Makin' Whoopee by Billie Green

juice and leaned against the counter.
    After a moment she asked, "How is Marilyn?"
    "Better yesterday," Irma said, still chopping. "But that doesn't mean anything. It comes and goes. Sometimes she goes right off her head. I worry about the baby."
    The older woman paused, and Sara had the feeling she was uncomfortable. If she was right, this was a first. Nothing threw Irma. Sara honestly believed her housekeeper's expression wouldn't change if she found that the President was coming for dinner.
    "What is it, Irma?" she asked in concern.
    Irma laid down the knife and turned to Sara, a determined expression on her face. "How would you feel about my bringing the baby here once in a while, so I could watch it when Marilyn's feeling bad?"
    Sara blinked. "The baby . . . here?"
    A baby in her house. Sara felt dizzy. The thought of a baby here shocked her. She had spent a lot of years avoiding children of any size. In a completely adult world it was easy to tell herself that she didn't really like children, that she didn't actually want any of her own. She could convince herself that she was totally committed to her career. After all, she had figured a thousand times, it was a new age. Child-bearing was not a requirement anymore. Today's woman had a choice, and didn't have to feel unfeminine because she chose not to be a mother.
    The whole thing sounded good in theory. And it worked just fine ... as long as she didn't have to have firsthand experience of what she was missing.
    Too many things were changing too fast, she thought, running a hand through her hair. She hadn't even worked out the problem of Charlie, and now life was throwing her another curve. She was constantly being knocked off balance. How would she be able to get anything done, knowing a forbidden delight was stashed away somewhere under her roof?
    She couldn't do it. Irma could take time off if she wanted, but Sara couldn't allow her to bring the baby here. She couldn't let it matter that Irma took pride in the fact that she had never missed a day's work. She would simply have to figure something else out.
    "I'd keep the baby out of the way."
    Irma's stiff, proud voice brought Sara's gaze back to her housekeeper. The older woman's chin was held high, as though she had been caught in the act of begging.
    "You'd never even know there was a baby in the house," she added.
    Sara was immediately ashamed of herself. How could she put her petty foibles ahead of this woman's pride? She forced a smile. "I'm sorry, Irma. I didn't mean to sound negative. You just took me by surprise, but . . . well, sure. If you think it's necessary, why not?"
    "Thanks," Irma said. The single word was gruff but sincere. "Doctors are supposed to be so smart, with all that college and training, but they still don't know half of what my ma knew about female trouble."
    Ah-ha, Sara thought. The mysterious female trouble again. It was Irma's favorite topic, and although Sara had once tried to pin the older woman down to a specific definition, she had discovered to her amusement that the symptoms of the mystical ailment ranged from a headache to drooling schizophrenia. Being a woman was a wondrous and awesome thing.
    "So you think her problem is . . . uh, female trouble?"
    Irma made a characteristic sound that was somewhere between a horse fresh from a water trough and a dying seal. "Anybody with a lick of sense would know that. Marilyn's always been delicate down there. I knew the first time she got her woman's complaint that there was going to be trouble."
    This was Irma's favorite story. She related it often and with relish, as though it were a moral tale from which every listener could benefit. Sara knew it verbatim, but listened patiently.
    "About a week before her first period, Marilyn was at an amusement park in California—the one they tore down after that fat man got killed on the Flying Octopus." Irma always related this part in a voice heavy with meaning, as though the unfortunate man's death