Certain Women

by Madeleine L'engle

  ‘You have a week before you open.’ Emma tried to be encouraging. ‘And the cast is good.’

  ‘They’re okay. But everything’s heavy, like the weather. Nothing bubbles.’

  ‘When the weather clears up, you’ll feel better. Call me tomorrow?’

  ‘If the play flops again, I can’t afford to.’

  ‘Hey, Nik, we can afford a few long-distance calls.’

  ‘Okay.’ He did not call her for three nights. Then, the next night, he sounded more than depressed.

  ‘Nik, what’s wrong?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Everything. The play stinks. I’ve rewritten the whole last act and it still sags. We’re doing a preview tomorrow.’

  The weather changed, but nothing else improved. It was obvious from the preview that the play was not reaching the audience, that it would not make it to New York no matter how much work he and the cast and the director did on it.

  When Nik came home after the two-week run he was more depressed than Emma had ever seen him. Depressed in a different way from his ordinary depression over bad reviews, over plays that did not work.

  Finally Emma said, ‘What’s really wrong, Nik?’

  ‘What do you mean, what’s really wrong? I had a hell of a time in Miami. Nothing went well. Some of my rewriting was good and they couldn’t get it. The timing was awful.’

  ‘But it’s more than that.’

  He was belligerent. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Suddenly he seemed to wilt. ‘I don’t want you to read about it in a gossip column.’

  She felt suddenly cold. ‘Read what?’

  It seemed that Nik and the comedienne had gone out drinking the last night of the play to drown their sorrows. They drank too much, much too much, evidently, because they were picked up for being drunk and disorderly and they spent the night in jail.

  ‘Oh, Nik, I’m sorry—’ He was obviously in terrible distress. She felt no anger, only a kind of anguish.

  ‘You know I’m not a heavy drinker—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We were just so damn depressed.’ He came to her, kneeling beside her, putting his head in her lap. ‘I don’t know why it happened. I don’t even know what happened. I know it will never happen again. I promise. I’m glad my mother’s dead. If she’d seen something like that in the papers, it would have killed her.’

  Emma did not look at him. It would not kill her, certainly, but it hurt. And why? Why would having it in the paper hurt more than the fact that Nik had been in jail for drunk-and-disorderly behavior? If other people knew about it, would that make it more real?

  She had been rocking him like a child, but suddenly he reached up and kissed her fiercely. Then he pushed away. Stood up. Went to his briefcase and pulled out some pages.

  ‘Em—’

  ‘What?’ She was still numb, her feelings anesthetized by shock.

  ‘That night in the hotel—the night after I’d been in jail—the play sagged. I knew it wasn’t working. I couldn’t sleep. And suddenly—I don’t know why—I rewrote a scene from my David play. Actually, it was one of those scenes that wrote itself. Between David and Abigail. After—would you read it with me?’

  She did not feel like playing a part, even in a simple reading between herself and Nik. But she could not say no to him. ‘Sure.’ Emma sat on their bed, leaning back against the great headboard, and Nik got up beside her, holding the pages so they could both see them. He read:

  The scene is the king’s chambers. David is lying on the floor. Abigail comes in, bends over him, touches his shoulder gently.

  Emma cleared her throat, read:

  David, you ought to be with Bathsheba.

  Nik continued as David, groaning as though in pain:

  No. I need you, to make myself a man again, not a quivering bowl of jelly. I cannot go to Bathsheba like this, with my tears out of control.

  David should give a deep sob here,’ Nik said. ‘I’m no actor, but I can just hear your father doing it.’ Emma looked down at the script, reading Abigail’s words.

  ABIGAIL: Let her see you cry. She will not love you less.

  DAVID: Nathan said the child will die.

  ABIGAIL: Nathan said. Do you believe everything that Nathan says?

  DAVID: Nathan said that it was God, that God has forgiven my sin—Abigail, which sin?

  ABIGAIL: Are they separate, David? You lusted after Bathsheba when you knew she was Uriah’s wife. You took what was not yours to take, and getting rid of Uriah followed on the heels of the first wrong.

