by Belva Plain
“Darling Hyacinth, I'm sorry if I've hurt you, but you're being very, very silly. As if anybody could measure you against a total zero, a clotheshorse, a cheap flirt! Come on to bed. Don't be an idiot. Come on, or I'll drag you in. It's going on one o'clock.”
For long minutes she lay with her face buried in his shoulder, in the beloved flesh, while he murmured into her hair.
“Dear Hy, so sweet, so smart, and such a fool. An innocent. Isn't that what Francine calls you?”
She was filled with yearning. Her heart, her throat, her whole body wanted to blend with his, to become one with him.
“I would die for you,” she whispered.
“No, no, don't say that.”
“Yes, I would. Do you remember that woman on the Titanic? Straus was her name, Mrs. Straus. They wanted to put her in a lifeboat, but she wouldn't go. She wanted to die with her husband. I would have done that, too.”
“And I would have pushed you into the lifeboat. So that's enough of that talk. You know what you and I need?” His hands, warm and strong, pulled at the silk gown. “Take this fool thing off, will you?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a mild afternoon in their second fall, so different from the chill, brisk weather of Massachusetts, that Hyacinth, talking on the telephone to a friend at home, had needed to remark as usual on the difference.
“They call it cool weather. It's down to eighty. Can you imagine? And football has started very, very seriously. The rivalries are like France against Germany in a world war. But it's all such fun. People are so informal here, so friendly, even in a big city. Oh, and I've learned all the words to ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas!”’
In this mood of well-being, she entered a doctor's office; half an hour later she left it, overwhelmed by surprise and wearing an uncontrollable smile.
“No method is a hundred percent reliable,” the doctor had said. He, too, was smiling. “June is a good month to have a baby, before the worst of the heat, if we're lucky.”
Obstetrics, she thought, must be for the most part a happy specialty. She seemed to be walking on springs, bouncing with every step. Bubbles in her chest popped in effervescence, like a champagne cork and the laughter that comes with it.
It was only four o'clock, which left two hours to contain her excitement until Gerald would be home. She wanted to sing, or stop some passerby, anyone at all, to tell the amazing news. One would think that civilization must come to a halt because of this baby. They had not planned to start a family until Gerald's stint at the hospital was over, and now this! But never mind; this baby was simply in a hurry to see the world. And she walked on, observing babies in carriages and strollers as she had never done before.
She had to buy something, had to commemorate this day. So she went on a spree, and when she returned to the parking lot, her arms were full of her purchases: a gigantic stuffed panda, a bouquet of asters, a bottle of real champagne, and a little cake.
Once home, she remembered that tomorrow her parents were coming. They were on the second leg of their visits to their sons and grandchildren. Next year at this time, they would have another grandchild to visit. We should get a better camera. This cake is too small. How could she have forgotten about tomorrow? In the morning she must run out and get another cake. Or maybe bake one if there was time. Home baking was always better, more welcoming. And another bottle of champagne. Hurried, disconnected thoughts like these went rushing through her head, while she set out the plates for supper and arranged the asters.
“What's this?” asked Gerald at sight of the panda, which was occupying a corner of the sofa.
“Guess?”
“Another baby in your brother's family?”
“Well, not exactly. Not in his immediate family.” And she began to laugh.
He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
She was enjoying the suspense. “I saw Dr. Lilly today.”
“Lilly? Ob-gyn?”
“Of course. Oh darling, it's to be in June! I wasn't sure enough about it to tell you without first hearing it from him. But it's true.”
Gerald took off his jacket and laid it precisely as always, without causing a wrinkle, across the back of a chair. For a moment he said nothing.
“Are you so absolutely stunned that you can't talk? You remind me of those funny old movies where the wife breaks the news and the husband faints, and—”
“Stunned? I guess I am. This isn't exactly the most convenient time, is it?”
His face! His lips drew a thin, mean line between his cheeks. She could not take her eyes away from it.
