by Belva Plain
Now another thought came: He had remembered her birthday last week. He had sent flowers, the Collected Poems of Auden and a box of chocolates. She was always lamenting that she was a “chocoholic,” and he was always telling her that with a figure like hers, she could afford to be.
You’re looking for trouble, Margaret. You’re seeing things that are not there.
Almost at her feet a chipmunk, emerging from hibernation, went racing beside the wall. And watching his erratic, zigzag flight, she wondered about the tiny brain, what its motivation to reverse direction might have been, and what the tiny eye might have noticed that she, standing right there, had not seen.
Zig. Zag. Things seen by some, not seen by others.
Slowly now, she turned into the street. Her mother, who was religious, liked to say, “God doesn’t give anybody more trouble than he can bear.” Perhaps so, but from the little that Margaret had yet seen of living, she doubted it.
If Adam ever leaves me, she thought again, I shall die, no matter what Mom thinks. Or no, I shan’t die, but I shall want to. I shall go on living and wanting to be dead, which is worse than being dead.
TWO
Whenever he saw Randi, or thought for an instant that he was seeing her, on the campus or on the street in town, everything in him, heart and breath, responded. She was never out of his mind; sitting in the lecture hall or studying in his room, he was aware without looking at a clock of the hour when she would telephone or come to his door. Sometimes he would catch strangers smiling at him tentatively, as if they were trying to place him, and then he would realize that he himself had been walking along with a smile on his face.
Adam had not ever imagined that a man could be possessed as he was now. There was no way that this possession could be compared with anything he had ever felt for Margaret.
Randi was small, with the curves of a plump little woman, although she was not plump at all; the curves were simply her structure. And soft: her clothes had ruffled touches, flowered scarves and lace; her voice was soft. All the enticements and allures that you found in the books and the manuals were hers. She had, too, a quality that could be called “demure”—if that were not an absurd adjective to apply to a person whose laughter and chatter were so beguiling—a something secretive in her public manner that was demure. Still, men knew otherwise. Often he had caught them looking at her and had read their thoughts, had seen their envy of him when he walked away with her arm in his.
She worked at an office in town and lived in a small, neat apartment near the campus. She was somebody’s cousin—he hardly remembered whose—and was usually seen at the best parties with the best men at the schools of medicine, law, and engineering. Still, no one had ever claimed her as his own; she had kept herself quite free until she had met Adam.
He had first taken real notice of her in the front row at the Drama Society’s musical in which he played a small part. When the group took its bows at the conclusion, he was aware of her eyes upon him. He did not even know her name; he had had in the past only a hurried impression of her, but he had not forgotten it. When, at a repeat performance a few nights following, he saw her again, and their eyes met again, he sought her out.
She said she had enjoyed the music. “I grew up in my grandfather’s house. He played in a band, and he knew music. That’s how I learned the little I know. But I have no talent at all and probably not even a good ear.”
Adam, who knew rather a good deal about music, thought her modesty appealing.
“Would you like to walk over to my place and listen to some records?”
“I’d like to walk over and talk to you,” he said.
The infatuation had been immediate and intense for both. When it had been going on for well over half a year, she said suddenly one day, “They tell me you have a girl back home.”
With a sense of approaching disaster he replied, “Who tells you?”
“People. Somebody always knows somebody who knows something.”
They were having a Sunday-morning breakfast in her kitchenette. He would remember the moment exactly, her pink robe and the sunlight turning her hair into a black satin cap. There was a little twist on her lips, caused either by anger or by a precursor of tears.
“What is her name?”
“Margaret,” he answered, very low.
“Is it true that you’re supposed to be married in the summer?”
“I was,” he murmured.
“So you’ve broken it off?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
In his agitation he rose from the chair, so that she had to look up at him with her question; her eyes were filled with accusation. He felt chastened, and rightly so.
“It’s—it’s very difficult.” And he knew that his words were awkward and foolish.
Difficult! Margaret’s broad forehead framed by the short, carved curls of a stone cherub. Curve of her white-lidded round, gray eyes. A calmness. Astonishment, disbelief, and suffering—such suffering!—when he should begin: “Margaret, I have to tell you—”
“Why did you hide it from me?” Randi demanded.
“I shouldn’t have. I guess it was, well, that there wasn’t any real need to talk about it, since I planned—plan—to end it.”
“What is she like?”
He went numb. How could he have let things reach this pass? For months now he had fooled himself with promises that tomorrow or next week at the latest he would straighten out affairs, would make all clear to Margaret. And to his mother, and her mother, and everyone at home in that close community where the union of Margaret and Adam had been as certain as the sunrise, God help us. But in his new enchantment here, he had kept putting it off.
“I asked you, Adam, what is she like?”
He said hopelessly, “Smart. She wants—wanted to be a doctor.”
“And what else?”
“She’s friendly. Yes. She has a lot of friends.”
“What does she look like?”
“Randi, please. Please.”
“Just say whether she is as pretty or prettier than I am.”
“She’s—different.”
“How different?”
