by Belva Plain
“I can’t believe it!” she cried. “She was his pride. I can see them working at the computer, I can hear them talking politics and tennis and—I can’t understand it.”
“I’m going to argue, of course. But he’s away now, his lawyer said. He’s gone to California for a couple of weeks.”
Margaret was almost speechless. California! How many times had she suggested a vacation, only to be told that it cost too much?
“I am so bitterly resentful, Stephen,” she said.
“I know what you’re thinking. But the day will come when he will regret everything. By then you won’t even care.”
“You think so?”
It seemed impossible that she would ever cease to care. Despising Adam as she did, she never yet went through a single day without a thought of him. Passing a bag of popcorn at the market, she recalled the winter evenings when they watched television in the den. Overhearing a stranger say the word porcupine, she remembered the time that one of those queer animals had wandered past their picnic table. All the odd moments that kept flashing and flashing!
“I’m certain,” Stephen said.
“You sound like the psychologist.”
“I’ve heard so much that sometimes I feel like one.” He paused. “Dan told me he’s having trouble with French. I thought perhaps I could help him, if you’d like. My mother was French, and I speak it well.”
“Why, that would be very kind of you. Thank you,” Margaret said.
Very kind, she reflected on the way home. At the same time she knew that there was more than kindness behind Stephen’s offer. Certain glances and tones that a woman recognized, however subtle, were unmistakable. Had she perhaps been too cool, too formal, with her thanks? But no, she was not ready to encourage anyone.
And it seemed quite possible to her, so crushed, so burdened, so determined to be self-reliant and courageous, that she never would be ready.
TWENTY-FOUR
Adam’s spirit had always responded to the fall, its colors and the return of brisk air. This morning, though, as he drove toward Elmsford on his way to work, he felt no response to the season other than a sickening apprehension, settled somewhere in the region of his stomach. Ever since his return from California—a trip that, while itself enjoyable, had been undertaken only after much persuasion on Randi’s part and had cost a very troubling sum—he had been expecting something to happen.
After several years’ worth of false, tormenting rumors, of plans altered and delayed, the die had finally been cast. Magnum was taking over ADS. The expanded operation was to be entirely reorganized. Day by day, drop by drop, news of this came filtering down from the top.
Yesterday’s latest was Rudy Hudson’s return to the main office as head man at triple his present salary. So one of these days there would be news for Adam Crane too. He had an uncanny feeling that this would be the day.
His secretary came in shortly before noon, looking—how? concerned? excited? curious?
“One of those men from Magnum, a Mr. Baldwin, wants to see you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
His knees went weak when he stood up. And he told himself this was absurd; there was no reason why the news should not be splendid. He had, after all, been with the company for twenty years.
Mr. Baldwin rose to greet Adam. He was a tall man, fit and youthful, with just the right touch of gray in his thick hair. Adam thought immediately how interesting it was that top executives were so often men of striking good looks. His next thought was: But I am good-looking too.
They sat down, and Mr. Baldwin smiled. “I’m told that you’ve been here a long time,” he said.
“Yes. It’s my first and only job.”
Mr. Baldwin nodded. “You don’t find much of that these days. Unfortunately. With all the reorganizations going on.”
There were too many pauses in the man’s speech. They meant that he was uncomfortable with what he had to say. There could be no other interpretation, could there? If he had good news, wouldn’t he start out with something hearty, such as “Congratulations! I know you’ll be delighted to hear …” But not necessarily. It might just be his manner. And Adam waited, leaning forward in the chair.
“The downsizing that results from these reorganizations.… We all know that it can be economically healthy.… Making the new company, while larger, nevertheless leaner and stronger.… Although that does sound like a contradiction.” Then came the smile again.
The tension of expectation drained out of Adam, and he leaned back in the chair. He did not need to hear any more. He knew.
“Unfortunately and undeservedly, too many individuals have to suffer in this process. I’m so sorry, Mr. Crane, that you have to be one of them.”
Adam’s mouth went dry and he thought his lip twitched. For an instant, afraid that his voice would quaver, he was afraid to speak.
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble being placed somewhere else. And of course, we’ll give you the finest possible recommendation. In fact, we are setting up a service right in this building to assist—”
“No,” Adam said. That would be the final humiliation, to crawl back here and ask for help. “No, thank you. I’ll—I’ll manage.”
What could the man be thinking, with that quiet expression and that quiet voice, so correctly sympathetic? Was he feeling calm, indifferent, or cruel in his possession of the power to destroy—all so easily—another human being? No, Adam decided after a few silent, heavy-laden moments, he’s probably just embarrassed and wishing he hadn’t been given this nasty job to do.
“I’m sorry, really sorry,” Baldwin said.
The tall clock in the corner of this handsome office went bong! The short interview had fulfilled its purpose. It was time to go. And yet Adam was not quite ready.
“I’ve been here twenty years,” he said.
“I know. It must be hard. Very hard.”
“Will you tell me something? Since there has had to be some selection process, who is to remain and who is to be let go, I would like to know: Why me? I have kept abreast of everything that’s happening in the field. I know my job. Why me?”