“Are you sure?” he demanded. “Was Louie positive?”
“That's a funny question. Of course he was.”
All her strength was flowing out below her knees. They shook, and she sat down at the table, still clutching the asters.
“I don't understand,” she said. “I thought you would be so glad!”
“Well, I'm not. Not here and now. Be sensible, Hy. The timing couldn't be more inconvenient. I've got almost two more years before I finish here. This apartment is too small for a crib, a carriage, wet diapers, and—for God's sake, let's do something about it and wait till the right time, as we planned. For God's sake, please.”
Her heart was pounding so fiercely that she could hardly speak. “ ‘Do something?’ What can you possibly mean?”
“Don't talk like an ignoramus, will you? This innocence of yours gets to be a little too much sometimes, a little too cute, Hy. What do you think I mean?”
She had such a queer feeling of unreality! Is this happening? she thought. I don't know how it can be happening, these words coming from his mouth. He of all the people in this world. He.
“An abortion,” she whispered. “You're asking me to do that.”
“It's only the timing, don't you see? It's all wrong, it doesn't fit. We can have kids later. Be reasonable, Hy, instead of sentimental.”
“Sentimental?” she repeated. “My baby—our baby. And you don't want it. And I'm sentimental?”
She burst into tears and, jumping up, slammed so hard against the table that the champagne bottle fell and shattered on the floor.
“Watch out! Don't step on the broken glass,” he shouted.
“What the hell do you care about broken glass? You don't love me! If you did, you would love our child, too. You wouldn't ask me to kill it. We're young, we're healthy, we're not starving, we're not in a concentration camp! An abortion—my God, you should be ashamed! How can you—”
Gerald closed the window with a bang. “Temper! Temper again. The whole neighborhood doesn't have to hear this.”
“I don't give a damn whether it does or not! Let everybody know that my heart's breaking, that you're breaking it. Let the whole world know what you are.”
“Wait a minute, calm down, Hy. There's no sense—”
But she had already run to the bedroom. The door crashed and the wall shook. Weeping and shaking, she dropped onto the bed; then suddenly queasy, she ran to the bathroom to be sick. When she went back to the bed, she lay in a fog, in despair, as if her very heart had collapsed.
Hours later, when she awoke, the room was dark. She was still dressed in her sweater set, and Gerald was asleep at the farthest reach of the enormous bed. For a few moments, she stood there looking down at him. So you marry in total trust, and then one day, in one minute, the total trust is breached and what you're left with is only bitter, bitter anger. Quietly she went out and undressed in the bathroom. Her eyes were slits between swollen lids and pale, puffed cheeks. Her face was hideous. If only there were some way of calling Francine and Dad not to come tomorrow! But how, and with what excuse? It was impossible.
But no, nothing was really impossible. She spoke aloud to herself: “Nothing. It's simply a situation that has to be met. Somehow.”
“A washcloth soaked in ice water will help,” Gerald said.
He was standing in the doorway. Perhaps her slight fumbling had awakened
him, or perhaps he had only pretended to be asleep.
“I'll tell you what will help. My return to the place from which you so joyfully took me. What is that poem of Robert Frost's? ‘Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ But it will only be temporary. I can manage alone. I and my baby can manage. We don't need you.”
“What time does their flight get in tomorrow?” he asked, ignoring her words.
“Ten-fifteen. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. You can't go looking like this, and you can't let them stand there waiting.”
“It's not your problem. They're my parents, and I'll go for them.”
“That's ridiculous. I left the morning free for their visit.”
“Oh, you care so much about them, don't you?”
“I want to give you another hour and a half to get your face back to normal before they see you.”
“What are you saying? That you think this horror can be kept secret?”
“To begin with, it isn't a horror. It's a thing that can be discussed with reason if you'll only try. But we don't have to greet them with it the minute they set foot at the door. That's all I'm saying.”
