fill the quiet, but it seemed she wasn’t capable in that moment. "Family incarcerated? As in conspiring with the enemy?" Therese finally asked
"No more than Morita's family, or Angie's cousin Berto was,” said Steve.
"Watch it, bud.” Angie’s reply was immediate.
"Sorry, cousin-in-law Berto."
Steve lost his piece of toast—meticulously covered with the perfect ratio of butter and jelly—for that one. She crunched her teeth into it louder than any lady should, and Therese again feared for Steve’s safety, which was partly why she asked her next question. “So, Harge is dating a German from Texas?”
"Married. He married a German from Texas.” Peggy shifted Jacob, cooed at him. “They registered their license on time, hired a proper minister to do the job. He did pick a lovely hotel, I'll give him that much."
Steve hummed. “Not lovely enough that it was worth driving out there, having to talk to the guy.”
“Ah, the humble Brooklyn boy with newspapers in his shoes,” said Peggy. “Are you becoming a snob, darling? Is he becoming a snob, Angie?”
“He’s sure something,” Angie said. “So here’s a brain buster. Which Mrs. Aird is worse? The lesbian divorcee, or the German with the kid out of wedlock? I would say the idiot masses hate you more, Carol, but the new one’s German, with that name. So, does lesbianism trump Hitler or does Hitler trump lesbianism?”
No one answered. In the cases of Steve and Peggy, this was only because one was eating and the other was grumbling at the tiny creature mouthing at her breast. Therese looked at Carol as her silence stretched on, increasingly concerned that the conversation may have actually broken her.
Carol spoke, finally, alleviating that worry. “When did you find out all this?”
“I told you when we were at Sofia’s last that I’d checked into her,” Peggy replied.
When they were last at Sofia’s. The polite, less gut-twisting way of referencing the snow storm. Therese noticed that Peggy’s response did not answer Carol’s question. “You used this against Harge,” Therese said, wracking her brain for everything it held about that day.
Carol looked at her, confused. “What?”
“She used it on Harge, to make him stop yelling at you, stop threatening you, when you talked to him on the phone that night.” Therese wondered how much Carol remembered clearly. She’d been wrung out them, physically and emotionally, in a way Therese hadn’t seen before, never wanted to again. “You,” she frowned at Peggy, trying to remember. “You said something about threats and glass houses.”
“No, he used the word ‘threat,’ I never did,” Peggy said, mildly.
Angie snorted. “Yes, Therese, it’s just as much fun arguing with this one,” she gestured toward Peggy,” and Mr. Perfect Recall as you’d think.”
“You,” Carol spoke to Peggy again, rushing to fumble pieces together, “What did you say to him? Something about a tiny stranger.”
Peggy’s expression changed, suddenly and briefly. She sighed. “Little stranger,” she corrected. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was flustered, showed my hand too soon.”
It took effort for Therese not to sit forward in her chair. She was fairly sure this was marked the first time she’d ever heard Peggy admit to being flustered, or anything like it.
“Showed your hand,” Carol repeated. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I showed my hand to him,” Peggy clarified. “I didn’t keep it a secret from you.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask me if she was pregnant.”
Carol looked at Angie. “Did you know?”
“Know what? I knew that they knew stuff about her. They know stuff about most people, especially ones who have even a small chance of interacting with our kids. I knew they knew stuff, didn’t know what it was.”
Carol stared, then spoke to Peggy again. “You could have told me.”
“It was his to tell.”
“I could have used that information to have a talk or two with him.”
“I’m sure you could have. I was flustered, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. The kind of talks you want, they’re not always the best option. Trust me.”
Something passed between Peggy and Carol, a look Therese couldn’t read. A charge in the air that made Therese’s mostly-full stomach tumble unpleasantly.
Then it ended. Carol’s shoulders sagged, barely. She sipped from her coffee, ducked her eyes just a moment too long, but she sounded normal when she spoke. “So, she’s perfect.”
“She’s a very knocked up German who’s been married for five minutes,” Peggy said, conversational again. “Where in that did you get perfect?”
“She’s never had a traffic ticket, you said.”
Angie made a noise at that. “Neither has Steve, and he’s not perfect, at all,” Angie said without much heat.
“So I’ve been told,” said Steve.
“No more Italian jokes, Soldier, it’s not nice.” Angie flicked his arm with one hand, reached for another piece of toast with the other.
Steve grabbed it for her, set it on her plate. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Angie picked up her butter knife. “Just because you’re the bulked up, blond haired, blue eyed poster boy for Aryan perfection—”
“Hey.”
“She’s not wrong,” said Peggy.
“Now,” Steve said, emphasizing. “They’ve put my medical files in museums. I would’ve been killed on the spot if Hitler got to me before Howard.”
Angie literally waved that off as she buttered her toast, using her free hand. “Yeah. Speaking of Hitler and his gal, you guys bringing anything when you go over there?”
Therese shared an uneasy look with Carol. She had no idea what to expect from their upcoming holiday, besides infinite possibilities for misery.
“God,” Carol said. “What the hell do you bring to something like that? Wine?”
Three hosts answered simultaneously.
“Vodka,” said Steve.
“Therese’s camera,” said Angie.
Peggy’s response was quieter, as she was occupied with moving Jake away from her breast, his meal finished, but Therese thought she heard something about tranq darts.