Baldwin was playing with his pen, rolling it on the desktop with a gesture that did not quite befit his dignity. It was evident that the question troubled him exceedingly.
He began, “Well, I—” when Adam interrupted.
“I know I’ve asked a question that you’re not obliged to answer and probably don’t want to answer. Yet, I believe I have a human right to know. And so I’m asking for an answer, confidentially and man to man.”
A softness passed across Baldwin’s face. He pities me, Adam thought.
Presently, Baldwin said, “Under those conditions I will tell you. I hope I’m not making a mistake. I’m a newcomer here, and I can only repeat what I’ve been told.”
“And that is?”
“That you have not been carrying your weight. I don’t know whether it’s true or not.”
Adam got up and bowed. “It’s not true,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crane, I’m genuinely sorry.”
“Thank you.” And bowing once more, Adam went out.
He was burning within. He thought his very heart was on fire. Of course they had to let someone go, and of course it had to be he because they had never liked him. And he recalled that day in the washroom when he had overheard them, Jenks and some others, discussing him.
“—cold bastard, thinks he’s too superior to bother with you.”
“—he’ll never get anywhere.”
“—I always liked Margaret, though.”
In his office he stood in the center of the room and stared without aim. Except for the photograph of his children—the one that included Margaret he had discarded—there was nothing in the room that belonged to him. In a few days someone else would take his place, here at this desk, on this chair. He had simply passed through.
His secretary came in to remind him that he had a
n appointment right after lunch.
“Cancel it,” he said. “I’m going home.”
And with that he went out, leaving her to stare after him in astonishment. No doubt, before the day was over, she would understand.
He drove home in a state of deadening fatigue, his vision blurred. The landscape was gray with fog, as depressed as he was. Fall was edging into winter, and the air was musty with the smell of wet fallen leaves.
At a stoplight he drew up alongside Gil and Louise in their BMW. For an instant their glances crossed until Louise, with a look of utmost contempt, turned her head away. This brief contact reminded him that it was the night of the party at their house when he had made his final decision to leave Margaret. The contact reminded him, too, of the day not long ago when he had seen Fred Davis getting gas at a service station in Randolph Corner. He had had then an aborted impulse to get out of his car and ask Fred how things were really going at the apartment. Fred would know. Julie and Danny—usually Danny, the bigmouth—spoke often enough of Uncle Fred, of treats and movies. Suddenly now he felt a pang of jealousy to think of Fred Davis with his children.
A strange thought occurred to him: If Randi were a wife, he would not be so much in dread of bringing this disaster home, for a wife would have to accept it, whereas before Randi he must appear impressive, a worthy, undefeated lover. Aberrant, crazy thoughts!
After a while, though, and very gradually, he began to argue himself into some semblance of resolve. Wasn’t he only one among many who had lost a job? He would certainly find another. And he went into his house—half of it at least was his, considering how much money he had put into it—poured a small drink, and lay down on the sofa, there to plan what his next move could be.
A few minutes later he heard Randi’s car. She came crying, “What are you doing home? Are you sick?”
“No, no. But what are you doing home at two o’clock?”
“I had no appointments. No business appointments, that is. But what’s the matter? You look queer.”
“Don’t be alarmed. Take your jacket off, sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
She looked particularly rosy, he thought, vivid with healthy blood and energy. As if responding to her affect, he sat up straight and, speaking almost with bravado, told her what had happened.
“I lost my job this morning. I’m out.”
“You what?”
“Yes, it happens. I’m one of the great unemployed. But don’t worry, it won’t be for long.”
“I can’t believe it! A job like yours … Why, you’re one of the big shots!”
Big shots. The irony of it.
“It’s not that simple,” he said. “Nobody’s that big. Nobody’s immune.”
When she got up from the chair, he thought she was going to come to him and offer comfort. But she only stood there indecisively, with a frown and compressed lips.
“Not for long, you said? How can you be sure of that?”
“I can’t be sure, but I believe it because I’m going to do my darnedest.”
For a second or two it seemed to him that she looked angry. She hadn’t asked for any details, how the blow had been dealt, why it had been, or how he felt.
So he filled the gap. “It took five minutes, maybe even less. Oh, he was decent, all right, couldn’t have been more so. But after twenty years …” He could say no more. Bravado had fled.
She was elsewhere, in her own place, not his. “This is some fine mess. My God, I came home so happy over my news, and this is the news you give me. Do you know where I was just now? At the doctor’s. I’m pregnant.”
Perhaps it was because he was shaken from the first blow of the day that her words did not at once take effect.
“Well, can’t you say something, Adam?”
“You were on the pill,” he said and felt, abruptly, a dull thudding in his chest.
“Nothing’s a hundred percent. Everybody knows that.” She stared at him. “Is that all you have to give me? No smile?”
The thudding went wild in his chest. He could not have said whether the reason for it was anger, despair, or fear. He only knew that all of these were whirling in him. The divorce, the job, his children, his pride, the bills, and the dwindling bank account all went whirling. And now this.