“Don't lecture me. I hate that harsh voice. If it weren't for the baby that's growing in me, I'd want to die tonight, or murder you.”
“Hyacinth, will you listen to me? And for God's sake, for the thousandth time, will you throw the goddamn cigarette away? I'm sick of seeing it.”
“Then don't look at it. Let me alone. I don't know you. I don't want to know you.”
There was no other place to sleep than in the bed. The night had turned chilly and, shivering from dampness and tension, she lay long with open eyes, watching light flare in and out as clouds moved over the moon. Whether he slept or not, she neither knew nor cared.
Yesterday's asters, retrieved from the floor, were on the table. On either side of them stood the crystal candlesticks that Jim and Francine had just brought. Hyacinth had made her father's old favorite chicken-and-shrimp dish. She had iced the celebratory champagne, and Gerald had poured it. Francine had reported on all the brothers and their children; in her scarlet blouse and her pearls, she glowed. She never has any trouble, Hy thought. It was all very familiar, all very cozy. Or to be accurate, it would have been so, if she had not still been wavering between telling them now or waiting to write or telephone them later, after they were home.
Conversation ranged from their grandchildren who, like most grandchildren, were extraordinary, to George's transfer back home from Singapore, to Paul's new house. Jim did most of the talking. Francine, unusually quiet, seemed to be glancing more often than necessary at Hyacinth.
“We were thinking,” Jim said, “only beginning to think that our house is getting too large and empty for us. Of course, I love my garden. We both do. But if we could find a smaller house with the same outdoor space, and if maybe you folks when you come back east were interested in our house, we might do something about giving it to you.”
“It's a beautiful house,” Gerald exclaimed. “An incredible gift!”
“It's far too early to talk about it now.” Francine's intervention was pleasant and practical.
“Well, of course,” Gerald said. “Right now I'm in another world.” And he launched into an account of his daily routine, which appeared to interest them. He spoke in his usual vivid fashion.
“It was a totally unnecessary accident—no seat belts. He went through the windshield on the passenger side. I can't begin to describe his face. Can you imagine, a whole life psychologically transformed after that? A young man with everything to live for? You can believe I was shaking in my shoes when Grump—that's Malcolm Grumboldt, chief of the service—told me to take over. Of course he was right at my elbow, and he would have stopped me in a second if I'd been doing anything wrong. But thank God, it went well.”
“Don't know how you do it,” said Jim, admiring his son-in-law. “When was this?”
“Yesterday afternoon.” Gerald smiled. “My nerves were still twitching, even when I got home.”
And that, thought Hyacinth, is for my benefit. Shall I say it now?
Francine was still examining her. “Is there anything wrong with your eyes? They look awfully tired or swollen or something.”
No, not now.
“I seem to have developed an allergy. It's nothing much, just comes and goes.”
“Oh, tell them,” Gerald intervened, as if he were coaxing. “All right then, if you won't, I will. Hyacinth is pregnant and hasn't been feeling one hundred percent.”
Her startled stare asked him what trick this might be. And then came the gasps of delight.
“Darling!” cried Francine. “Why didn't you say anything? Why, that's marvelous!”
Gerald said, “You women, so they tell me, like to keep it secret until you're sure everything's all right.”
Then came that dreadful, uncontrollable flush again. It burned its way up Hyacinth's neck. What did he mean by this? She waited for him to go on with an account of their quarrel, their fight, their break. But he did not.
Jim, rising to kiss her on the forehead, became emotional. “There's something about a daughter's having a baby that's different somehow, although it shouldn't be, I guess. Oh, your grandmother will be so pleased to be a ‘great’ again.”
Francine, having kissed Hy, remembered to kiss Gerald, too. “Lucky baby,” she told him. “Not everyone's child these days has such good parents. Now, Hyacinth, will you let me buy the layette? I love to shop for baby things.”
She loves to shop, period. What am I supposed to say now? Hy sat there in dismay.