  DAVID: (Reaching for her) But if God has forgiven my sin, why does Nathan say that the child Bathsheba carries will die?

  ABIGAIL: David, David, how many babies born in the summer months die, their little bowels cramping and emptying until there is no life left in them? Did not our own little Daniel die thus?

  DAVID: (Tired. Resigned) It is true.

  ABIGAIL: If Bathsheba’s baby dies, then Nathan’s prediction comes true. And if the baby lives, then Nathan can tell you that God has relented and granted his forgiveness. Whatever happens, Nathan will not be in the wrong.

  DAVID: (With sudden hope) Then it may be that the baby—

  ABIGAIL: I do not know, David. The baby may die, as our Daniel died. The baby may live, as Amnon and your other sons have lived. What I do know, David, is that if the baby dies, this death does not come from God.

  DAVID: But Nathan—

  ABIGAIL: Nathan’s god is Nathan, an angry father-god who enjoys using the rod. Would you, David, condemn to death an unborn child?

  DAVID: I? No!

  ABIGAIL: Nathan’s god and Samuel’s are alike. Perhaps a father would punish by killing an innocent babe. Not a mother.

  DAVID: But will God forgive—

  ABIGAIL: It is the nature of God to forgive. If the child dies, it will not be because God has not forgiven. It will be because these things happen—

  Tears were streaming down Emma’s face. ‘Nik—’

  ‘Emma, it was so strange, writing that scene. Abigail—you told me what to say. It’s Abigail’s dialogue, not mine.’

  ‘Do you believe it?’ Emma reached for a tissue, blew her nose, but the tears were still sliding down her cheeks.

  ‘Abigail believes it. Em, I couldn’t have written it before—before—’

  ‘Before our baby. Wesley.’

  ‘Maybe it’s taken me this long to come to it, to get over my anger.’ Now they were holding each other, Nik’s tears mingling with Emma’s. ‘Em—maybe it took a night in jail—seeing myself as the bastard I am—before I could listen to Abigail.’

  ‘I wish you’d go back to the David play. Will you?’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’ Nik’s face was buried in her shoulder. ‘If a scene comes, I’ll write it. But I don’t have any sense of the whole.’

  ‘Maybe that would come while you wrote. Isn’t that how it sometimes works?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not always. Sweetie, I’ve been such a lousy husband.’

  ‘I’ve been a pretty lousy wife.’

  ‘Maybe we’re just human,’ Nik said. ‘At least we’re still together. You put up with me. Emma, you’ll go on putting up with me?’

  ‘As long as you put up with me.’

  ‘My mother used to quote something about Jesus giving life, and life more abundantly, but she didn’t have it. Do you think we can?’

  She was still sore and numb. The scene between Abigail and David had broken through, made her feel again, and feeling hurt.—Life hurts, she thought. She said, ‘Yes, Nik.’

  They read the gossip columns carefully for several days. Divorces. Romances. Adulteries. Nothing about Nik in Miami. They heaved a breath of relief.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Emma said. ‘It’s over.’

  “I’ve talked too much,” David Wheaton said. “I’ve talked when I shouldn’t have talked, and I’ve been silent when I should have spoken.”

  “Hush, Papa,” Emma said. “We all do the same.”

&nbs
p; He smiled at her. “Nik’s really coming?”

  “Yes, Papa. Any time, now.”

  “I asked you that before. Just like a child. When are we going to get there? How much longer? The same questions over and over.”

  “It’s okay, Papa.”

  “Is this asking too much of you, Emma?” His eyes questioned her anxiously.

  “I don’t know. I think we’re supposed to ask too much of each other; otherwise, nothing would ever get done. I’ve got to check dinner. It’s a venison casserole, and I don’t want it to burn.”

  Ben hunted, not so much for sport as from necessity. During the winter it was often impossible for him to get to the mainland. He kept the boat’s freezer well stocked with all the food that would be needed when it was not easy for them to get to a market. They were able to eat well on the Portia.