“I wasn’t counting on having a baby now,” he said inadequately.
“You may not have been, but I was. How long did you expect me to wait? Till I’m sixty? You promised me a baby. You promised!” And she stamped her foot.
Did I actually promise? he wondered. He wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had. It was all such a blur, like the fog on the road.
“I just plain got sick and tired of waiting,” she said.
With these words of hers all the turmoil and rage in Adam flared abruptly into fire, and he attacked her, shouting, “Then you did it on purpose! You weren’t using the pill! Knowing that this isn’t the time, that I didn’t want a baby yet, that we aren’t ready and can’t afford one, you tricked me anyway!”
“Why? Are you such a pauper that you can’t afford my child—our child?”
The word pauper enraged him further. “This pauper has done pretty well by you. He’s kept you afloat. Without him this house of yours would have drowned. Do you ever keep touch of the expenses? Do you even know what’s in the checking account this minute? Or, I should say, what isn’t in the checking account.”
“I know damn well. I know why. If it weren’t for that blood-sucking wife of yours, sticking her hands in your pockets every week, it would be a different story. Damn bitch! She knows you don’t love her, and still she won’t let go.”
“Don’t be a fool. You know I have no choice. Am I to let them starve? They’re my children.”
“She works, doesn’t she? Let her do more for them. They’re her children, too, not only yours.”
“I wonder where your brains are when you talk like that.”
“And I wonder where yours are. You don’t even know how to handle your lawyer. Why don’t you ask him why this divorce is taking him so damn long?”
“The courts are jammed up with divorces all over America. Haven’t you heard?”
She began to cry. “You make me sick. Here I was looking forward to meeting you at the front door with my news, I was thinking how excited you’d be, and we’d start talking about names, and you’d get out the champagne, only I wouldn’t have any because I’m not supposed to drink now—and instead we’re standing here having a fight.”
“Randi, I don’t want to fight. I want the two of us to quiet down and see how we can work things out.”
“If you mean work things out by having an abortion, you can drop dead, because I want this baby. Hear? I want this baby.”
“Randi, I didn’t say anything about an abortion. I’m just awfully upset, I’m pretty frantic, and I need to—”
Loudly sobbing, “Oh my God,” she ran into the bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it.
Adam knocked. “Let me in. Let’s talk. Please, Randi.”
“No! Let me alone. I want to be alone with my baby.”
In all his distress he was still moved by these last words. My baby. It was, after all, normal and laudable for a woman to want a child. If the circumstances were different, he, too, would welcome a child of hers, a love child. But the circumstances were terrifying.
He had had no lunch, yet he was not hungry. He recognized that in his present state he could not possibly concentrate on a book, nor could he fall asleep. Not knowing what to do with himself, he took a disk from the shelf and put it on the player. Beethoven’s Ninth might either calm or uplift him toward acceptance and courage. In either case it would not fail. And lying back again on the sofa, he let the miraculous, the almost holy sounds sweep over him. He was still awake and dreaming, watching a ribbon of sunlight move across the ceiling, when Randi’s voice broke into the spell.
“Will you for heaven’s sake shut off that racket! How you can stand it, I’ll never know.”
&nbs
p; He sat up and, mildly enough, refuted her. “The world has loved this music for almost two hundred years, and you call it a ‘racket’?”
“I do, and I hate it.”
Occasionally she did surprise him.…
“I only put up with it because you like it.”
“Well, that’s all right,” he said reasonably, “since I put up with things for your sake too.”
“Really? What do I do that bothers you?”
Actually, he was unable to think of anything much. Oh, perhaps a few small things: her grammar sometimes, although not often, was one. He was a stickler for proper grammar. Also, she could be a trifle flirtatious on occasion. But then, he was jealous of her, too, so it was possible that he imagined that.
Indeed, he was jealous of her! Here she stood, still flashing with anger, her big eyes still wet with tears, breathing so fast that he could see the heaving of her breasts under the cream-colored silk of her blouse. She looked so soft inside the brittle shell of her anger! And she was carrying his child.
Then he, too, went soft. For this was her day of celebration and should be recognized, regardless of all else. So with outstretched arms he went to her, held her while she cried out on his shoulder, and kissed away her tears.
Behind them the music, still playing, had reached that great, climactic, hopeful chorus, the “Ode to Joy,” which he loved and knew by heart. But quite perversely, he was chilled by a shiver of sadness.
TWENTY-FIVE
This was the second Christmas without Adam, and the first that in the life of each had not been spent in the familiar house where, year after year, the tree had stood in the living-room bay, and the dining-room mantel had been festooned with greenery and hung with stockings.
“I’d like you to have dinner at my house this year,” said Fred.
Margaret objected. “All your friends are at your club’s party, and you always go. I know you’re thinking of us and it’s just like you to invite us, but I don’t want you to do it.”
“And I know you think it’s a matter of compassion,” he answered firmly, “but you happen to be all wrong. This is for me. I want a family Christmas, and yours is the family closest to me. I’ve already invited your cousins Louise and Gil. They’re not going to their son’s in Florida till after the first. So that’s that.”