“Now you'll really have to stop smoking,” Francine said. Her smile was loving. It had been a long time since she had, even casually, criticized anything about her daughter, her hair or makeup or smoking. And Hyacinth understood that that had been because she was so pleased, so grateful that the marriage had turned out to be wonderful after all.
Gently, sick at heart, she replied, “Of course I will. I threw away every cigarette in the house the moment I knew. I intend to take good care of this baby,” she added, with a straight look at Gerald.
Then there were questions about finding another apartment, about getting a larger car to replace the little red one, and whether to buy or lease it—an hour's worth of kind and loving questions.
“We have a long time to wait,” Gerald said at last, “although Hyacinth has already made some preparations. Where's the panda? Go get it, Hyacinth.”
So she had to bring out the clumsy thing that that morning she had stuffed away on the top shelf in the hall closet. Humming and singing the “Blue Danube” waltz, Jim circled the room with the panda, and everyone except Hyacinth laughed, everyone except Hyacinth had more champagne, and everyone said what a wonderful day this was, until it became time to take the parents back to their hotel for the night.
“Come ride along, Hy. We're flying home early in the morning, and we won't be seeing you for a while,” Jim urged.
But Francine contradicted him. “Let Hyacinth stay here. I think she's tired.”
“I am, a little.” I'm not tired, Hy thought. I'm torn to pieces, that's all.
She was putting the cream cake into the refrigerator when Francine followed her with a question.
“Are you all right, Hyacinth?”
“Why, yes. Yes, I'm all right.”
There, as always whenever Francine was resolute, were the two vertical lines between her eyes. No, not now. Write to them.
“You and Gerald—you get along well together, don't you?”
It was a mother's prerogative to ask, wasn't it? And some sort of answer was required, wasn't it?
“Oh, we have our little spats,” she admitted.
Francine was judging her. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then cheerfully, she agreed. “Little spats. Yes, it would be pretty queer if one didn't.”
Hy was in bed when Gerald came back and stood in the doorw
ay.
“What was the meaning of that talk at the table?” she asked as she sat up.
“That I had been thinking things over and realized that I was terribly wrong. I'm ashamed, and I'm here to apologize.”
“Yes? What changed your mind so suddenly?”
“It's not sudden. It was my first response yesterday that was sudden. There wasn't any thinking behind it, no thinking at all. I'd had a hard day, as you heard. I was tired, which is no excuse. I couldn't possibly, now that I think about it, couldn't possibly have meant what I said. That's why I'm apologizing.”
He looked as if he were in pain. Everything was all mixed up. Her eyes began to fill, and she didn't want that business all over again. Angrily she wiped them with the back of her hand.
“I've made you suffer,” he said.
“That's true.” When he moved toward her, she put up her hand. “No, not yet. Do you really want this baby? Because if you don't, you know, I'm going to have it anyway. Without you.”
“I'm ashamed,” he repeated. “Hy, please. Please understand. I beg you. I panicked. I was thinking about time and money and everything. But now, yes, I do want it. All the way back from the hotel just now, I've been thinking how we'll manage it. There's space enough in this room for a crib. He—she—won't be much more than a year old when we leave here, and then we'll have plenty of room. The carriage can go in the hall. It'll be a tight fit, but that's not important. Oh Hyacinth, forgive and forget! Please, darling, you can forgive it and forget it. You know you can.”
Given time, thought Hyacinth, a cut heals. The injury that first bleeds red becomes a white scar and ends as a faint indentation in the flesh.
Her boy was born with no trouble at all before the dawn of a fine June morning. After a welcome sleep, she awoke to feel noon; the sun glittered and the public golf course in the park across the road was already filled. People dressed in primary colors were dots on the green as in a Brueghel landscape, she thought with pleasure. Close to her window, a locust tree was dripping a rain of creamy blossoms. And in the nursery down the hall slept a husky baby with a crown of black hair.