  Emma checked her casserole, then closed the oven door, stood up, and looked out the window. She stiffened as she saw not one but two men in business suits walking along the dock toward the Portia.

  Jarvis had come with Nik.

  Emma

  And David spake unto the Lord the words of this song in the day that the Lord had delivered him out of the hand of all his enemies, and out of the hand of Saul.

  And he said, The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer;

  The God of my rock; in him will I trust: he is my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my high tower, and my refuge, my saviour; thou savest me from violence.

  And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: and he was seen upon the wings of the wind.

  He delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them that hated me: for they were too strong for me.

  He brought me forth also into a large place: he delivered me, because he delighted in me.

  II SAMUEL 22:1–3, 11 18, 20

  “They’re here!” Emma called.

  Abby emerged from the lower cabin. “They?”

  “Jarvis.”

  Abby, too, looked through the window. Sighed.

  Alice hurried down from the pilothouse, and the three women went out onto the dock to meet the men, Alice helping Abby with the wooden milk-box step.

  “Why was I not told?” Jarvis demanded without greeting.

  “Jarvis, we were both told about the cancer,” Nik said.

  “But not that Papa was dying. Imminently.”

  Alice took Jarvis’s hand in hers. “You were the next to be called, Jarvis. I’m not sure I can say welcome to you right now. The Portia isn’t a yacht, there’s very little space, and we were going to bring you all in to see David in relays. And, Jarvis, you must not smoke.”

  “I gave it up three years ago,” Jarvis said indignantly.

  “I’m glad to hear it. But I don’t know where we’re going to put you.”

  “I’ll stay in a hotel,” Jarvis said, “though I can see there isn’t one my style in this backwater.”

  Nik said, with some embarrassment, “Jarvis happened to call me last night.” He looked at Emma.

  She returned the look. Plunged her hands into her cardigan pockets.

  Jarvis said, “Hi, little sis. Glad you’re here, Abby. Not surprised. Alice, you’re as beautiful as ever. But I wish you’d paid me the honor of calling me.”

  “As I said, you were next on the list. And don’t forget Sophie and Louis. Let’s go aboard. There’s no point standing out on the dock.”

  “But why was Nik called before I was?” Jarvis followed Alice into the boat, sat down on the long seat.

  “He’s Emma’s husband,” Alice said calmly.

  Jarvis looked around the cabin, sniffed the delectable odor of Emma’s casserole. “I’m David Wheaton’s son. Basically his only son at this point, with Everard in Mooréa.”

  “You forget Louis.” Emma opened the oven, looked into it, then sat at the table.

  “Louis? He’s only a child.”

  Alice went quietly up the steps to the pilothouse.

  Nik said, “You underestimate Louis, Jarvis.”

  “Okay, you two,” Emma started, then stopped as Alice came down from the pilothouse.

  “Dave would like to see you,” Alice said, “but one at a time, please.”

  Jarvis nodded at Nik. “You’re the one he expected.”

  Nik pushed back his chair and stood up. “Coming, Emma?”

  “Do you want me?”

  He looked directly at her. “Oh, yes, I want you very much.”

  ‘I don’t want you,’ Nik said, ‘or need you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘If you think I’m dependent on you or your salary, you’re crazy.’

  ‘Nik, we’ve had this out a thousand times. Any money we make is our money. I just happen at this moment to be in a successful play.’

  ‘And my last play was a flop.’

  ‘I’ve been in flops, too.’

  ‘You didn’t write them.’

  ‘Nik, I know you’re hurt.’ She had gone, after her own performance, to the cast party opening night, waiting for the first reviews to come out. They had met upstairs at Sardi’s, hopeful, not knowing what to expect. The audience, Emma was told, had been friendly, enthusiastic. And then someone came in with the first paper. There was a hush of expectancy. And then the blow. Heavy-handed humor. Inadequate theme. Flabby acting. All the bubbles deflated. Voices which had been high and excited dropped. Emma went to stand beside Nik. And the second paper came in.

