The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress by Ariel Lawhon

so … tentative. There’s his reelection to consider. You wouldn’t want people to think him unreliable.”
    “Of course not.”
    “Right, then. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
    A puddle had grown around her feet by the time she slid the cards back in her pocket. When she returned to the counter, Irv stared at her with the sort of curiosity that turns to gossip if left to marinate long enough.
    “Your floor.” She pointed at her muddy galoshes. “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “This isn’t exactly Saks.”
    Irv looked out the window at the ropes of rain coming in sideways. “Let me get my coat. I’ll drive you home.”
    “Thank you.”
    The tree limbs hung heavy with rain, brushing the windows of his flatbed as they bumped along the back road toward the cabin. He was quiet, eyes locked on the windshield, and Stella did not attempt conversation. Irv dropped her off with some trite words of sympathy that she quickly forgot, and then Stella walked through the door of her cabin—the one piece of property in her name—and took in the magnitude of Joe’s disappearance.

Chapter Seven
    COLUMBIA PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL, MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1930
    THE obstetrics waiting room at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital overflowed with women who spoke only their native tongues. Spanish. Portuguese. Italian. Hebrew. A handful piecing together questions in German and Polish. All of them straining against the weight of round bellies or looking weak and pale with nausea. All of them except Maria. They sat on benches against the walls or huddled in clusters, whispering and rocking from side to side, supporting their stomachs. A number of them had small children in tow or infants asleep at their breasts. Maria stood apart from them, arms wrapped around her waist, keenly aware of her emptiness.
    Seven nurses sat at the reception desk in white uniforms and crisply pointed hats. Each spoke English and at least one other language and attended to the patients she could most easily communicate with. As names were rattled off, the nurses would direct the women to see a doctor. Maria assumed they served dual purposes of attendant and translator. The numbers in the waiting room never seemed to diminish. No matter how many names were called, more women trickled through the door.
    Maria inched forward with the line until her turn at the reception desk arrived. The sign in front of her read CASTELLANO . A dark-haired nurse with chocolate-colored eyes waved her over.
    “Nombre?”
    “I speak English,” Maria said.
    The nurse smiled with relief. “Well, that’s nice. You’re the second one today.” She slid a pen and paper forward. “Please fill this out. Name, age, address, and how far along in your pregnancy.”
    Maria de la Luz Tarancón Simon. Thirty-two years old. Ninety-sevenOrchard Street, apartment 32. She scribbled the information and pushed the clipboard back across the counter. It always seemed strange to her, that mouthful of a name. Though she had been born and raised in New York City, her parents had stayed true to their Spanish heritage and endowed her with surnames from both sides of the family. Jude found it charming. She’d always thought that she would abandon the tradition when she had children of her own. But now that the very possibility was cast into doubt, she felt sentimental about the custom.
    “Are you pregnant?”
    Maria looked up, startled. Was her barrenness that obvious?
    “You left this blank.” The nurse pointed to the section of the form that Maria had not filled out.
    “No,” she said, “I’m not.” Her entire struggle was summed up in the white space on that page. Empty form. Empty womb.
    “Let’s hope the doctor can help with that.” The nurse reached out and placed a warm, wrinkled hand on Maria’s wrist. Her eyes were bright with kindness. “Now go through that door and wait on the bench outside room number eight. Set this in the slot on the door. He’ll call