He fumbled and stumbled. “She’s not fashionable. Doesn’t care much about things like that.”
“Oh, why won’t you talk?” Tearful and exasperated, Randi cried out. “Can’t you see how you’ve hurt me? And all you do is stand there like a dummy not telling me anything real. Talk!”
“Randi, darling, darling,” he pleaded, as with a sudden access of fright it occurred to him that he might lose her. “The last thing I’d ever want is to give you one minute’s grief. Don’t cry. Please. It’s true that I should have broken off with Margaret last September. I should have told you about her at the start. The thing is, I just dreaded the mess and the pain. I admit I’ve been a rotten coward. I’m ashamed of myself.”
“You should be.”
“I swear to you that I’ll take care of everything this week. I swear.”
“You really don’t want to marry her? I heard you’d been engaged for years.”
“Oh, not years, exactly. But a while. Listen, Randi; whatever I felt before is over.”
“I hope so.”
“It is. Look at me. Look into my eyes. What do you see?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“This is real, Randi. You and I are real.”
And he had kissed her. And after another half hour of tears and protestations, they had gone back to bed.
This encounter had occurred three months ago. And now, walking through the cold spring night toward Randi’s apartment, he had still not “straightened things out,” had merely taken a few hesitant steps, and those few had already caused enough of a stir.
Only yesterday his mother had telephoned for the third time. She was an easygoing woman, so that her agitation, her scolding, were especially impressive.
“Your reasons for postponing the w
edding are ridiculous, Adam. If I didn’t know how much you love Margaret, I would be suspicious. As it is, you sound merely careless or lazy or irresponsible, and I know you’re none of those things. Are you getting cold feet about the job, afraid you won’t do well or something?”
The hand that held the receiver was sweating. “Mom,” he said with excessive patience, “it’s only what I told Margaret.”
Over the weekend he would fly home and lay the truth out plainly on Margaret’s table. Just do it. But certainly he wasn’t going to tell his mother first.
“Mother, I have class in ten minutes. I’ve got to hang up.”
“You’re worrying that lovely girl! What’s she supposed to tell people? It looks bad. Everybody thinks it’s to be in June, and—”
“Mother, I’ve got to go.”
That lovely girl. Yes, she was completely honest, without wiles. But then, I also am completely honest, he protested. He knew he was, or had been until now.
Before he had gone to the war in Korea, his father had left a letter for Adam, to be opened when he should be old enough to understand it. Among the admonitions had been one about candor, about doing nothing underhanded. In his mind’s eye he could even see his father’s vertical script, and he felt like a traitor.
Margaret loved him, and he had loved her, too, and counting himself so fortunate, had been contented. Their path had stretched ahead, straight, smooth, and gleaming, until Randi had crossed it and turned him about-face. Was he really so wicked, though? God knows, he wasn’t hardhearted; it was anguish to think of doing any harm or hurt to Margaret. It was simply that he couldn’t help himself. And God knows, too, that he was neither the first nor the last man who couldn’t help himself. Was not the world’s most moving poetry and music all about what was happening between himself and Randi?
Yet, regardless of all that poetry and music, when it comes down to specific cases, words fail, he thought now, and, raising his collar against the wind, made another circuit of the walk, as if through using energy he might somehow clear his mind.
Margaret had possibilities, he argued. Might she not eventually marry Fred Davis, who had never made any secret of his feeling for her? A positive person, cheerful, kind, but rigidly judgmental, Fred would condemn Adam Crane in disgust, and yet rejoice that Adam’s loss could well turn out to be his gain. Or Margaret might go on to study medicine, if that was still her interest; he didn’t really know, because her whole interest during these past few years had been in himself. So now he was back where he had started.
“What’s wrong?” Margaret had asked when, during spring break, he had suggested weakly that perhaps they had better wait a little. He had meant to prolong the conversation, drawing gradually nearer to the truth, until after an hour or two, the truth would have emerged into full daylight. But her puzzled alarm had defeated his courage, and he had ended—how could he have?—by trying to relieve her. His effort had been halfhearted, to be sure, and he knew that it had not put her at ease. And he knew he should not have done it.
He rang Randi’s bell. Music floated from within, an airy show tune from the thirties made for dance and song. When she came to the door, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him inside. The table in the alcove was set with a bowl of jonquils and a bottle of wine, while from the kitchenette behind the screen there came a rich aroma.
“What’s this, a celebration?” he asked. “Is it some special day?”
“Why not? Every day is special, isn’t it? You look tired.”
“I guess I am tired. I had that paper to finish and got about two hours’ sleep last night.” He sat down on the sofa. “They tell me that’s the real world, though, so I’d better get used to it.”
“Do you think you will? Are you really going to like that life?”
“Randi, I’m going to love it, regardless. It’s what I always wanted to do.”
“Then I’m glad for you. Sit for a minute while I bring out the food. Everything’s ready.”
