Archive of Our Own ^beta

Margene, Nicki thinks, has been absolutely insufferable since she got pregnant. Nicki had almost gotten used to her presence in the house–her round-eyed enthusiasm, constant barrage of questions, the annoying sappy look Bill wore looking at her–those had all become more or less routine.  A minor irritation, at the worst. And she wasn’t untrainable–her household skills were getting better. Nicki and Barb had taught her recipes that didn’t involve the microwave, she didn’t lose so many socks when she did laundry, and it was nice to have help with the boys. Though, of course, she could have watched Wayne and Raymond just as well when she was just the babysitter. Still, though, all things considered, it wasn’t so bad. 

There were even good things–she complimented Nicki on everything, from her cooking to her hair to her babies. Margene even praised her to Bill– Nicki and I made meatloaf together! Didn’t it turn out so good? It wasn’t like she wanted to put Nicki down to look better. That wasn’t so bad. 

But then she’d got pregnant so fast–faster even than Nicki had when she was first married. And surely Nicki hadn’t been so demanding. Pickles and potato chips and chocolate cake and who knows what else. So cheerful about it too, like she didn’t even realize she was making an imposition. And of course Bill and Barb fawned all over her, and it was Nicki who had to go grocery shopping three times in one week. Then she’d stopped craving things and started puking everything up, which was worse, and looked so sad and forlorn that Nicki couldn’t help but comfort her, irritated as she was. 

So there they are, on a Friday morning, sitting on the couch with Ray in Nicki’s lap and a wastebasket in Margie’s in case she gets sick again, and Wayne squished happily between them, watching VeggieTales . There are real tomatoes, not singing ones, out in the front garden where Barb is planting them. Nicki used to plant tomatoes with her sisters at home, and cucumbers and squash. It might be nice–aren’t Barb and Margene supposed to be her sisters, now?–but the neighbors might ask questions. So Barb’s planting seedlings and she’s inside babysitting Margene. 

“Do you think I should want a boy or a girl?” Margene asks, while the vegetables are reenacting the Book of Esther. Evidently she’s in the soft maternal mood, not the pukey mood. 

“I don’t know, Margie. I can’t decide what you want.” 

“Well, I thought maybe people wanted a girl to balance things out. Then we’d have three of each. Is that what you want?”

I don’t really care, as long as I don’t have to have this one, Nicki thinks, but that sounds mean and is also more information than she trusts Margene with. 

“I’d be happy with either,” Nicki says, which sounds a lot better. 

“What about Bill? Do you think he wants a girl?”

Bill wanted a boy, at least with Wayne. That made two of each. Balanced things out. Bill called Wayne “he”, even when he was still tiny inside Nicki, before they could pick out anything more than a blob on the ultrasound. Wayne’s place in the family tree is the same as Bill’s–the second wife’s firstborn son. That makes him special. 

With Raymond, Nicki doesn’t remember him saying one way or the other. Barb said she wanted a girl. A baby sister for Teenie. Nicki wanted another boy, so the baby would make her think of baby Wayne and not baby Cara Lynn. When they asked, she said she’d be happy with either. 

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.” 

“ I boy, Mama,” Wayne says unexpectedly, tugging on Nicki’s sleeve. She’d thought he was totally absorbed in the video. 

“Yes, you sure are,” Nicki laughs. “And Ray.”

“Wayne, do you want another brother?” Margene asks, kissing the top of his little blonde head.

“Ben,” Wayne says. 

“Yeah, Ben’s your brother too! You want another brother from me?” 

She pushes the wastebasket to the side and puts Wayne’s hand on her stomach.

“In my tummy, Wayne. It might be your brother, or your sister.”

“Like Ray?”

“No, honey, Raymond grew in your mommy’s tummy, and Ben was in Barb’s.” 

“He’ll understand soon enough,” Nicki says. Her face feels red and hot, for some reason. “I did.” Raymond’s head, asleep now, nods against her own stomach. She grabs the remote and switches the television off. The vegetables screech to a halt and vanish. 

Wayne doesn’t even notice. He’s too enraptured by Margene and the thought of his new little sibling. 

“You should want a boy, Margene,” Nicki says. Her voice sounds overloud and snappish. “Firstborn boys are always special to their mothers.” 

Nicki remembers the first time she heard that. She’d been five years old, sitting on her mother’s bed in her stiff, lacy best dress, trying not to fidget while Mama brushed and braided her and Evie's and Cara's hair, all lined up in a row. Alby, with the benefit of short hair and the superiority of being newly ten, had brushed his own. He’d sat on the bed next to them, all sharp angles in freshly ironed shirt and trousers, shoes bright black and smelling of polish. She was dressing them up for their grandmother’s funeral–Papa’s mama. It was very important, they’d been told, to look nice. Their grandma would be looking down on them, and she’d been so very proud of her large posterity, and she would want them to look their best. And so would Papa. 

I don’t want anyone saying, look at Adaleen, her girls are acting so foolish. Let’s be perfect little ladies today. Evelyn, don’t wiggle, I’m almost done with your braid. 

Is Alby supposed to be perfect too? Nicki had asked. She’d been genuinely wondering, maybe, or trying to get him in trouble, more likely. 

Of course he is. But your brother knows how to behave. He has to, he’s the oldest. Firstborn boys are always special to their mothers. Like your papa. He was special to his mother even before he was the prophet. 

It turned out that Papa wasn’t actually a firstborn son, anyway. You could look it up in the genealogy records–there’d been another son who’d died the same year he was born, and then Papa two years later. But Nicki supposes that doesn’t really count, and anyway it had made Alby hold his head up high and his back ramrod straight the entire funeral, which was probably why she’d said it in the first place. She had tried to sit straight too, to be a credit to her mother. 

She’d never been to a funeral before, or seen a dead person. Grandma was all in white, small and thin and frail and looking almost childlike even though she was so old. Nicki didn’t want to look too close. Papa talked for a long time at the front of the funeral, his face alight and cast up to heaven. Later when they sang a hymn, he wiped his sleeve across his eyes, a short sharp movement like he didn’t want anyone to see it. Other than that, he didn’t cry at all. After the funeral, he’d walked over through his wives and children and stopped at Nicki’s mama, and kissed her, and then he’d patted Nicki and Evie on the heads, and picked up Cara because she was littlest and carried her out of the church. She ought to be proud, she’d thought even then, but mostly she was jealous because he was carrying Cara, not her. 

Barb might say that they’re all one family, all brothers and sisters and sister-wives, and she loves Nicki’s boys like they were her own, and Margene might believe that, because she’ll apparently believe anything. Nicki knows the truth, which is that living the principle tests even the best men, men like Bill and her father. There’s always favorites, among the wives or the children, and that means someone else always misses out.