  ‘It was badly cast,’ Nik said, ‘and you refused to be in it.’

  ‘I didn’t refuse. I was already in a play. I was under contract.’

  ‘Contracts can be broken.’

  ‘No, Nik, you know I had to honor it. And the role you wanted me for wasn’t right for me.’ She tried to put her arms about him and he shook her off.

  ‘You don’t know anything about fidelity. How could you, with your father with all his wives.’

  ‘Please. Leave Papa out of it.’

  ‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s why you have such unreal expectations of what a marriage ought to be.’

  ‘As you pointed out,’ Emma said, ‘it ought to be faithful.’

  There was a distance between them that slowly grew wider and deeper. Nik’s anxiety about money was surely what he himself would call inordinate. He had saved and invested money from his successful plays. But three consecutive plays which failed, plus producers becoming wary, had him close to despair. Emma understood his depression but could not alleviate it. She knew that if she had nine good reviews and one bad one, it was the bad one, criticizing her acting, that stuck in her mind. She knew how demoralizing destructive criticism can be.

  She thought of staying home and not going to auditions or readings, but her presence seemed to increase Nik’s irritability.

  Ironically, the quarrel which precipitated their breakup came after an Off-Broadway revival of Nik’s hospital play, which this time was a glowing success, so successful that it was moving uptown. But something in Emma broke. She herself did not understand completely why suddenly she found it intolerable to live under the same roof as Nik.

  ‘You’re being totally irrational.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what the hell this is all about.’

  ‘I can’t live with you anymore.’

  ‘Why now, when at last things are going well for me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She did not.

  ‘Listen, why don’t you go to Mooréa and stay awhile with Chantal?’

  ‘Leave King Lear? Leave Papa? You’re crazy.’

  ‘You love your father more than you love me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘You’re in love with him.’

  She looked at him and laughed. ‘My father is eighty-seven years old. He’s a wonderful actor. I love working with him.’

  ‘Incest,’ Nik said. ‘It runs in the family.’

  Emma went into the bathroom and fell on her
knees by the toilet and threw up.

  When she could stand without getting dizzy, she walked out of the apartment, letting the door slam behind her, took the subway downtown, and booked a room at the Algonquin for the night.

  Because of the size of the cast, only David Wheaton had a private dressing room. Emma shared a large room with the actresses playing Regan and Cordelia, and Regan had sensed that Emma and Nik were having trouble.

  ‘Em, I happened to have supper at the Algonquin with friends and I saw you standing at the elevator. Something wrong?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘I guess you could call it that.’

  ‘Even you can’t afford the Algonquin for more than a night or two. Come home with me till you pull yourself together. My apartment’s not big, but it’s in walking distance of the theater, and I have a good pullout couch in the living room.’

  Emma accepted gratefully. She felt so numb that it was all she could do to make herself eat, go to the theater, open the couch, fall into bed. She had been living with Regan for over a week before she noticed one of the understudies going through the living room, past the pullout couch, and into the bedroom.

  Regan, noting her surprise, remarked casually, ‘I broke up with my fellow a few months ago. Now I’m having fun playing the field. I’ll find someone I like enough to settle down with sooner or later. I’m not ready to marry.’

  That night after the theater she fixed Emma a bowl of homemade vegetable soup and sat at the foot of the couch. ‘I do take an occasional night off. Emma, do you know what an innocent you are?’

  Emma laughed. ‘That would hardly be my definition of myself. I’m at least ten years older than you are.’

  ‘And innocent. It’s something about being born in New York.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was born in a small town in Mississippi. When we walked down the street we spoke to everybody. “Hey, how yawl doin’?” We looked at people. If someone new came to town, we all knew it in an hour. If a girl got a new dress, or a new boyfriend, we knew that, too. But you New Yorkers are trained not to see. I’ve watched you slither through a mob on Broadway so quickly you’re almost invisible, but you don’t see anybody. They’re just bodies.’