The little space was crowded with homely objects: a bicycle leaning against the wall in the vestibule, the desk with the day’s mail scattered. Beyond the open door he could see the bed, which took up most of the room. In the light of a bedside lamp he could see that the sheets were pink. Sometimes they were baby blue. He smiled, feeling the comfort in all this domesticity and the coming thrill of the bed. This comfort is what he would have every day once they were married.
But first, he had to climb a high hill and descend on the other side. And he thought again, with a sickening thud of his heart, that Margaret’s wedding dress was already made, and he thought of all the questions he would answer at home, and of the condemnation that would descend upon his head.
“Here’s a good California red. Come on, it will lift your spirits,” Randi said.
Between them they finished the bottle and finished a very nice little supper, for she was a competent cook. After a short evening they went to bed and, after a most marvelously exotic hour, fell asleep.
When he woke in the morning, she was lying wide awake on her back beside him, staring at the ceiling. It seemed to him that she looked strangely solemn, and he inquired tenderly, “What are you thinking?”
“Of how sweet you are.”
He laughed. “ ‘Sweet’? That’s a word to describe you, hardly me.”
When, drowsily, he reached to draw her to himself, she slid away, put on her pink robe, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Wake up, Adam. I’ve something to tell you.”
Her tone aroused him. “What is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“My God,” he said.
She was watching him. For a few moments neither spoke, and he knew she was taking his measure. Possibly she was fearful that he would not receive the news kindly. If so, she was mistaken. For just a second he had indeed been stunned, but reaction followed almost at once: there was nothing to fear, he was to have an excellent beginning salary, there was nothing to fear.…
A smile began to spread up his cheeks. “Well. That’s not bad, not bad at all.”
There were tears in her eyes. He sprang out of bed and took her in his arms. “Be happy!” he said. “I know it’s an unexpected shock, but we’ll manage. We’ll get married, even before commencement if you want. There’s a new building on the bluff side of the river, high, with a view. Oh, be happy,” he murmured against her cheek. “We’ll be young parents.”
“I want to have an abortion,” Randi said.
He let her go. “Oh, no. No, no.”
“Oh, yes. Don’t look so distraught.” For he had jumped up in astonishment and stood staring at her.
“No,” he repeated.
“Is it a matter of principle with you, or what?”
“You haven’t been raped! To destroy it—I feel as if a part of myself would be destroyed. It is a part of myself. Of us.”
She did not answer. Her eyes were still wet, with a great tear poised in one, ready to drop, and he put his hand on her shoulder, saying gently, “There’s no reason, Randi. Think. It’s wrong. Wrong.”
“There is a reason,” she answered with equal gentleness, “but it’s so hard for me to tell it. Oh, Adam, it’s so hard!”
“Tell it.”
“I’m not going to marry you. I can’t. I don’t want a baby without a father.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” An awful, aberrant possibility flashed to him. “You’re not already married or something?”
“No, but I’m going to be. To somebody else.”
First he thought he had not heard correctly. Then, as if she had struck him with her fist, he felt a blow on his chest, and he knew that he had heard. There came a wave of the most hideous shame, and remembering that he was naked, he seized the nearest piece of clothing, his overcoat, and covered himself.
“Adam, it’s not so absolutely appalling as I know it sounds. At least I don’t think it is. You see, it’s for your good too.”
“My good.
” Fire burned in his throat, but his voice came out cold and cracking. “Go on. Perhaps you can explain for me.”
“I feel I’ve led you, and have let you lead me, into a predicament. You haven’t worked out your relationship with that girl. You’ve had months to do it in, and I know you haven’t done it.”
“How the hell does that connect with ‘somebody else’? Unless you’ve lost your goddamned mind.”
“I’ve never thought as long and clearly about anything in all my life.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he cried. “Who’s the guy? Where is he? When did this happen?”
He could not bear to look at her, huddled there with the robe drawn tight, as if to protect herself against assault. Yet he could not look away either. A killing rage swelled in him.
“If you’ll listen quietly, I’ll tell you. I started to say you haven’t even broken up with Margaret.”
“You don’t know that at all.”
“You would have told me if you had.”
“And would that have made any difference? Is that why you’ve found another man for yourself and slept with me last night too? Hey? Hey? Answer me!”
“I can’t say what came first. It’s all sort of twisted together.”
When she gazed up at him, he watched the tear that had been caught in the rim of her eye slide slowly down her cheek. In the cramped space he got up and walked, striking his fist into his palm. He sat down on the single chair and waited with his head in his hands.
“Maybe if you hadn’t been so tied up … I was at your place one night and your mother called, and you went to your friend’s room to use his extension, and shut the door. But I could hear anyway, could tell how disturbed you were, and I thought what a pack of trouble all this was. And this man Chuck, that’s all the name I’m going to give because I don’t want another pack of trouble, with you being furious, Chuck had business in the office where I work. And he saw me and asked me out to dinner …”
Adam thought grimly, I’ll bet he did.
“And after a few times he asked me to marry him. He’s divorced, he lives in California, and he showed me a picture of his house, just beautiful, with palm trees around a pool, so sunny, so peaceful—”
